Memories

Memories. Literarily speaking, we have Remembrance of Things Past, a novel in seven volumes by Marcel Proust. I’ve not read it. If you have, I’d like to have a conversation. All I know is that he was eating a cookie (a madeleine, specifically) and the experience triggered memories of his childhood. I have eaten madeleines, but not many.

Musically, we have the song “Memory” from Cats, sung here by the British star Elaine Page and here by Barbra Streisand, my preference. Andrew Lloyd Webber has a gift for melody, and his first wife was named Madeleine, thereby a quinky dink.

Although I’m working on some other weightier topics, today I seem to be on memory. Saturday, I made a batch of pickled peaches (though I did not pick them, Peter) and was pleased to find they did, indeed, remind me of a childhood flavor. My mother didn’t can, but we had backyard peaches, and our neighbor canned them on halves for us. Among the offering were pickled peaches, rich in syrup, cinnamon, and cloves. I don’t know anyone named Nana, but here is her recipe.

All this brings me to the first poem below. Here’s the truth: Not only do I not remember writing it in 2011, I don’t remember ever seeing it before this morning. I don’t know whose death it mourns (someone with initials LS). Send help.

The second poem is another oddity. It wasn’t a dedication. It was a future memory, a term I’ve just invented. When I wrote it, I imagined my elderly self, alone and blind. Lovely, right? But it seems to have been a defensive position into which a certain amount of holy light came. I later dedicated it to Dr. Louise Cowan, about whom I’ve written elsewhere.

Each day brings its own memories for the next day, and it’s understandable we can’t retain all of them. Perhaps that’s why we have joy in the journey. Both poems speak of our heart’s rhythm. Enjoy your peaches.

How It Goes

The NO! first, no, no

Not you—yes—

That’s first

We knew your fragility—

Heart— parts—

But no, not yet—

That sick in us—gut, eyes—collapse

Then the memorials at your door—

In the lobby—

On a stage—

Carefully written and lit, folded—

Arranged

Not like life—

Ragged, funny, fished—

So—our hearts keep beating, hurting, beating—

Find again a rhythm

Forge again a smile—

We, left, remember too

The greatness, shyly, slyly

Shown and shared—

Hurray! for you—

Hurray

 

For L.S.

 

©Mary Ann Taylor 2011

 

Perspective

I remember my

Blue eyes:

 

When I thought I knew

of pain, of loss,

It was just a cold,

an old gray cat–

Not my heart’s darling

Not its urging rhythm.

 

My eyes searched for

Beauty–

Shine and shadow, bloom and autumn gold

Skies colors bursting joy,

And faces, the dear beautiful

Faces

which now I see no more.

 

Shallow breaths taken as feet inch

Forward afraid to fall

Unable to rise

Move my heart along

But falter

Failing

Fast.

 

Now I am surprised

By the cement that holds my hand

Still as the shining steel

That holds my hip.

 

I doubt my blue eyes

Would remember me.

 

And yet and yet and yet

Quietly, quietly

 

Into my darkness the Holy Spirit whispers bliss:

“Sweet child, there is more to thee than this.”

 

To LC

 

The Candy Thermometer

Candy making, in some circles and at some times of year, is serious business. In Texas, we love pralines. Let’s get this out of the way: The word’s first pronunciation is pray-leens, not prah-leens. The full name is pecan pralines, but the nut doesn’t need to be mentioned. There are two versions of this delectable wad of sugar, fat, and pecans (pe-cahns and not pee-cans, obviously), with preferences on both sides; chewy and crisp  have different recipes and different textures and different flavors. The results of a successful session—often consumed within a few hours—represent the highlights of the sugar/pecan affinity.

Yet so much can go wrong. The ingredients are simple: sugar, cream or buttermilk, pecans, a dash of salt, vanilla, and a little baking soda. The process is another story. With a candy thermometer, the guesswork is reduced, but not as much as might be expected in our advanced technological age. The physics and chemistry of cooking are fascinating but never more particular as in praline preparation, so the thermometer is a help, not a solution.

The elements are these: a heavy pan, a wooden spoon, medium high heat. Simple enough. Time and application are next: Bring to a boil without stirring. Stir constantly until the mixture reaches 238-241° F. Remove from heat immediately, add pecans, and continue stirring until mixture loses its gloss.

One website gives the process a “Difficult” rating, but until an attempt is made, the reasons are not clear. Because each element is essential, each must be used with exactness. The recipe itself, although there are variations, is not as important. Even a novice would know not to substitute skim milk for cream, for example. Using an aluminum spoon to stir might not seem to be in the same league unless other variables are considered.

The timing factors present even more important barriers. Why would 230º not work as well as 238? Or 242 perhaps? Scientific inquiry holds those answers, buried in the molecules of sugar. Regardless, the stage of cooking required is within certain parameters. Too low, and the pralines stay goo. Too high, the result is hardened beyond dental capacity. Without a thermometer, the eye can prevail, for some old schoolers. The shape and density of a drop of sugary mix in a glass of water can be assessed, but that is obviously a job for the seasoned cook.

And now for the spoon. Metal has properties of conduction. Copper (and aluminum) wiring carry electricity from source to outlet. So too does a spoon carry heat away from a hot liquid, an ideal solution for that too-hot-yet cocoa but not for a mixture that must increase in temperature. Hence the wooden spoon. Or at least says I.

Once the correct stage develops, the candy maker must continue to work the mixture to bind the ingredients. Taffy gets pulled, and pralines get beaten. When the gloss is gone, the mixture has both cooled to a point at which it is manageable and also coalesced into a cohesive, non-sticky form.

On its own, this lesson seems long and somewhat tedious. By batch five, someone I know was beyond frustrated and into “What a story this’ll make!” The novice candy maker’s observation was simple—the thermometer must be broken because it wouldn’t get above 230º. Obviously. And I was not one to argue, since I wasn’t there and wasn’t thinking,

The key in this instance was patience. Unless something really strange were at work, the candy thermometer was fine. Patience was lacking, perhaps because of lack of experience and lack of insightful assistance from moi. Had the candymaker endured a while longer, the candy would have been able to get hotter as whatever mechanism in the sugar mixture reduced. It works. It always does. Mystery solved.

These days—one hesitates to generalize—patience is in shorter supply than its usual short supply. Human nature has rather narrow limits in this field anyway. We need more right now. I’m using the phrase “in the middle of a pandemic” regularly, but neither I nor anyone I know actively thinks of it literally. We are all hoping we’ll wake up one morning and it’ll be over.

