To The Light

'Tis better to walk towards something you love, than away from something you don't.

The Little World of Don Camillo

OK here's the thing about Don Camillo stories. No one seems to have heard of them. Which is a pity. Because they are some of the most delightful little short stories ever. Don Camillo (the Catholic priest in a little village in the Po Valley in Italy) and his arch-nemesis, Communist Mayor Peppone are two of the most wonderful characters ever fashioned. And this is one of the few books in which God is a character as well. Don Camillo talks to Him. And He answers. And probably not how you would expect Him to.

Here's how I was led to these stories. I have a friend. She studied in India. One day, out of the blue she started talking about these books she used to read in college. About a priest. Who used to talk to the Lord. And how funny it these books were. She could never find them after that. Certainly not in Malaysia. And she felt sad. Just another part of you that breaks off and falls into the abyss, to be lost forever.

But nothing is ever lost.

Not really.

Just a month or two later I bought a comedy collection of stories. It wasn't even very expensive. And one of the stories in this impeccable collection was "On the Trail" by Giovanni Guareschi. And there he was. The Italian priest who talked to God. I laughed through it. And then I went on Amazon to see if I could buy the entire book. I found that they were only available on special order. It was a couple of months before Christmas. I thought, no problem, what a lovely Christmas surprise that would make for my friend, lamenting the days that were no more.

It arrived about two months after Christmas. So I thought, hmmm...only eight months more to her birthday. I stuffed it in one of my suitcases (after having read it, of course) and waited it out.

And then, on her birthday, I made her way to her office (same company, different sections) and presented it to her. She had been having a crappy day, birthday notwithstanding. When she tore off the wrapper and saw the little red volume (The Little World of Don Camillo) she let out a whoop of delight.

"How did you know? How did you know? I didn't even tell you the name?"

And I looked mysterious and tapped my nose significantly and cleared my throat.

Needless to say, one of the most effective gifts I have ever given. Over the years, my sister Jackie found more Don Camillo books (secondhand ones) and I steadily increased her collection. She told me later that she kept these books away from her bookshelf, in a little guitar case. They were too precious to lend out.

The story I have picked for you is one called The Ball Bounces Back. Peppone doesn't feature much in it. But it's one of my favourite Don Camillo stories. From the book, Don Camillo's Dilemma.

Enjoy!

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When women go in for politics they're worse than the most rabid of men. The men throw their weight around for the sake of "the cause", whereas the women direct all their whiles toward the discomfiture of the enemy. The same difference as there is between defending one's country and going to war in order to kill as many people as possible on the other side.

Jo del Magro was up to her ears in politics, and because of her fiery temperament she did not only her share but that of her husband as well. He died, poor fellow, leaving her with a three-year-old son, but her grief for his loss must have been to some degree compensated by the fact that she ignored the priest and carried him to the grave to the muted tones of the Red anthem.

Jo was good-looking enough, in her way, and could perfectly well have found a second husband to look after her. But she clung obstinately to her hard lot, feeding upon it the embitterment which held the place of faith in her heart. She supported herself by heavy farm work - sowing, reaping, threshing and wine-pressing - in the summer, and in the winter by making reed baskets which she peddled about the country. She worked fiercely, as if weariness were an end in itself and her only satisfaction. And even the boldest men took care not to bother her, because she was not only strong-armed, but had a vocabulary coarse enough to put theirs to shame.

The little boy grew like a weed. When he wasn't left alone in their isolated shack but was allowed to trail after his mother, she set him down in the farmyard where she was working and told him to shut up and "keep out of her hair". When he was five years old he could throw stones as well as a boy of ten and destroy a laden fruit-tree in less than half an hour. He nosed about like a hunting-dog among the chicken coops, leaving a mess of broken eggs behind him; he strewed bits of glass on the roads and perpetrated other tricks of the same kind. His only distinction lay in the fact that he was a lone wolf and preferred to operate on his own rather than to run with the pack. When two gangs of boys were engaged in battle he hid behind a bush or tree and threw stones indiscriminately at both factions. He was anti-social by nature and had an extraordinary ability to disappear from the scene of his misdemeanours. The evening of the grape gathering festival he let the air out of the tyres of some fifty bicycles and threw the valve caps away. No one could lay hands on him, but everyone was saying:

"It must be that confounded little Magrino!"

