It was long ago that Mount Everest captured my imagination. After having watched all that I can watch, and reading all that I could read about the world’s highest summit, I became and remain completely enamored with her.
Reality long ago dictated to me that I would never climb her, but I wish that one day I will at least see Chomolangma for myself.
Imagine then, my surprise when I learned that my friend and coworker, Brian had just returned from a five week holiday to Nepal.
“Please tell me that you saw Everest.” I said to him after welcoming him back.
“Not only did I see Everest, I stayed at base camp.” he proudly told me.
Being instantly smitten with joy at his achievement I also turned a tad shade greener with envy. My next question was inevitable.
“What was it like?”
He then related the long trek that he and others of his team had made. Describing the beauty, the people, and the cold, he made it sound both fascinating and frightening.
Then, I moved on to my next question...
“Tell me.... what do they eat for breakfast on Mount Everest?”
“At about five in the morning,” he began, “the sherpas came to the tent and offered us a hot towel. That was our shower. Then they gave us a cup of tea. That was our breakfast.”
I could picture it all too easily. In a heartbeat I would pass up the most lavish breakfast imaginable in favor of what he had just described to me.
Then came my final inquiry...
“What music did you take to Everest with you?”
Upon hearing my question, he shot me a very pained and sheepish look. I instantly knew that I would not be impressed by his answer.
“Oh Doris,” he began, suddenly looking and sounding very sorry for himself...
“I really don’t want to tell you.”
“Yes, I want to know.... tell me...”
“Well,” he began, “I forgot all my CD’s at home, and the only one I had was the one that was left inside the player.”
“Brian,” I continued to prod, determined to find out what music he played at base camp. Fixing my eyes onto his, I asked once again...
“What music did you take?”
After a deep breath and a heavy sigh he blurted out his sad reply...
“It was Shania Twain.”
I let out a horrible gasp.
“Shania Twain, “HOW COULD YOU???” ......
Now, don’t get me wrong. I like Shania Twain. In fact, I can sing along to just about all of her songs. It’s just that when I think about what music I would choose to take up to the roof top of the world, I think majesty and grandeur. Take Beethoven’s 9th, or Cosi Fan Tutte by Mozart, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. However, listening to Shania’s “That Don’t Impress Me Much” on Everest seems so wrong on so many different levels.
Upon hearing Brian’s sad confession, I could hear myself go off on a rant which I no longer remember. However, within a few moments Brian was able to talk me down.
“I know, I know” he repeated in low, soothing tones.
Then, he went on to say...
“Everyone that I was traveling with really hated it.”
Duh! ...I thought to myself. Hearing that, I must admit though, made me feel a little bit better.
However, having said that, my friend Brian’s face then lit up with such a mischievous gleam, the likes of which I had never seen on him before.
Leaning in just inches away from my face he proudly and triumphantly said ...
“But you know,
.... the sherpas REALLY loved her!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Barbie Days of Summer
For the last little while I have been thinking about how much I loved playing with Barbies all those many years ago.
How wonderful was that?
It was a very good feeling when you popped open your Barbie Suitcase or emptied your bag on an outstretched blanket in the middle of the park. Remember the instant effusion of fashion, color and fun?
Do you recall the little mini Barbie fashion magazines that came with an official clothing purchase? That was my very first introduction to haute couture. I was only four years old.
There were a few lucky girls who had acquired all things Barbie thanks to their affluent family ties. However, the vast majority of us had a tolerable amount of Barbie clothes. There was one credo though, that was shared by us all, whether you came from an affluent family or not. And that was.....
...no Barbie should ever,
EVER, have to go naked!
Naked Barbies were a very sad and sorry sight, (unless they were in the process of being changed or getting bathed of course.)
It was surprising at how far girls could stretch and manipulate a very limited amount of Barbie clothes. When times were desperate we would take to needle & thread, crochet hook, even fabric remnants and craft Barbie fashions of our own.
Indeed, I remember times when a new Barbie initiate had only a swimsuit or single dress in her possession, then we would rummage through our bags for bits and pieces of garb that we were willing to part with. Mind you, these would tend to be well worn, and most likely in need of several stitches, but nevertheless, these small tokens were welcomed by the needy recipients.
I’ve lost track of what Barbie is up to these days, but I have no doubt that her figure is still perfect and that she has not developed the obligatory grey hair and other challenges that come with age.