So, if we are in the middle, there are months to go. I am not thrilled with that. Sometimes I wonder if the worst is yet to come. Every day I check to see who died the day before. What kind of joy is there in that?

Perhaps in the months to come we’ll learn that the mask wearing and social distancing weren’t effective. For now, I’m going with the phrase “Err on the side of caution.” I went through a time pronouncing it ur, which is second. I’ve corrected that now. Stay smart.

 

Psychic Advisor

Jean should have been safe.  She was far from home, far from the office.  What could possibly go wrong?  But there he was, his bright red tousle of hair bobbing cheerfully along. Even worse, there she was, with the blue and white, red stop-signed RID box “One Application” metal nit comb included, right in her basket, as she stood last in line, and he was closing fast.  Had she come five minutes earlier, she thought, she would have missed him altogether.  Or five minutes later.  But no.  She should have been safe.  Brandon’s face brightened when he saw her.

“Jean! Hi!  Man, you’re far from home.  My old roommate lives over by that new Home Depot Expo.” He nodded toward the west. “It’s a great place. What’re you . . .” He looked into her basket expectantly.  “Oh.”  Brandon knew now what she was doing and wrinkled his forehead.  He changed the subject.

“Uh, how’s work?  You still at the hotline?”

“Not bad.  But I think I’m going to leave soon. I see it my future.”

“Yeah, well.  Nice to see you.”  Another lane had opened up and Brandon headed toward it without being invited or asking if Jean had a plan to leave or if, as he might well have done, if she was being psychic. It was an in joke, of course.  You got that a lot if people knew where you worked. Jean supposed he didn’t want to be seen talking to someone with RID in the basket. Even talking was somehow a taint, old school. She sighed deeply and hoped the checker wouldn’t have to call for a price check: “Lice killer price needed on 4! Lice killer!” She wished for a moment she had thought to get something bulky to go over it. A nice box of maxipads maybe. Or the bikini line waxing kit from aisle 2. Life would have to go on. The checker scanned the box, told Jean the price, and reminded her to have a nice day. Jean thought of telling him she had other plans. Killing bugs right and left, for example.

The school had called earlier that morning. “Ms. Ransom, this is Kathy Bowen, the nurse over at Travis. I had to check Frankie’s hair today. The music teacher reported him. I didn’t see any bugs, but he had a number of eggs. With it being the last day of school and all, he doesn’t have to come home, but I have to report it.”

Jean got a sick feeling in her throat. “Oh my goodness,” she said. “My head’s been itching like I don’t know what. I’ve been asking around what it could be. I even called the dermatologist. They couldn’t see me until next week. Nobody in my family ever had lice before, really. I can’t believe it. But I guess I’ve got them too.”

Kathy Bowen laughed lightly. “Yes, perhaps you do. Itching’s one of the only symptoms. Get some RID or Qwell, clean all the brushes in the house, wash the bedclothes in hot water, and vacuum the furniture. It’ll be okay. I’m sorry.”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“I’ve  . . .well, don’t be. Just get the RID.”

“Nobody in my family . . . ”

“It’s no big deal. Really. Listen, I’d love to talk but with it being the last day and all . . .”

“Oh, sure. Thanks for calling.”

“Have a good summer. Bye now.” And so her good summer had begun with a trip to the not-so-safe store across town.

Any time more than one person is involved in anything, complications arise. Jean went to pick Frankie up and stood with him for the closing ceremonies. Balloons, the school song.  One more wonderful year. First, she wanted to get Frankie home and tell him what had happened, then ask Jordan to watch him early. Frankie’d be distressed, but she wondered if Jordan would blow up.

“Frankie,” she said, once they were safely home, “Ms. Bowen called today. She said that one of your teachers asked her to check you for lice.”

“I know, Mom. I was there.”

“Oh. Sure, I know. Well, anyway, you have them. Did she tell you?”

“No. She just said there were some eggs or something. They must be really little, huh?”

“I guess. Nobody in the family ever had any before.”

“Ever?”

Jean thought about it. She pictured the generations before her, down through the centuries, into the Dark Ages, and generally out into the wilds of an unknown nature. Surely, somebody in the family had developed every disease and affliction known in the world. Surely somebody, millions of sombodies in her family, had had lice.

“No. Nobody. That’s that. Not that I ever heard of, anyway. Frankie, how’d you get them? Have you been sharing a comb with somebody?”

“No, Mom. I put gel on first thing and never touch my hair again until night.”

“What about a hat? You probably snitched somebody’s hat for fun and put it on.”

“No, I didn’t. Really, I have no idea. What are we going to do?”

“Oh, there’s some poison to use. I suppose it’s some sort of shampoo.”

“Poison? Mama! Yuk. I bet it’ll smell awful. It’ll kill us!”

“These days they make roach poison smell good. Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s safe. I just bet Jordan’ll have a fit. Maybe I’d better run up and tell him.”

Jordan worked at a grocery store just past the corner, close enough to walk up if she needed to. She glanced at the clock and decided she could just make his break time. She pulled on her grubby, graying Nikes and headed off at a good pace. She passed the unnamed neighbor catty-cornered and thought how nice it was she didn’t have to tell him about the bugs. People did that these days, told more and more, until she wanted them to think for a minute what a burden it was for her to know about their cousin’s father-in-law’s affair with his deceased wife’s best friend. Her neighbor, about whom she delightfully knew almost nothing, was busy cutting the lawn with a quiet electric mower and waved to her.  She began to slow down. For about a millisecond, it had occurred to her just to buy the RID there? That would have been rich. It was a neighborhood store, not a large one. Jean always saw at least one friend there or a PTA committee member. Jordan would have been mortified. Then she picked up the pace a bit. She did need a loaf of bread and the store had two loaves on for a dollar. Might as well do that and tell Jordan the news. Quietly, to the side. Not that he would actually be looking at her, of course. At 16 he didn’t look at her so much anymore.

As Jean rounded the corner of the last house, she gasped with a startled, “Oh.” Jordan was right in front of her so suddenly she was embarrassed to have been thinking of him, as if it were a sort of pitiful gossip. Jordan was never startled, or so it seemed. He just raised his eyebrows and explained, “Another guy came in early, so I got off.”

“Jordan, I need to check you. Frankie and I have lice. You might too.” The two loaves of cheap bread were forgotten in the dramatic reveal.

“No, Mom. I don’t have any.”

Jean was disappointed. She thought something of the news would shock him, make him wonder, anything, do better than an “I don’t care.” At least he hadn’t said that.

“How could you possibly know? We’ve got them. It’s very contagious, you know. They are…”

“I know,” he shrugged. “But Linsey just got over them about a month ago. I never had them.”

