What’s in a Name? Or the Goddess Power of Naming

The baby’s cry startled me, as I knew it was my own child, and the color of blue turned to pink quickly.
I had remembered from my childhood, a 45 r.p.m. children’s record, which began, “Let us imagine that it’s a bright summers’ day, and you’re out walking near the banks of a lovely little stream.” (The actor’s distinguished voice was Claude Raines.) “Maybe you’re headed for the old swimming hole,” (an obvious reference to boys) or maybe you’re just out, gathering flowers, so that you can bind them into a bright yellow garland that you can wear in your hair.” (an obvious reference to girls).
“It’s a girl, my husband said, “You were right.”
As the narration from childhood went on, the actor said, “Well, that’s easy to imagine now, isn’t it? But now listen; do you hear that? It’s a baby, and it’s crying, yes, a baby, all alone, hidden in some rushes in the riverbank. What’s it doing there?”
There had been no overuse of sonograms then, except in what were deemed dire emergencies. So, the only way I could have known was through intuition, a trait encouraged in my upbringing. I had closed my eyes and meditated to hear what Mom called, “that still, small voice” telling me, “You are pregnant,” and I “saw” a little blonde-haired girl with a chignon on the top of her head, backstage in a theatre, neat the curtain…just waiting…
“Oh well, never mind,” continued the actor, “That would never happen to you, I’m sure. But the Bible tells us that it did happen.”
I got the book for baby names, paying minimal attention to boys’ names, like maybe, James Eric.
The 45 r.p.m. record with a picture of “Moses and the Bulrushes” and “Noah and the Ark” began to play what I know now as beautiful oboe music set to an Egyptian tune. The actor went on to describe how an Egyptian Princess discovered a boy baby in a basket and how she knew by its blanket, it was Hebrew baby, how she said to her mistress, “ What difference does it make whether it’s a Hebrew or an Egyptian? It’s a baby, and it needs a mother.”
But my full concentrated effort was finding a girl’s name. I’d read and seen How Green Was My Valley and wanted the name, Bronwen, but to stick a kid with a name like that?
Since I was working at the town newspaper at that time, I was working with pictures and captions and saw the name, Robin Deutch. Little did that lady know, whomever she was, that she would influence my choice. That’s it! Robin Bronwen. I had a natural tendency toward poetry.
I kept repeating it, even to my husband. He kind of resisted, “You know that name? It sounds like of like a bird.”
But I was determined, as I repeated it. “Robin Bronwen, Robin Bronwen.”
And when she was born, and I told people what her name was, in full, they’d stop. They’d ask questions like, “Is that a family name?”
As the record progressed, the kind you had to put in a special small cylinder, to make it flip down one disc at a time, the actor told how the princess decided to call the child’s name, “Moses, because she drew him out of the water.”
What Goddess-like power we females have! There’s always some kind of intuitive reason we have to actually name a child. We seem to have taken over where Adam left off, naming all the animals, but being nonplussed as to who would be his companion. So God brought him this female, kind of looked a little bit like him (with some exceptions), and she said that, for the most part, she’ll take over the naming job from here.
My sister-in-law, Ruth Ann was the first to ask, once it was official, “What are you going to name it?” I was stunned that I would already have to go to work to figure that one out. She, herself had named her first born, Missy, after a comic strip girl and her second daughter, Minda, was insulted that she was named after a lady her mother didn’t like, but she liked her name.
All the way down the line, she selected one Norwegian name and one Greek name for each child.
I read somewhere in metaphysical literature that the child picks his or her parents and tries to influence his or her name.
My daughter accepted that first name, but wasn’t so sure about the second one. But when one of her male friends linked it to, How Green Was My Valley, without my informing him about that being an earlier influence, she seemed to accept it more.
The 45 r.p.m. record continued to tell how Moses rose to eventually free his own people, once he discovered he was Hebrew, from the slavery of the Pharaoh. For the pharaoh had the Hebrews building castles, pyramids, and palaces for long, strenuous hours.
Well, that little bird, my daughter, has a chance at freedom as never before in history, at least, in this country. She’s already way more motherly than I ever was, with her degree in early childhood, a lot of Montessori and Nanny work. But part of her writes and speaks creatively like me and also pursues more scientific (i.e. medical-dental) education toward which my husband leans.
Obama would be the modern-day Hebrew, and Hillary, the freed woman. (When I said years back that I identified with Hillary, my husband said, “I knew Hillary well; she’s a friend of mine…and you’re no Hillary Clinton.” Now, I’m kind of glad I don’t identify that much anymore. He was right.)
So Moses named by his Egyptian mother, went on to free his people.
When we women name our children, for example, Martin Luther King jr., after the first historical figure of the Reformation, who knows what effect that will have on the child and consequently, history?
When we took that little baby to the well baby clinic the first time, and they called out her full name, hearing that, in itself, seemed…magical.

