ponderingsat80’s posterous

(For Dee) 

 Her hands work magic.

As she chops, slices and stirs

The soups and sauces

She prepares.

   Flour and butter for pastry

She kneads and rolls

Rolls and kneads,

Endlessly, it seems.

The gentle rhythm of hands and body       

Sharing a magical moment

As the dough is teased

Into glorious surrender. 

I watch as the miracle unfolds 

And in awe I rejoice

In her gift

The magic in her hands.  

This is it, I think, as I make my way down the yard to the mailbox - the predicted snowstorm is definitely coming this way.  I look up at the sky and see that the clouds have become dark gray and menacing. Quickly I gather the letters from the box and run back up to the house.

This is my first winter alone in the country and I am afraid.

 I gather wood for the fireplace, fill jugs with water and locate candles and matches.  I am preparing for a possible power failure.

 It is snowing now and the wind has picked up. I try to relax; I put a record on the record player; I reach for a book, but it’s no use – I feel alone and terribly vulnerable - defenseless against a storm that has unleashed its pent-up fury.  Trees sway with the wind, branches bend, and a relentless whistling and eerie sound is heard throughout the house.

 Snow is rapidly piling up; already the ground is white.  I can no longer see the road – a thick veil of snow completely separates me from the rest of the world.  I feel panic.

  The phone rings.   “Are you alright?  Is there anything you need?”    I hear the calm and reassuring voice of a neighbor.  Suddenly everything changes – I am no longer afraid.  I no longer feel alone.  I feel secure and I feel strong.

 Putting down the phone I go to the window; the storm rages on, tension mounts; I am filled with awe and wonder. There is fear, yes, but because of a neighbor, there is now confidence and determination – and now the challenge begins. 

He smiles and shakes his head

Why did you come, he asks?

I thought you should stay home today;

Stay home and rest.

I am touched by his thoughtfulness,

 His kindness shakes me to the core;

Afraid of my own weak response

 I say nothing.

His smile is contagious:

I smile but look away,

For what is there to say

To a man who is dying?

 Is there an invisible connection between us?

  Does he feel it?  Do I?

He smiles.

I smile and remain silent.

 On my walk this morning, someone asked what I was up to these days?  “Writing,” I answered.  “Writing!?” She exclaimed.  “What do you know about writing?”    “Only that I love to do it.”   And perhaps that’s all that matters, I thought, as I quickly walked away before her remarks could get to me.  Had my answer been, I am gardening or sewing or playing bridge, would she have reacted differently - would she have been more supportive?

 Never would I have mentioned my blog - she would have laughed.  As do I, when I think about it.  But it’s true,  I love to write – it takes me out of myself, keeps me out of trouble and helps me focus on what’s important to me at this stage of my life.

 The articles I have posted are not in sequence - they are meanderings.  Perhaps one day my children will put them in chronological order, and perhaps not.  It’s not important – I’m having fun.  So, in answer to that person’s question, what am I up to?  I’ve found something creative and stimulating to do – something that I love - and who knows . . . something perhaps,  that someone else just might enjoy.

After a month of traveling with the family, the disappointment of not having a place to live, and a week of looking at unacceptable apartments, it was a tremendous relief to be told the apartment at the Institute was available should we chose to use it.  I was terribly excited when we set out to see it the next day. “This place is perfect!”  I exclaimed. “Why were we not offered it when we arrived?”  It was modern; it had two bathrooms and three bedrooms.  The kitchen was acceptable and the potential laundry room (we would have to buy a washing machine) a bonus. “We’ll take it.”  We said.  “When do we get the furniture?”      

 We lived sans furniture for six months.  It was necessary, however, to buy beds, pots and pans, cutlery and dishes; and after carting laundry to a laundromat for several weeks, we decided to buy a small washing machine.  Linen from home waited in cases that had arrived ahead of us.  We borrowed tables and chairs from the cafeteria and they became our dining table, a place to read, and a place to do homework for the kids.

