Going Home
The light has come upon the dark benighted way.
Dead! Dead your Majesty.
Dead, my Lords and gentlemen.
Dead, Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order.
Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts
And dying thus around us every day.
(Charles Dickens)
Time visiting welcoming faces in some far away place–the type of place seen on World Vision, was a thought provoking experience. I met so many inspiring folks who affected me with their simplicity of life:
Clinging to Michael’s legs is a half-caste toddler. He had found him–unwanted by a mother who had entrusted her body to an uncaring soul –no doubt thousands of miles back in white man’s land now. Free spirited Michael loves this small outcast with all his heart and sense, with a mind that knows no bureaucratic hang ups, but simply is governed by natural reason. Michael says: “He was cute, I wanted to have him so she gave him to me.” Am I hearing right-too many questions stir in my conditioned cerebral matter, so I ask none of them. “I’m going to raise him as my own.” he continues. He has no wife, but no matter, the village is around him to help.
The neighborly woman, mother of four of her own, takes the rejected child during the day–after all, what’s one more? Michael, now able to spend his days at the beach haggling with tourists for a few shillings, can now bring food home in the evenings.
Caringly, Faith walks me down the road because I have lost my way to a village hut where I am invited for chicken dinner. Her bare callused feet make me wince. Regaining my bearings, we part ways.
Mary cooks the best bird ever to be tasted. Her grubby children, along with many of the neighboring little cherubs, sing happy songs and show me how to groove along; I taught them “Duck Duck Goose,” whereby, whoops and giggles delight all. “Show us more games,” they laugh. Hugs and broad smiles accompany farewells.
A family of eight lives in one small room– two families really, but living as one– single mums with youngsters. There are two beds, no bathroom, no taps, no light– no, just a space, cramped–not cozy. A few clothes hang on string over the bed–no drawers. Water taps and bathrooms are in the common domain.
The youngsters crash on foam mattresses borrowed from the landlord for the occasion. They enjoy the sleep over; I enjoy them, the company and the sharing of selves. I need practice cooking cornmeal, and they readily show me how. After food and social merriment, there are no knives or forks to wash, just sticky fingers and faces.
Now I miss living, sun, warmth, friendship, freedom, contributing, mosquitoes, and the Indian Ocean. Across the sea, I feel at home.
Now at home, I cross the street– public domain– to my rusty ol’ car. I hear begrudging words: “Can’t you park on your side?” “Sorry this side was full,” I plead, but my regret seems to be of little importance; my neighbor’s mind is set.
It appears values change; Is it written? Thou shalt not desire thy neighbor’s street parking by his house, or by his grass, or by his dog, or by any thing that is thy neighbor’s, and thou shalt love thy own stuff as thyself, and keep it wholly unto thyself?
Oh, to be in the land of the free!
The things we do for love…….huh….
Camping out on the chilly Welsh mountains with parents and two kids is no picnic, especially when lacking adequate washing facilities. This ridiculous idea of my parents to spend a few days at their annual campsite is secretly tormenting me. After all, have they not forgotten, I can’t stand the cold, and they should know that I like to wash at least once a day. Oh what the heck! I guess I can hack it. Two more days and I’ll be home free, back to sunny Victoria and running hot water.“Anyone game for a brisk walk”, my mother cries energetically. Her shrill cry makes me wince.“It’s only ten in the morning,” I complain, “can’t I wake up first”.“We must make hay while the sun shines” is her proverbial reply. I suppose I’d better make the most of it.“Come on kids, let’s wrap up and go for a nice walk with granny” I comply. Being used to only the best weather, I have neglected to pack a warm coat and “proper” foot wear. My father condescendingly allows me to wear his long anorak, and my mother suggests that I wear her riding boots– her “best” riding boots. We set off with pseudo-enthusiasm, and after awhile, the children start to complain of hurting legs. Dad suggests that we take the quick way back, the path around the duck pond. I,for one ,am all for it, after all my back is in need of a lawn chair. Hence, off we go for the duck pond. The children, I think, are too close to the edge of the pond, so being the good and protective mother, I walk on the inside of them. Mistaking the overgrown grass for solid footing results in one big splash, which I shall not be allowed forget in a hurry. My mother’s initial amusement quickly changes with the realization that her best boots are full of ducky-doo-doo, and of course are“ruined”. Cloning her demeanour, my disgruntled father’s comment is that his coat’s “disgusting”. Only my little kiddies can accept the pure pleasure from the incident; they are highly amused, and even now get a giggle from the caper if reminded. The worst part for me, I have to smell myself until I can reach a hot and steamy bathtub. Well maybe the big chief will want to leave today. After all, the sooner he can get his coat cleaned the less chance of stains. “Right Dad”.
Little Devils
Sister Mary Joan peered questioningly at the piece of chalk in her hand. “Goodness girls what is wrong with the chalk?” she queried, looking first at the chalk and then to the still wordless blackboard. As all “good” girls of this renowned English convent did, we tried our hand at the usual schoolgirl pranks; Sister Mary Joan had born the brunt of our trickery before. It was hard to contain the suppressed snickering that welled up from behind our hand-covered mouths as she realised by the give away giggles from the “naughty girls,” as she so endearingly called us when we misbehaved, that she had yet again been the victim of another practical joke. The chalk was not the problem, but the invisible film of cleaning wax, which some of us, who had yielded to temptation, had smeared over the blackboard. The joke was on us when she stared down the culprits who promptly had to clean up their misdeed. But, it was worth it!
