An Oldie for the Interlude

 The Messages around You

(While I work on a story about having tea with giraffes in Kenya, I post this essay that I had forgotten about.   I wrote it in 2009 in response to a writing prompt made by an online writing instructor.)

Scattered around and on and under my desk are messages. The messages implore my immediate attention before (insert a date already gone by here). A thick envelope from AARP offers to save me money on prescription drugs. “Outside” magazine acknowledges receipt of the gift subscription for my nephew, and now wants to sell me one also.

The Aircraft Pilots and Owners Association sends its annual Christmas card selection from which to choose, with free return mailing labels if I buy two or more boxes. The electric utility, credit card companies, fuel oil provider all thank me for my last payment and note the date the current invoice amount will be subtracted from my checking account.

I go online, and messages abound at my “spam” e-mail address. Robert G. Allen is very concerned about my income, Viola want to sell me the magic elixir to enlarge my “member,” and I wonder if that means–for a woman—one boob will become larger than the other, or do you have to take double doses or buy two prescriptions to attain equal enlargement . She’d have better luck if she offered me a magic potion that would reduce those cumbersome things. Another offers life insurance in a box that I don’t have to pay for, Lufthansa welcomes me to its airline miles program, and Google advises me that I have yet to verify my AdSense account.

Pinned to the bulletin board above my computer is the itinerary and confirmation code for my recent trip to Hawaii, the one I should have taken with me instead of the itinerary for a trip to Mexico in November, which is still (battered, folded, and worn) in the carry on I brought back with me yesterday from Maui. And, in a manila file folder, one-third cut tabs, is all the accumulated information pertinent to the trip to Russia, most of which I have not yet read. I still have time; I don’t leave until Friday.

Itineraries, confirmation codes, passport and ID, a small change purse decorated with wolves in which I keep flash cards and extra batteries for my Nikon Coolpix camera—all these things speak volumes about my life the past three years. Before that—I was afraid to fly.

Judy made me to be afraid of spiders. Because I did not know my own path in life, I became afraid of spiders. Before that, I would let them crawl all over me. She also taught me that spaghetti pasta with only butter, salt, and pepper was much more preferable to marinara sauce. On that, she was right.

Kathy is the one who made me afraid to fly, because she was. Figuring that she was much more savvy about these things than I was, I adopted her attitude on the whole thing. I could always think of reasons why we shouldn’t go anywhere when my husband suggested a trip. And when we did fly, he preferred the red-eye flights so as not to waste time, which only left me comatose the next day and I thought that was a huge waste of time. He slept soundly on airplanes; I did not. 

“Someone had to be awake to hold the airplane up,” he told friends. I am sure than more than one airplane had my fingerprints permanently squished into the plastic arm rest.

My fear kept my husband from seeing New Zealand, a place he very much wanted to visit. My fear kept me from flying to the Pribilof Islands in the Bering Sea while he was working a construction job there, and he felt—but didn’t say—that I hadn’t cared enough about him to brave the tumultuous birthplace of horrendous winds and storms.

As quickly as Kathy stopped being afraid to fly, so did my epiphany occur. “I’d rather die in an airplane crash going somewhere than sitting at home on my couch,” said another Kathy. That sounded pretty darned good to me, so I adopted that attitude also.

On my computer are pages bookmarked with sites I’ve scanned for adventure—China by bike, hike, and bamboo raft, animal safaris in Africa, Costa Rica by kayak, Antarctica by ship. I try not to pay too much attention to my bank balance and the interest rate on a CD. 

Instead, in my pocket is a pewter token that spoke to me from a woven basket in a gift shop at Kailua-Kona. On one side is an embossed design of a sailboat. On the reverse side is one word: Explore.

That is the message for me, the one I follow daily, whether at home, on the computer with my muse directing my fingers on the keyboard, or in places known and unknown, I explore.

 

After I posted this at the writing site, two people made comments:

1)     No wonder I am so stressed all the time. I look around my desk and I see Chaos. Ann looks around her desk and sees hope. Gully looks around her desk and sees life and adventure. I think it just might be time to clean my desk.

2)     You explore with words also. Diving in and giving meaning to what most think may be a mundane topic to write about. Instead you explore the inside of that topic, get below the surface and wow us.

Uncovered Story--An Ann Linquist prompt

(As my computer recovery and backup continues, I came across this short story I wrote a few years ago and had forgotten.   Here it is for your enjoyment during this intermission in the Mongolia Reports from the Field.   The story was inspired by a list of writing prompts from instructor Ann Linquist.  The three I chose were bowling, hearing aid, and Druids.)

Seamus reached back over his shoulders and drew the hood of his brown woolen cloak over his long black hair. Slipping his feet into sandals, he opened the heavy wooden door of his cell, kissed his right forefinger and middle finger, placed the fingers on the Irish cross over the doorway, then stepped into the dorter.

As he passed the rows of empty cots, he noted the absence of other monks. They must all be in the refectory, he thought, and added a prayer that none were yet in the misericord.