I am happy to report that I still have my original Barbie doll given to me way back in the early sixties. She’s a bit scarred here and there mind you. Her red bouffant hair has regrettably, had a bit of a trim, and her left hand has lost a finger thanks to one of our former dogs, Mr. Itchy. Otherwise, she is good.... better than me in fact.
And do you know what?
I think that it may be time for another Barbie summer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
P.S. My Barbie is currently as naked as the proverbial jay bird.
Any and all donations are welcome!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How wonderful was that?
It was a very good feeling when you popped open your Barbie Suitcase or emptied your bag on an outstretched blanket in the middle of the park. Remember the instant effusion of fashion, color and fun?
Do you recall the little mini Barbie fashion magazines that came with an official clothing purchase? That was my very first introduction to haute couture. I was only four years old.
There were a few lucky girls who had acquired all things Barbie thanks to their affluent family ties. However, the vast majority of us had a tolerable amount of Barbie clothes. There was one credo though, that was shared by us all, whether you came from an affluent family or not. And that was.....
...no Barbie should ever,
EVER, have to go naked!
Naked Barbies were a very sad and sorry sight, (unless they were in the process of being changed or getting bathed of course.)
It was surprising at how far girls could stretch and manipulate a very limited amount of Barbie clothes. When times were desperate we would take to needle & thread, crochet hook, even fabric remnants and craft Barbie fashions of our own.
Indeed, I remember times when a new Barbie initiate had only a swimsuit or single dress in her possession, then we would rummage through our bags for bits and pieces of garb that we were willing to part with. Mind you, these would tend to be well worn, and most likely in need of several stitches, but nevertheless, these small tokens were welcomed by the needy recipients.
I’ve lost track of what Barbie is up to these days, but I have no doubt that her figure is still perfect and that she has not developed the obligatory grey hair and other challenges that come with age.
I am happy to report that I still have my original Barbie doll given to me way back in the early sixties. She’s a bit scarred here and there mind you. Her red bouffant hair has regrettably, had a bit of a trim, and her left hand has lost a finger thanks to one of our former dogs, Mr. Itchy. Otherwise, she is good.... better than me in fact.
And do you know what?
I think that it may be time for another Barbie summer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
P.S. My Barbie is currently as naked as the proverbial jay bird.
Any and all donations are welcome!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With Rings On Her Fingers...
I’ve never really been one for jewelry.
Whenever my eyes catch a shiny and expensive ring or necklace which costs over a thousand dollars, I find myself thinking...
“Gee..., with that, we could go and visit mother, spend a week in Gettysburg or Nashville, or maybe even see Rome again.”
To me, that’s the stuff which life is made up of ... good memories! Bonus points for each family member that you can include in your travels.
So, for those reasons, I doubt that I will ever own a big diamond ring.
Why?
Because, it has become clear to me that I cannot have my carat & travel too!
Anyway, I do wear two rings which are of personal significance to me.
One is a blue sapphire ring given to me by my mother on my seventeenth birthday. She had purchased it for herself when I was a little girl, and I always loved the way it sparkled whenever she wore it. Now it is mine, and a continual reminder to me of how very much my mother and I love each other.
The second ring as a Star Sapphire which I sought out and purchased for myself. I was determined to have a ring just like the one my father wore as an enduring keepsake to his memory. The star which becomes visible in the light reminds me of how he taught me to appreciate and share his love of the starry cosmos. He bought me my first set of binoculars when I was six. Together, we mapped out neighboring suns and galaxies. He showed me how to find the north star. Further, the blue stone is also reminiscent of his steely blue eyes which I got to know very well. They never ceased to glitter in both good and bad times.
Both of these rings are worn together upon my ring finger of my right hand.
Although divorced separated my parents, the rings reside there together as one.
I like to keep mother’s sapphire topside, so that it continues to dazzle me whenever my eyes fall upon it, just like it did when I was a little girl.
The star sapphire is turned inward, palm side. I keep it there so that each time I open my right hand, I will find my own personal and very beautiful star waiting within.
And so....
“With rings on her fingers
and bells on her prose,
she shall have starlight
wherever she goes.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Whenever my eyes catch a shiny and expensive ring or necklace which costs over a thousand dollars, I find myself thinking...
“Gee..., with that, we could go and visit mother, spend a week in Gettysburg or Nashville, or maybe even see Rome again.”
