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Easter

 

Our family had a moment of divine intervention over Easter.

We arrived in Paris late in the afternoon and after settling in, we set off on foot to make something of the remaining daylight. We crossed the Seine to the cathedral of Notre Dame. We stood staring up at the heights of the cathedral, taking in her grandeur: the stone carvings over the doors, the gargoyles, the bell towers. We ambled through a park as the sun set and the temperature dropped.

A meandering route home took us through a tangle of small empty streets. We found ourselves walking behind a stone church, unmarked even in our guidebooks. The cathedral of Saint Gervais sits tucked back, overlooked in the shadow of her more famous neighbours. Being curious, we walked up the church steps as the first of the homeless people began bunking down there, sheltered by the alcoves and pillars from the night wind.

Saint Gervais

The church was completely dark. The only light came from an alcove halfway down the length of the cathedral. There, an unseen choir was practising the Pope Marcellus Mass by Palestrina (I only know the piece from a CD we were given). As we stood there adjusting to the gloom, the soprano’s voice soared high into the recesses of the church, floating there alone, sustained, with the clarity of a bell. Then the choir’s voices swelled to meet her, joining together and tumbling like a stream of sound splashing off the stone walls. We, all of us, were completely transported. We sat on wooden stools in silent wonder, hardly breathing, as the music rang out into the dark void of the church.

Eventually, we returned to this world courtesy of a playful churchmouse scurrying across the floor. The children followed it as I wandered over to the door. There, I was transported for a second time by the sheer weight of history as I glanced up at a plaque listing the names of the priests that have served Saint Gervais in an unbroken line since 1278. Here we were, in a place where a church has stood since at least the 7thcentury. Then she humbly served boatmen and fishermen. Now she shelters the sleeping homeless, an unseen choir, we few tourists, and a churchmouse.

Finally we stepped out into the cold and dark. As we picked our way around the sleeping bodies of the  homeless, I had an Easter thought: in a City full of showpieces, this is exactly where the risen Christ would be – huddled alongside forgotten people on the cold steps of an overlooked church, while a choir inside pours out His glory in song. What a gift. Happy Easter everyone.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

The song for Palestrina is available as a link here

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The Dump – 26/03/2018

Each week here in Switzerland, we go down the road to the local Déchetterie (dump) to dispose of our week’s garbage. The “sorting of the garbage” ritual is more than just a weekly chore. It is a window unto the Swiss soul.

To begin, it makes practical Swiss sense to dedicate as little space as possible to landfill in a country with so little arable land. The Swiss can’t just truck their garbage to Michigan, like so many other places do. So instead they enlist their citizenry to gather weekly at each town’s pre-determined site to sort things down to the last wrapper. This level of practicality and precision is very Swiss.

Just how precise? Taxonomically speaking, the family garbage is divided into glass, paper, metal, plastic, compost. This is pretty standard for any progressive city. But in Switzerland there is further subdivision of the garbage right down to sub-species. Plastic is sorted into clear plastic, wrapper plastic, colored bottle plastic, and green plastic. Glass is similarly separated into bins designated by color. Any container with a metal cap must have it removed, with the cap sorted into yet another container. The strict separation of paper products borders on OCD.

For the privilege of doing this hauling and sorting ourselves, citizens in our town pay a 55% municipal tax rate, considered one of the most attractively low in the country. And while it is not strictly mandatory to go to the Déchette, it is nonetheless highly incentivized. The alternative curbside pickup requires the use of garbage bags specially stamped with the name of our town. A roll of 20 stamped garbage bags costs $30. It doesn’t take a math genius to deduce that it is far more affordable to join the Déchetterie ritual.

And the ritual is surprisingly community-building. The Déchetterie is only open for 5 hours a week (2 hours Tuesday afternoon, 3 hours Saturday afternoon), also very Swiss. So there is a very good chance of meeting some or all of our neighbors there. There is a sense of pride is doing our civic duty, and witnessing everyone else doing the same. Friendly greetings are exchanged over armloads of tin cans. Discretion is widely practiced in the face of vast volumes of empty liquor bottles coming from neighbor’s cars. There are understanding nods as each empty bottle is meticulously recycled according to its color.

