Rest beside the weary road

We’re always the heroine of our own stories.  (Martin)

I, Gertie, have now assumed the authorship and management of this story about my life.  I didn’t appreciate or like how that nincompoop storyteller was telling it.  Some of her descriptions, particularly about me, were unimaginably inaccurate.  Just goes to prove that what the nuns, God rest their despotic souls, always said is true — if you want it done right, do it yourself.

Picking up where the story left off, after I gathered Neville off the floor and brushed the old fart off, I went about setting the patio of my beloved NoName Cafe to rights, and coddled and reassured Cuddles until he was at least mollified enough to leave off shrieking those horrendous curses.  A second cup of tea with Neville soothed our slightly jangled nerves as we sorted out possibilities and probabilities.

We had ended our relationship with The Company several years ago, and had been enjoying an idyllic retired life.  (If we chafed at the slight boredom and inactivity, we each kept it to ourselves.)  Was this attack on us an old vendetta?  Revenge? Settling an old score?

Or, as we finally settled upon as the most likely possibility, was this an idiotic attempt on The Company’s part to lure us back to work?  Wily, astute, and occasionally outrageous operators that we had been, I am sure we have been missed in the field.  They don’t make ’em like Gertie and Neville anymore.

We set about making our plans based on this assumption: most of those in charge of The Company are halfwitted and brainless, and we went from there. Deciding we would set about implementing our plans the next morning, we retired for a rest before making preparations for the evening meal, which was to be one of our specialities, Keftedes.  Plus I was going to dance, and I needed to rest and refresh myself.

And while I did not rave on about it to Neville, I also had a personal score to settle, and settle I would:  in that ridiculous brouhaha, my rare and precious Platanthera azorica had been badly damaged and even broken.  Not that money matters with such a thing of beauty, but that plant was worth maybe as much as ten thousand American dollars, and like they always say, money won’t bring you happiness, but at least you can be miserable in comfort.  Someone was gonna pay.

(to be continued)

My alter ego does not look in too good a mood today.  (de Pury)

Following your last glimpse of our heroine Gertie as a mere scrap of a child, the reader is now invited to step into her life almost seventy years later. She and a gent of her acquaintance, going by the name of Neville, run a small Greek cafe in a city which shall be nameless.  Our heroine has declined to have her current photograph included in these pages, referring you instead back to that one taken 40 years ago, of which she is fond.  And she is also rightly pleased with her cafe, pictured above, should you wish to patronize it.  If you can find it, that is.  And of course, there’s Neville, whom she seemingly dismisses as of no consequence, altho’ I have heard tell that he is an excellent chef, and it will be his cuisine you sample should you choose to visit NoName Cafe.

As we step into their lives on this lazy and already hot Sunday morning, we find them relaxing with the Sunday edition of the International Herald Tribune on the peaceful patio of their cafe.  The smoke from Neville’s cigar circles lazily up through the untidy tangle of hanging ferns and other assorted greenery.  Colorful flowers spill from chipped and cracked terra cotta pots.  A cage sporting a bright red, green, and golden parrot hangs in the corner.

Our intrepid couple lounge in two rockers, occasionally sipping tea from the mismatched cups and pot sitting on a table between them.  Sunlight filters in through the tangle of plants, creating changing patterns of light. It is oddly still, with just the occasional chatter of the parrot or the clinking of cup and saucer breaking the silence.  Finally, with a bit of a grunt, Gertie gets to her feet to begin watering the flowers with a watering can which sits nearby.

A slowly cruising nondescript car on the street suddenly speeds up and gunfire erupts explosively onto the patio, shattering the peaceful quiet of this slumbering neighborhood.  Neville dives for cover, tripping Gertie with his cane to get her down, too.  (It would appear that both seem to pull significant looking weapons from places of concealment on their persons as they go down.). The parrot’s cage crashes to the floor, with wild curses erupting from the ruffled and angry bird.

The gunfire ceases as abruptly as it began.  Water squirts from the bullet-ridden watering can, as plants continue to topple.  The shrieking of the parrot is deafening.

“Shut up, Cuddles!”

“Up yours!  Up yours!”