The Stewards

In the still quiet of the evening near the creek, I could hear the frogs conversing with one another. It was a peaceful discourse. I crossed the wooden plank bridge, trying not to make hollow footstep sounds, but I heard the soft whine of an approaching mosquito. As it touched down on my arm and caused a modestly painful pinprick, I swatted it, worrying for just an instant about West Nile.
The frogs’ conversation grew a little louder; more frogs joined in a chorus: “gump-gump, gump-gump, gump-gump…” The din grew.
I looked toward the top of the hill. I saw a searchlight appear from the park, then, another search light from the hilltop behind me. My heartbeat matched the pond frogs, “bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum!” I could feel it in my chest, nearly attempting to break through the interior rib cage.
Before I could determine whether the lights were friend or foe, “Whoop-whoop, Whoop-whoop!” Two Frisbees came from opposite directions, grazing first my shoulder, and second, my head. I heard one of them clatter and bang, and the sound of disturbed chains.
“Who's got it?” yelled the light from the park. The other light pointed toward the Frisbee golf basket. “I guess it’s yours.” I’d forgotten just where my locale was and was caught in Frisbee golf crossfire. I nervously crept down on my hands and knees, tearing the knee section of my jeans, to avoid being sighted.
So, I hid in a barrel near the pond, near the sign that referred to the creek pollution cleanup and its website. One figure bounded down from the lakeside area. I was alarmed when the other’s searchlight illuminated his form. His skin was sallow. His eyes were very large.
I had remembered standing at the top of the lakeside hill, spotting a supposed meteor shower, as it was later reported, of red, yellow, and green lights, exclaiming, “What on earth is that?!!” I had dismissed even wondering later, as I reached the hill’s base and communed with the frogs.
Now, the horror at what it might have been hit me…hard! Whoever was playing Frisbee that evening was not of the earth. The thought made my hand quiver. I began to breath heavily. I’d heard stories of abductions and how the public never believed the victims.
The conversation continued, “I see not much progress has been made here yet. We’ll keep checking from time to time. They’ve got another pollution cleanup meeting coming up.”
“Not of the earth, but concerned about it,” I thought quietly to myself. I couldn’t allow myself to be heard. Looking toward the park side, I saw two similar figures climb up the hill together, arm in arm. A sulfur odor began to choke me; I held back the noise.
Then, a humongous metallic arc emerged at the top of the hill. A staircase unfolded. The two figures ascended. The arc rumbled and took off. I felt the heat nearly burn my skin. I saw the colors, red, yellow, green. No meteor shower, she…