Jean thought of Linsey’s blond hair, straight and to her shoulders, tossed to the side regularly with her pretty girl hands. She blinked and knew the connection: a missing brush that Jordan brought home later from Linsey’s house, obviously filled with little lice eggs incubating and waiting for the school nurse to find their spawns’ spoors on Frankie while she herself itched for all she was worth.

“How’d she get rid of them?” Jean wondered if Jordan would get the connection.

“She got that poison shampoo stuff then combed her hair all the time. She even bought one of those steel combs that you have to pay extra for. But it didn’t work. It just took a long time with that little cheap comb.”

They’d turned and were walking home faster than was really necessary. Jean knew she couldn’t say anything about the connection. Jordan would get huffy and not speak to her for awhile. More than anything, Jean wanted to say, with great feeling, “I guess we got them from Linsey.” But she didn’t dare. It was a terrible thing to fear a child, she thought, in his words.

“At least you don’t have them. That’s the good thing,” Jean offered.

“Yeah. I guess I wash my hair a lot or something.”

Jean sighed. Linsey washed her hair twice many days, most likely. You don’t get that kind of bounce and luster for nothing. She wanted to tell Jordan washing hair often doesn’t prevent lice but also suddenly realized she would never be able to say the term “nit-picky” again with a straight face. Jordan reached the door first.” So many insights, so little time. “Don’t you have to go to work or something?” he asked.

“At six. You can watch Frankie?”

“Yeah. What’s for dinner?” Jean, pleased the topic had passed, had to think a minute.

“Umm, oh, there’s a pizza in the freezer. I’ve got a nice salad made. I’ll just make a sandwich when I get home.”

“Okay. See ya later.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just up to finish some homework. Let me know when you’re leaving. I’ll come down and get stuff ready for Frankie.

“I see. Well, don’t work too hard. See you in the morning. Love you.”

“Yeah, Mom.” Then he was off, taking the steps two at a time. Jean pulled the dread box out of the bag. The directions sounded grim: “Warning: For External Use Only. Do not use …near the eyes. Leave on 10 minutes…Comb out with special comb. Check regularly for nits.” Let the fun, the poisonous fun, begin. No time like the present, she decided. Getting the timer out, the towels, removing the potential for any possible overdosing dangers, off she went. Jean squinted in the mirror. She looked all right, she thought. Nothing obviously compromised. No mark of the little beasties.

Bending over the tub, Jean rinsed her hair. The medicine smelled only slightly like insecticide. Not too bad really. She lathered it up and closed her eyes, reaching for the timer by the tub. With careful fingers, she set it. Ten minutes seems like a long time, with wet, lice-ridden hair and your eyes shut!. Finally, finally, the thing went off and she turned the water back on. More lathering, and then she put hands through the shampoo and gathered the bulk of the lather, splatting! it on the tub. She then looked to see what she could see. Sure enough, little black dots swirled in the thinning bubbles. One of those ugghh-aha-yechh moments. Forestalling the urge to wash their survivors out again, she dressed for work.

At the hotline office, Jean sidled through to her cubicle, fourth one back in the sea of gray and taupe dividers. She kept hers plain and neat, with none of the rah-rah that some of her colleagues used to personalize their cells. A picture of Jordan and Frankie on her mother’s screened in porch. The last Christmas with Ben. Enough purpose to keep her going until midnight, anyway. The phone, the lead sheet, the prompts, the computer monitor. Hardly a home away from home, but something we all do with space, she thought, when we have a need to own it. She wondered about the time before there was a building, with infrastructure beams, floors, carpets, with cubes of people all through like a plasticized rabbit warren. In spare moments, which were rare these days, she tried to see in her mind’s eye the sky that would replace the building if it were gone, vanished into that air that is not so much thin as indiscernible to our poor human eyes . But there was no time for that now. The phone would start lighting up as soon as her shift began.

“Sister M’s Psychic Advisor,” she’d answer. Routine, routine, routine. After six calls, Jean had logged in her most average times. Sometimes kids would call more on spring break or Christmas when they were bored and their parents were distracted. But in May, with school almost out, activity previously limited to women needing direction, or the few college kids hiding their insecurities, blossomed again with kids thrilled to be out of school. If they realized how repetitive it all became, how much the same they all sounded, would she be out of a job? Maybe she would just switch to telemarketing. It’s all in the voice, after all, and Jean knew hers was good, compelling, even hypnotic. Not a teacher’s voice, she’d learned. The students, fascinated and spellbound, couldn’t seem to retain a word she said. Not good. They were, so to speak, spellbound which simply didn’t work for spelling tests.

“Sister M’s Psychic Advisor. Princess Jena is ready to answer your questions.”

“Is this Sister M?” It was always like that. No one listened. Jean had no need to look at her prompt for the 764th time.

“I am Sister M’s mentor and guide. She has special gift, does M, and I guide her as I am willing to guide you.” Jean was also busily, silently working to google in the phone information, addresses, databases, and so on. Not that a psychic needed that sort of thing of course…

“Uh, that sounds good. Are you, like, expensive?” The young voice was distinctly male, Texan by the area code, almost surely 15.

“Ah, an easy question, sir. No. The fee is minimal, you will find. Sister M wants to help you. She must charge to cover expenses, but even as her mentor, I am happy to be of service. Please take as long as you need.”

“Yeah, uh, sure. Ummm. I… well…I don’t know how to ask this, m’am.” As tempting as it was for Jean to reply “Then don’t,” she could never bear the potential for disaster that bit of sarcasm would bring. “Take your time,” she cooed softly. “The time is your money,” she thought, or your daddy’s.

“Okay, yeah…” He audibly took a deep breath. “So, is all this, like, private? Confidential? You know?”

Jean wondered who in the world would be interested in what any of the people who called might say. She could be surprised at first, but anymore, it was the same old same old. She could almost guess what this kid was about to mutter. “Why yes, of course, sir.” Her accent was so subtle that he could not have heard the tiniest hint of sarcasm, a point she had practiced for days.

“Okay, well, ummm…I think I’m gay. How can I tell?” It didn’t take a psychic to hear that coming. And just in the background, Jean could hear a snort and a snicker from the other teenaged boys in the room. Yes, almost surely 15 and surely bored. “Hey, let’s call one of those freakin’ psychos!” Ha.

Jean paused. In the manual, her response was clear: be non-judgmental, appropriate in tone, even though the question was so common, a commentary on the state of teenage mental limitations. “Let’s give those losers something to think about tonight!” might have been the cry of them all.

Jean said, “Is this then a problem that you would like to solve?”