To me, that’s the stuff which life is made up of ... good memories! Bonus points for each family member that you can include in your travels.
So, for those reasons, I doubt that I will ever own a big diamond ring.
Why?
Because, it has become clear to me that I cannot have my carat & travel too!
Anyway, I do wear two rings which are of personal significance to me.
One is a blue sapphire ring given to me by my mother on my seventeenth birthday. She had purchased it for herself when I was a little girl, and I always loved the way it sparkled whenever she wore it. Now it is mine, and a continual reminder to me of how very much my mother and I love each other.
The second ring as a Star Sapphire which I sought out and purchased for myself. I was determined to have a ring just like the one my father wore as an enduring keepsake to his memory. The star which becomes visible in the light reminds me of how he taught me to appreciate and share his love of the starry cosmos. He bought me my first set of binoculars when I was six. Together, we mapped out neighboring suns and galaxies. He showed me how to find the north star. Further, the blue stone is also reminiscent of his steely blue eyes which I got to know very well. They never ceased to glitter in both good and bad times.
Both of these rings are worn together upon my ring finger of my right hand.
Although divorced separated my parents, the rings reside there together as one.
I like to keep mother’s sapphire topside, so that it continues to dazzle me whenever my eyes fall upon it, just like it did when I was a little girl.
The star sapphire is turned inward, palm side. I keep it there so that each time I open my right hand, I will find my own personal and very beautiful star waiting within.
And so....
“With rings on her fingers
and bells on her prose,
she shall have starlight
wherever she goes.”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Joy of Ice Cream
I loved my grandmother very much. She knew instinctively what it took to make and keep my happy. Ice cream was one of those ways.
When I was a little girl, she would quietly take me to one side, look around to see if anyone was watching, then slip some money into my hands. Then she would whisper so to ensure that no one would hear...
“This is for ice cream,” she said with an urgent whisper,
“don’t tell your grandfather.”
With an obeying nod, I solemnly gave her my promise that no one would ever know.
Yes, I loved ice cream, but grandmother loved ice cream even more. My aunt always giggled at how after she came to visit with the family for several weeks, grandmother always left a little rounder than when she first arrived. I have no doubt that this stemmed from sharing her love of ice cream with all her grandchildren.
So, now that she is no longer with us, and has been taken up to heaven, I cannot help but wonder if she is in any way able to get hold of a double dip.
As Christians, we were always taught that “God will provide.” Some would say that God will provide us with our needs, but I tell you, that for my grandmother, ice cream remains a necessity.
So, when I get to heaven, I fully expect her to eventually take me quietly aside. Then, like before, she will slip some money into my hands and with that familiar urgent whisper say to me ...
“This is for ice cream... don’t tell God!”
When I was a little girl, she would quietly take me to one side, look around to see if anyone was watching, then slip some money into my hands. Then she would whisper so to ensure that no one would hear...
“This is for ice cream,” she said with an urgent whisper,
“don’t tell your grandfather.”
With an obeying nod, I solemnly gave her my promise that no one would ever know.
Yes, I loved ice cream, but grandmother loved ice cream even more. My aunt always giggled at how after she came to visit with the family for several weeks, grandmother always left a little rounder than when she first arrived. I have no doubt that this stemmed from sharing her love of ice cream with all her grandchildren.
So, now that she is no longer with us, and has been taken up to heaven, I cannot help but wonder if she is in any way able to get hold of a double dip.
As Christians, we were always taught that “God will provide.” Some would say that God will provide us with our needs, but I tell you, that for my grandmother, ice cream remains a necessity.
So, when I get to heaven, I fully expect her to eventually take me quietly aside. Then, like before, she will slip some money into my hands and with that familiar urgent whisper say to me ...
“This is for ice cream... don’t tell God!”
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Thing About Vampires
Everyone has a fear of one type of unnatural creature or another.
It could be mummies, a disembodied hand, zombies, werewolves, on and on.
For me, ... it’s vampires.
It all began in the early 1970’s when I went to a vampire double feature at the movies. The first movie was THE FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLERS or “Pardon me, but your teeth are in my neck” and the second feature was DARK SHADOWS, the movie based on the popular 1960’s television show.
There was a scene when Barnabas Collins suddenly appeared behind a sheer curtain at a moonlight filled window. Only a few seconds later, he was feasting on some poor girl’s neck. For quite a while after that, I wore a scarf to bed and tried my best to sleep with one eye open, because I had those same sheers for curtains.