The town retirees are drawn to the Déchetterie for its social aspects. They mill about as gossips and gatekeepers, helpfully instructing newcomers on the finer points of acid vs. lithium battery separation. And they invariably have bottles of wine on the go, even the paid municipal worker who is theoretically in charge. The other week, with the mountains framing her in the background, we saw a lady in a full fur coat sipping champagne from a fluted glass near the compost bins. To add to the ambience, the local militia unit was taking rifle practice at the range just behind the Déchetterie, their gunfire adding a finishing Swiss touch to this caricaturish Swiss scene.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[Image Credit to Montreal Gazette]

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The Hippo and the Lion – 19/03/2018

In a display of supreme stupidity, the group of bankers moved downhill towards the lioness and her cub to get better photographs. Predictably, the lioness charged.

My friend, who was leading the bodyguard detail for the bankers, described what happened next as “a cartoon”. Feet slipped, arms flailed, and the bankers fell all over each other in a desperate attempt to scramble back up the hill to the safety of the lodge. The lioness streaked towards them, roaring in anger.

With no good option, my friend ran downhill past the flailing tangle of bankers to meet her. He reached for the concealed pistol in his shoulder holster.  His only choice was to kill the lioness before she killed his clients. This was a great pity, because she was clearly faultless and they were clearly fools.

However, having seen off the threat to her cub the lioness stopped, then retreated. My friend, standing alone and relieved, removed his hand from the still concealed gun. He turned to climb back up the hill.

He was met by thunderous applause. The bankers, now safely back at the lodge, still had no idea that my friend was armed. They believed he had charged the lion in an act of selfless bravery.  All afternoon they bought beers for the conquering hero and recounted their mutual adventure. No doubt the tale grew in the telling, and with the drinking.

One by one the bankers wobbled off to bed. My friend sat alone on the lodge verandah, savoring the events of the day and the cool African night. A hippo wandered by grazing on the grass. So wild and yet so close, like the lioness herself.

Then the hippo pooped all over him. Hippos use their paddle-shaped tails to spray stool around like a firehose. My friend found himself sitting in just such a hippo car wash. When he finally got up from the chair there was the outline of his body, like a chalk drawing at a murder scene, surrounded by hippo poop.

He went into the parking lot, stripped, and threw his uniform in a garbage bag, never to be worn again.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Love – 12/03/2018

Dementia is horrific not only because it robs loved ones of their faculties, but because the rest of us watch loved ones fade away in slow motion. But even in such darkness there can be light and laughter. Such is the case with my father.

The care that he has provided for my mother for over a decade, and the tender constancy with which he has done so, is simply awe inspiring. The doctors, home care, facilities, paperwork and expenses are relentless. He honors birthdays and anniversaries that mom can no longer recall. He participates in care facility activities with unselfconscious enthusiasm, even when she is asleep.

There are, of course, moments of exasperation, fear, despair, and exhaustion. But not once, in all this time, has he ever complained. On the contrary. He maintains that caring for my mother has been the privilege of a lifetime. Awe. Inspiring. Grace.

Of course, being the family that we are, we also treasure the moments of absurdity as they come along.

One such occasion took place one winter morning. Dad was making coffee. My mother has mild hearing loss, so dad asked her in a rather loud voice if SHE WANTED ANY COFFEE? In her state of confusion, she was indignant at being addressed in an inappropriately loud voice. Uncharacteristically, she threatened to walk out (!). Dad just smiled and went into the kitchen to fetch the coffee. But when he returned to the living room, she was gone. The front door was open and there was mom, steaming down the street in her flannel night gown and bathrobe.

Dad took off after her in hot pursuit in his own night clothes that consist of: two slippers shaped like moose paddling a canoe, red flannel pants, and a t-shirt several sizes too small bearing the skyline of his hometown and the tagline: “Des Moines: Let us Exceed Your Already Low Expectations”.

