I skim through Dickens's Pickwick Papers occasionally and then stop at parts which are so funny I have to laugh out loud. Chortle, choke, roll on the floor. One day, when I'm reading it I'll actually count how many passages relate to the bracing effects of alcohol. Bracing. Bracing. Happifying. (So it belongs here, no? if it's happifying?)
"Well that certainly is the most capital cold punch," said Mr Pickwick, looking earnestly at the stone bottle; "and the day is extremely warm, and - Tupman, my dear friend, a glass of punch?"
"With the greatest delight," replied Mr Tupman; and having drank the glass, Mr Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any orange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him; and finding that there was not, Mr Pickwick took another glass to the health of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperatively called upon to propose another in honour of the punch-compounder, unknown.
This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in his eyes. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid, rendered more so by the heat, Mr Pickwick expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for, from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate any words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep, simultaneously.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Monday, 13 June 2011
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Invisible
I know what this sounds like, but as I wrote this, I laughed. So I thought to include it here. Ironic though it may be:
She sweeps into the place abruptly and you can tell from the tightening of her oval jaw and the harsh flicking of her long black hair that she's fighting mad.
I savour my spoonful of ice-cream, butter pecan topped with hot fudge, rolling it around on my tongue and finally closing my eyes in sheer bliss as it slides down my throat. In front of me, Jane Smiley's A Thousand Acres, too consuming to set aside.
A card-carrying hedonist. That's me. Or do I mean a sybarite? OK whatever.
I smile politely anyhow and raise my hand in greeting. Also I drop the other hand surreptitiously to feel the soft folds of fat beneath my loose dress. Bones and angles make me nervous. God forbid I should starve into them, the skinny ones.
No dessert please, I'm on a diet.
Chocolate? Why that's positively sinful!
Don't be naughty, you know I can't have cake.
And don't even get me started on ice cream.
She seats herself opposite and looks at my pleasure in disgust. Funnily enough this only serves to sharpen my enjoyment. Not on purpose, mind you. I'm not trying to piss her off. God seems to have left something out when She made me.
A thin skin, perhaps. Or maybe angst.
"Weren't we supposed to meet at Harley's? At like 7?"
I nod cheerfully. We were, of course. Only the last three times we were supposed to meet at Harley's at 7 she swanned in at 8. No hard feelings. I read my book in a corner and enyoyed my screaming orgasm on the beach. The drink of course. But today, I craved a butter pecan with hot fudge.
Beep. Missed call. Beep. SMS.
"Where the fuck are you?"
I don't hold with profanity. No need to get upset.
"Baskin's."
Which is why she sweeps in here, in her little black number (she has about 50 of them, all told, there are nuances she says, they all say the same thing, I say) eyes gleaming dangerously.
I keep spooning the wonderful mixture into my mouth and wonder if I feel like another one while she taps an impatient foot and forbears to mention that I'm like, so fat, and I shouldn't be eating all this junk and that I really, really should let her personal trainer look at me. She has before. And she would now, if she knew it would upset me. But the thought of stripping down all my comfortable flesh to be a clothes hanger - all sharp corners and bitter diatribes, like, on purpose, makes me giggle.
"Why don't you go on to Harley's first? I'll come join you," I drawl lazily.
"You know I can't. You know the moment I get there, they'll hit on me."
But she gets hit on even more when I'm there. The perfect foil for her magazine-arbitrated beauty. That's why I'm there I guess. An unlikely friendship, this. I bring a book to read so the lucky guy doesn't think he will have to include me in the conversation. I don't do the yawn-stifling thing very well.
And she leaves with whoever. Sometimes, she tells me about them. All these men. All versions of each other. I don't think she gets as much pleasure from them as I do from a single spoonful of butter pecan.
All those steamed vegetables. And half a grapefruit.
It must be hard.
I smile some more.
I want to be a writer. And my folds give me that magic cloak of invisibility. Nobody looks at me. No guy sidles over to chat me up. I get to listen in on conversations, see people being themselves, see all these stories playing out around me.
I come home and write them down.
Read them to myself and laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
It's all so ridiculous.
Too deliciously funny.
Even comforting, somehow.
La dolce vita.
I will never stop laughing.
She sweeps into the place abruptly and you can tell from the tightening of her oval jaw and the harsh flicking of her long black hair that she's fighting mad.
I savour my spoonful of ice-cream, butter pecan topped with hot fudge, rolling it around on my tongue and finally closing my eyes in sheer bliss as it slides down my throat. In front of me, Jane Smiley's A Thousand Acres, too consuming to set aside.
A card-carrying hedonist. That's me. Or do I mean a sybarite? OK whatever.
I smile politely anyhow and raise my hand in greeting. Also I drop the other hand surreptitiously to feel the soft folds of fat beneath my loose dress. Bones and angles make me nervous. God forbid I should starve into them, the skinny ones.
No dessert please, I'm on a diet.
Chocolate? Why that's positively sinful!
Don't be naughty, you know I can't have cake.
And don't even get me started on ice cream.
She seats herself opposite and looks at my pleasure in disgust. Funnily enough this only serves to sharpen my enjoyment. Not on purpose, mind you. I'm not trying to piss her off. God seems to have left something out when She made me.
A thin skin, perhaps. Or maybe angst.
"Weren't we supposed to meet at Harley's? At like 7?"
I nod cheerfully. We were, of course. Only the last three times we were supposed to meet at Harley's at 7 she swanned in at 8. No hard feelings. I read my book in a corner and enyoyed my screaming orgasm on the beach. The drink of course. But today, I craved a butter pecan with hot fudge.