More hoots in the room, louder now, shushed. “Uh, no. Not a problem. I just don’t know…I mean, I wanna know what to do now…like…do.”

Suddenly a power surge or something similar—Jean would say later it was a time-warped split second of eternity bursting through—whited-out the monitor screen. While she blinked her eyes, no less and no more, Jean could see where the boy was: the twin beds on opposite sides of the room, the other boys listening to the phone conversation or surfing or nodding along to an iPod, the ceiling fan breeze moving the upper papers on the bulletin board. Justin, as that was his real name, was playing a game on his laptop while he was on the phone. Jean knew the names of all the others too: Deej on another laptop, Ian watching Justin, Charlie with his music. Jean could hear it as well as he could, though she was too astonished to do more than register an Elvis tune, as if she had all the power of observation ever given to anyone even though she was there only in her mind. Of course it would be possible to hear what was playing and what game was being won by whom. Of course she could see into the minds and thoughts of these four boys. Ian really was gay, not Justin, but no one knew. Charlie had a brilliant mind that he too had to hide. It was a challenge for him to do average work in calculus, A’s but not dramatic ones. Deej has music in his soul. For someone his age, it gave him pain, deep within his heart, sometimes an ache so real that he supposed he was going to die. He would have the good fortune to make a fine living from music. And not only that, he would write a melody now being worked in the recesses of his mind that the world would someday sing. She was the first on earth to hear it, outside Deej’s mind, but in 14 years everyone on the planet would know it.

The most surprising of all, though, was where she saw Justin. Rather, she heard it first, the mechanical breathing in the spacesuit, quiet but sourced—a connection to life and a time that forged dear with excitement. She couldn’t tell where he was at first. The landscape was bare, sandy, red. He—she—looked back at a craft. It was then she realized Justin was on Mars. And not just on Mars. The first human to set foot there. His heart rate was up. Houston was reminding him to remain calm. He was about to make a reply, hesitated said instead, “Thanks Sister M.” Houston squawked, squeaked, and he went about the business of contacting the great blue marble. Jean could feel his smile. A mission accomplished.

As quickly as she had seen the room, its occupants, and Mars, in the time of that single blink, Jean was back at the call center, breathless. Justin must have been talking while this happened; he was just finishing some sentence or question and waiting for a reply. She had no idea what he’d said, but she knew what she had to say.

 

“Justin…”

“How do you know my…”

“Just listen, Justin. I don’t have much time. I can’t explain how I know all this. Just listen.” Any hint of an accent was gone. Her purpose was clear and sure. She had to tell Justin what she had seen before anyone overheard what she was doing. This was, to say the least, definitely off the script.

“Tell Ian to mind his own business and make his own call. Tell Charlie college will be different. He can be who he really is, but for now, hang in, fit in, whatever. It’s ok. Tell Deej not to spend so much time playing online poker. He needs to work on his music more, now and not later, before he gets to college. Got all that?”

Silence on the other end. ”Uh, lady, how do you know all this stuff? You got some kind of webcam, something like spyware down there?”

“I can’t explain it. It just happened. This is the real thing, Justin, not some rip-off. I don’t know what happened. But there’s more.”

“Are you, like, in a prison or crazy farm somewhere? I heard they got prisoners on 800 numbers.”

“No, I’m just somebody’s mom. Listen, there’s more. You, Justin, you have no idea. Someday, you’re going to be an astronaut. In fact, you’re going to Mars. And more point in fact, you’re going to be the first human there.”

“Right. Lady, you are freakin’ nuts. And when is all this supposed to happen?”

Jean realized she had no idea. As much as she had seen, the how and when were missing, except for Deej’s song. “I don’t know when for you. I just know it will.”

“Just how do you, like, know?” He sounded somewhere between irritated and scared.

“I don’t know how to explain. Something happened. I don’t know what. I could in that instant suddenly see you and your friends now at your house and you in the future. Really, I have no idea how it happened.”

“Freakin’…We all know you people are a bunch of fakes. Kids just call to pull your chain, ya know? This is like some stupid TV show.”

Oh yes. She knew that well, the motive and the sorry state of television that had this sort of thing. “Sure, sure. Listen. What would be my purpose in making this up? I’ve got all these things I’m supposed to say, and then I get this ZAP! or whatever it was. I don’t know why. I don’t know why you. But I can tell you from the bottom of my soul, it was real. I could see it all.”

“Whatever. Anybody up there know you’re doing this?”

Jean suddenly remembered that she certainly did have people who might be vaguely interested that she was spouting off real prophecies. Guaranteed to elicit calls from upset parents. Taking up way too much time (and hence somebody’s money) and going out of character. None of that took a psychic.

“No. I’ve got to go. Don’t be upset. Someday you’ll thank me for this, really, you will, when you get there. I’m Jean Don’t forget. Gotta go, bye.” As she went for the disconnect, she could hear the protest.

“WAIT! Woman, what the freak!”

It was a moment to be savored. Jean closed her eyes and thought of Mars. The redness, the bareness, the stark absence of anything alive. She understood, now, that it was because no human had ever needed the place. We were not there, not yet, so there was no reason for anything to live. But that was going to change. Life would come. Life would stay. It was a mighty thing, for hers to be the first name uttered there. A name that no one would know was hers, without some research. And not like those millions of names of people who’d had to pay, lying quietly on the email lists being taken up to space. Likely, even, her company would be gone by then. Jean wondered if she’d even be around to hear it. None of that potentially important information had made it across the great divide. It didn’t matter. A mystery in the Age of Google is not a bad thing.

Then she thought of tomorrow, the real one. This job wasn’t what she could do any longer. Again, it didn’t take a psychic to predict the fury of first level management, second level management. Maybe Sister Whatever herself would get wind of the whole thing. Not good. Better just to give notice, walk out now, and take that two week vacation she had coming. In that real tomorrow, Jean could land another job. After this one, anything else would seem easy. “I see from the record that your account is 30 days overdue. Have you made a payment in the past 24 hours?” Another script, another encounter with the highest levels of human invention, or not. The stories could come from the called and not the caller. Not a bad thing. Jean, slipping her headset off, saw it was only 30 minutes into her shift. She had the urge to get home as quickly as possible. The bugs were calling. As she went to sign out for vacation and to resign, Brandon seemed to be calling: “So where are you off to?”

“Home. Always home. I’ve got nits to pick.”