He caught up with her. She was of course totally surprised to see him. He casually asked if she would like to join him at home for some coffee. Of course she was happy to. And so back they went, arm in arm, through a winter’s morning in all their flannel glory.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[Image credit to Slifka Sales Co].

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The Bear – 05/03/2018

I am a bear in a world of lonely cubs. That’s the only way to explain the frequency with which I am propositioned by other men.

It happens everywhere. Last month it was from a guy sitting at the table next to me in a restaurant in Brussels. For the record, he was six foot four and full of muscles. I was merely full of mussels. It happened in the workplace, where a male colleague made a pass during a pick-up volleyball game at a staff party. He could not possibly have been attracted to my volleyball skills. It once happened on a beach. And lets just be honest: you have to be pretty damn desperate to proposition me while I am in a bathing suit in full daylight. Or visually impaired.

It happened in an airport security line. I had just finished telling a female colleague about my being approached by other men. She rightly scoffed. Moments later, as if scripted, the man in front of me turned and asked if he could borrow the toothpaste I was putting into the little plastic security bag. Taken aback by the odd request, I handed him the crumpled tube. He thanked me, winked, and then slapped my butt. My colleague stood there stunned. I told the man to keep the toothpaste.

Having my wife with me makes no difference. She and I were once holding hands in a café booth. The waiter lingered around us with the same intensity that I have around warm lasagna. We ignored him. Then he came back with a huge chocolate cookie and sat down in the booth beside me. “You have to try this”, he said. “Its better than sex”. My wife can attest that this actually happened. And that it was, indeed, a very good cookie.

The most amusing instance took place on a crowded subway train. “Do I know you from somewhere?”, asked the fellow standing beside me. When I said no, he continued. “Are you sure? You aren’t perhaps an accountant, are you?” Again I answered in the negative. Then he just got to the point and asked me where I was getting off the train, because he could get off there too. I sensed a double entendre. I smiled and replied, “As I said sir, I am not an accountant”. Startled that I was using his code, he laughed out loud. Then he added with faux sarcasm, “Oh. That must mean you are one of those guys into IT and computing.”

Take that, Bill Gates.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Photo credit to Gastoniagrizzlies

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Church – 25/02/2018

A Nazi, two humping dogs, and a drug user: it sounds like the opening to a standup comedy routine. But these are all things I have encountered in church.

The priest of my childhood church was a Nazi prisoner of war. He was conscripted into the Wehrmacht as a chaplain, captured, and then shipped to Canada. After the war there was nothing to go back to, so he stayed.  Each year he read the Easter passion aloud sounding exactly like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Once, as the narrative approached the crucifixion, I whispered to my family in my best imitation accent, “Don’t vurry. I’ll be baaach”. It was so inappropriate that the entire family got the giggles. And you know how that goes, when you’re trying to be discreet in a crowded church pew…

Our church in Uganda met in a ramshackle school building with tin roof and open walls. On one occasion during the sermon, two stray dogs wandered into the front and began to mate. This was of course hilarious and distracting. It was also typical of a church where a shared experience of the absurd drew together people of vastly different belief, nationality, and race.

For instance, communion there once consisted of stale hot dog buns and apple juice served in a plastic Manchester United cup. Afterwards some folks rightly suggested that changes were needed. Someone volunteered to get little individual plastic communion cups next time they travelled out of Uganda. Instead they unintentionally (?) returned with 100 shot glasses. Thereafter, people from dozens of different countries and backgrounds celebrated communion together with glasses raised.

I once experienced a very different sort of communion. I spent the weekend visiting a farm in Canada where Jesuits had a halfway house for men getting out of prison. Ex-convicts could stay at the farm to get back on their feet. At their Sunday service, communion involved circulating a loaf of bread around a bare kitchen table. We were to tear off a bit, then pass the loaf to the person beside us along with a word of blessing.