 It was thus we settled down and camped. Having no furniture made it feel like camping, and I rather enjoyed the feeling.

  Then it happened . . .

 The apartment was declared an official residence for visiting professors.   And to my horror (who would have thought I’d feel this way) new and attractive furniture was delivered to us.  It quickly became the target of destruction for my somewhat unruly and active little kids!

 The first casualty was a gorgeous glass lamp. “Don’t worry about it, “said the director when, with bowed head, I apologized to him.  “We will replace it.”   And true to his word, within hours another gorgeous glass lamp arrived at our door!    

 It remained hidden in the closet, out of harm’s way, until the day we left. 

  School, travel and unexpected surprises continue in later entries . . .

 After an exciting crossing of the Atlantic on the Italian Raphaelo, my husband and I, our six children and a niece, disembarked in Naples to the smell of cat urine.  Our American station wagon was eventually unloaded and the nine of us piled in to begin a week of sight-seeing through Italy.   We visited the Ruins of Pompeii, Florence and Rome where we hired a taxi driver to guide us through the city (no GPS in those days). Not only was such a large car unusual in Italy, the sight of 7 children climbing out created quite a stir and more than once we noticed people counting them!

 On the 14^th of July, Bastille Day , a National French holiday, we arrived in Strasbourg where we were to begin a Sabbatical year.  To say we were tired is an understatement; I looked forward to settling down in our new home. 

However, no arrangements had been made to house us - there was no apartment and neither was there a house.  Instead, we were directed to a ‘pension’.

 I was just too tired to discuss the lack of organization – all I wanted was a hot bath for me and the children, and then, mercifully, to fall into bed. 

  The ‘pension’ was old and dirty, the bathroom a disgrace, and worst of all, there was no hot water!  The children were sick with colds, they were cranky and tired and they desperately needed a bath.  I was so discouraged that had we not rented out house back home I would have headed to the nearest airport with my brood.

 We settled down for the night but I quickly became aware of the stench in the bathroom.  What was I going to do? – It was simply awful!   The following morning, as I searched through our bags for clean clothes for the children, I almost shouted with joy when I spotted a can of Lysol!   Never had I been so happy that I had thought to pack it. The bathroom odour vanished within a few days and I felt a little more comfortable about our situation. 

 We were eventually offered the apartment at the Institute and we settled in to begin a Sabbatical year. It was a year that held many surprises and exciting - some, not so exciting - experiences for us all. 

 To be continued . . .

We not only took six children and an 18 year old niece to France when we went on Sabbatical, we also brought along our 9 passenger American Station wagon.

What a challenge it was for me to not hook jewellery, hats and articles of clothing from the racks of street vendors with the car’s antennae as I manoeuvred the narrow cobblestone streets.   I quickly learned to give priority to the traffic coming from my right,  and it was always a great relief to get back to the apartment at the institute where we lived, minus an accident!

Getting through the narrow iron gate that led to the back of the institute where we parked the car was very difficult and demanded a lot of concentration, and  each time I did it, I held my breath for fear of scratching the car.  What disturbed me most were the incessant and annoying catcalls and whistles that came from the construction workers on the building next door. 

 This happened every time my niece and I stepped out the door and made our way to the car.  I did my best to ignore them but one day they managed to distract me and I hit the gate.  I was frustrated and embarrassed as I climbed out of the car to assess the damage, and I could feel my anger building, when suddenly I noticed three workmen running towards us.  “Now what! ” I muttered, as they approached the car.  “Excusa.  Excusa,” they said, almost in unison, and went on to express a desire to help.

There was no damage to the car or the gate and I managed to keep from laughing as I drove away in complete control.  From then on, instead of cat calls and whistles, I received looks of admiration and respect. With a tip of the hat or a wave of the hand they saluted a woman who could drive a 9 passenger Station Wagon through the narrow streets of Strasbourg.  

(for Kim)

My son arrived at the kitchen door with a tiny grey and white kitten.  “I thought you might like a little friend to keep you company,” he explained.