 

ETAOIN SHRDLU

And then, suddenly, James Syme Tait was there. If I’d looked for him before, I’d forgotten. I didn’t even remember that he had existed, really, so perhaps I hadn’t. These days, after all the drawers are organized, the closets cleaned, the mirrors polished, the Russian lesson finished (I’m 47 days in), what is left? Prior projects. Each week, I work on what used to be called genealogy but now—perhaps more accurately—we call family history. First, I looked through the family Bibles, often a good source of births, marriages, and deaths, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. The oldest of the collection begins in 1879. Nothing new. I then went through the four books of notes on my two lines and my husband’s two lines. Eureka! In a letter written by my great-aunt Ky (Coila, really), I reread something I had forgotten: two little boys, lost. Found, in Ancestry,  Brooklyn birth certificate. Exultation!

One set of great-great grandparents came to New York City in 1865 from Edinburgh. In my aunt’s letter, I saw that my great-grandmother’s two little brothers and her mother “took diphtheria and died.” The father, too, earlier. Her mother’s three sisters lived in Austin, so they came up and brought her home with them.

The thing about the Internet is that it grows, exponentially and daily. Access is accomplished when someone, somewhere digitizes data that can be searched. My document is an example. A person sitting at a screen reading the original had input the names: James Syme Tait (the baby), Barbara Syme Tait, James Tait. The places: 169 South 6th Street (the form adds Brooklyn) and Edinburgh, Scotland. Enough to verify.

The PDF (Portable Document File, I’ve learned) adds more: Professions: Gilder. John Something Something, the MD.  And colors, the inks—sepia and blue; the printed form with a fancy font; two cursive handwriting styles. The paper, aged.

Questions remain: Who made the changes? Some names are clearly additions. Some overwrite the original spidery scrawl, which was indecipherable. When was the certificate filed? What does the title phrase “return of a birth” mean anyway? Who decided what would be on the form? The father’s occupation instead of birth order? Why? Is the address the parents’ home (most likely) or something else? Google maps can find the intersection and what seems to be a massive lumber company. What was there is 1866?

The more personal questions: When did mother, father, two small boys die? Where did my great-grandmother go while waiting for her aunts? How were they informed? Why did all three of them come? Or did they? Transportation, food, clothing, names? All of that is missing, not to mention the emotional responses to such trauma.

But, little Joseph is found, and I’m glad. The biggest question is easier to answer: Why does it matter? This child who died many decades ago had no legacy, no family to remember him other than an aunt’s mention in a letter, no apparent influence on anyone. And yet he did. He may have had a few years of happiness or deprivation, some time with his family, or none. I know nothing more, waiting for someone else to sit at a screen and index. Because of him, and the circumstances in that family, however, my future arose in Texas. He was not a cipher. He did matter to his family. He is not forgotten, not any more.

Newspapers were once set by linotype operators using huge machines with keys that triggered matrices filled with molten physical letters. (One of my father’s half-sisters did this job in Houston for the Chronicle. We were all in awe.) The inventors, one an immigrant from Germany, revolutionized printing with their line o’ type. When the operators needed to fill space, the typesetters would run their hand down the left side of the keyboard, resulting in the phrase “etaoin shrdlu” since it wasn’t a qwerty. Nonsense, or some say, magic. A ghost, say others, since the space needed to be filled eventually.  Now all of that is gone. We didn’t notice particularly. We did notice the loss of film for digital images, but that’s another story.

I’m not going to come out of this pandemic knowing Russian and another junk drawer will arise, but finding our little uncle means something to me, and, I hope, to him.

 

“To whom shall we go?”

The title echoed last week in my mind. You who read the Bible will recognize it as one of the most tender exchanges in the New Testament. A lot has happened in the 6th chapter of John. Christ has fed the five thousand. He has walked on the sea. After he explains his purpose, many disciples take his words to be more than they can bear and leave. He then turns to the twelve apostles and asks, “Will you also go away?” Peter’s response is simple: “Lord, to whom shall  we go?”

No, this isn’t a Sunday school lesson. The idea in the phrase reflects instead my concern about the current turmoil. And it’s not so much to whom I would go but where.

That there is no place better, no place safer, no place with fewer problems may not seem obvious at first. America is not in the top ten happiest countries. For several years running, Finland has held number one. The rest are Scandinavian, with Switzerland, Austria, New Zealand, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands thrown in for good measure. The list is subjective, partly, and we do make the top 20, at 18. Not that Finland can be a model for us anyway. Of the 5.5 million people, 95% are Finnish or European. No real diversity. Next is Switzerland. Lovely country, but there is a posh shop in which Oprah was told she couldn’t hold a purse she wanted to look at. The link reads oprah-winfrey-racism. And they are much more diverse than Finland, for what that’s worth.

Examples could go on forever, obviously, but my point is simple: discrimination, prejudice, racism—whatever you choose to call it—exist everywhere. Our country has a particular kind of issue, but we are not alone in this world, and there is nowhere to run to escape it.

In the movie The Dark Knight, no one understands why the Joker acts like he does. It’s not logical. He isn’t motivated by money or power or even hate. Michael Caine as Alfred (Pennyworth, a last name, added here for respect) explains it. He tells a story of his days in Burma, with others trying to bribe the local strongman. But it didn’t work. He didn’t care about the money. He couldn’t be influenced. Alfred says, “Some men just want to see the world burn.” We think we can figure out what people want, what they need. Often, it’s easy. Sometimes, some days, it conflicts with our desire for logic, reasonableness, and we don’t understand.

In the haste to secure change, which is fine, we may not anticipate the role of those who do not share those positive goals. Call them what you will—anarchists, agitators, instigators, manipulators—but remember they don’t care about you or the country or the cause. They just want to watch it all burn.

But where will we go if it does? There is no place better. The word “utopia” means “no place.” It doesn’t exist. We can improve what we have; the structure is the best the world has seen. Here Morgan Freeman talks about the beginning of the revolution that led to that structure, in an introduction to the performance (for that’s what happens) of the Declaration of Independence. You can skip the actors, but listen to Morgan Freeman. The ideals of the struggle are worth continuing the struggle.

 

Chancing Your Arm

The image, the metaphor, is right. The phrase “chance your arm” refers to a feud between two Irish families in 1492. When the Butlers fled into a cathedral, the FitzGeralds asked them to come out and make peace. They didn’t. They were afraid. So the head of the FitzGeralds had a hole cut in the door and extended his arm through it. He, too, must have been afraid: A Butler might just as easily have cut it off. But that’s not what happened. Someone shook the hand, the feud ended, or so the story goes. In our day, what is that image? What, even, is that arm? What is your arm, your risk? Is it pride or prejudice, or self-righteousness? Ignorance or a willful blind eye?

