STORIES THAT WARM micro-tales of a moment copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON 2016
Happy Stalls
Jan had been coming every weekend for over fifty years. He and Maria, emigrants from troubled Hungary in ’57. A job for both of them in piece work at the rubber boot factory. And then the happy sales efforts in the meat stall at Saturday’s Farmers’ Market. Old man Fleischman had been particularly gracious and had soon promoted the two to managers’ position. He liked these people, their smiles, courage, work ethic. And they knew how to get shoppers enthused about sausage, chops and ribs! Those were the days of the outdoor market beside the old City Hall. Mennonites, buggies, old Ford trucks, laden with produce, cheeses, syrup, meat specialties,
tantalizing baked goods. Four A. M. set-up, weather notwithstanding. Street musicians. Artisans. Then came the dismantling of the City Hall, and the new Mall and spanking clean indoor market. Fleischman had retired and died two years later of heart complications. Memorable Lutheran funeral with astounding turnout. Jan and Maria had taken a try at their own stall, this time in fish. He made the trip every Thursday to the wholesaler’s in Toronto. No children had come to them, but how they enjoyed the sight of the little ones barely able to peek over their tables’ tops at prepared salmon, pickerel, whitefish, squid, shrimp, mussels or cod. Occasionally a young red-faced one would show up lost in the crowds and crying, having made a wrong turn in the winding lines away from Mom or Dad. Maria was particularly sensitive in soothing fears and in involving Market staff for a reconnection. She kept a little waiting chair at the back of the stall. Over the years young adults had returned and talked of that chair. Sadly the Red Cross tainted blood scandal came in the late 80’s, early 90’s. Maria struggled with hemophilia, and a bad transfusion brought on the hepatitis. The stall was closed. The modest amount of savings became critical. There was talk in the news of some compensation for victims, but that whole process was dragging. Bravely she died, after thirty months, with a smile on her face for her husband and happy thoughts of market days on her lips. He comes every Saturday still. At a third location. Meets some old chums for a coffee and perhaps some specialty cheeses. Talks the old language. Peoplewatching. The mesh shopping bag always in hand and laden with colourful produce and zesty meats for the apartment. Bus ride both ways. Kitchener had been good. He loved to observe its pulse and diversity. These mornings. Butterscotch treats in the coat pocket for a few of the little ones. She would have liked that.
Enter a Black One...Sheep That Is
The pick-up was parked a block away so as not to attract attention. Detailing of grimacing skull surrounded by flames. Bumper sticker attesting that “the bitch bailed. she didn’t like mud-trekking.” Late Saturday afternoon. Early December. Sunlight almost used up. Sign confirming “Hour of Reconciliation 4 to 5 PM”. Rod didn’t know whether to take off his bandana once inside. Did it anyway. Votive candles gave a peaceful glow. Reverent footsteps echoed on the hardwood. Only four minutes in, and a woman exited one of the small rooms, clutching her purse to her breast. “Father forgive me for I have sinned. It has been eleven years since my last confession.” “Yes my son, how may I help?” ” My Uncle Rick died two weeks ago. He bought me my first bike. Took me to ball games while my dad was in Nam. Dad never did come back to the States. Helped Mom out with the rent and groceries. Moved back into town just to be available. When I had a falling out with Mom after the second set of charges, all family sort of went by the boards. But my Sister phoned; told me of his passing; told me that there was still time to make it in. I didn’t …too proud or angry or something. I want to confess this bitterness and stupidity. Pray for him somehow, and give thanks. Then I believe I’ll have the gumption to go see Mom. Her only sibling ya’ know.” The discussion continued for another 10 minutes and the priest saw fit to read a little from Isaiah 43. Rod sighed a long sigh. “Father I’m tired of this wandering and playing the part. Perhaps something is changing. Right here. Right now. Thanks for the help. Gotta go. There must be others outside. You have a nice day. See ya.”