A few days later some well-meaning ladies went to call on his mother and tactfully intimated that instead of letting him run wild she should turn him over, during her working hours, to the day nursery. Jo grew red in the face and shouted that rather than give her son over to a priestly institution she'd leave him with certain women whose reputation they knew all too well.

"Tell Don Gumshoe Camillo to look after his own business!" she said, adding a volley of oaths which caused the well-meaning ladies to pull up their skirts and run. Their leader reported the upshot of their visit to Don Camillo, concluding:

"Father, I can't repeat the name that unfortunate creature fastened upon you!"

"I know it already," he answered gloomily.

The weather was fine and the children of Don Camillo's day nursery were out on the playing field most of the afternoon. The swings and see-saws had been restored to good order and even the grumpiest children were all smiles. Don Camillo lay in a deck chair, smoking his cigar and enjoying the warm sun, when he had a sudden feeling that something was wrong.

The playing field bordered, on the river side, on a field of alfalfa, from which it was separate by a galvanized wire fence. Now Don Camillo was struck by an unaccustomed ripple in the alfalfa, and his sportsman's instinct told him that it was neither a dog nor a chicken. He did not move, but half closed his eyes in order to observe without being detected. Slowly something rose out of the grass and Don Camillo felt Magrino's eyes converging upon him. He held his breath while Magrino, feeling sure that he he was not watched, transferred his gaze to another objective. He was following the children's game and such was his curiosity that at one point he forgot himself and raised his whole head above the alfalfa. No one noticed, and of this Don Camillo was glad. All of a sudden his head disappeared. A big ball, with which some of the bigger boys were playing, had been kicked over the fence and they called out to ask Don Camillo if they could go and get it. The priest pretended to wake up with a start.

"Is the ball out of bounds again?" he shouted. "I've told you to be more careful. That grass can't be trodden down. No more ball-playing today. You can go and get the ball tomorrow, and meanwhile let me sleep!"

The boys grumbled a bit; then they found another ball and played with that, while Don Camillo pretended to be sleeping. Actually, he was more alert than ever. Ten minutes later the alfalfa stirred again, but this time the line of rippling moved farther and farther away. Magrino was leaving, but he was following an odd course, which for the moment led him to the centre of the alfalfa field.

"He must be cutting across diagonally," thought Don Camillo, "in order to emerge along the hedge parallel to the canal."

Instead, Magrino stopped short and made an abrupt turn to the left. Obviously, he had found the ball, picked it up and now was carrying it away.

"Rascal!" muttered Don Camillo. "You pulled off the trick handsomely. But when you reach the row of trees at the end of the alfalfa you'll have to show yourself!"

But Magrino knew better. When he was out of the tall grass he slid on his stomach until he came to a ditch which ran at right angles to the trees and afforded him perfect cover.

"Lord," Don Camillo murmured, "how can a five-year-old boy have learned to be so tricky?"

"Don Camillo," the Lord answered. "how do fish learn to swim? By instinct, of course."

"Instinct?" Don Camillo exclaimed gloomily. "Are men instinctively evil?"

Don Camillo bought the boys another ball and made no mention of the escapade of Magrino. He hoped that the stolen ball would act like bait and bring Magrino back later. Every day he scanned the field of alfalfa, but there was no ripple. Then someone told him that Magrino had come down with a fever the night after he had taken the ball. The ditch was full of water, and in crawling through it he was chilled to the bone. Then, before going into the shack he had buried the ball in a hole. His mother came home late, and found him shivering all over. At first it seemed like nothing at all, at least nothing that couldn't be cured with a few pills and a hot-water bottle. Then things took a turn for the worse and one evening he came half delirious. He muttered something over and over, and finally Jo understood him to mention a big rubber ball.