The wooden soles of his sandals clapped on the cobblestones floor as he left the dorter and entered the windowed cloister. I should wear the horsehair-soled ones, he thought, but they hurt so much on these stones. Well, the Abbott can’t hear them anyway.

At the end of the long hallway, he turned left into the lavatorium. Seamus rolled back the sleeves of his cloak, dipped his hands into the trough of running water, and began scrubbing them with the coarse brown lye soap made at the monastery. Only Patrick was in the small room, drying his hands on burlap.

“Brother Patrick,” said Seamus. “I pray God be with you tonight.”

“Thank you,” said Patrick, “and with you, Brother Seamus. How is the Abbott this day?”

“Weakening, I am sorry to say. I am about to take him his evening meal. What have the brothers prepared for us?”

“Boiled potatoes and cabbage, along with fresh haddock.”

“Sounds wonderful, as usual. The Abbott can eat the fish and potatoes if I mash them for him. I’m afraid the cabbage is too much for him to chew, though. Perhaps some of the broth will do him well,” answered Seamus. “And the other?”

We Omagh Monks are ahead of the Dublin Druids three games to two” said Patrick. “That new novice Brendan is gifted at nine pins. He alone can take credit for winning two of the games. Have you finished your new bowling ball yet?”

“I have. The Lord willing I will make those Druids laugh yet.”

“There are a cheery lot, are they not,” laughed Patrick. “Begorrah, I have yet to see even one smile. I don’t know how they win anything, with all their doom and gloom prognostications directed at their fellow teammates. Do you really think they will keep their promise to laugh if we win the contest?”

“Yes, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here and become prideful. We are blessed that we have been able to meet two nights in a row. And their Lorcan and Eoghan are determined bowlers, are they not?”

“Do you anticipate difficulties tonight? The brothers have completed all their prayers and chores and are anticipating the evening’s contest.”

“No more than usual. Two days prior I ‘accidentally’ nudged his hearing horn under his bed so he cannot hear the balls rolling across the stone and hitting the oaken pins. To be playing a secular game when there are crops to be harvested surely is a sin, but what fears me most is if he discovers we have refashioned the dungeon misericord into a bowling hall,” said Seamus. Patrick raised his eyes to the ceiling and made the sign of the cross.

The two entered the refectory where two dozen monks were eating in silence, not by the promise of their vows, but in anxious anticipation of what might befall them this night.

Questioning eyes turned to Seamus as he entered the hall, though all the monks knew it was too soon for an answer. Seamus said nothing and indicated nothing. He went to the serving trencher and spooned a small portion of potatoes and fish onto a wooden plate, then mashed the two together. In a simple goblet, he ladled some cabbage broth, and placed the two serving dishes on a wooden slab.

A few minutes later, Seamus pushed open the door to the Abbott’s room, clearing his throat loudly as he did. 

There was no response from the man seated at the window. Seamus paused and watched for signs of movement. Seeing the Abbott take in a breath, Seamus again cleared his throat and spoke, “Good evening, Abbott Benedict. I have brought you a fine meal.”

Slowly the Abbott turned towards Seamus. “Oh, I didn’t hear you, Brother Seamus. I still cannot find my hearing aid anywhere. Have you seen it perchance?”

Seamus looked down at the tray in his hands, then chanced a sidelong glance at the Abbott’s bed. He could just make out the dim off-white shape of a hollow goat’s horn on the floor, almost totally hidden by the wool blankets that draped to the stone floor.

“Abbott, I’m sure you have simply misplaced the horn. We will find it someday.”

Abbott Benedict raised his rheumy blue eyes to Seamus’s and said nothing. He picked up the wooden spoon and began eating. Seamus began speaking of the work accomplished so far with the monastery’s crops and of the work yet to come. The Abbott nodded occasionally, but remained mute. When the Abbott finished his meal, Seamus placed the plate and goblet on the slab.

“Would you like some assistance in getting to bed, my father?” said Seamus.

“Yes, please, Brother Seamus. That would be kind of you. My legs don’t seem to have the strength I think they should have. Ah, I think the good Lord will be calling for me soon.”

“That would be his proud gain and our misfortune,” replied Seamus as he helped the man rise and then offered his arm. The Abbott sat on the edge of the bed and Seamus lifted the old man’s legs onto the straw mattress, then drew the woolen blankets over the Abbott’s thin frame.

“Would there be anything else?” asked Seamus.

“No, no, you’ve done enough, Brother Seamus. You can put out the candles before you leave. I will say my prayers in the dark tonight. The Lord doesn’t need light to hear my words.”

“I wish you a good night then, my Abbott,” said Seamus, pinching the wicks of two beeswax candles between his thumb and forefinger. He walked across the Abbott’s cell and reached for the iron latch.

“One thing, Seamus, before you leave.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What is the score? You aren’t letting those dratted Druids beat us, are you?”