Spike
They called him Spike. Just like a nail. Totally bald. It was the chemo you know. Been that way for the last eighteen months. Now entering his junior year at McHale Secondary. Spike had been one of the most determined light weights on the wrestling team. Seems as if he had a unique twist to get himself out of every potential pin situation. His Coach Bradford could only shake his head as the little guy kept on coming out on top. But this year the treatments had really slowed him down. It had become necessary to make him the Team Manager, shouting encouragement and tips from off the mat. Another teacher, Miss Wyatt had a parallel affection for Spike. She knew that he was brilliant in his powers of expression, but holding back somewhat for fear of coming off as the “Browner” before his peers. No matter. This one would make it, if only the body would hold together. The tid-bits of exceptional prose and insight he offered in English class were some of Miss Wyatt’s signal moments in teaching. She fulfilled the role of Soul-Mother for several, not having ever enjoyed a family of her own. Spike had a secret friend, Charlie. The man received chemotherapy at the same clinic. Discussions in the waiting room had covered a number of topics, sports, favourite fiction, travel experiences, and surprisingly enough, the Gospels. Charlie had been a sales manager at a car dealership for over twenty years. The thought of his wife Caroline would always bring a smile to his face. They had had no children. The cancer had pretty much taken Charlie off his feet. He began to ask the big questions. No one in his family had ever been stricken. Tell me God…what’s fair. But a change had come. He had relinquished. Decided that no one was more worthy of the words compassionate, loving, true…no one more than God. It was clear to Spike that the man was in earnest and had a quality of life and thought each day higher and better than most others. Spike took a serious look at Luke’s Gospel, wrote an essay for Miss Wyatt on the scenario of Jesus’ mountaintop transfiguration followed by descent again into the valley of suffering for ones like the epileptic boy (Luke 9: 28-45). He heard of a Gospel concert coming to the local auditorium. Got a couple of his wrestling buddies to go with him. There was Spike, bald and shining, smiling radiantly, hands upraised as he gave his best in the praise choruses. Unknown to him, Coach Bradford had caught wind of the plan and was seated with his wife ten rows back, not wanting to cramp Spike’s style. Ripples of joy were emanating from that one pebble dropped into the pool of suffering with a grin and a hope. That pebble had only fourteen months left this side of Glory.
Isaac Jogues (1607-1646)
We miss the historical writings of Pierre Berton. In one of his books he tells the story of the Jesuit Isaac Jogues who was killed in New York state (Auriesville) through treachery in 1646. He was one of the six eventually canonized as the martyrs of Huronia, most notable being Brebeuf and Lalemant (1649). As Berton tells the story (The Wild Frontier) this young Frenchman entered The Society of Jesus with visions of martyrdom, almost chronically so. His early stay in Huronia around Midland was fraught with misunderstanding. The black robes seemed to hover around death giving baptism and last rites to doomed sick babies and elderly. The very act of prayer and sprinkling was regarded as a form of witchcraft by the natives. Nothing was more loathsome than a witch. This earned Jogue his first near-death experience – running the gauntlet and suffering crushing or amputation of most fingers. The black robes also had the unenviable position of bringing with them strains of disease such as influenza and TB. Jogues’ life reads as a string of mission travels through tortuous environments and captures, at one point enslaved by the Mohawks and ultimately adopted through sympathy. Meanwhile the trade strife between French and Dutch continued with alliances involving the Hurons, Iroquois, Mohawk and Algonkian. The Dutch were ultimately instrumental in securing his freedom and shipping him back to France via Cromwell’s England (an unenviable passage for a Catholic). Jogues was almost unwilling to leave because of his new convert charges: ‘…who in his absence would console the French captives, who absolve the penitent, who remind the christened Huron of his duty, who baptize them dying, encourage them in their torments, who cleanse the infants in the saving water, who provide for the salvation of the dying adult? Divine Providence had placed him in the hands of the savages for these specific purposes…’ It is interesting to note that Jogues always made it a practice to carry on his person a crude wooden cross and a copy of the Epistle to the Hebrews. With these he felt well equipped for any emergency.
