I have no idea why he has no arms and hands. Most likely, his normal body was compromised before it could be formed in utero because, years ago, his mother was given thalidomide early in her pregnancy. Sold in a number of countries from 1957 until 1961, the drug was withdrawn from the market after being found to cause horrendous birth defects. He is probably one of thousands who today are living evidence of an almost forgotten medical tragedy in modern times.
I came across him on a leafy, downtown, pedestrian walkway in my town of Athens, Greece. With a plastic cup held firmly in his mouth, shaking his head up and down, he was begging for money from passersby. His toothy grin beamed above the lip of the cup as the lady in front of me deftly dropped-in a couple of Euro coins. Still shocked by what I saw, I determined to put some money in his cup when I returned from delivering the papers to my lawyer’s office. To my disappointment however, five minutes later, when I stepped back onto the pedestrian walkway, he was nowhere to be found.
Walking back to the trolley stop, I couldn’t shake the image of that tall man with no arms, bouncing his head up and down, hoping for coins to drop in a cup tightly clamped between his teeth. Even as I boarded the trolley and stood next to another man with arms, hands and a guitar, singing beautiful Greek love songs and also asking for donations, I couldn’t erase the picture of the armless man. In the swift, kaleidoscopic collision of many mental eruptions, lubricated by a generous dose of survivor’s guilt, I simultaneously wondered how he emptied the coins from the cup, how he got the cup in his mouth in the first place, what he did with the coins, why such things are allowed to happen to human beings and why you and I are so blessed to have the use of both arms and hands?
Almost immediately, as the trolley moved slowly through the mid-day gridlock, I recalled that well-worn Christian prose by Annie Johnston Flynt that affirms the essential truth that “Christ has no hands but our hands to do his work today.” St. Teresa of Avila, speaking to us rather than for us, earlier made the same point when she stated that “Christ has no body now on earth but yours, No hands but yours, No feet but yours.” While I believe that these sentiments are profoundly correct – that you and I are the means by which the work of Christ is continued in our world – the armless man on the street reminded me that the first half of Annie and Teresa’s statements remains also sadly true. In our world today, Christ (sometimes) has no hands or arms at all!
It was Jesus himself who, in his classic parable of the sheep and goats, told us that “whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” (Matthew 25:45) You may recall that he said this in response to those who were confused and defensive in responsive to Jesus’ critique of those who saw him hungry, thirsty, estranged, unclothed, sick or in prison and failed to respond. “When did we see you in this shape and did not help you?” (my summary of Matthew 25:44), they genuinely asked. Jesus’ reply indicates that, in some mysterious way, he is so intimately identified with hurting humanity that he is somehow present whenever anyone suffers.
If I take Jesus’ words seriously, then, on the street in Athens, Greece, I actually saw living, cup-bouncing, coin-clanking, teeth-jarring, head-bobbing proof that “Christ has no (arms and) hands!” Now, what am I to do with that?
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friends, Grecians, Countrymen - Lend Me Your Ears - PLEASE!
The “Ear-Zoom” recently arrived at our front door by carrier. Janice ordered this hearing assist for me, in the hope that springs eternal; she dreams that, paired with my much more pricey hearing aid, she will no longer have to endure the higher volume of the television set, “juiced up” by me. I’m just trying to make sense of the dialogue on Law & Order or NCIS! She seems concerned that the neighbors may not want not to hear the programs that we watch. Go figure! Acknowledging her concerns, I have told her, in my best client-centered, counselor-training-speak, that I “hear what she is saying.”
The conversation at our house put me to thinking about ears – not just hearing, but ears. I can remember in my lifetime when ears, except for ladies ear-rings, were almost completed ignored by me. If you have ever seen the size of my ears, you would be tempted to wonder how I could bypass these protruding, curvaceous pieces of flesh, that, as some in my culture were prone to say, “look like a taxicab coming down the street with its doors open.” Mother often counseled me to wash mine, but, other than that, I actually paid little attention to them. Much later in my life, when I endured attacks of dizziness related to inner-ear imbalance problems, these two appendages and the mysteries within them would make themselves inconveniently known to me. I guess they were tired of being ignored.
As I reflect on it, ears are rather prominent in our world, not always for their hearing and balance functions, but as convenient places for hanging things. Of course, they have for many years been useful hangers for spectacles. My Mom & Pop grocery store-owner grandfather always had at least one pencil wedged behind an ear.
The other day, I saw a woman with five holes in each ear and five different pieces of jewelry – in each ear! Reminded me of a girl one of my sons once dated whom I referred to as the “love is a many punctured thing” girl. I can remember when men began to wear ear-rings and the controversy that it caused, including the “left is right” code with its gender-bending implications. Remember when “Big Mike” took a bite?