Beep. Missed call. Beep. SMS.
"Where the fuck are you?"
I don't hold with profanity. No need to get upset.
"Baskin's."
Which is why she sweeps in here, in her little black number (she has about 50 of them, all told, there are nuances she says, they all say the same thing, I say) eyes gleaming dangerously.
I keep spooning the wonderful mixture into my mouth and wonder if I feel like another one while she taps an impatient foot and forbears to mention that I'm like, so fat, and I shouldn't be eating all this junk and that I really, really should let her personal trainer look at me. She has before. And she would now, if she knew it would upset me. But the thought of stripping down all my comfortable flesh to be a clothes hanger - all sharp corners and bitter diatribes, like, on purpose, makes me giggle.
"Why don't you go on to Harley's first? I'll come join you," I drawl lazily.
"You know I can't. You know the moment I get there, they'll hit on me."
But she gets hit on even more when I'm there. The perfect foil for her magazine-arbitrated beauty. That's why I'm there I guess. An unlikely friendship, this. I bring a book to read so the lucky guy doesn't think he will have to include me in the conversation. I don't do the yawn-stifling thing very well.
And she leaves with whoever. Sometimes, she tells me about them. All these men. All versions of each other. I don't think she gets as much pleasure from them as I do from a single spoonful of butter pecan.
All those steamed vegetables. And half a grapefruit.
It must be hard.
I smile some more.
I want to be a writer. And my folds give me that magic cloak of invisibility. Nobody looks at me. No guy sidles over to chat me up. I get to listen in on conversations, see people being themselves, see all these stories playing out around me.
I come home and write them down.
Read them to myself and laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
It's all so ridiculous.
Too deliciously funny.
Even comforting, somehow.
La dolce vita.
I will never stop laughing.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Nella Fantasia
I've always loved Gabriel's Oboe and I remember listening to it over and over again, before I fell asleep way back when. Then one day I walked into a music shop at the Morley Galleria in Perth and it was playing Amici Forever's version of Nella Fantasia. I had never heard Nella Fantasia before, never realised that Gabriel's Oboe had been given lyrics.
I was feeling the pale shade of azure I felt every Saturday, alone and lonely in another land. (I only felt this way during weekends. I felt great during the week when I had classes). But as I listened, I was enraptured. I could feel my soul fly out of my body to meet the music.
I tried and tried to find Amici Forever's version on Youtube. Sadly I couldn't. They had versions by other folk and other songs by Amici Forever. But none would do. I found this video instead.
Exaltation and tragedy.
I once said: it was like a Nella Fantasia in my soul.
And I expected everyone to know just what I meant. Someday I'll make a video with the right music. And I'll put it up on Youtube so you can hear what I hear, see what I see and perhaps, feel what I feel.
I was feeling the pale shade of azure I felt every Saturday, alone and lonely in another land. (I only felt this way during weekends. I felt great during the week when I had classes). But as I listened, I was enraptured. I could feel my soul fly out of my body to meet the music.
I tried and tried to find Amici Forever's version on Youtube. Sadly I couldn't. They had versions by other folk and other songs by Amici Forever. But none would do. I found this video instead.
Exaltation and tragedy.
I once said: it was like a Nella Fantasia in my soul.
And I expected everyone to know just what I meant. Someday I'll make a video with the right music. And I'll put it up on Youtube so you can hear what I hear, see what I see and perhaps, feel what I feel.
Friday, 10 June 2011
When Ronnie Went Home
To all those who are on my Facebook or who read my other blog, I apologise in advance. But this was one of my happiest stories. So of course, I have to share it here.
His name is Ronnie. An eight-year old white (with streaks of golden) Irish terrier. He is afraid of storms. So, Friday, he ran away. His owners, Mark and Angela came back from work to find him gone. They searched frantically, going from house to house, talking to some of their neighbours for the first time trying to find any clue as to what had happened to their precious pooch.
To no avail. They managed to trace his path to the drug centre. And no further.
Saturday was dismal. There was no sign of the dog. None at all. They drove around going further and further afield. But not far enough. Angela was in tears. She prayed: "Lord, please save our little Ronnie. And bring him back safely."
They left word with their favourite petrol station. "See this picture? This is our dog. He's lost. Please tell us if you hear anything."
And then Angela broke down and wept. Because that's what you do when your baby is missing. When he's wet and cold and alone and hungry somewhere and you don't know where and you can't get to him and you can only imagine. When God seems so far away, a concept, a silence at the other end of the line, and all your prayers rise up and disappear into the ether.
Please, please, please, please, please.
No answer.
Sunday evening, a customer visits the petrol station to fill 'er up, a man. He lives around there and the nice lady asks him what she's has asked a hundred others. "Have you seen a white dog around? He's lost. His owners were here looking for him. They left a number."
And Gilbert said: "Yes, I saw one just yesterday. There is this woman who lives at the bottom of the hill. And she came over yesterday with this white dog and asked if it was mine. I told her no, but I would ask around."
And the lady was silent for a few seconds.
Gilbert wrote down the address. He wrote down directions. And then he drove to the house in question. The two large dogs outside greeted him with a perfect fussilade of barks. That was their way. Guard dogs. Good guard dogs. The tv was blaring. Supernatural. B-list pseudo horror.
And I came out, wondering what it was all about. When I saw him, I knew he could only be there about the dog. The one I had just surrendered to the owner of a shelter. The little dog looked at me, heartbreak in his eyes, as Joseph had coaxed him into the cage. I was to learn later that he had never been in a cage before.