Okay, now fast forward to 1977. It is June and I m on my honeymoon in Toronto at the Eaton Shopping Center. We enter a bookstore and begin looking around for nothing in particular.
While in the paperback section, my husband reaches for a paperback, skims the back cover, and then holds it out to me.
“Here,” he says to me, “I want you to read this.”
I take it into my hands and begin to read what it’s about. I quickly learn that it’s about... guess what? Of course, it’s about vampires. Even the title SALEM’S LOT (by Stephen King) is ominous.
I remember shaking my head NO and muttering something to Frank that I didn’t like vampires. But unfortunately, he was most insistent.
“Read it,” he repeated as he held it out to me.
It had been a while since I read a book, and I had heard alot about this new author.
Besides, within a few days we I would find myself on a long voyage out east to Nova Scotia where Frank had been newly stationed. I thought the book might help break the monotony.
We bought it.
Sure enough, before I knew it, Frank and I were on our way to start a new life in a new province. The car was filled with all that we owned, clothes, music, and each other.
I think we were in the middle of Quebec when I first opened the book and began to read it.
Oddly enough, when I think back, I remember reading it while listening to Art Garfunkel’s new album ANGEL CLAIRE.
As days went by, I delved further and further into the book. It became more and more bloody and increasingly difficult to bear. Every now and again, Frank would ask me how I was enjoying the book.
“It’s bloody scary.” I’d answer. He’d give me an odd look of puzzlement, which I could never really figure out.
At long last came the day when I finally, ... finally finished SALEM’S LOT.
With a deep and heavy sigh, I closed the book for the last time. No doubt the visions of glowing eyes, and bloody necks would stay with me for a very long time.
I wondered to myself how long it would be before I ever read another vampire novel again.
(About 20 years – INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE by Anne Rice)
To this day, whenever I hear Art Garfunkel, scenes from SALEMS’S LOT floods my senses.
And of course, came the moment when Frank ultimately asked me the question that I knew he had been dying to ask...
“How did you like the book?”
“Well,” I began, “the first few chapters weren’t that gory, but boy, by the middle of the book I was completely immersed in all the gory ritualistic details that make vampires the blood soaked individuals that they are.
Again, he gave me one of those quizzical looks.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
With that, I recounted several high points of the plot... the ones ever etched in my mind and never to forget.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Are you sure?”
I nodded yes.
He thought for a moment then said to me...
( and I will NEVER FORGET THIS)
“Sorry, I must have read another book.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It could be mummies, a disembodied hand, zombies, werewolves, on and on.
For me, ... it’s vampires.
It all began in the early 1970’s when I went to a vampire double feature at the movies. The first movie was THE FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLERS or “Pardon me, but your teeth are in my neck” and the second feature was DARK SHADOWS, the movie based on the popular 1960’s television show.
There was a scene when Barnabas Collins suddenly appeared behind a sheer curtain at a moonlight filled window. Only a few seconds later, he was feasting on some poor girl’s neck. For quite a while after that, I wore a scarf to bed and tried my best to sleep with one eye open, because I had those same sheers for curtains.
Okay, now fast forward to 1977. It is June and I m on my honeymoon in Toronto at the Eaton Shopping Center. We enter a bookstore and begin looking around for nothing in particular.
While in the paperback section, my husband reaches for a paperback, skims the back cover, and then holds it out to me.
“Here,” he says to me, “I want you to read this.”
I take it into my hands and begin to read what it’s about. I quickly learn that it’s about... guess what? Of course, it’s about vampires. Even the title SALEM’S LOT (by Stephen King) is ominous.
I remember shaking my head NO and muttering something to Frank that I didn’t like vampires. But unfortunately, he was most insistent.
“Read it,” he repeated as he held it out to me.
It had been a while since I read a book, and I had heard alot about this new author.
Besides, within a few days we I would find myself on a long voyage out east to Nova Scotia where Frank had been newly stationed. I thought the book might help break the monotony.
We bought it.
Sure enough, before I knew it, Frank and I were on our way to start a new life in a new province. The car was filled with all that we owned, clothes, music, and each other.
I think we were in the middle of Quebec when I first opened the book and began to read it.
Oddly enough, when I think back, I remember reading it while listening to Art Garfunkel’s new album ANGEL CLAIRE.