In recent years, ears have also been called on for multitasking by becoming convenient resting places for “hands free” telephone senders and receivers. Many of us routinely listen to music now on our ear-phone-equipped IPods and other, similar devices. When I get on the airplane, someone always has one of those expensive head-sets that block out the disturbing ambient sounds of nearby humanity and the mechanisms which we require.
In the seventies, in my culture, men allowed their hair to grow long and, for the first time, some of us found “follicle shelter” for our protruding ears. Recently, some people have, in the name of fashion, begun to enlarge holes in their ears and place all sorts of “decorative items” in the now vacant space. If Bobbie Burns would pardon me, I might say: “Oh, the gift, the giftie gee us to see our ears as others see us!”
Of course, on the romantic front, ears have often been blown into, kissed or sucked, in the heat and height of passion. “Sweet nothings” are often whispered into these little critters, perhaps to some seductive effect.
In His mystery, magic and marvelous creativity, God made our ears in such a way that, at their best, they can catch sound waves, transmit them to the brain, give us cognitive recognition and keep us from losing our balance. As marvelous as that may be, however and as often as we may find secondary and tertiary uses for our ears, there is absolutely no guarantee that human beings will actually “hear” – no matter how beautiful or how otherwise functional their ears may be. The kind of hearing to which I am referring is the “hearing to understand” or the “receiving and comprehending” kind of hearing.
So often, even when I “hear the message,” I do not “get it.” So often, I can dismiss it, or ignore it or reinterpret it, so that the functional reality is that I do not actually “hear” what is being said to me at all. Unfortunately, the “Ear Zoom” just will not help me on that!
God, grant me the “ears to hear!”
The conversation at our house put me to thinking about ears – not just hearing, but ears. I can remember in my lifetime when ears, except for ladies ear-rings, were almost completed ignored by me. If you have ever seen the size of my ears, you would be tempted to wonder how I could bypass these protruding, curvaceous pieces of flesh, that, as some in my culture were prone to say, “look like a taxicab coming down the street with its doors open.” Mother often counseled me to wash mine, but, other than that, I actually paid little attention to them. Much later in my life, when I endured attacks of dizziness related to inner-ear imbalance problems, these two appendages and the mysteries within them would make themselves inconveniently known to me. I guess they were tired of being ignored.
As I reflect on it, ears are rather prominent in our world, not always for their hearing and balance functions, but as convenient places for hanging things. Of course, they have for many years been useful hangers for spectacles. My Mom & Pop grocery store-owner grandfather always had at least one pencil wedged behind an ear.
The other day, I saw a woman with five holes in each ear and five different pieces of jewelry – in each ear! Reminded me of a girl one of my sons once dated whom I referred to as the “love is a many punctured thing” girl. I can remember when men began to wear ear-rings and the controversy that it caused, including the “left is right” code with its gender-bending implications. Remember when “Big Mike” took a bite?
In recent years, ears have also been called on for multitasking by becoming convenient resting places for “hands free” telephone senders and receivers. Many of us routinely listen to music now on our ear-phone-equipped IPods and other, similar devices. When I get on the airplane, someone always has one of those expensive head-sets that block out the disturbing ambient sounds of nearby humanity and the mechanisms which we require.
In the seventies, in my culture, men allowed their hair to grow long and, for the first time, some of us found “follicle shelter” for our protruding ears. Recently, some people have, in the name of fashion, begun to enlarge holes in their ears and place all sorts of “decorative items” in the now vacant space. If Bobbie Burns would pardon me, I might say: “Oh, the gift, the giftie gee us to see our ears as others see us!”
Of course, on the romantic front, ears have often been blown into, kissed or sucked, in the heat and height of passion. “Sweet nothings” are often whispered into these little critters, perhaps to some seductive effect.
In His mystery, magic and marvelous creativity, God made our ears in such a way that, at their best, they can catch sound waves, transmit them to the brain, give us cognitive recognition and keep us from losing our balance. As marvelous as that may be, however and as often as we may find secondary and tertiary uses for our ears, there is absolutely no guarantee that human beings will actually “hear” – no matter how beautiful or how otherwise functional their ears may be. The kind of hearing to which I am referring is the “hearing to understand” or the “receiving and comprehending” kind of hearing.
So often, even when I “hear the message,” I do not “get it.” So often, I can dismiss it, or ignore it or reinterpret it, so that the functional reality is that I do not actually “hear” what is being said to me at all. Unfortunately, the “Ear Zoom” just will not help me on that!
God, grant me the “ears to hear!”