As Gertie gets to her feet (with a spryness that rather widens our eyes), she straightens her wig, and shakes out her overly voluminous skirts (far too much clothing for this hot day in our opinion).  For a long moment, she stares thoughtfully at the street with narrowed eyes, and then turns her gaze to Neville, still trying to sort himself out from the jumble of greenery and broken crockery.

“Get up, you old fart.  What d’you think the chances are they were after Cuddles?”

(to be continued)

With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,  you’re too smart to go down any not so good street.  (Dr. Seuss)

A dark shadow moved across the entrance to the alley, and the small child sank deeper into the piles of garbage from which she had been foraging for her supper.  She sighed with relief  as the shadow passed, and examined with interest the half-eaten hamburger she had just pulled from the debris.  Her mouth watered, but she was naturally fastidious and carefully picked off the other garbage clinging to it before swallowing it eagerly.

Nothing more to be found in this pile.  But as she made ready to move on to another promising looking corner, she heard footsteps returning and crouched down into silence.

“Don’t fuss so, Sister Constance.  I’m sure I heard something move in this pile, and you know we promised Sister Joan we’d drop off this dry cat food for any strays we came across.  I won’t be but a minute.”

“We’re already late, and we have the reading before evening meal.  It’s probably rats anyway, and they’d be a fine supper for Sister Joan’s silly cats.  Come on!”

A beam of light from a flashlight slid over the piles of debris in the alley, and the child was just readying herself to run when a long dark arm seized her shoulder.

“Mother of God, it’s a child!  Child what are you doing here?”

The two women clad in the black habits of the nuns who ran the mission on the corner looked enormously tall and bat-like to the frightened and angry child.  She twisted and kicked, but to no avail as strong arms pulled her from her hiding place.

“Saints preserve us, it’s but a scrap of a little girl, Sister Bernice.  At least I think it’s a girl.  She’s so filthy, it’s hard to tell.  Where’re your parents, child?  Where do you live?”

The child struggled and kicked the nun who held her as hard as she could in the shins, but the determined and alarmed sister hung on, pulling her toward the light of the street.

“We’ll take her with us to the mission and get her cleaned up and some decent food into her and then we’ll see if we can find where she belongs.  Come along, Sister Constance, but dump that cat food in the alley before you leave.”

The second complaining sister and the resisting child were helpless in the face of Sister Bernice’s determination.  Besides, to the little girl, who knew little other than that her name was Gertie and that no one was to be trusted, the promise of food was an alluring prospect.  She could always make good an escape later.

Six weeks later, the strong grip of Sister Bernice once more guided Gertie against her will, this time into the kindergarten classroom of the neighborhood Catholic school.  The sulky, angry face of the child did not speak well for her future success in this endeavor, and Sister Bernice sighed in forbearance.  But at least the child had cleaned up well, and dressed in the drab plaid uniform of the school, she looked little different than the other children.  True, she was nothing to look at, with her dark red hair braided so tightly that her eyebrows were quirked into a permanent question mark, but she was neat and clean.  No one had to know that she evidently had no parents, and was only a small step away from being a complete little savage. The last six weeks at the mission had not been easy.  But Sister Bernice was determined to civilize Gertie come hell or high water, and the Mother Superior reluctantly agreed.  They had fed, clothed, churched, and housed her, and had been able to thwart, albeit with difficulty, her numerous attempts to escape.

Gertie was pushed into a wooden desk, in which she remained only because of the strong encouragement of Sister Bernice’s powerful arm.  She angrily ignored the curious looks of the other children, and when a small hand reached out from across the aisle and touched her arm, she spat at the slender boy who offered her a greeting:

“Hey, hey, there’s no call for that!  Altho’ that was a zinger of a spit wad.  My name’s Neville.  What’s yours?”

(to be continued)

 

The best way to ease anxiety is to move into your alter ego.  (Ghosh)

You grow up the day you learn to laugh —- at yourself.  (Barrymore)

I am feeling the old lure of alter egos again, and in order to enter into one of my favorites, and tell you some more of her stories, I am going to refresh your memories of Gertie.  But first, a few words about alter egos . . .