"Don't worry," she said. "Hurry up and get well, and I'll buy a ball for you."

Magrino quieted down, but the next night, when his fever rose again, he resumed his insistence upon the ball.

"Take it easy!" said Jo. "I told you I'd get it as soon as you're well."

"No...no..."

"Do you want me to get one right away?"

"No...no...The ball..."

Evidently he couldn't take his mind off it. But the doctor said there was no use looking for a meaning in the ravings of a delirious child. And so, on the third night, Jo simply answered:

"All right...whatever you say..."

He raved until one o'clock when the fever went down sufficiently for him to sleep. Then, at last, the exhausted Jo was able to go to bed."

The next morning at five o'clock Don Camillo stood shaving in front of the mirror hanging from the sash bolt of his window. It was a clear, cool day, and he took his time, looking out over the fields to the row of poplars along the river bank and beyond to the gleaming river. Directly below him lay the playing field, empty and silent at this hour, but soon to be overrun by the day nursery. He smiled to himself at the thought of all the freshly washed little faces.

As his glance fell over the field of alfalfa and the wire fence, he murmured to himself: "The little rascal!..." Then he started as a moving white object caught his attention. Only when it was within a few yards of the fence did he recognize it. It was little Magrino, bundled up in a long white night-shirt, which his father had formerly worn by day, weaving in and out of the tall grass, like a drunkard or a sleepwalker. He stumbled and fell, but stood up again and again and went on, clutching all the while a big rubber ball. When he reached the fence he threw it up in the air, but the fence was too high and it fell back on the same side. He threw it again and it hit the wire. Don Camillo's forehead was covered with perspiration.

"Lord," he prayed, "give him the strength to throw it over!"

Magrino was tired out and the tiny arms sticking out of the shirtsleeves seemed to have lost all their former skill. He staggered in order to remain erect and paused for several minutes before making another try. Don Camillo shut his eyes, and when he opened them the ball was in the playing field, while Magrino lay motionless among the alfalfa. The priest went like an avalanche down the stairs. When he picked up the little boy the lightness of his burden struck terror into his heart. Magrino's eyes flickered open, and finding himself in the enemy's grasp he whispered:

"Don Gumshoe...the ball's inside..."

"Good fellow!" said Don Camillo.

The bell-ringer who went to tell Jo, found her beside herself over the disappearance of her son. When she saw him lying on a couch before the fire in Don Camillo's study her amazement knew no bounds.

"I found him in a dead faint among the alfalfa, just twenty minutes ago," Don Camillo told her.

"And what in the world was he doing there? My head is completely woozy."

"Always has been, hasn't it?" asked Don Camillo.

The doctor told Jo not to dream of taking the boy away but gave him an injection and left precise instructions for his care. Meanwhile, Don Camillo was in the sacristy, preparing for Mass.

"Lord," he said to the Crucified Christ as he stood before the altar, "how did it all happen? After the upbringing that boy's had, how could he know the difference between good and evil?"

"Don Camillo," said Christ, "how do fish learn to swim? By instinct. And conscience is instinctive in the same way; it's not something that can be transmitted from one person to another. It's not like taking a light into a dark room. The light is burning all the time, covered by a thick veil. When you take the veil away, the room is lit."

"Very well, Lord, but who unveiled the light in that boy's soul?"

"Don Camillo, when the darkness of death is impending, everyone instinctively searches within himself for a ray of light. And now, don't you bother your head about how it came about; just rejoice in it and thank God."

Magrino spent a fortnight in the rectory and Jo came morning and evening to see him; that is, she knocked at the window and when Don Camillo opened it, she said:

"I've come to see the prisoner."

Don Camillo made no reply but let the two of them talk together. After a fortnight had gone by he came home one day to find Magrino letting the air out of his bicycle tyres. He gathered together the boy's few clothes and took him to the door saying:

"You're cured. Go along home!"