Messages from Mom

After reading The After Life Connection by Dr. Jane Greer,(www.drjanegreer.com ), I began noting and writing down senses and possible suggestions that Mom and others are still around.
My daughter speculated that Mom sort of "tricked" her nurse by sending her to get a glass of water, because Mom "saw something"; Was it Dad? My aunt, her oldest sister? When the nurse came back, Mom was gone. That's just the kind of thing Mom would do, too. The message from Mom was that it's easy to make one's transition, sort of like the "Twilight Zone" episode with Robert Redford and the old lady; it's just a change of cosmic address.
I also am aware that Mom has guided my daughter out of her first marriage into her present one.
A jewelry box containing her Swedish Hospital pin and her amethyst have tipped over at significant times. Two songs, "Somewhere Out There" and "Fur Elise" (as well as "Carmen") used to play at important times also. The first one played right after her transition, (I couldn't hold back the tears), and at other crucial occasions. The second one was usually heard in churches, but also the bookstore, the arts school, and other places as well. When I had questions about health, whether I or my husband should take or do something, or not, I often "ran into" her Swedish Hospital cup as a kind of signal. One time, the box containing her Swedish Hospital pin and amethyst fell over with a "crash!"
There was one outstanding occasion I was literally crying out to her in my car on my way home about a work situation that was a real concern. Even though I didn't have a dire need for gas, I chose to pull into the neighborhood gas station and met up with a colleague who had worked at that place and who told me the longer hours he'd worked, the less he got paid. So I went home to type up my resignation with great confidence, and eventually, in two weeks, I released myself from the situation. I told her best friend about this "communication", because my concerns were so dramatically and quickly answered.
Mom has also helped me deal with a church problem that is finally resolving itself, even though it wasn't my original denomination. (Regarding my present preferred spiritual approach, she indicated that she had formerly been "seeing in a mirror, dimly".) She'd had a problem in her church during her lifetime that she was actively involved in solving. One time, after reading about humor's good effects, I "stumbled upon" her picture and took it as a signal to "lighten up" once this church situation is over.
Since Mom was Swedish Lutheran, I've been directed to a Santa Lucia statue at another Swedish Lady's house; She reminds me of her, and the lady even spoke a "Malapropism" in the way my mother did. Later, I picked up a December angel who looked like a Santa Lucia, gave it to my daughter on her marriage day.
She's guided me to select a story to tell, by indicating with her birthdate, and it was a success. Also, very near her birthdate, I was given my first opportunity to present a talk at a chapel.
During her birth month, a well-known prayer line volunteered to pray for me without my asking. It "happened" that that was the month of my colonoscopy, which is a crucial issue for my family members, because our dad died of rectal cancer. "Nothing to worry about" was music to my ears, because I'm my dad's age when he died of it, so I nearly leaped off my gurney with joy. Shortly after that, when I had a new excitement about the rest of the time I have here, I had an interview for an artist-in-residence type program for the schools and enthusiastically got all my materials together for it.
She's played "Fur Elise" when the phone line was on hold for the bookstore. At the time, I was trying to order a favorite used book on playwriting, and in a metaphorical way, she encouraged me to open it and read it, now that I have it. I'd better get on that, too.