As days went by, I delved further and further into the book. It became more and more bloody and increasingly difficult to bear. Every now and again, Frank would ask me how I was enjoying the book.
“It’s bloody scary.” I’d answer. He’d give me an odd look of puzzlement, which I could never really figure out.
At long last came the day when I finally, ... finally finished SALEM’S LOT.
With a deep and heavy sigh, I closed the book for the last time. No doubt the visions of glowing eyes, and bloody necks would stay with me for a very long time.
I wondered to myself how long it would be before I ever read another vampire novel again.
(About 20 years – INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE by Anne Rice)
To this day, whenever I hear Art Garfunkel, scenes from SALEMS’S LOT floods my senses.
And of course, came the moment when Frank ultimately asked me the question that I knew he had been dying to ask...
“How did you like the book?”
“Well,” I began, “the first few chapters weren’t that gory, but boy, by the middle of the book I was completely immersed in all the gory ritualistic details that make vampires the blood soaked individuals that they are.
Again, he gave me one of those quizzical looks.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
With that, I recounted several high points of the plot... the ones ever etched in my mind and never to forget.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Are you sure?”
I nodded yes.
He thought for a moment then said to me...
( and I will NEVER FORGET THIS)
“Sorry, I must have read another book.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
EVIL MOTHER versus EVIL DAUGHTER
Several years ago, my sister gave me a t-shirt that read...
“Be kind to your children. They will choose your nursing home.”
It was cute, it was sarcastic, and I liked it.
Little did I know the lively discussions it would spark between
me and my youngest daughter.
She has lived with me for a long time. She knows me well.
My daughter also excels in pushing my buttons and with great glee I should add.
She will never let me forget that she knows where to find them as easily
as if they were tattooed across my forehead.
My story is a sad one....
You see... I bear the scars of a child who grew up in a house
where all genre of police shows were highly favoured by my own mother.
I have never forgiven her for this.
Yes, never did a day go by without having to endure shows such as
F.B.I., Dragnet, Mod Squad, Hawaii 5-0, Perry Mason, Rockford Files,
Mannix, Kojack, Cannon, Police Woman, Adam 12,
Streets of San Fransisco and on and on....
I hated them all.
Any given night during the sixties and early seventies
would be a plethora of “Book’em Danno’s” and “Just the facts ma’am”.
Don’t get me wrong, they were well written, had great actors.
I'll admit they were... well, ..... okay.
However, it grew to be a bit much as the years fell away.
On the other hand, I’ve always loved Star Trek and science fiction
became a favourite genre of mine when deciding what shows to watch as an adult.
Then one day, my daughter gave me horrible news...
“Mom,” she said to me, “I am going to pick you out a nursing home
that plays nothing but Matlock reruns.”
I was shocked.
What kind of loving child would subject their mother to such torture?
“You don’t really mean that.” I replied, trying to keep my worry in check.
“Yes... I do. And no Star Trek will be allowed either, just Matlock,”
she replied with her beautiful smile.
Well, it didn’t take long before I countered her threat with one of my own.
For many years, I have actively pressed her to take up knitting with me,
but my petitions in this regard have always been denied.
“Knitting is evil,” was always her only response whenever I asked
if I could teach her how to knit.
And so, to get her back for putting me a home showing only Matlock reruns,
I informed her that I would be leaving my
entire knitting needle collection
solely to her, all three boxes of them.
No, I don’t have an accurate count of them
as there are so many more important things to do in life
rather than counting your knitting needles, wouldn’t you agree?
Anyway, she has informed me this past weekend
that should I carry out my threat and indeed leave
her my vast knitting needle collection,
she will only bury them all in her back yard.
I thought for a moment.
“Yes,” I answered her back, ...
“but an evil knitting needle tree would instantly grow
out of the ground and eat you alive.”
Now, my daughter is a horror movie aficionado,
and I have never seen her shrink away from a
hypothetically gruesome scene.
That is, until that very moment.
Now, you may ask...
“What kind of mother would wish an evil knitting needle tree
to grow out of the ground devour her child alive?”
This mother would, but only if her daughter forced her to watch
nothing but Matlock during her declining years.
Sadly, I can only imagine what kind of stories
she will be telling her children about me, their grandmother.
Like, for example...
- No sooner had she moved out of the house when her mother filled her old bedroom with an enormous yarn stash.
- How for Christmas and birthdays, all I ever wanted was more yarn.