That evening Jo came boldly to the door.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing. The most that you can do for me is to stay out of my sight forever, per omnia saecula saeculorum."

"Amen," mumbled Jo.

But out of sheer spite she appeared at eleven o'clock Mass the following Sunday, sitting in the front pew, with Magrino beside her. Don Camillo shot her a terrifying glance, but from the bold way in which she stared back at him he knew perfectly well that she was saying to herself:

"Don Gumshoe, don't make those ferocious eyes at me. I'm not in the least bit afraid!"

Grandmother Whitehead's Famous Texas Fudge Cake

I notice that a lot of people land on this blog searching for "brownies" or "chocolate recipes". So in order to spread even more happiness, let me share with you another chocolate recipe, one that has proved an old favourite for years now. It's the Texas Fudge cake. And when I ask my friends...OK choose a cake for Christmas, the invariably say, Texas Fudge.

I found this recipe years ago (somewhere in the late 90s) in my Chicken Soup for the Soul Cookbook. Each recipe was accompanied by a heartwarming story and almost always, both proved equally delicious. So here is the recipe for Grandmother Whitehead's Famous Texas Fudge Cake. Use it carefully. Has been known to induce love and joy.

Ingredients for Cake

1/3 cup cocoa
2 sticks (I cup) butter or margarine
2 cups flour
2 cups sugar (I use less sugar and it usually tastes better, experiment with this)
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1/2 cup sour cream or buttermilk (sour cream is richer)
1 teaspoon vanilla

Icing
3/4 stick butter or margarine (for those who do not live in the US, a stick of butter is about one fourth of the usual slab we buy at the supermarket)
1/4 cup milk
3 tablespoons cocoa
3/4 box powdered sugar
3/4 cup finely chopped nuts of your choice (I always use almonds, but here too, feel free to experiment)
1 teaspoon vanilla

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 350F. Butter an 11 by 15-inch pan. Put cocoa in a medium saucepan; gradually stir in 1 cup water and bring to a boil. Add butter or margarine and let melt. Set aside.

2. Sift together onto wax paper the flour, sugar, baking soda and salt; add to the hot mixture. Lightly beat the eggs and add them to the mixture along with sour cream and vanilla. Pour the mixture into the prepared pan. Bake for 30 minutes, or until it feels firm in the center.

3. While the cake is baking, prepare the icing. In a saucepan, combine butter or margarine, milk and cocoa; bring to a boil. Add powdered sugar and beat until smooth. Add chopped nuts and vanilla. Spread over the hot cake. Cool before cutting.

The Deeper Sorrow Carves Into Your Being

Yes, you would have thought that I would have included this in one of the first posts in my joy blog, way back when I was all bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and excited. (Yeah, May seems so long ago now). But no. In fact, I didn't even remember it until Anita repeated the "deeper that sorrow carves into your being" line recently. There was a time when I would read this particular passage every day. Because life was tumultuous and sorrow was pretty much carving into my being, all daggers drawn, and I tried to believe that it was emptying me out for some joy.

I didn't always succeed.

But these words continue to resonate anyway, through the decades and I am sure they will resonate through the centuries as well, the way Rumi's have.

The incomparable Kahlil Gibran. From The Prophet.

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy, and Sorrow.

And he answered:

Your joy is your sorrow umasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can be it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that burned in the potter's oven?

And is not the lite that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is greater."

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you at a standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Maya

Maya had a stall at the Corbeil-Essones station. He sold chicken and fish and fries and Coke. He sold bread. Passengers thronging the station, a central station in the suburbs outside Paris would stop at his stall and buy a chicken sandwich. Or ham and cheese. Or fish and chips. At night, when he was closing, some young men would come up and say they were hungry. He would give them bread.

Maya was plain and short and wiry - but he had a special quality about him. He seemed to look beyond the glossy surfaces and penetrate what was underneath. He had a depth that was singularly lacking in the companions who hung about his stall.