Memoirs of Mom

Everybody in my family knows the story of how my mom and my uncle (her brother in law) got roped into a social situation where they were expected to play a card game. Since both of them were "clueless", my mom urged him to be a good sport and start playing. My uncle had a broad smile and a sense of humor himself, so he went along with it. Pretty soon, they were the center of attention as they put cards in their shirts and behind their ears. People stared in amazement and asked what on earth they were playing. And my mom said, as if they should know, "Well, we're playing Japalapa".
She urged me also to learn all the rules and strategies of another game, as we sat outside during my college homecoming; she told me to "broaden my horizons." So I said to her, "Okay, then, tell me, what's going on out there?" She chirped back, "Well,that's easy; we're watching a football game!"
My mother took my brother and girlfriend driving. When she went round and round in circles in the parking lot, his girlfriend, laughingly and nervously, asked what she was doing. Her reply was, "Oh, just driving around."
Since she was a minister's wife, Mom volunteered to be camp nurse at Bible Camp, I witnessed her painting a girl camper's inner throat. As the poor camper gagged loudly, my mother "hawhaw"ed just as loudly, like she was getting a real kick out of torturing the poor girl.
My three brothers did some very creative clay work, building forts, marching soldiers, boats, and the like, and Mom came in to look. She inquired, "What's That?" while concurrently taking her thumb, "Splat!" to one of the clay pieces and flattening it.
When my two oldest brothers arrived after hitch hiking from the University of Wisconsin, all three got Mom laughing uncontrollably, as she held her sides and turned crimson: They also laughed imitatively, with an exagerrated, "Nuck, Nuck, Nuck!" while holding their sides and egging her on and on.
Since my mother was my schoolmate's supervisor at a large church nursing home, my friend was a little afraid of Mom. As my companion was rinsing out infirmary patients' diapers and putting them through the ringer, she was getting water all over the floor. Mom only stopped to observe, looked serious for awhile, then held her sides and laughed uproariously. My friend said she never was afraid of her beyond that time, relieved that she discovered her sense of humor.
In that same nursing home, a new director took over and took a shine to my mom, so whenever they were out of sight, for example, in the stairwell, he hugged her, "Hello". She really didn't know what to do about this, but when he introduced her to a V.I.P. he was trying to impress, she leaned over the director at his desk, gave him a "passionate" bear hug, and kissed him. Then, she turned and "explained" to the guest, "We always greet each other this way." She never had a problem with his overtures again.
A male cousin said about Mom that she was "pretty and entertaining". For example, Mom entertained my husband's friend in Colorado, who had my late brother's personality type and traits. She confessed she "saw" her youngest son all over again in him. She told him a story about how she got me under control when I was small by telling me a story of a mouse, who wanted cheese; he ate and ate and ate until he had a stomach ache. Then the mouse said, "Squeak,Squeak, Squeak," so that's why she'd made a pattern of "Squeaker the Mouse" for me. She went on and on relentlessly and animatedly repeating, "Squeak, Squeak, Squeak..." in a high "mouse" voice. My husband and his buddy laughed interminably; his friend looked and acted like my brother as he held his sides, quietly laughing, interspersing his quiet chuckling with guffaws and hoots. They were laughing so hard, they both had to leave; then, they went to a nearby cemetery and laid on the ground. His pal said, "I can't take it," and both laughed until their sides hurt. The next morning, his friend said, "Anita, you have a fine mother!"
At the family farm, when they made home movies, Mom said she thought the movies were stupid, because people didn't do anything but stand there and wave. So she and my middle brother decided to weave through the crowd of relatives. When they asked what they were doing, she said, "Oh, just milling around."
On the same farm, my oldest aunt played a game with my, then, two-and-a-half year old daughter. With auntie's meek child-sensitive voice, she tenderly touched her little forehead with a gentle little knock, saying, "Knock on the door," and with a soft turn of her nose, said, "Open the latch.." As my little girl's mouth opened, she said, demonstrating with two forefingers, "Walk in," then, pulled my daughter's chin tenderly, lifted it up and down, said, "How do you do?"
My older girl cousin thought that was sweet, but then went to her other aunt, my mother, and demonstrated on her, how my mother would do it: "KNOCK ON THE DOOR!" BAM! BAM! "OPEN THE LATCH!" TWIST! TWIST! "HOW DO YOU DO?!!"PULL! PULL! Mom agreed laughingly, and they both roared.
She often changed names and words. For example, she called Carl Anderson, "Bub" Carlson. And she explained that scientists said plants really grow when you talk to them, because you're breathing "carbohydrates" on them.
When we were both ten years old, my cousin got her head dunked under water while Mom shampooed her long hair, and sang "There's a joy, joy, joy, joy...down in my heart...Where!? Down in my heart...Where!? Down in my heart..."
I think her joy and laughter came from a deep reservoir of faith that she, interestingly enough, took very seriously.
There were many stories of Mom. A female cousin, on the Swedish side, told how you couldn't write down the things she said and did and get the same experience, because of her actions and inflections. Then, she demonstrated that when a very tall man entered the room, Mom (her aunt) strode up to him, raised her arm, threw her head back, and proclaimed, "You're sooo...." (deepening her voice) "TA...LL!"
Despite this disadvantage, I simply write it out as best I can, since there's no one in the world who could be Mom but Mom.