These days, we are still in factions. The idea of families feuding may have faded, but we make up for blood with so many other things—politics, race, religion, sexual orientation, accents, education, employment—an endless list. The odd thing, of course, is that in fact we all share the same blood. We’re all part of the same family. That which separates us is only superficial, and our choices allow the divisions to continue.

Words seem not only inadequate but also dangerous, however. What can I say that will not offend, that will not make things worse? Rather than rely on my own imperfect self, I asked three women for help. I’ll not identify them, just assure you that they do not look like me and while we share some important things, each feels strongly about racial injustice and ignorance.

One is young and biracial. She has two very different families. When yet another black man was murdered by a white policeman, she did not understand why her many white friends were not saying anything on social media until the protests and rioting began. When there were finally posts about the fact that the arrest was mishandled, she felt the love. It was just too long in coming. Vocalizing is important, she thinks.

Another is Hispanic and the mother of biracial children. Her insights far exceeded mine. Racism—and calling people racist—defeats the purpose and clouds the issue. It’s easy to say “I’m not racist” when, in fact, the more relevant problem is prejudice. No, you may not say your race is better than another, but how quick are you to judge someone before you speak? If we open our minds and try to understand appearances before condemning, we are going to be wiser in the long run. She gave the example of two young men, one black and one white, both with dreadlocks and tattoos. A negative impression of the first (thug, lawbreaker) but not the second (rebellious, provocative) suggests that something other than just race affects our reactions. Her son asked her, “How do we cure this?” Awareness might be a first step. If we’re ignorant, ask. Speak up when we see something wrong. Don’t assume anything. This friend has been mistaken for both a potential shoplifter and a building custodian. It takes retraining on our parts, which is perhaps not a cure but a retraining. Conflict resolution for the soul?

The third is black. She said this: “Protestations of I’m not racist and I don’t see color are useless without the self-examination required to truly see and understand where the inherent biases exist and their origins. That’s the only way to begin to effect change. The more we can enlighten folks who are receptive, the faster the changes come.”

This article discusses a Canadian artist who installed a project at a Philadelphia art school that simply said “white people. do something.” Kara Springer happens to be black, and the phrase resonated with her as she explored black pain. Many questions are not easily answered. The article concludes with an engineering reference. One of Springer’s works is called “A Simple Matter of Engineering.” That phrase is apparently code for something engineers consider impossible. I don’t believe this problem can’t be solved.

The three women quoted—all of whom I call sister in our faith tradition—feel frustration and urgency. All have similar messages. 1. There is a problem. 2. Saying there isn’t a problem is a problem. 3. When you see something is a problem, say it’s a problem. Acknowledgement is huge. That arm through the Irish door is acknowledgement, and risk. I don’t know what that will look like for you or for me. I know it must happen. I believe it will.

 

 

Making Friends with EMMA.

EMMA. Dot. Yes, that’s what the director intended. The work is a “period” drama. Get it? We can let Autumn de Wilde have this in her directorial debut. That and all caps will set it apart from the six other movies with the same title; the delightful Clueless (1995 and 1996, film and TV) has no need, and the Indian Aisha in Hindi is Bollywood, on Amazon Prime, so I will watch it soon, choreography and all.

Emma. would have been my last movie in a theater, when we did such things, but one friend despised it and would have walked out if such a thing had been polite. So I was prepared not to like it. Reviews were mixed; Peter Travers in Rolling Stone likens the version to our times, but he errs in calling Emma manipulative, which requires intent and meanness, in my mind. Shelia O’Connor at RogerEbert.com loves it, but her statement, “Ambivalence, thy name is Austen” mystifies because it pertains to marriage. She’s just too young at the beginning to have much sense. Although the New York Times is behind a paywall, the title “Back on the Manor, but Still Clueless” probably says enough. The Guardian, a British publication, calls the production “colourful,” which is accurate for both the interpretation and the clothes.

Ah, the clothes. What colors! The designer, Alexandra Byrne, remains true to the Regency style (or so I’m told). Emma wears things the name of which we are unfamiliar: pelisses, muslins, and spencers, for example. The linked article reveals much more than you want to know, but its depth adds support to the idea that this production succeeds on several levels.

What about the novel’s presence? Austen can be hard to read. This English prof finds her “unreadable” and “insufferable,” clever but “Oscar Wilde’s inane older sister.” Ouch. Consider this lead-up to dialogue: “Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation that Emma’s uneasiness increased…” And she can be a bit clunky. As she realizes Harriet is in love with Mr. Knightly, Emma comes to a realization: “It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!” Also, there are long pages with internal thoughts conversation, and the odd style of a discussion that is conversation but doesn’t look like it: “She asked after their mutual friends; they were all well..—When had he left them?—Only that morning. He must have had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. ‘He had just looked into the dining-room and as he was not wanted there, preferred being out of door.’” The screenwriter, Eleanor Catton, artfully blends the best of Austen, using her words, but also improves on her occasionally. Two examples are the snowfall scene at the Weston home and the Box Hill insult to Miss Bates. When snow is announced, the party immediately breaks up, and the flurry (excuse the pun) of activity transcends the long, slow discussion in the novel. Emma makes her rudeness much clearer in the movie.

It would be heresy to suggest that this movie is better than the book, and I’ll not do that. Some things happen in movies that cannot in books, however, as the music in Emma. Rather than simply background, we have new compositions by Isobell Waller-Bridge and David Schweitzer, some Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven, and hymns performed by Maddy Prior and The Carnival Band. The score is usually texture.  One scene does add commentary and is laugh-out-loud funny. Emma has played a lovely little ditty, singing along well enough. Jane Fairfax, her rival of sorts, plays next. It’s too bad she doesn’t have her music with her, sympathizes Emma, but Jane responds that she hopes she can recall the notes. She then sits down and whips out Mozart’s Sonata in F, III. Molto assai, heard here at 13:11. Yes, from memory, passionately and perfectly.

Good criticism should start with the negative and end with the positive. Laying that aside, a few quibbles. Although it’s historically accurate, the boarding school girls parade in red cloaks, looking for all the world like the women in The Handmaid’s Tale. We also have the surprise of Emma lifting her (many-layered) skirt to catch the fireplace heat on her bare bottom. I can’t feature it; layers would have kept said tush warm enough. We’ve seen a naked Mr. Knightley from the back as well, but he’d come in from riding and had sweaty clothes, with plenty of silent servants as required to help. The servants are worthy of an entire scholarly essay somewhere.