"I trusted you. Are you abandoning me too?"
And I had curled up on the sofa after Mum had gone to church and started to cry. This was the second time in two weeks. Was there truly no hope left?
He landed on our doorstep late Friday. Thinking he had come from up the hill where there were people who kept fluffy white dogs, I slipped a collar over his head with much difficulty and headed up there. But the dogs were safely inside the homes to which they belonged. And this little fellow, he seemed uninterested. He did not pull towards any of the houses. If anything, he only started to get excited when we were heading back downhill. He pulled then. All the way back to our house.
And once I slipped off the collar and released him from the lead, he headed straight for our gate to our dogs who were going crazy. He was cold, wet and hungry. I thought I'd offer him some milk. But when I got out, there he was, heading uphill again.
Oh well. That was that.
I came in, locked the doors and headed upstairs to watch the rest of a Hercule Poirot movie on youtube.
But that night Maggot barked. And continued to bark. Short sharp ones like gunshots. He rarely paused. Elliot, on the other hand, went to sleep.
And early that morning, nerves shot to hell, we discovered why. The little dog from yesterday had found his way into our compound. Later we would see that he had climbed on a ledge on the verge, and vaulted over the gate, hurting himself in the process. There was one broken pot to show the path he had traveled.
There he lay, just out of Maggot's reach, curled up. Maggot was going insane. Elliot decided to wait quietly for developments. We towelled him down. Offered him some bread. Figured that he must have been abandoned as he had no collar or identification of any sort. And yet, there was evidence of some care. He was well-fed. His fur was only newly matted with leaves he had picked up from yesterday's storm.
I convinced Mum to let us take him inside, away from the snarling Maggot. I called a cousin (the only other serious doglover in the clan) to see if she wanted a dog. She didn't. I texted an aunt who said she wanted a dog. She was asleep. Said she would text me back when she woke up. She didn't. I called Chubs who has rich friends in JB. Asked if any of them would take in the little fellow. Chubs called me back to say one of them would come to the house later to check out the doggie. He never did.
I gave him a rough and ready shower, dried him and brought him inside. He lay at my feet and went to sleep. He was a loving little dog and liked to lie with his whole body pressed against me. He needed human touch. Lots of it.
Now who did that remind me of?
That day, we fed him along with the other two. He ate with good appetite. He was obviously used to rice and chicken legs. And then, he went to sleep again. In the evening I took him for another walk up the hill. This time, it being a less ungodly hour, there were people in the garden. And I showed the dog to them and said, is he yours? Do you have any idea where he came from?
Gilbert and his mother stared at him. "Who would throw that dog away? He's so cute. But no, he's not from around here. Don't worry, we'll ask around."
And that was that. Later that night when I tried to cut the mats out of his hair, I got a taste of teeth. He snarled a little and then bit. And as I, being obtuse, continued to cut out the mats, he bit me again. Hair, as I was to later learn, was a very sensitive subject. He didn't even let Mark and Angela near him with a scissors. Only Angie's mother.
Bites notwithstanding, he continued close. And when I went up to bed, he scrambled up the stairs after me. Since the walk his limp had become more pronounced. So I slept downstairs so he could sleep close to me, keeping an eye.
And in the morning, after two nights of bad sleep I was washed out. Convinced by now that someone had abandoned him (maybe because of his little biting problem) I didn't go looking any further for an owner. I prayed real hard but without any hope. I prayed that he had not been abandoned. I prayed that his owners would show up. Failing that, that he would get a really rich new one who would love him and send him for grooming twice a week. But no one returned my calls. And I was heading back to KL tomorrow. Time was running out.
So I made the call to Joseph at the animal shelter. Have you ever left a dog at an animal shelter? Have you ever left a plaintive dog with soulful heartbroken eyes at a dog shelter? Have you ever seen the look they gave you as you walk away?
If you haven't, this is one experience you probably don't want to have. Trust me on this.
Which is why, I was curled up on the sofa, bawling my eyes out, cursing God, with Supernatural flickering on the screen as background music when Gilbert showed up. And there was a space. And despair (coupled with a few wild plans to get the dog back) receded and hope opened up.
It takes an instant. But no matter how many times it happens you forget to trust the next time around.
I called Joseph to say we had found the owners and could he bring the dog back. He said, ask the owners to call me. (I think he had already found a buyer)
Jackie called. As I was on the phone to her, a van came hurtling into the compound. A hysterical woman fell out of the car: "My dog, my dog, do you have my dog?"
I told her I had given him up to the shelter and she fell back against the van. "Oh my God!" The word shelter had conjured up her worst fears. Of dogs being mistreated and then put to sleep. But I said, the shelter guy wants you to call him.
Yes, she said frantically, yes. Call him now. I told Jackie I'd call her back. Dialled Joseph and said hold on, the owners are here and they want to speak to you.
"Hi Joseph? That's our dog and we want him back. No, no we didn't abandon him. We wouldn't do something like that. He ran away. And we've been out looking for him. Please, please bring him back. What time? 9 or 10? OK. Um, we live behind Jalan Yahya Awal. You know that road in front of the Convent?"
He didn't. So I chipped in. "Why don't you just all meet here? He knows my house."
So they did. And sometime after 10, Joseph showed up. Mark and Angela had been circling the area for more than an hour, coming in and sitting down for a while. They were on tenterhooks. As was I. Until I saw that little dog in their arms I wouldn't believe in the happy ending.