40th Anniversary of 2 Soldiers

There were no guarantees,
When I sat on my mother’s lap,
As we rode to Stony Lake;
Her hands fidgeted
For reasons I could not understand.

Dad drove down roads of love,
Big…grandiose…powerful,
I couldn’t have much more,
But there were no guarantees.

Three older brothers,
Who found creative ways
To exclude me,
And one wonderful, fluffy,
Big English setter.

It seemed as though the scenario
Would always be there.

And when we camped,
I watched my parents talk upside down
In the camper
As my brothers tented elsewhere.

All this, and there were
No guarantees.

I had a grandmother
Who told me I missed
the best part of the potato
by not eating the skin,
And I showed her my “writing.”
She said, “That’s nice,” and
Tossed it into the wastebasket.

It was then I knew
There were no guarantees
That anyone would like my “writing”.
I made the loops, the dots, and crosses.
I thought my writing was just as real
As anyone’s who knew how.

We had a girl in kindergarten,
Who had tap shoes and tap-danced;
So I told everyone I could dance, too,
Because I’d tested my natural rhythm.

But there were no guarantees,
Because the children laughed,
And the teacher laughed,
(I never liked her.)
When I danced…
There were no guarantees
That anyone would like my “dancing”.

I thought my rhythms, my moves,
The sound of my feet,
And above all, the sheer joy
I felt while dancing
Were just as real as anyone
Who knew how.

When Dad got sick and felt
He couldn’t preach anymore,
Though he did better on
His way down from the pulpit
Than ever before,
There were no guarantees
He’d even have a job.

When he got frantic, my mom
Said, “Be not anxious.”
Her prayers lead him to the job.

I’m her age now, but
There was no guarantee for her.
She landed in the hospital
And nearly died….

And Dad got frantic again
When I came home too late
(I hadn’t wanted to –
I’d kept telling my friend
I had to go.)
And told me how Mom
Almost didn’t make it,
No guarantees I’d keep my mother.
Visited her in the hospital
--No glasses on – I thought,
“She’s kind of pretty,”
The first I’d ever noticed.

Which made my oldest brother
Come home from the seminary for good,
Because there were no guarantees
He’d become the minister
My parents expected him to be,
Nor that he’ d (nor my other brothers) agree.

Even the big English setter
Had a heart attack
At my friends’ farm,
And there was no guarantee
I’d get to keep her.

Even Dad was upset,
As she died in my mother’s arms
In the basement.
Mom grew from that,
Learned animals had souls,
And Lucky was in “Dog Heaven,”
No matter what Mom was taught before.

And when my youngest brother
Got assigned to Viet Nam,
I was told I cried, but I couldn’t remember;
There was no guarantee
He’d come back,
…And he didn’t. *
And when my father grieved,
There was no guarantee
He’d be able, with poor health,
To stand the grief,
…And he didn’t.

And finally, Mom, who’d flirted earlier with death
Got older and older and weaker;
There was no guarantee
Thirty years later,
I could keep her.

Now, the three of us are left
And our families, we have born.
And we know
No guarantees for any of us.

We disagree and banter,
But we know we’d better
Treasure one another,
Because we’re going
Where there is a guarantee
We’ll be together
In the Spirit World;
And like vaporous clouds, raining,
Perhaps returning
To the earth plane
Every once in awhile…

Forever…


*taken from a quote from Kubler-Ross and Buscaglia,
a girl writing a letter about Viet Nam: "If I had only..."