Finally, a mention of the title. Recently, someone talked of “making friends with May” following a series of events that rendered the month sad for her. The same is true for Emma in my mind. Austen purposefully wrote a heroine that no one else would like, she said. I just finished it again, after a long hiatus. The truth is that Austen’s are about the only novels I read. Last year, I loved A Gentleman in Moscow. I also read all the Jack Reacher novels, though that doesn’t count, they being more of an aberration. I recently learned about a style of therapy called Internal Family Systems developed by Richard Schwartz, speaking here at length and here very briefly. Simply put, we have our younger selves within us and must deal with their hurts and burdens even as we grow older. Like Emma, I was once a foolish 20-something. Not that I tried matchmaking, but I did feel full of myself. I wonder if I haven’t wanted to read Emma because it was too difficult to look back. I don’t know, still just a theory. It’s not that our dear Emma heals—that’s for the olders—but she does come to self-awareness. We would all benefit from that, and this delightful movie can only help.

 

Plainville, Conn.

World building and hobbies would seem to have little in common except that, these days, world building games like Minecraft (favored among my grandsons) and Fortnite (despised by same) take time, go nowhere, and build worlds. They carefully rejected my assessment of Terraria as world building explaining in simple words that survival was its object. I don’t even know how to turn the consoles on, or anything else.

Are hobbies not worthwhile? The definition, sadly, leads to that. Think of the word “hobby horse.” As such, I don’t have what I’d call hobbies. Instead, I have things that I do for various reasons: gardening, for example. Again sadly, no fruit or vegetables result from it, just flowers. One thing I do is hard to describe. It’s called indexing, and the result builds access to historical records that need to be digitized. I once worked on a 19th century British census, recording names and relationships for thousands of entries. The final result, after my results and those of others were completed and verified, made those handwritten documents searchable, i.e., indexed.

Yesterday’s project was much more simple. In 1917, men in Connecticut were asked to fill out questionnaires regarding their backgrounds, height and weight, marital status (married soon, one wrote), and so on, for the war effort. Pretty standard stuff. But the more interesting section, all heaped on at the end, included questions remote to us 100+ years later. Could he ride a horse? (Most could.) Manage a team? (Many could. And, hurray for YouTube, you can learn how here. It’s a horse or mule team, by the way, not soccer.) Drive a car? (Few, actually. Remember the year.) Understand telegraphy, have experience with steam engines, swim? It was quite the list. My job, however, was simply to input location, name, and age. A batch of 3 takes about a minute. And it’s a bit addictive. All the rest of the information will be available at some point, and gladly received, when someone searches out her great-grandfather, finds his name, and accesses the record. So, not a hobby, not world building, but something I do.

That’s where I came across the place named Plainville, Conn. (We don’t expand abbreviations.) We have a Plainview, Texas, and there are apparently several other places in the country with this name, but it struck me as a bit uncreative. The men’s names, however, were not plain at all: Nicolo Zoccos, Giovanni Cioto, Stazi Angelo. They were all short men, 5 feet tall or 5’3”. Italians, they reported. One man had the last name Przvizamavski. He was Polish. Others were from French Canada, Finland, Scotland, Russia, Austria. It was fascinating, even in as plain a place as Plainville.

So I decided to look into the current city view. It’s small, under 20,000 people. But the diversity is still there: Weinhofer and Alosso run departments. There are 30 justices of the peace (a different system than my little town, apparently), and their names reflect the area’s heritage too: Blanchette, Drezek, Romonow, Harper, Sawczuk, Winkoop, Zakrzewski.

My own great-great-grandparents were nearby, in fact. New Haven seems to be where they settled upon arriving from Scotland. My great-grandmother, born in 1865, lived there until her father died in 1879. She was then sent to Onion Creek, a little place near Austin, to live with her aunts because her mother had died in 1865. I remember they had a little hat shop. People wore hats then. That’s about all I know, but, if you think about it, that’s quite a lot, removed by time and space. Her name was Margaret Zuleika Tait, before she married. I do know that. Perhaps there is a picture somewhere. And, of course, because of her, I am here.

Indexing is a thing I do. You could, too, if you’re a bit bored and have a minute or two to spare. Someone looking for a great-grand might thank you, silently, someday. A hobby that helps someone else build a world. Even better than a hobby…

“…the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!”

Watching the US Navy team called The Blue Angels fly over Dallas on a perfect spring day, I could think of only one word: stately. It wasn’t what I expected. Rather than booming, speeding, thundering, the jets came quietly, their sound trailing behind them. Many years ago, jets flying over my home town regularly broke the sound barrier, a phenomenon you can see (not hear) here or see (and hear) here. The Blue Angels’ flight path began in McKinney, came south 30 miles, made a loop, headed south again, turned north, then west, another loop and a flourish, and landed south of Fort Worth. It took 35 minutes. Again, stately, because they seemed so slow. Their lowest speed is 120 mph, which I find as hard to imagine as their fastest—700 mph during shows, faster when not around people because they’re not allowed to break the sound barrier (761 mph) for shows. Here is a video from a friend, used with permission. The perfect formation, the power of the machines, the occasion—something brought tears to my eyes. Considering their goal of honoring the first responders and health professionals, the beautiful and stately was appropriate.

Consider another stately performance: Peter Serkin strides onto a stage, slowly, in a church performance hall. It’s 2017, and he’s 70 years old. He will play J.S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Flawlessly. From memory. For 49 minutes and 47 seconds. With a delicate grace, without an embellishment of personality. Style is one thing, of course. Restraint is best, in my opinion. (Although I admire Glen Gould, and he plays distinctively, the self is keenly present.) The rest, however, reflects the best in art. The sheer magnificence of having that much music stored in one’s mind so far exceeds anything I can do that—like the Blue Angels—the perfection and power amaze. (You can get the gist with only the opening piece, as committing to the entire 49+ is a lot to ask. Serkin died last February. He came from a traditional musical family, famous father and grandfather, but he was also a champion of modern music, Olivier Messiaen in particular. Perhaps you will listen here to the Vocalise movement of the French composer’s Quartet for the End of Time. It has a simple ABA form for the Angel who announces the End; the musicians, all quite young, seem to understand their goal: harrowing us with the A sections, calm but clear for the lengthy B. A copy of the program from the prison of war camp where it was first performed combines the chilling and the orderly. No, I don’t think we’re at the End, but the quartet is arguably Messiaen’s most famous work, hence its inclusion.)

It’s not that I can’t do some things well, or that I don’t sometimes feel satisfied with an effort. In this performance of “The Imperial March” from Star Wars, John Williams conducts it with an appealing self-satisfaction. Once again, we could say the tempo is stately. The entire program was all Williams, of course, which you can see here. He noted that the brass players asked to play the march even though they’d had many demands for the rest of the evening. Of course, it was the perfect ending, and a crowd pleaser. It’s just that I am in awe of these things currently. I believe this achievement level influences our respect for the arts.