After all, anything could happen.
But he arrived. And headed for his boot to take out the cage. And there was little Ronnie. Both Mark and Angela were beside themselves.
"Say thank you to Auntie. Thank you to Auntie," said Mark, the hitherto silent one.
"Thank you for taking care of my baby. Thank you. Thank you."
And little Ronnie ran madly around the car, cavorting like a puppy. Gone was his gravity of the past few days. Angela hugged him, laying her head against his furry little body. Mark carried him to the car. Ronnie scrambled to the co-driver's seat.
"What's he doing there?" I asked, as Angela paid Joseph for his trouble.
"That's his place. He likes riding up front. Best view," Mark grinned.
"Where do you sit then?" I asked Angie who had just come up.
"I sit at the back," she replied, laughing.
Truly, this was a loved doggie.
Angie handed me a pretty little pink packet.
"That's not necessary. It's really OK."
"No, please take it. You'll make us happy if you do."
So I did. And she had written a little note on it:
Dear Jennifer,
We sincerely believe that God used you in answer to our prayers.
Thank you so much for looking after Ronnie and giving him 2 days of comfort, security & happiness.
This is just a token of our appreciation. Please accept it.
Best regards
Angela & Mark
1 May 2011
And Ronnie went home.
His name is Ronnie. An eight-year old white (with streaks of golden) Irish terrier. He is afraid of storms. So, Friday, he ran away. His owners, Mark and Angela came back from work to find him gone. They searched frantically, going from house to house, talking to some of their neighbours for the first time trying to find any clue as to what had happened to their precious pooch.
To no avail. They managed to trace his path to the drug centre. And no further.
Saturday was dismal. There was no sign of the dog. None at all. They drove around going further and further afield. But not far enough. Angela was in tears. She prayed: "Lord, please save our little Ronnie. And bring him back safely."
They left word with their favourite petrol station. "See this picture? This is our dog. He's lost. Please tell us if you hear anything."
And then Angela broke down and wept. Because that's what you do when your baby is missing. When he's wet and cold and alone and hungry somewhere and you don't know where and you can't get to him and you can only imagine. When God seems so far away, a concept, a silence at the other end of the line, and all your prayers rise up and disappear into the ether.
Please, please, please, please, please.
No answer.
Sunday evening, a customer visits the petrol station to fill 'er up, a man. He lives around there and the nice lady asks him what she's has asked a hundred others. "Have you seen a white dog around? He's lost. His owners were here looking for him. They left a number."
And Gilbert said: "Yes, I saw one just yesterday. There is this woman who lives at the bottom of the hill. And she came over yesterday with this white dog and asked if it was mine. I told her no, but I would ask around."
And the lady was silent for a few seconds.
Gilbert wrote down the address. He wrote down directions. And then he drove to the house in question. The two large dogs outside greeted him with a perfect fussilade of barks. That was their way. Guard dogs. Good guard dogs. The tv was blaring. Supernatural. B-list pseudo horror.
And I came out, wondering what it was all about. When I saw him, I knew he could only be there about the dog. The one I had just surrendered to the owner of a shelter. The little dog looked at me, heartbreak in his eyes, as Joseph had coaxed him into the cage. I was to learn later that he had never been in a cage before.
"I trusted you. Are you abandoning me too?"
And I had curled up on the sofa after Mum had gone to church and started to cry. This was the second time in two weeks. Was there truly no hope left?
He landed on our doorstep late Friday. Thinking he had come from up the hill where there were people who kept fluffy white dogs, I slipped a collar over his head with much difficulty and headed up there. But the dogs were safely inside the homes to which they belonged. And this little fellow, he seemed uninterested. He did not pull towards any of the houses. If anything, he only started to get excited when we were heading back downhill. He pulled then. All the way back to our house.
And once I slipped off the collar and released him from the lead, he headed straight for our gate to our dogs who were going crazy. He was cold, wet and hungry. I thought I'd offer him some milk. But when I got out, there he was, heading uphill again.
Oh well. That was that.
I came in, locked the doors and headed upstairs to watch the rest of a Hercule Poirot movie on youtube.
But that night Maggot barked. And continued to bark. Short sharp ones like gunshots. He rarely paused. Elliot, on the other hand, went to sleep.
And early that morning, nerves shot to hell, we discovered why. The little dog from yesterday had found his way into our compound. Later we would see that he had climbed on a ledge on the verge, and vaulted over the gate, hurting himself in the process. There was one broken pot to show the path he had traveled.
There he lay, just out of Maggot's reach, curled up. Maggot was going insane. Elliot decided to wait quietly for developments. We towelled him down. Offered him some bread. Figured that he must have been abandoned as he had no collar or identification of any sort. And yet, there was evidence of some care. He was well-fed. His fur was only newly matted with leaves he had picked up from yesterday's storm.
I convinced Mum to let us take him inside, away from the snarling Maggot. I called a cousin (the only other serious doglover in the clan) to see if she wanted a dog. She didn't. I texted an aunt who said she wanted a dog. She was asleep. Said she would text me back when she woke up. She didn't. I called Chubs who has rich friends in JB. Asked if any of them would take in the little fellow. Chubs called me back to say one of them would come to the house later to check out the doggie. He never did.
I gave him a rough and ready shower, dried him and brought him inside. He lay at my feet and went to sleep. He was a loving little dog and liked to lie with his whole body pressed against me. He needed human touch. Lots of it.
Now who did that remind me of?