The bread came round. I turned to the stranger seated beside me. His hands trembled. My gaze moved up to his exposed arms, covered with needle tracks from injection drug use. As he reached for the bread I began to mumble the blessing. He squeezed my hand, and I finally looked up. The man held my gaze and quietly whispered through tears, “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Church has many faults. But I am richer for having joined there with people of every possible background in a shared experience of laughter, brokenness, hope, and mystery.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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The Wheelbarrow – 19/02/2018

There is little justice for the poor in this world. But in at least one instance, it was served in a wheelbarrow.

I received the call sitting in a café in Uganda. It was our gardener, very upset. He had been taking grass clippings down to the local garbage site when he was jumped by several men. They roughed him up because he was from a different tribe. Then they took the wheelbarrow. They happened to be Kampala municipal workers, doing this in broad daylight with impunity.

Our gardener was upset for losing the wheelbarrow. I was upset because he had been assaulted. I told him I couldn’t care less about the wheelbarrow so long as he was safe. He assured me he was OK. I told him we should go to the police. He laughed and told me there was nothing further to be done. Sadly, I knew he was right. I hung up the phone and relayed the story to the man with whom I was meeting.

That evening I returned home to find a beaming gardener and our fully restored wheelbarrow.

Apparently, shortly after our call, several pickup trucks full of uniformed men arrived at our house. They were armed with rifles. They confirmed our gardener’s identity. They confirmed that indeed a wheelbarrow had been taken from him. Without further explanation they told him to get in a truck.

The convoy drove straight to the municipal depot. The armed men deployed from the trucks and fanned out across the compound. Someone approached the yard foreman and informed him they were here to retrieve a misplaced wheelbarrow. It was immediately “found” and loaded into a truck. The armed men and our gleeful gardener mounted back up and the convoy left in a cloud of dust.

The friend who was with me that morning when I received our gardener’s call happened to own a security company. He knew our gardener. And he was annoyed at the injustice. So he took it upon himself to dispatch a few truckloads of his men to sort it out.

Of course I thanked him. But then I asked if a wheelbarrow was really worth someone getting shot. “Oh Chuck,” he replied “I just sent them out with guns. Trust me, they didn’t have any bullets!”

Thereafter at the garbage site our gardener was given a little respect, and a wide berth.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[This story is dedicated to the godfather of our son. May he grow up to have a heart like yours, if not armed men at his disposal.]

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List Serve – 12/02/2018

Nothing provides a window unto the soul of suburban America quite like a neighbourhood list serve.

I was once offered the coveted position of list serve co-moderator in our small community. I turned it down. I knew that the power of moderating my neighbour’s comments would in time corrupt and destroy me, like Gollum in Lord of the Rings.

The following annotated content is but a small sample of what appeared on our list serve:

1. “The bitches are whelping”. This spectacular post came from a local biologist in reference to foxes mating in our neighbourhood. Mating foxes generate a lot of noise. So did this comment when it appeared on the list serve.  Actually, so did his subsequent post about the Tufted Titmouse.

2. “Please have your son refrain from urinating in the creek. Not only is it gross but it upsets the fragile ecosystem”. The referenced son was none other than our own little boy. We asked him if he did indeed ever pee in the creek. He looked puzzled. “Of course I do”, he said. Then he added hastily, “But I never poop there!” I would say that outcome puts us in the running for Parents of the Year.

3. Original Post: Have you seen my lost cat Periwinkles? She has run away.           Response: Is it possible she ran away because you named her Periwinkles?

4. Curb alert/free to a good home: One Kenmore vacuum cleaner bag. Slightly used.

5. Epic email chain: The original post came from someone who was asked to refrain from letting her dog poop on the church lawn, even though she dutifully cleaned it up. In response, she called the town police to inquire if dogs pooping on the church lawn violated local bylaws. She also noted in her post that the request had been made of her by a member of the Baptist congregation, since our community church is shared by several denominations.

This post set off a firestorm on the list serve. There were comments and rebuttals about race (I think in reference to the congregation being Baptist?), religion (why not), inconsiderate pet owners, and the general injustice and failure of local law enforcement and our elected officials. I stayed out of the fray.