Today’s title comes from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ sonnet “The Windhover.” The yeloow-highlighted words link to definitions. He’s writing about a bird, more familiarly known as a kestrel or falcon. More accurately, he provides the reader with the experience of being one with the falcon in flight. Using words to do so takes my breath away. You can hear Richard Thomas as John-Boy Walton read it here in his soft Virginia mountain accent, as a gift to his mother on her birthday; this teacher in India gives a lecture on Hopkins and the poem to an amazingly attentive class; here Jakia Shanel Probst participates in Poetry Out Loud, the National Endowment for the Arts initiative; new to me is this Irish form called sean-nós, produced here by Lorcán Mac Mathúna, stunningly and with art to accompany. But read it aloud to yourself. Fly.

Let me insert a shout out to actors: I who can barely recite the alphabet admire the ability not only to assume a character but also to memorize hundreds of lines of a play. Here Richard Burton recites another Hopkins poem, “The Leaden Echo & The Golden Echo.” The first time I heard it, I was soon so lost I couldn’t even tell he was speaking English. Having the words helps, even though some aren’t familiar and need a dictionary dart. But it’s melodic magic, and all things considered, perhaps his most accessible poem: You won’t lose your beauty if you give it to God. Here you can watch a very fresh A Midsummer Night’s Dream by The Backroom Theater Project. Everyone is remotely connected, and the effects quite cleverly catch the theme “Is there no play to ease the anguish of a torturing hour?” Plus, Snug the Joiner/Lion is our own dear Katherine Bourne Taylor.

(Not to discount dancers and gymnasts and athletes and artists or any others whose minds command their bodies. That’s a rich area which, now that I think of it, needs its own column and possibly its own columnist.)

So, the Blue Angels brought tears and awe, and Peter Serkin cum Bach did the same, with a challenging poet following suit. Where does it leave me? With a deeper, fuller appreciation of “the achieve of, the mastery of the thing,” I understand more about the nature and purpose of Art with a capital A, regardless of its kind. If you can sew a beautiful straight line that ends in a quilt (or, these days, a mask), it should swell your heart with pride. I can’t do that either. I stand in awe of so many of you.

Interpretation and Godzilla: Notes and Asides

Last weekend, Godzilla: King of the Monsters (2019) aired while the grandsons were here. We’d seen it at the theater together when people did such things, so we had a déjà vu plus nostalgia. In the movie just previous, Godzilla (2014), we learned much about this cultural phenom. Most importantly, I came to understand that he (or she, there’s that possibility) is actually a hero, a protector, a restorer. The younger two of the group were so impressed they committed to watching all the earlier movies available on YouTube. The number remains a mystery, though since 1954 there will have been 36 when Godzilla vs. King Kong opens (?) this year. This trailer is vague enough and includes the opening of Yeats’ “The Second Coming.”  The reader has what may be a British accent but mispronounces “gyre” as “guyre” a point which I find upsetting, of course, since the UK and US pronunciations are the same. Hence, “gyrate.”

Back to the grandsons. The oldest was asked by the youngest something about Godzilla and responded with the spot on official version of the symbolism: After the dropping of the atomic bombs in Japan, Godzilla became the face of nuclear war and its potential to destroy. When I looked at him, puzzled, he continued: Or he can just be a really big lizard who eats cities. Both are correct, and enjoyment can result with either. We’re probably doomed anyway, so we might as well watch. (Side note: Apparently there is a sequel to Avatar, cleverly titled Avatar 2 so far, featuring a baby since apparently that was a good look for a baby Yoda in The Mandalorian. Trailer here, more flames and such.)

That response reminded me of a car trip during which we were listening to a horror novel on tape (mid-90s) and my oldest, on hearing that a passage in which some caged rabbits were brutally slaughtered, offered this analysis: “Oh—the slaughter of innocence.” I sighed. Maybe, but it could have just been a mean thing to do in order to show-don’t-tell how bad the bad guy was. Source forgotten. Stephen King maybe?

In another example of literature ruined, a student of mine once commented that she understood all the symbols in The Wizard of Oz because her teacher had taught the class about them. Her second insight was that this “information” had ruined what had been her favorite movie. It was sad. My analogy is that too much of that kind of thing can kill a work if done poorly. Mark Twain (may have) said, “Dissecting humor is a lot like dissecting a frog. You learn a lot in the process, but in the end you kill it.” I’ll allow that sometimes a deeper meaning can enhance enjoyment, but tread carefully lest you get carried away.

I don’t have a great transition for my next bit. For years, I’ve puzzled over this passage from Ecclesiastes 9: 14 “There was a little city, and few men within it; and there came a great king against it, and besieged it, and built great bulwarks against it: 15 Now there was found in it a poor wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered the city; yet no man remembered that same poor man.” Its inclusion seems random, on some level. Again, it’s vague and remote. We know nothing, no location, no names of kings or wise men, no time. As often happens in Ecclesiastes, more is said, but the relevance is not clearly stated:  “16 Then said I, Wisdom is better than strength: nevertheless the poor man’s wisdom is despised, and his words are not heard. 17 The words of wise men are heard in quiet more than the cry of him that ruleth among fools. 18 Wisdom is better than weapons of war: but one sinner destroyeth much good.”

So it could be read as a simple tale and an admonition to be wise even with the knowledge that you are likely to be forgotten. This series of explanations goes all out in helping us see something that may or may not be there. I don’t think it will ruin anything, however, since the story itself is so simple. A companion story—not connected in any way except for plot—involves a woman, also unnamed, who saves a similar little city. The details, however, would make a good action movie: The bad guy’s head gets thrown over the wall as the sign all has been accomplished. The wise woman is anonymous, but everyone else and their scribe gets named. 2 Samuel 20, in case you’re interested. Sheba is the bad-then-headless guy.

And without a good transition, a conclusion becomes difficult. I’m really not in any way shape or form an Old Testament scholar, but one of the clearest favorites is this from Jeremiah 12:5 “If thou hast run with the footmen, and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? and if in the land of peace, wherein thou trustedst, they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan?” Clear enough, even with the metaphors. It could be worse, and if it is, you should be prepared because you know it could be worse. Right now, I’m watching here and there and muted Star Wars: A New Hope. It’s the first, but they’ve changed it. Oh well. The entire series is open to interpretation, for better or worse. For now, I’m going to come out opposed to that impulse. If it doesn’t speak to you as it is, why would you care about it on a “deeper” level?