Spirits of the Night

The shrill cry from deep in the woods alerted Sergeant Buckley to veer north in his navy blue ’98 Chevy squad car.
He had been following this case for some time now, probably a number of days. The parents were constantly calling, never letting him alone. With this much time gone, he didn’t have much hope. But they persisted, nevertheless, to keep on the trail for their eleven-year-old son, DeMarcus.
Demarcus was last seen in a WalMart at 10:25 on a Tuesday morning. His friends had separated from him, never to see him turn up at the arranged time and place in the store. They reported this to the parents and authorities.
“Maybe just a timber wolf from up north thought the sergeant, returning to the present, “Hope it’s not a banshee,” he mused. But then, he became more serious after he failed to see the humor in his own joke.
He watched the northern road begin to turn into gravel, and then, a two track. Cross street horizontal signs disappeared and became tall poles with street names going a vertical direction. Good thing he knew about how lake cabin folks posted their signs, he thought; Otherwise, he wouldn’t even know where he was if he checked a map. A certain apprehension overcame him, and he began to perspire and to hyperventilate. The sky was beginning to turn dusk. He didn’t feel he was in friendly territory, but was he, as a police officer, ever able to claim such security?
It was getting darker. He saw a campfire, or at least, it looked like a campfire. Then, the hair stood up on his neck. Were these spirits he saw? He had to talk himself back into rationality. These weren’t ghosts, but people dressed up in sheets, pointed sheets.
His heart began to race, wishing he’d brought his partner with him. This was pure foolishness; he scolded himself, to travel this route without a partner.
But then, he saw a smaller figure running down the side of the road, with most of his own dark skin revealed, just a pair of shorts and white socks and sneakers.
Buckley pulled the squad car up to the boy very slowly and quietly. He pushed the window button, “What are you doing, son?”
The boy panted. “They’re after me, but I took a run for it. I lost ‘em, at least, for right now!”
“Get in!” Buckley commanded sternly, as his own dark hand released and opened the passenger door. The boy bolted forward into the car seat.
“How did you get to this place anyway?” inquired the officer, the sweat beading up more on his brow.
“These white guys duct taped my mouth and made off with me,” he paused, “but what about you? It doesn’t seem any great place for you either.”
Sergeant Buckley speeded up and made a shrieking u-turn, his heart racing, because of the sudden noise. All of a sudden, behind him, he saw the “ghosts” carrying their torches. He stepped on the accelerator.
“What’s your name, son?” he inquired as the torches in the rear view mirror began to shrink to the size of birthday candles, the two track turned to gravel, and then as he breathed a sigh of relief, the road turned to smooth pavement.
The boy breathed heavily, almost unbelieving at what appeared to be his good fortune, “DeMarcus, Sir.”