 However, I did briefly consider sending our son over to the church lawn to sort of stir the pot. You will be “relieved” to know that I refrained from doing so. And that Periwinkles returned home safely.

 [If you know someone who would enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier!]

Image Credit goes to Roeselien Raimond – similar photos of funny foxes can be found at this site.

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Inseparable – 05/02/2018

“What is the most reckless thing we can do today?” said my son to his best friend as they sat together in a red wagon atop a large hill. You know what happened next.

They emerged from the wreckage looking like they had been dragged across a cheese grater. In their wisdom, they were wearing helmets. In their minds, this was another glorious adventure.

My son and his best friend are inseparable. And not just in matters of self-destruction. Both are creative, kind-hearted, appropriately irreverent, tender. They love to laugh. They seldom shower. For years they lived across the street from one another. They were equally at home in both houses.

Three elements define their boyhood together: creativity, risk, and something physical like fighting, biking, sweat, or food. They often rigged lawn chairs in the upper reaches of a tree with ropes. They sat up there only two feet apart, talking on walkie-talkies. They dressed in armor with spears and shields and jousted on their scooters. They converted the back deck of an abandoned house into a pirate ship, replete with plank, gun portals, and a long section of sloping eaves trough into which they would pee. We could not sit on our sofa for years, because the cushions were perpetually used as a fort.

If you care to download it, I once received the 30 second video at the end of this post whilst at my workplace. The boys had taken our dog crate and taped it to a couple of skateboards.  Then they built a barrier out of garbage cans in our driveway. One would climb into the dog crate while the other pushed it at top speed to crash through the barrier. Who needs virtual reality when your life is this real?

One of the hardest parts about moving to Switzerland was tearing the two boys apart. As we drove away, our son’s best friend ran alongside the car all the way to the end of the block. Many months later our son broke his arm. As we sat in the waiting room of the Swiss hospital his eyes welled with tears. I asked him if the pain was too much. He shook his head. Then in reference to his best friend he said quietly, “This is my first broken arm where he isn’t here with me”.

Video:  https://wordsfortheweary.net/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/IMG_7314.mov

 

 

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The Puddle – 29/01/2018

Sitting in the puddle of urine caused me to reflect on my life. Particularly since the urine was not my own.

We arrived at the dementia care facility and wheeled our dear family member into the garden to enjoy some sunshine. On route we passed the activities room where a singer of modest talent was belting out “Margaritaville” to a few dozen facility residents. As we rolled by, our family member shoved her fingers in her ears. Dementia has not diminished her musical scruples.

We parked the wheelchair in the garden. I sat down on a cushioned park bench. As I did there was a loud and prolonged squishing sound. My trousers became instantly soaked.  Several cups of suspicious liquid drained from the cushion to the pavement below.

Only then did I notice another facility resident ambling away from the scene of the crime. Her saturated sweat pants told the whole story.

Standing beside me, my ever sympathetic wife could not stop laughing. A duty nurse promptly came to clean up the mess and take the cushion off for laundering. She managed to choke out the words “occupational hazard” between peals of laughter. Where is the humanity, I ask you?

This incident did not register with our family member at all. She chattered away in a happy state and within a world, sadly, all her own. She was clearly energized by the sunshine and a few power naps.

As we went back inside we could hear the entertainer down the hall. He had passed around little tambourines and was lustily leading the facility residents in a version of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”. However, the residents soon lost the beat, along with the general plot of the song. The resulting chaos sounded something like: “He was Bad (bang) Bad (bang) Leroy Brown (bang), bad(bang) est (bang, bang, bang) man in(bang) the (bang, bang, bang, bang, bang).”

My wife made me strip off my trousers in the parking lot. I rode home in my undies, humming “Margaritaville”, reflecting on the heartbreaking beauty of this life sublime.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[This story is dedicated to newborn Evelina. May you love this world as much as your namesake.]

Photo credit: Horizons Unlimited