That day, we fed him along with the other two. He ate with good appetite. He was obviously used to rice and chicken legs. And then, he went to sleep again. In the evening I took him for another walk up the hill. This time, it being a less ungodly hour, there were people in the garden. And I showed the dog to them and said, is he yours? Do you have any idea where he came from?
Gilbert and his mother stared at him. "Who would throw that dog away? He's so cute. But no, he's not from around here. Don't worry, we'll ask around."
And that was that. Later that night when I tried to cut the mats out of his hair, I got a taste of teeth. He snarled a little and then bit. And as I, being obtuse, continued to cut out the mats, he bit me again. Hair, as I was to later learn, was a very sensitive subject. He didn't even let Mark and Angela near him with a scissors. Only Angie's mother.
Bites notwithstanding, he continued close. And when I went up to bed, he scrambled up the stairs after me. Since the walk his limp had become more pronounced. So I slept downstairs so he could sleep close to me, keeping an eye.
And in the morning, after two nights of bad sleep I was washed out. Convinced by now that someone had abandoned him (maybe because of his little biting problem) I didn't go looking any further for an owner. I prayed real hard but without any hope. I prayed that he had not been abandoned. I prayed that his owners would show up. Failing that, that he would get a really rich new one who would love him and send him for grooming twice a week. But no one returned my calls. And I was heading back to KL tomorrow. Time was running out.
So I made the call to Joseph at the animal shelter. Have you ever left a dog at an animal shelter? Have you ever left a plaintive dog with soulful heartbroken eyes at a dog shelter? Have you ever seen the look they gave you as you walk away?
If you haven't, this is one experience you probably don't want to have. Trust me on this.
Which is why, I was curled up on the sofa, bawling my eyes out, cursing God, with Supernatural flickering on the screen as background music when Gilbert showed up. And there was a space. And despair (coupled with a few wild plans to get the dog back) receded and hope opened up.
It takes an instant. But no matter how many times it happens you forget to trust the next time around.
I called Joseph to say we had found the owners and could he bring the dog back. He said, ask the owners to call me. (I think he had already found a buyer)
Jackie called. As I was on the phone to her, a van came hurtling into the compound. A hysterical woman fell out of the car: "My dog, my dog, do you have my dog?"
I told her I had given him up to the shelter and she fell back against the van. "Oh my God!" The word shelter had conjured up her worst fears. Of dogs being mistreated and then put to sleep. But I said, the shelter guy wants you to call him.
Yes, she said frantically, yes. Call him now. I told Jackie I'd call her back. Dialled Joseph and said hold on, the owners are here and they want to speak to you.
"Hi Joseph? That's our dog and we want him back. No, no we didn't abandon him. We wouldn't do something like that. He ran away. And we've been out looking for him. Please, please bring him back. What time? 9 or 10? OK. Um, we live behind Jalan Yahya Awal. You know that road in front of the Convent?"
He didn't. So I chipped in. "Why don't you just all meet here? He knows my house."
So they did. And sometime after 10, Joseph showed up. Mark and Angela had been circling the area for more than an hour, coming in and sitting down for a while. They were on tenterhooks. As was I. Until I saw that little dog in their arms I wouldn't believe in the happy ending.
After all, anything could happen.
But he arrived. And headed for his boot to take out the cage. And there was little Ronnie. Both Mark and Angela were beside themselves.
"Say thank you to Auntie. Thank you to Auntie," said Mark, the hitherto silent one.
"Thank you for taking care of my baby. Thank you. Thank you."
And little Ronnie ran madly around the car, cavorting like a puppy. Gone was his gravity of the past few days. Angela hugged him, laying her head against his furry little body. Mark carried him to the car. Ronnie scrambled to the co-driver's seat.
"What's he doing there?" I asked, as Angela paid Joseph for his trouble.
"That's his place. He likes riding up front. Best view," Mark grinned.
"Where do you sit then?" I asked Angie who had just come up.
"I sit at the back," she replied, laughing.
Truly, this was a loved doggie.
Angie handed me a pretty little pink packet.
"That's not necessary. It's really OK."
"No, please take it. You'll make us happy if you do."
So I did. And she had written a little note on it:
Dear Jennifer,
We sincerely believe that God used you in answer to our prayers.
Thank you so much for looking after Ronnie and giving him 2 days of comfort, security & happiness.
This is just a token of our appreciation. Please accept it.
Best regards
Angela & Mark
1 May 2011
And Ronnie went home.
Thursday, 9 June 2011
The Journey
See, I was feeling real awful because of stuff (you know how stuff is). So after lunch I wandered into the Borders to look for words to calm me down, comfort me. Instead of the self help, I headed for the poetry section and found Mary Oliver. I remember Martha Beck reading Mary Oliver at her dying friend's bedside and feeling calmer as the sweetness of the words rose up and soothed her grieving soul.
I thought, heh. If it could do it for her, it could do it for me.
So I opened the book at random.
And came across the following.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
'Mend my life!'
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognised as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life you could save.
And I felt better.
Do you?
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Sermons and Woodboxes
This is a chapter in the book Pollyanna, By Eleanor Porter. I said at the beginning that my blog would be dedicated to the likes of her. It's a somewhat surprising chapter because the author takes a break from the story and explains her philosophy. And although it is customary to mock Pollyanna, it's a surprisingly sound philosophy and would bear out if you tested it.