One day he met a girl and he sold her a chicken sandwich and gave her some mineral water and fries for free and they sat under the moonlight and talked about healing and life and love.

She wore a grey hat she had bought from Gallerie Lafayette just that week and he lifted that hat, so chic, so Parisian, and told her, you look beautiful even without the hat. They sat at the taxi stand and talked while the wind blew the stars around and no taxi arrived. Soon it would be midnight. She started to look apprehensive."Look," said Maya, "don't worry. Where do you stay? If no taxi comes along, I will send you back."

And still, no taxi came. Maya went back to his stall and started to close up. The French guys who hung around the stall were derisive. "She lives where? In Tigery? That's miles out of your way. Don't bother." But Maya ignored them. He brought out a chair and said: "Sit. Don't worry about anything. I'll get you home safely."

He stopped a girl on her way to the train and asked her for directions. Yes, she knew where Tigery was. She told him. Then a taxi appeared. The girl in the grey hat rose from the chair and ran to the taxi. "Tigery?" she asked breathlessly. "Ah oui." The driver replied, nodding.

She hurtled back to Maya, with gladness in her heart. "Maya, there's a taxi. You don't have to send me home."

Maya looked sad. "Are you sure? It's no trouble at all."

"No, don't worry." And she hugged him and said goodbye.

And he said. "You are a good person. Whatever happens, remember that."

And then she was gone. But she never forgot him. And never will.

The Auction

It's been a while since I did a doggie post and that's not right because they are my life. They are. I'm back in JB walking my pooches, sayanging them and rubbing their bellies and saying "who's my dog dog...who's my dog dog..." and they whimper obligingly to tell me, "I am, I am." Both of 'em. Handsome Maggotty and worried-looking Elliot.

Anyway, I didn't write this. Robert Fulghum did. And I loved it so much, I belly laughed.

(Have you belly-laughed today? And if not, what are you waiting for?)

A man and woman I know fell in BIG LOVE somewhat later in life than usual. She was forty. He was fifty. Neither had been married before. But they knew about marriage. They had seen the realities of that sacred state up close among their friends. They determined to overcome as many potential difficulties as possible by working things out in advance.

Prenuptial agreements over money and property were prepared by lawyers. Preemptive counseling over perceived tensions was provided by a psychologist, who helped them commit all practical promises to paper, with full reciprocal tolerance for irrational idiosyncrasies.

"Get married once, do it right and live at least agreeably, if not happily, ever after." So they hoped.

One item in their agreement concerned pets and kids. Item number 7:

"We agree to have either children or pets, but not both."

The man was not enthusiastic about dependent relationships. Kids, dogs, cats, hamsters, goldfish, snakes or any other living thing that had to be fed or watered had never had a place in his life. Not even houseplants. And especially not dogs. She, on the other hand, liked taking care of living things. Especially children and dogs.

Okay. But she had to choose. She chose children. He obliged. Two daughters in three years. Marriage and family life went along quite well for all. Their friends were impressed. So far, so good.

The children reached school age. The mother leapt eagerly into the bottomless pool of educational volunteerism. The school needed funds for art and music. The mother organized a major-league auction to raise much money. Every family agreed to provide an item of substantial value for the event.

The mother knew a lot about dogs. She had raised dogs all her life - the pedigreed champion kind. She planned to use her expertise to shop the various local puppy pounds to find an unnoticed bargain pooch and shape it up for the auction as her contribution. With a small investment, she would make a tenfold profit for the school. And for a couple of days, at least, there would be a dog in the house.

After a month of looking, she found the wonder dog - the dog of great promise. A female, four months old, dark gray, blue eyes, tall, strong, confident and very, very, very friendly.

To her practiced eye, our mother could see that classy genes had been accidentally mixed her. Two purebreed dogs of the highest caliber had combined to produce this exceptional animal. Most likely, a black Labrador and a Weimaraner, she thought. Perfect, just perfect.

To those of us of untutored eye, this mutt looked more like the results of a bad blind date between a Mexican burro and a miniature musk ox.