In Shrinkese, we blather on a lot about the population of inner characters we each have within us.  You could call ‘em character or personality traits, your inner congregation, your alter egos, whatever. Lots of them you’re aware of, some of ‘em I hope you will have the gift of still discovering.  They can be good, bad, indifferent . . .  To call on these characters when you need ‘em can serve you well.  And the cool thing is that they are all part of the wondrous and unique person that you are.

Just a few of the characters who live inside of me who have graced these pages over the last three years —- Suzy Bell.  Gertie.  The Unnamed “Ghost” of Old Country Store and Post Office and Little Yella Schoolhouse fame.  Miz Suze.  Remember ‘em?  They’ve afforded me lots of amusement (and maybe at times even given you a smile or wakened a thought.  Or not.)

In the midst of pandemic and social and political confusion and bewilderment, I decided now would be a fine time to call upon some alter ego escapism,  So I am contemplating who offers the best resources upon which to draw right now . . .

Or maybe even . . .

Stay tuned . . .

 

 

 

 

 

A Farewell to Summer-Fall, and Thoughts on Brokenness, most of which come from the brilliance of authors unacknowledged, but oh-so-valued in journaling past . . .

Don’t confuse a season for a lifetime. . .

Not all wounds are visible.  Walk gently in the lives of others. . .

That’s how the Light gets in. . .

 

For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen:  a gaseous nebula must collapse.  So collapse.  Crumble. This is not your destruction.  This is your birth.

And then one day I realized I had scars the shape of wings. . .

Country road, take me home . . . To the place I belong . . .

Walking along a country road early this morning to the accompaniment of birdsong and the fragrance of honeysuckle and wild roses, I wished to be completely in the moment.  But alas, thoughts, pesky as bees, swarmed randomly around in my head —- not unpleasant thoughts, just unwanted ones in that moment.  You (I, in this case) can ruthlessly shove them away, but new ones arrive to take their place, that ongoing eternal conversation amongst me, myself, and I.  It ranged the gamut from world affairs to what to have for dinner tonight to how much gas I had in the car to what was that funny glitch in my back all about.  And some of it was downright interesting, especially the gossipy parts.

Only not what I wanted just then.  Fortunately those seductive honeysuckles and wild roses demanded here and now attention.

On this day, may your own country roads also draw you back to “the place you belong.”

what dreams might come . . .

For the past year, my occasional posts in these pages have had to do with pandemics, quarantines, vaccines, fears, hopes . . .  never named as such, but always there in my awareness as I wrote. Things unimagined, sometimes unspeakable.  As I now write, we still remain in the midst of it, one uneasy foot poised to reach forward into a reclaimed future.  All of us have been touched by this time, some of our lives changed forever.

Amidst the tragedy, the pain, the uncertainty and fear and anger and grief lies, perhaps, a tentative hope.  A hope, a dream that this transformative time will somehow make a difference . . .

I can’t name what that dream might be for you.  But my hope, my wish, is that you will allow yourself the gift of dreaming it into being. . .

When last I wrote in these pages a month or so ago, we were knee-deep in snow.  Spring was stirring in our imaginations about that time, but it was being very squeamish about actually showing itself.  Since tonight it is supposed to dip into the low 30s, I can’t say it’s really bursting forth now, but little by little, it is once again wrapping its tendrils around our hearts.

At this point, I am about 97.3% feral and will not be able to be integrated back into society.  (Unknown)

Groundhog Day.  Devoted readers (assuming there are any out there) will recall from previous February 2nd blog entries, that I am fascinated by a hole day (get it???) centered on groundhogs, a  solitary critter who seemingly prefers her or his own company underground.

I won’t repeat all my neatsie-keen info on groundhogs ad infinitum.  Check out those previous blogs if you’re interested.  Suffice it to say that a few ventures of mine own of late into the outer world beyond social isolation and quarantine have proved that, as the Cajuns would say, it don’t show me too much.

Besides, since today I am channeling Ms. Groundhog and have indeed been frightened by my own shadow, whipping (or crawling sluggishly as the case may be) back into my cozy underground hole on this day allows for spring to arrive that much more quickly, right??

Back into the hole I will go.  Enjoy my day without me.