 I was  slowly adjusting to our new home after leaving several of our children, still attending university, behind.  Two of our boys moved with us; one in high school, lived at home, the other in university, lived in residence.   After a busy life filled with children, a dog and a cat, I now found myself with one child living at home and the threat of empty nest syndrome hanging over my head.       

 “Ooh, how cute!  Where did you get him?”  I asked.  My eyes filled with tears as I recognized my son’s kindness and sensitivity to my situation.  I gladly reached for the kitten. “We’ll call him Kylie,” I said

 Kylie was very special. He taught me a lot about love and acceptance – he was true gift.   Although a lovely cat, it soon became obvious that he was clumsy – he could neither jump very high, nor could he meow.  His hunting skills were non-existent - he could not catch a fly let alone a mouse or a bird, if he tried.  And he had no voice. I soon grew to love him - not in spite of this – but because of this!  We got along fine . . . until Merlyn.

 Merlyn was meant to spend a couple of weeks only with us, “until we find a bigger apartment,” said my daughter.  Merlyn was a gorgeous longhaired white cat.   Gracefully and without effort she would leap to the top of the fridge and  spread  her gorgeous tail; she would then glance condescendingly down at Kylie who sat totally humiliated on the floor.  She was beautiful but she was not nice.  She craved attention and did mischievous things to get it.   She quickly established her superiority, and Kylie soon retreated to the outdoors where he chose to stay most of the day.    

 Merlyn was not meant to stay with us and as the weeks wore on I saw what was happening, so decided, with my daughter’s permission, to find her a new home.  It was too late for Kylie, however, he’d been hurt, and the sweet little kitten had now become a neurotic cat.

  I felt very sad because Kylie was true gift -  not only had he taken away my loneliness, he taught me that being clumsy is not ugly, and that accepting one’s limitations is beautiful.  Yet, he himself, had been robbed of that glory.

 She was a frail little lady dressed in black.  I noticed her as I approached the produce section of the supermarket.  She was struggling to open a plastic bag with crooked fingers and gnarled hands.  I stopped and reached for the bag saying, “here, let me help you. “ Then, as I was peeling it open, I saw her take another bag, and again tried to open it.    “Do you want another one?”  I asked.   - “No,” she replied.  – “This one’s for you.”

In that exact moment -  the moment of giving and receiving -   I was made aware of the reality of pure love.  I recognised Christ.   It took me by surprise and I stood there almost transfixed and filled with wonder.  By the time I looked around, the lady was gone.  She was nowhere to be seen, and I never saw her again.  What had just happened?   What was this all about?  Was it an illusion?  Was it real?   If not, who was the lady in black?        

“I cannot read your friend’s cards,“ she says.  “Oh please,” he insists.”It’s always so much fun.”  “No.”  She is adamant as she picks up the cards and puts them in the drawer.

 “What rotten luck,” he scoffs as he leads his friend out the door.  “She’s usually good,” he adds.

 Later that evening, he questions his aunt: “Why would you not read my friend’s cards?” – “Because darkness surrounds him – tragedy awaits him.  I cannot tell him this.”  The nephew laughs and says, “you are carrying this a bit too far, don’t you think? - It’s only fun.” She says nothing.  He is disappointed.  He shakes his head in disgust and leaves the room.

 Two days later the friend is dead from a bullet wound to the head.

 He had been a bank manager and kept a gun in his desk.  Always needing to show off to his friends, he had the nasty habit of playing Russian roulette to prove his luck.     The nephew was with him when he pulled the trigger for the very last time.  The fatal bullet struck its target.   

The horror of this experience was such a shock that it took the nephew months  to recover from it.   Never again was the aunt’s ability to read cards questioned – she was indeed a psychic - and it was then that she put away the cards for good.  The image of that ghastly event remained  with the nephew, and the thought of tea leaves and cards and his aunt's prediction, would haunt him forever.