Time Warp

The swirl of grey smoke alerted me to the chimney of a cabin in the forest glen.
“Medieval,” I thought to myself, as indeed it was.
For out of the cabin came a swarthy, heavy peasant-like man, “What brings ye here?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not sure. I seem to have passed through a time warp.”
“Time warp?” he responded, looking puzzled, yet observing my attire as something rather unusual.
“Yes, what year is it here?”
“Year?” he replied with another incredulous look, “I’d think ye’d at least know that, even if ye didn’t know the day and the o’clock.”
“Hrumph!” I said, a bit put off by his rudeness.
“All right, fine feller, the year is 1521, and the church is in a mess. The peasants are revolting.”
“I agree,” I said, eyeing his untidy appearance, “They certainly are.”
He didn’t seem to understand my humor. If he had, he might have been at least a little insulted.
“Ye’d better not be that scalawag monk, Luther, y’know the one who made off with a nun. I’ve got not time for either of them trouble makers and I won’t let ye hide in my chambers, if y’are.”
“I hardly think an English gentleman could be mistaken for a German priest.”
“Then, what business have ye here. You one of them Church of England fellows?”
I chuckled that he would mistake for anyone religious.
“So why are ye laughing?”
“No, rest your fears. I’m simply an Englishman who’s lost his way. I seem to have transported beyond four hundred years. It must have happened when I was shaving this morning. I thought the mirror looked a little blurry and…”
“Ye mean yer looking glass? Ye must be rich. There’s a clue for ye, getting’ back, I mean.”
“No, I don’t think I’d be considered rich, just middle class. And even the poorest have mirrors.”
“Sounds like a place I’d rather be meself.”
I heard a lady’s voice in the house.
“Who’s that, Eldridge?”
“Just a feller lost his way.”
“Ye leavin’ him out there? It’s not even polite, ye know.”
Then, I heard some childish giggles, and two curly-headed girls peeked out on each side of the homeowner. They each work white-laced bonnets, one dark haired, the other younger, blonde. They looked to be around 8 and 6 respectively. They had the appearance of smiles and curiosity.
“Are you the pope?” said the dark haired one.
This sent me into excruciating laughter, again, that I should be tagged with religion of any sort.
“Why’s that so funny?” My host paused, looking suspicious, “Don’t yer believe in God?”
“Most assuredly,” I replied, “but I practice religion only privately.”
“That’s just an excuse for no religion a‘tall.”
“Well,” said the lady’s voice, “If you want to show him good Christian kindness, at least, let him in “
The rogue opened the door, with his girls giggling on each side, to the most beautiful, though ragged looking, woman I’d ever had the good fortune to see.
She placed her soft, lily-white hand in mine.
“Very pleased to meet you gentleman,” she said, “Name’s Jenny.”
“I stammered, “P-p-pleased to meet you too, Madam”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to supper making. You’re welcomed to attend.”
The man gazed at me uncomfortably. I’d been unable to conceal my awe, regarding his wife.
“Oh no, I can’t impose,” I said, partly out of deference to the hulkish chap.
“Have some tea, then, and a biscuit.”
“Thank you.”
I felt the warmth of the tea brew near my lips and its unmistakable fine tea aroma, took a bite out of the scone and sat back in my chair, breathing deeply.
I opened my eyes. The family and the scene were gone. I blinked twice again, fell asleep once more in my chair, in my own room.
Upon opening my eyes again, there they were, all four of them.
“Are ye all right, man?” said the peasant, attentively.
I was rather nervously bolting upright, “Why yes, I must be going on,” I excused myself.
As I left the cabin and waved to the family, I walked toward the King’s Brook.
I looked in its reflection and watched it ripple.
“There’s a reason why I traveled here.”
I thought of the new “stringer” who bore a remarkably uncanny resemblance to the wife, and who’d applied yesterday at my newspaper. She fancied herself a freelance writer, preferred the Faith and Family Section, human-interest articles, she said. I’d told her I’d call her, and shrugged her off, just a pretty face, I thought.
The ripples became waves as I looked in the mirror at my own reflection.
“Miss Wilkes?” I asked after hearing the pleasing voice of the lady on her cell.
“Yes?”
“I’m the editor, Mr. Fairchild, from the Times.”
“Really?” she responded excitedly.
“My intuition tells me you’d be a ‘natural’ for this kind or work. You have an assignment at First Presbyterian tomorrow at 7 in the evening, a community interfaith dialogue of sorts, as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll do everything I can to prove myself a good reporter, sir.”
“I’m sure you will,” I concluded the conversation and hung up the phone.
“She won’t have to prove a thing,” I thought, confidently.