The fairy dogmother went to work. Dog is inspected and given shots by a vet. Fitted with an elegant leather collar and leash. Equipped with a handsome bowl, a ball and a rawhide bone. Expenses: %50 to the pound, $50 to the vet, $50 to the beauty parlor, $60 for tack and equipment, and $50 for food. A total of $260 on a dog that is going to stay forty-eight hours before auction time.

The father took one look and paled. He smelled smoke. He wouldn't give ten bucks to keep it an hour. "DOG," as the father named it, had a long, thick, rubber club of a tail, legs and feet that remind him of hairy toilet plungers, and is already big enough at four months to bowl over the girls and their mother with its unrestrained enthusiasm.

The father knows this is going to be ONE BIG DOG. Something a zoo might display. Omnivorous, it has eaten all its food in one day, and has left permanent teeth marks on a chair leg, a leather ottoman and the father's favorite golf shoes.

The father is patient about all of this.

After all, it is only a temporary arrangement, and for a good cause.

He remembers item number 7 in the prenuptial agreement.

He is safe.

On Thursday night, the school affair gets off to a winning start. Big crowd of parents, and many guests who look flush with money. Arty decorations, fine potluck food, a cornucopia of auction items. The mother basks in her triumph.

"DOG" comes on the auction block much earlier than planned. Because the father went out to the car to check on "DOG" and found it methodically eating the leather off the car's steering wheel, after having crunched holes in the padded dashboard.

After a little wrestling match getting "DOG" into the mother's arms and up onto the stage, the mother sits in a folding chair, cradling "DOG" with the solemn a tenderness reserved for a corpse at a wake, while the auctioneer describes the pedigree of the animal and all the fine effort and neat equipment thrown in with the deal.

"What am I bid for this wonderful animal?"

"A hundred dollars over here, two hundred dollars on the right; two hundred and fifty dollars in the middle."

There is a sniffle from the mother.

Tears are running down her face.

"DOG" is licking the tears off her cheeks.

In a whisper not really meant for public notice, the mother calls to her husband. "Jack, Jack, I can't sell this dog - I want this dog - this is my dog - she loves me - I love her - oh, Jack."

Every eye in the room is on this soapy drama.

The father feels ill, realizing that the great bowling ball of fate is headed down his alley.

"Please, Jack, please, please," she whispers.

At that moment, everybody in the room knows who is going to buy the pooch. "DOG" is going home with Jack.

Having no fear now of being stuck themselves, several relieved men set the bidding on fire. "DOG" is going to set an auction record. The repeated hundred-dollar rise in price is matched by the soft "Please, Jack" from the stage and Jack's almost inaudible raise in the bidding, five dollars at a time.

There is a long pause at "Fifteen hundred dollars - going once, going twice...:

A sob from the stage.

And for $1,505 Jack has bought himself a dog. Add in the upfront costs, and he's $1,765 into "DOG."

The noble father is applauded as his wife rushes from the stage to throw her arms around his neck, while "DOG" wraps the leash around both their legs and down they go into the first row of chairs. A memorable night for the PTA.

I see Jack out being walked by the dog late at night. He's the only strong enough to control it, and he hates to have the neighbors see him being dragged along by this most expensive damned dog for a hundred miles.

"DOG" has become "Marilyn". She is big enough to plow with now. Marilyn may be the world's dumbest dog having been to obedience school twice with no apparent effect.

Jack is still stunned. He can't believe this has happened to him.

He had it down on paper. Number 7. Kids or pets, not both.

But the complicating clauses in the fine print of the marriage contract are always unreadable. And always open to revision by forces stronger than a man's ego. The loveboat always leaks. And marriage is never a done deal.

I say he got off light. It could have been ponies or llamas or potbellied pigs. It would have been something. It always is.

The Most

My life is pieces of paper
that I'll get back to later
write you a story
how I ended up here
and how the little things make us
and how long it takes us
to figure out what matters
the most

Just listen to the words...just listen...