- Or most sadly, when on a family holiday, I dragged everyone to the local area yarn store.
Yes...
I am an evil mother.
And I hope she never forgets it.
Monday, March 15, 2010
ANGELIC LESSON 101
Before my grandfather received the call to enter the ministry,
he was apprenticed to be a tailor.
Whenever he would come for an extended visit,
he would look for something to sew.
That would be how he kept busy.
He was always asking us
if there was anything that needed his attention.
And thus I would always find him sewing this and mending that.
Whenever I found him alone and sewing, I’d place myself at his knee,
and ask him to tell me a story.
His rule of thumb was always one story a day.
However, sometimes I managed to get as much as three stories out of him.
Good times.
This is one story that I never forgot.
After agreeing to tell me a story,
he always thought for a moment to decide which one he should tell.
“Do you remember the Easter story,” he asked,
as he returned his attention back to stitching a pant seam.
“Of course I do,” I answered back quickly.
“But Opa, (which is the name I called him,) …it’s not Easter.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” he said.
“Would you like me to tell you a story or not?”
“Yes Opa.”
“Okay, now, tell me what happened on Easter Morning?”
The answer was almost too easily for me.
He knew full well that I was well versed in the Easter story.
This was obviously leading somewhere. I decided to play along.
“The three women went to the tomb.” I answered.
“What did they see?”
“They saw that the stone had been rolled away
and that Jesus’s tomb was open.”
“What happened then?”
“There were angels sitting on the stone
and they told the women that Jesus was not there.”
I was beginning to get bored, but I tried not to let it show.
That would put any further stories in jeopardy.
He continued his story with, “What happened then?”
“The women went into the cave.”
“And what did they find?”
“Opa, can I have another story?”
“No, answer the question. Did they find Jesus in the cave?”
“No, he was not there, just like the angels told them.
They only found his burial cloth.”
Then at last came what would be Opa’s final question…
“And did they find Jesus’s burial cloth on the ground?”
“No,” I replied, “the women found it neatly folded lying on stone.”
All at once he dropped his sewing, raised his hand and playfully
pointed an accusing finger at me.
“And let that be a lesson to you,” he said gently chastising me.
"Angels are extremely neat and never leave anything lying on the floor."
"They always neatly fold and put everything back in their proper place.”
Lesson well learned.
he was apprenticed to be a tailor.
Whenever he would come for an extended visit,
he would look for something to sew.
That would be how he kept busy.
He was always asking us
if there was anything that needed his attention.
And thus I would always find him sewing this and mending that.
Whenever I found him alone and sewing, I’d place myself at his knee,
and ask him to tell me a story.
His rule of thumb was always one story a day.
However, sometimes I managed to get as much as three stories out of him.
Good times.
This is one story that I never forgot.
After agreeing to tell me a story,
he always thought for a moment to decide which one he should tell.
“Do you remember the Easter story,” he asked,
as he returned his attention back to stitching a pant seam.
“Of course I do,” I answered back quickly.
“But Opa, (which is the name I called him,) …it’s not Easter.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” he said.
“Would you like me to tell you a story or not?”
“Yes Opa.”
“Okay, now, tell me what happened on Easter Morning?”
The answer was almost too easily for me.
He knew full well that I was well versed in the Easter story.
This was obviously leading somewhere. I decided to play along.
“The three women went to the tomb.” I answered.
“What did they see?”
“They saw that the stone had been rolled away
and that Jesus’s tomb was open.”
“What happened then?”
“There were angels sitting on the stone
and they told the women that Jesus was not there.”
I was beginning to get bored, but I tried not to let it show.
That would put any further stories in jeopardy.
He continued his story with, “What happened then?”
“The women went into the cave.”
“And what did they find?”
“Opa, can I have another story?”
“No, answer the question. Did they find Jesus in the cave?”
“No, he was not there, just like the angels told them.
They only found his burial cloth.”
Then at last came what would be Opa’s final question…
“And did they find Jesus’s burial cloth on the ground?”
“No,” I replied, “the women found it neatly folded lying on stone.”
All at once he dropped his sewing, raised his hand and playfully
pointed an accusing finger at me.
“And let that be a lesson to you,” he said gently chastising me.
"Angels are extremely neat and never leave anything lying on the floor."
"They always neatly fold and put everything back in their proper place.”
Lesson well learned.
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