Back in France he reported with his memoirs to the Jesuits and to the Monarchy, but longed for a return to the New World, renewed in supplies and the hope of leverage to effect a lasting peace among the aboriginals. He set sail in 1644. Jogues’ travels thereafter appear unceremonious. He had so toughened to the wilderness experience that the wild was no longer an aspect of daily martyrdom to him. He longed for the great and final expression of his love for the cause of Jesus. Sadly it came in the midst of vacillating peace negotiations, near the source of the Richelieu River, and a questionable dinner invitation and sudden assault with tomahawk. The experience of evisceration and burning was to be that of Brebeuf and Lalemant three
Though He Slay Me
Three men from the Church were talking over lunch: “I don’t know what gives with Harry. His situation just goes from bad to worse. Lay-off. Eldest kid caught in a gas-bar heist. Possible mortgage foreclosure. Sheesh!” “He has always been a great help at the Church when asked.” “Yeah, but there must be some inner darkness or rebellion or ignorance. He needs to take a tougher look at himself.” “Just the other day I gave him a copy of that DVD series ‘Confess Into Favour’.” “Wonderful teaching. Helped get me through the sale of my business last year.” …Six blocks from the Diner, Harry was taking a walk in the park to clear his head. Sun was starting to peek through the clouds. Sat down on a wooden bench. Watching Moms and kids over on the swings. Little blonde one leaves her perch and runs over to his bench: “Hiya Mister. Did you see me on that swing? This park is great, isn’t it? You can join us, if you want.” Sun comes out now full blast. Harry notes a spiritual significance. God is close. God knows, and He is Father.
My Father Will Care For You
The American Civil War had ended and a banker and father of a Union Lieutenant waited for his son’s return. He had last heard of one desperate final engagement of the regiment including his son. He knew not of the boy’s state, and he waited with bated breath and repeated prayers. This was his only son. A knock finally came at the front door of the stately home and the man raced to open and see the end of his long wait. To his surprise there was another young man in uniform about the same age as his son. The youth introduced himself (we will call him Peter) and stated that he and the banker’s son had become fast friends in the closing months of the war. In a pivotal struggle Peter had gotten trapped in the midst of a number of “Rebs” and his friend broke through the lines on horse and carried him away to safety. The son had sustained critical injuries in the rescue. The father could hardly ask his next question, but the youth’s expression confirmed his greatest fear. Without a word, Peter handed the old man a letter. It was from the son wishing the father blessings and introducing Peter as a dear friend. It stated that injuries were of a mortal nature and that it was not likely that the son would long survive. Would the father receive Peter back into household and estate in the same fashion as he would have received the son? The father, teary-eyed, took the young visitor into his home and life. All this was done out of love for the son.
Operative
He was just pushing chairs At the Conference As the delegates Chatted and smiled
And his glance Scarcely ventured upward For He’d had the job But a short while. And the details Seemed soothingly simple Seat the bunch Help with Lunch Clean the hall. And the stretching and lifting Delightful Hours to strengthen and straighten That was all Would he last? In the past There’d been problems And the bottle Behind every one. He would strive For the simplest Of blessings: “Here’s your pay
Next shift Friday Job well done.” …Job well done Been so long Since he heard it. Job well done Just a menial task. But the joy Kept him “dry” For one more day. Seemed the Good Lord Had heard, when he asked.
Memories of Rye
1979. We had pushed it too far with the driving for the day. Dark. Raining moderately. Winds off the English Channel creating a dramatic effect. Romney Marsh gorse and small streams. So much as we would have expected from the haunts of the “Scarecrow” and his band of smugglers, receiving contraband off ships from France in the darkness. Transported it seemed into another moment of romantic history told to us as children. But we had to make tracks for Rye. Uncommonly late for hotel reservation; and this the day of our wedding anniversary. The concierge was extremely polite and apologized for the condition of the one remaining room. Apologize? It was charming! Down a flight of curving steps to a chamber of stone walls, puffy comforters, Continental breakfast items and pastoral water-colours of the surrounding countryside. I had some additional business and returned to the front desk, whereupon I was asked about dinner. “Oh don’t worry about that. We’re much too late.” “Nonsense Sir, our Cook was in the Canadian army. He would not allow you folks to go hungry on such an inhospitable night. Here’s the menu. Make some selections and the Missus, Cook and I will see you in the small dining area in about twenty minutes. OK?” More than OK. What followed was a delightful exchange between new-found friends, and these were the owners of the hotel. About halfway through, in came Marjorie in full Veteran’s garb. She had been out to the various pubs making a collection for Battle of Britain Day, September 21st. Now it was time for a “ladies pint”. Our wedding anniversary. We just had to tell them. I also told Marjorie how my Father had served with the RAF as a navigator in Sunderland bombers and radar technician during the Battle. Marjorie responded with tales of the blackouts and of her service as a young woman making munitions in one of the factories. She recalled that it was one of the best of times…and worst of times. The memories and the tales told seemed to make her look years younger. Never will we forget that night and the instant camaraderie and shared history of cordial strangers. The next morning it was down the hill of the Main Street to the chapel, the shops and harbour and other points of interest in that smugglers’ den. And fascinating varying scenes on the tidal flats.