Our Rainbow Globe from a Distance

From the peak we saw Mt. Fuji in the distance, wreathed with clouds. The terrain was breathtakingly beautiful.
Wooden bridges arched over streams with fresh goldfish underneath, swimming contentedly, freed from their winter aquarium confinement.
The people on the wooden bridges stopped to pat the heads of the fish lovingly as the cool water streamed through their fingers. We marveled at their harmony with nature. They didn’t fight against it or fight with the rest of society about downsizing them out of jobs in polluting factories.
In fact, we didn’t even know these people very well, except in reference to a dvd from Joseph Campbell’s Power of Myth. The other cultures expressed astonishment at our man vs. nature outlook.
In the video, there was even a lady doing a dance with a cobra, taking a chance every once in awhile, to kiss the cobra on the nose before it took its opportunity to bite her. Jo Campbell thought the serpent had been unfairly demoted in our culture.
Of course, other cultures aren’t always so much better than ours. The story was told that one lady from the East at an American party saw a black Labrador dog, making its way through the crowd. After seeing the canine, she responded, “Oh, Christmas Dinner.”
Monkeys have been beheaded on the sidewalk, roasted over fires, and served to the public. One of us, who was an American Sailor at the time, respectfully declined with a “No thanks.” At one time, he even witnessed people eating monkey’s brains when the relative beasts were still alive. It was considered a delicacy.
Still, we have a certain fascination with other cultures, such as the Icelanders, who honor the abodes of elves and won’t do road construction if it’s determined that the "hidden people" don’t want you to build there. The elves cause the visible people a lot of hardship if they do. So, they hire experts to determine if it’s okay to build there.
Referring to Iceland as a very strange culture, because they’ve had eyewitnesses to the hidden people, was quickly countered with, “No, ours is the strange culture with a financial priority on war as opposed to Scandinavian cultures, which have enough money for citizens to have health insurance.” Iceland is one of the remaining cultures where both Christian and Pagan cultures are pretty much equal.
There’s a whole world out there, with Mt. Fuji in the distance: Samisen player and chanter accompany life-like puppets on the stage run by black-clad, considered therefore, invisible, puppeteers. Thornton Wilder, in writing the play, “Our Town”, borrowed from the Chinese. Also, some of our ways of theatrically improvising in a scenery-free environment and using imaginary props probably grew from this influence, too.
It would be nice if we could all get to know one another, swap ideas, and borrow the best of all cultures from one another.

A Home Full of Friends

The bright blue jay poked its beak at the little nuthatches on the small birdfeeder, as the jay flew about in frenzied fashion. He was not quite reaching a position on the circular perch, but he continued flapping his wings, relentlessly stabbing at the three small birds.
One of the birds became intimidated and flew off, but the other two hung together, forming an alliance. One of the small birds had a crust of bread in its beak,which the jay succeeded in piercing out of it. So the crust fell to the porch, and the blue jay pursued it.
The Ottawa grandmother sat looking out her front window, not surprised at the jay's selfish conquest. She knew her birds. She knew the small ones brought her luck and home protection. But she eyed the jay with suspicion and judgment.
"Someone must be gossiping about me," she thought,"Otherwise, this thief would not be on my doorstep."
She looked up sorrowfully at the two little birds, "Ah, but it does not matter. These little ones offer me a circle of protection."
She watched the jay fly off with its stolen treasure.
"Good riddance," she said aloud, but then, she looked up at the small ones, who also looked back at her. "What ancestors are you?" she asked them.
She remembered when she'd been sick with a deep cough for quite some time, and that a flickerbird, among others, stopped to gaze into her bedroom window when she was finally on the mend. They all kept looking, earlier, with concern, and later, with compassion. They had a sense of triumph, expressing the victorious feeling of a doctor after a successful surgery.
Her calico cat jumped on the window sill to watch "cat t.v." for awhile. The grandmother put down some fine tuna, for she had a bond with both birds and this feline. If she fed it tuna, it would be less "tempted".
After scarfing down the tuna, the cat stopped watching its special performance and leaped onto her lap. He began to purr sleepily in its comfortable human bed.
The black and white fluffy dog came...tip...tip...tipping in from the kitchen, not to be outdone. She put her wet snout on the grandmother's lap with a whimper, its soft, brown eyes looking up at her, as she sat, her tail down on the carpet.
Two middle school children passed by. The grandmother heard them talking.
"Who lives there?"
"Oh, and old Indian woman. She lives alone. She's very strange."
"Why is she strange?"
"People get that way when they live alone, you know, no one to talk to."
The dog bounded to the front window and howled.
"That's okay, Cleo. School children don't know any better. I have many friends. They don't know I'm far from alone."
"Their idle talk has no power," she thought, and smiled peacefully.