At least, it has always borne out with me. People who expect the best of me and see the best of me frequently GET the best of me. But the moment I feel criticism, it may not be spoken but simply hovering in the air, something inside turns cold and shuts down. My knee-jerk reaction (which I have since been told is wrong and extreme and I'm working on it) is to never speak to the person in question again for the rest of my life.
Not all at once. It builds little by little until there's an internal conflagration and the explosion may be silent, but it's there. Witness the debris, the twisted metal, the bloodied, broken bodies, and the deathly cold you feel emanating from me like a nuclear winter.
I know, I have issues, I'm working on it.
But this is why, I think Pollyanna and the story of her is so powerful. Just imagine if we had someone in our lives who only saw our best because they were constitutionally unable to see anything else? We think, huh, naive, knock off those rose-coloured glasses, but maybe, just maybe, they're the least naive of us all, and we're the idiots walking around so cynical, feeling so damn clever, feeling so damn miserable.
Anyways, enough of me. Here she is:
On the afternoon that Pollyanna told John Pendleton of Jimmy Bean, the Rev. Paul Ford climbed the hill and entered the Pendleton Woods, hoping that the hushed beauty of God's out-of-doors would still the tumult that His children of men had wrought.
The Rev. Paul Fod was sick at heart. Month by month, for a year past, conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse and worse; it seemed that now, turn which way he would, he encountered only wrangling, backbiting, scandal and jealousy. He had argued, pleaded, rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always and through all he had prayed - earnestly, hopefully. But today miserably he was forced to own that matters were no better, but rather worse.
Two of his deacons were at swords' points over a silly something that only endless brooding had made of any account. Three of his most energetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladies' Aid Society because a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues into a devouring flame of scandal. The choir had split over the amount of solo work given to a fanciedly preferred singer. Even the Christian Endeavour Society was in a ferment of unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers. As to the Sunday School - it had been the resignation of its superintendent and two of its teachers that had been the last straw, and that had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer and meditation.
Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford faced the thing squarely. To his mind, the crisis had come. Something must be done - and done at once. The entire work of the church was at a standstill. The Sunday services, the weekday prayer meeting, the missionary teas, even the suppers and socials, were becoming less and less well attended. True, a few conscientious workers were still left. But they pulled at cross purposes, usually, and always they showed themselves to be acutely aware of the critical eyes all about them, and of the tongues that had nothing to do but to talk about what the eyes saw.
And because of all this the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well that he (God's minister), the church, the town, and even Christianity itself was suffering; and must suffer still more unless...
Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But what?
Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he had made for his next Sunday's sermon. Frowningly he looked at them. His mouth settled into stern lines, as aloud, very impressively, he read the verses on which he had determined to speak:
'"But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against metn: for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in.
'"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.
'"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgement, mercy and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone."'
It was a bitter denunciation. In the green aisles of the woods the minister's deep voice rang out with scathing effect. Even the birds and squirrels seemed hushed into awed silence. It brought to the minister a vivid realization of how those words would sound the next Sunday when he should utter them before his people in the sacred hush of the church.
His people! - they were his people. Could he do it? Dare he do it? Dare he not do it? It was a fearful denunciation, even without the words that would follow - his own words. He had prayed and prayed. He had pleaded earnestly for help, for guidance. He longed - oh, how earnestly he longed! - to take now, in this crisis, the right step. Byt was this - the right step?
Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into his pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung himself at the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton house, found him. With a little cry she ran forward.
'Oh, oh, Mr Ford! You haven't broken your leg or - anything, have you?' she gasped.
The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly. He tried to smile.
'No, dear - no, indeed! I'm just - resting.'
'Oh,' sighed Pollyanna, falling back a little. 'That's all right, then. You see Mr Pendleton had broken his leg when I found him - but he was lying down, though. And you are sitting up.'
'Yes, I am sitting up; and I haven't broken anything - that doctors can mend.'
The last words were very low, but Pollyanna heard them. A swift change crossed her face. Her eyes glowed with tender sympathy.
'I know what you mean - something plagues you. Father used to feel like that, lots of times. I reckon ministers do - most generally. You see there's such a lot depends on 'em, somehow.'
The Rev. Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.
'Was your father a minister, Pollyanna?"
'Yes, sir. Didn't you know? I supposed everybody knew that. He married Aunt Polly's sister, and she was my mother.'
'Oh I understand. But, you see, I haven't been here many years, so I don't know all the family histories.
'Yes, sir - I mean, no, sir,' smiled Pollyanna.
There was a long pause. The minister, still sitting at the foot of the tree, appeared to have forgotten Pollyanna's presence. He had pulled some papers from his pockets and unfolded them; but he was not looking at them. He was gazing, instead, at a leaf on the ground a little distance away - and it was not even a pretty leaf. It was brown and dead. Pollyanna, looking at him, felt vaguely sorry for him.
'It's - it's a nice day,' she began hopefully.
For a moment there was no answer; then the minister looked up with a start.
'What? Oh! - yes, it is a very nice day.'
'And 'tisn't cold at all, either, even if 'tis October,' observed Pollyanna, still more hopefully. 'Mr Pendleton had a fire, but he said he didn't need it. It was just to look at. I like to look at fires, don't you?'
There was no reply this time, though Pollyanna waited patiently, before she tried again - by a new route.
'Do you like being a minister?'
The Rev. Paul Ford looked up now, very quickly.
'Do I like - Why, what an odd question! Why do you ask that, my dear?'
'Nothing - only the way you looked. It made me think of my father. He used to look like that - sometimes.'
'Did he?' The minister's voice was polite, but his eyes had gone back to the dried leaf on the ground.