Presbyterian Starch
The Full Gospel Hall of Scranton had a guest speaker. Their pastor had run across him in some inter-denominational conference last year. The two had gotten to be freiends over the Web thereafter and a family matter had brought Angus to Pennsylvania. So voila. “Friends and neighbours, perhaps you look queerly at the Scotsman in your midst. No tonguetalker here. Just a strange brogue. Have seen only one miracle so far in this life. Sing with a gravelly voice…but sing I do about the victories of my precious Captain, His sufferings and inevitable victory over hatred and the grave. So let’s begin…I am Presbyterian second. Little Brother to Jesus first. Trusting in His shed blood. Seeing ever more clearly my own inadequacy. Trying to get a handle on Who the other Comforter is. Perhaps you Pentecostals got there a little ahead of me. (A good natured chuckle went round the room.) I want to bring you, however, to a time of glorious history for the Scots. We are in the second half of the Seventeenth Century and the people of my homeland have had their ups and downs over the issue of religious freedom. Monarchs were pressing for Episcopal hierarchy, and pastors were expected to take the pledge to the Bishop, often a political lacky to the throne. But men and women of the Covenant saw only Jesus as King of their Church. They had a birthing image in their hearts of the separation of Church and State, and in a good way my friends. There followed a vicious struggle of churches being closed and of beloved spiritual shepherds heading to the wild places, there to be hunted down like animals, preaching under starlight and strange providences.
Remember now, that this was a battle of Protestant against Protestant, and the martyrdom at the gallows of Edinburgh was intense. Battles were fought, yes Christians took up the sword, and the Covenanters won in some of the early exchanges. But then came the Killing Times of the 1680’s. Mystical prophets hid out in caves and streams and repeatedly evaded the King’s dragoons on horse, almost as if by some clairvoyance. They would utter messages and forecastings about who would die or live in the struggle, and about the inevitable inheritance of glory Above. Their prophecies were confirmed. Brave young warriors approached the execution platform with psalms of confidence in their Lord’s covering of the situation. Often the final words would be in a “goodbye… hello” format: Goodbye wicked plans of men and power traps. Goodbye sword and scaffold. Goodbye desertions of cowardice and treachery. Goodbye pretentious mis-naming of the King of kings. Goodbye hillside gatherings of harried saints, sheep and songbirds. Goodbye prayers that struggle through obscurity…Hello glad fellowship of the redeemed. Hello hearts come openly to hearts in free Communion. Hello happy Day of sunshine, springtime and the voice of the turtle-dove. Hello ravishing Bride in all your pure finery. Hello long awaited Bridegroom Jesus with a smile that heals the centuries. (Then the snare drums of sinister authority would drown out the condemned one’s dry and crackling voice. Then the floor fell through. ) My friends, in no place clearer than this have I caught the marvelous heart of martyrdom, of dedication to the Master, of the Heavenly hope that transcends all present pain or reproach…” The message continued another ten minutes along the same line. The Pentecostals in attendance had touched the Throne in an unfamiliar way. They also found that they had cleaved unto this delightful historian-exhorter from Stirling. The world-wide mystical Brotherhood of the Blood-Bought had taken on another dimension. This they knew.
Harry's Lunch
(Christmas charity and goodwill: Oh, that it were year-round and gifted to the “invisible” ones.) The old man placed his order His wait in line was long And shaded specs Betrayed the fact
His vision almost gone. But smile he did As one young kid Just chattered on and on. Each Thursday noon He took a cab And left his lonely room To join the crowd Alive and loud And tastes of life consume. His cooking was the meagrest Five years the wife was gone. But here the swirl And one young girl Gave strength to carry on. She called him by his first name Her voice held honest care She knew on cue “his usual” She helped him to his chair. She sounded much like “Anna” In courting days long gone And years and tears just vanished And “Harry” shuffled on.