'Yes, and I used to ask him just as I did you if he was glad he was a minister.'
The man under the tree smiled a little sadly.
'Well - what did he say?'
'Oh, he always said he was, of course, but 'most always he said, too, that he wouldn't stay a minister a minute if 'twasn't for the rejoicing texts.'
'The - what?' The Rev. Paul Ford's eyes left the leaf and gazed wonderingly into Pollyanna's merry little face.
'Well, that's what Father used to call 'em,' she laughed. 'Of course, the Bible didn't name 'em that. But it's all those that begin "Be glad in the Lord", or "Rejoice, greatly", or "Shout for joy", and all that, you know - such a lot of 'em. Once, when Father felt specially bad, he counted 'em. There were eight hundred of 'em.'
'Eight hundred!'
'Yes - that told you to rejoice and be glad, you know; that's why Father named 'em the "rejoicing texts".'
'Oh!' There was an odd look on the minister's face. His eyes had fallen on the words on the top paper in his hands - 'But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!' 'And so your father - liked those "rejoicing texts",' he murmured.
'Oh yes,' nodded Pollyanna emphatically. 'He said he felt better right away, that first day he thought to count 'em. He said if God took the trouble to tell us eight hundred times to be glad and rejoice, He must want us to it - some. And Father felt ashamed that he hadn't done it more. After that, they got to be such a comfort to him, you know, when things went wrong; when the Ladies Aiders got to fight - I mean, when they didn't agree about something,' corrected Pollyanna hastily. 'Why it was those texts, too, Father said, that made him think of the game - he began with me on the crutches - but he said 'twas the rejoicing texts that started him on it.'
'And what game might that be?' asked the minister.
'About finding something in everything to be glad about, you know. As I said, he began with me on the crutches.' And once more Pollyanna told her story - this time to a man who listened with tender eyes and understanding ears.
A little later Pollyanna and the minister descended the hill, hand in hand. Pollyanna's face was radiant. Pollyanna loved to talk, and she had been talking now for some time; there seemed to be so many, many things about the game, her father, and the old home life that the minister wanted to know.
At the foot of the hill their ways parted, and Pollyanna down one road, and the minister down another, walked on alone.
In the Rev. Paul Ford's study that evening the minister sat thinking. Near him on the desk lay a few loose sheets of paper - his sermon notes. Under the suspended pencil in his fingers lay other sheets of paper, blank - his sermon to be. But the minister was not thinking of what he had written or of what he intended to write. In his imagination he was far away in a little Western town with a missionary minister who was poor, sick, worried, and almost alone in the world - but who was poring over the Bible to find out how many times his Lord and Master had told him to 'rejoice and be glad'.
At least, it has always borne out with me. People who expect the best of me and see the best of me frequently GET the best of me. But the moment I feel criticism, it may not be spoken but simply hovering in the air, something inside turns cold and shuts down. My knee-jerk reaction (which I have since been told is wrong and extreme and I'm working on it) is to never speak to the person in question again for the rest of my life.
Not all at once. It builds little by little until there's an internal conflagration and the explosion may be silent, but it's there. Witness the debris, the twisted metal, the bloodied, broken bodies, and the deathly cold you feel emanating from me like a nuclear winter.
I know, I have issues, I'm working on it.
But this is why, I think Pollyanna and the story of her is so powerful. Just imagine if we had someone in our lives who only saw our best because they were constitutionally unable to see anything else? We think, huh, naive, knock off those rose-coloured glasses, but maybe, just maybe, they're the least naive of us all, and we're the idiots walking around so cynical, feeling so damn clever, feeling so damn miserable.
Anyways, enough of me. Here she is:
On the afternoon that Pollyanna told John Pendleton of Jimmy Bean, the Rev. Paul Ford climbed the hill and entered the Pendleton Woods, hoping that the hushed beauty of God's out-of-doors would still the tumult that His children of men had wrought.
The Rev. Paul Fod was sick at heart. Month by month, for a year past, conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse and worse; it seemed that now, turn which way he would, he encountered only wrangling, backbiting, scandal and jealousy. He had argued, pleaded, rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always and through all he had prayed - earnestly, hopefully. But today miserably he was forced to own that matters were no better, but rather worse.
Two of his deacons were at swords' points over a silly something that only endless brooding had made of any account. Three of his most energetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladies' Aid Society because a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues into a devouring flame of scandal. The choir had split over the amount of solo work given to a fanciedly preferred singer. Even the Christian Endeavour Society was in a ferment of unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers. As to the Sunday School - it had been the resignation of its superintendent and two of its teachers that had been the last straw, and that had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer and meditation.
Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford faced the thing squarely. To his mind, the crisis had come. Something must be done - and done at once. The entire work of the church was at a standstill. The Sunday services, the weekday prayer meeting, the missionary teas, even the suppers and socials, were becoming less and less well attended. True, a few conscientious workers were still left. But they pulled at cross purposes, usually, and always they showed themselves to be acutely aware of the critical eyes all about them, and of the tongues that had nothing to do but to talk about what the eyes saw.
And because of all this the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well that he (God's minister), the church, the town, and even Christianity itself was suffering; and must suffer still more unless...
Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But what?
Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he had made for his next Sunday's sermon. Frowningly he looked at them. His mouth settled into stern lines, as aloud, very impressively, he read the verses on which he had determined to speak:
'"But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against metn: for ye neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in.
'"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.
'"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgement, mercy and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone."'
It was a bitter denunciation. In the green aisles of the woods the minister's deep voice rang out with scathing effect. Even the birds and squirrels seemed hushed into awed silence. It brought to the minister a vivid realization of how those words would sound the next Sunday when he should utter them before his people in the sacred hush of the church.
His people! - they were his people. Could he do it? Dare he do it? Dare he not do it? It was a fearful denunciation, even without the words that would follow - his own words. He had prayed and prayed. He had pleaded earnestly for help, for guidance. He longed - oh, how earnestly he longed! - to take now, in this crisis, the right step. Byt was this - the right step?
Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into his pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung himself at the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton house, found him. With a little cry she ran forward.
'Oh, oh, Mr Ford! You haven't broken your leg or - anything, have you?' she gasped.
The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly. He tried to smile.
'No, dear - no, indeed! I'm just - resting.'
'Oh,' sighed Pollyanna, falling back a little. 'That's all right, then. You see Mr Pendleton had broken his leg when I found him - but he was lying down, though. And you are sitting up.'
'Yes, I am sitting up; and I haven't broken anything - that doctors can mend.'
The last words were very low, but Pollyanna heard them. A swift change crossed her face. Her eyes glowed with tender sympathy.
'I know what you mean - something plagues you. Father used to feel like that, lots of times. I reckon ministers do - most generally. You see there's such a lot depends on 'em, somehow.'
The Rev. Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.
'Was your father a minister, Pollyanna?"
'Yes, sir. Didn't you know? I supposed everybody knew that. He married Aunt Polly's sister, and she was my mother.'
'Oh I understand. But, you see, I haven't been here many years, so I don't know all the family histories.
'Yes, sir - I mean, no, sir,' smiled Pollyanna.
There was a long pause. The minister, still sitting at the foot of the tree, appeared to have forgotten Pollyanna's presence. He had pulled some papers from his pockets and unfolded them; but he was not looking at them. He was gazing, instead, at a leaf on the ground a little distance away - and it was not even a pretty leaf. It was brown and dead. Pollyanna, looking at him, felt vaguely sorry for him.
'It's - it's a nice day,' she began hopefully.
For a moment there was no answer; then the minister looked up with a start.
'What? Oh! - yes, it is a very nice day.'
'And 'tisn't cold at all, either, even if 'tis October,' observed Pollyanna, still more hopefully. 'Mr Pendleton had a fire, but he said he didn't need it. It was just to look at. I like to look at fires, don't you?'
There was no reply this time, though Pollyanna waited patiently, before she tried again - by a new route.
'Do you like being a minister?'
The Rev. Paul Ford looked up now, very quickly.
'Do I like - Why, what an odd question! Why do you ask that, my dear?'
'Nothing - only the way you looked. It made me think of my father. He used to look like that - sometimes.'
'Did he?' The minister's voice was polite, but his eyes had gone back to the dried leaf on the ground.
'Yes, and I used to ask him just as I did you if he was glad he was a minister.'
The man under the tree smiled a little sadly.
'Well - what did he say?'
'Oh, he always said he was, of course, but 'most always he said, too, that he wouldn't stay a minister a minute if 'twasn't for the rejoicing texts.'
'The - what?' The Rev. Paul Ford's eyes left the leaf and gazed wonderingly into Pollyanna's merry little face.
'Well, that's what Father used to call 'em,' she laughed. 'Of course, the Bible didn't name 'em that. But it's all those that begin "Be glad in the Lord", or "Rejoice, greatly", or "Shout for joy", and all that, you know - such a lot of 'em. Once, when Father felt specially bad, he counted 'em. There were eight hundred of 'em.'
'Eight hundred!'
'Yes - that told you to rejoice and be glad, you know; that's why Father named 'em the "rejoicing texts".'
'Oh!' There was an odd look on the minister's face. His eyes had fallen on the words on the top paper in his hands - 'But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!' 'And so your father - liked those "rejoicing texts",' he murmured.
'Oh yes,' nodded Pollyanna emphatically. 'He said he felt better right away, that first day he thought to count 'em. He said if God took the trouble to tell us eight hundred times to be glad and rejoice, He must want us to it - some. And Father felt ashamed that he hadn't done it more. After that, they got to be such a comfort to him, you know, when things went wrong; when the Ladies Aiders got to fight - I mean, when they didn't agree about something,' corrected Pollyanna hastily. 'Why it was those texts, too, Father said, that made him think of the game - he began with me on the crutches - but he said 'twas the rejoicing texts that started him on it.'
'And what game might that be?' asked the minister.
'About finding something in everything to be glad about, you know. As I said, he began with me on the crutches.' And once more Pollyanna told her story - this time to a man who listened with tender eyes and understanding ears.
A little later Pollyanna and the minister descended the hill, hand in hand. Pollyanna's face was radiant. Pollyanna loved to talk, and she had been talking now for some time; there seemed to be so many, many things about the game, her father, and the old home life that the minister wanted to know.
At the foot of the hill their ways parted, and Pollyanna down one road, and the minister down another, walked on alone.
In the Rev. Paul Ford's study that evening the minister sat thinking. Near him on the desk lay a few loose sheets of paper - his sermon notes. Under the suspended pencil in his fingers lay other sheets of paper, blank - his sermon to be. But the minister was not thinking of what he had written or of what he intended to write. In his imagination he was far away in a little Western town with a missionary minister who was poor, sick, worried, and almost alone in the world - but who was poring over the Bible to find out how many times his Lord and Master had told him to 'rejoice and be glad'.
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