Friday, November 5, 2010
Turkey & Dressing; Cultural Ramadan & Civil Religion’s Thanksgiving
Our early fall trip to Istanbul, Turkey for a few days of R&R provided a nice change of scenery and a break from the regular routine. As always, there were plenteous opportunities for people-watching and I tried to keep my cultural sensitivity eyes and ears open. Since our hotel was just minutes from the famous Blue Mosque and since we were in this predominantly Muslim city during Ramadan, I felt especially privileged. Each evening, as practicing Muslims were preparing to break their Ramadan fast, Janice and I were able to walk through Constantine’s famous Hippodrome area and experience, first-hand, this venerable religious custom.
The Hippodrome is no longer the center of public chariot racing which once attracted up to 100,000 spectators; many locals are oblivious to the reality that 30,000 died on these grounds in five days of urban warfare during the “Nika” (“Victory”) riots between the Green and Blue factions in 532 AD. Its proximity to the Sultan Ahmet (Blue) Mosque makes it a prized spot for Ramadan fast-breaking; so it was quite congested every time we were there.
A family representative would arrive in the afternoon to stake out a picnic table or a smooth spot on the grass, so that relatives could celebrate together in close proximity to the imposing 17th century structure. The mosque was originally constructed to demonstrate the superiority of Islam in general and, most especially, over the Agia Sophia - the historic church, become mosque which, in the modern, secular Turkish state, is now a museum of history.
As sunset approached, the place grew more crowded. Bands played, TV crews reported from the scene and local political movements were omnipresent. Sidewalk vendors revved-up both the volume and the intensity of their sales pitches, especially since, by custom, hungrier-than-usual children are allowed to eat early. The call to prayer signaled the beginning of the feast for the adults. Although I did not understand the language, it was clear that, from a functional equivalent standpoint, the voice over the public address system was saying “dig-in!”
With the American civil religious custom of Thanksgiving soon to appear and another kind of turkey destined to occupy the center stage of many an American imagination, I found some interesting comparisons. Both feasts serve as an opportunity for the underwriting of intergenerational family solidarity, reinforced by a generic, non-specific, national religiosity. In Ramadan fast-breaking and Thanksgiving, participants are called to step aside from routine priorities and sit with family around a meal. In the end, each provides, both literally and figuratively, the warm feelings of a full belly and the comforting, ethnocentric sense that one’s ways and those of one’s culture are superior to all others. Both feasts follow predictable and well-understood patterns, passed down over hundreds of years. In both cases, the ultimate, potentially powerful and influential voice of personal faith is all too easily made subservient to a penultimate patriotism and a nationalism that, by its very definition, flies in the face of a supreme devotion to the Almighty.
Both Ramadan and Thanksgiving, in their cultural expressions, are easy venues for use by radical extremist nationalists. They are perfect opportunities for those intent on revisiting, if not rewriting, history. They can quickly be subverted by the not-so-subtle “selling” of a version of generic, theocratic patriotism which substitutes timeless, religious, idealistic means for pragmatic, contemporary, political ends. I can only wonder if many cultural Muslims at Ramadan, like many cultural Christians at Thanksgiving, leave the table with a smug sense of both their own piety and the superior virtue of their own, largely unexamined way of life.
With so much hate talk poisoning the environment these days coming from both radical, civil religionists in the States and extremist Muslims elsewhere, we might do well to recognize some of the essential weaknesses and strong similarities between the two faiths, as expressed in these feasts. After the turkey and before the football and the nap, maybe we should add a little reflection on the side.
The Hippodrome is no longer the center of public chariot racing which once attracted up to 100,000 spectators; many locals are oblivious to the reality that 30,000 died on these grounds in five days of urban warfare during the “Nika” (“Victory”) riots between the Green and Blue factions in 532 AD. Its proximity to the Sultan Ahmet (Blue) Mosque makes it a prized spot for Ramadan fast-breaking; so it was quite congested every time we were there.
A family representative would arrive in the afternoon to stake out a picnic table or a smooth spot on the grass, so that relatives could celebrate together in close proximity to the imposing 17th century structure. The mosque was originally constructed to demonstrate the superiority of Islam in general and, most especially, over the Agia Sophia - the historic church, become mosque which, in the modern, secular Turkish state, is now a museum of history.
As sunset approached, the place grew more crowded. Bands played, TV crews reported from the scene and local political movements were omnipresent. Sidewalk vendors revved-up both the volume and the intensity of their sales pitches, especially since, by custom, hungrier-than-usual children are allowed to eat early. The call to prayer signaled the beginning of the feast for the adults. Although I did not understand the language, it was clear that, from a functional equivalent standpoint, the voice over the public address system was saying “dig-in!”
With the American civil religious custom of Thanksgiving soon to appear and another kind of turkey destined to occupy the center stage of many an American imagination, I found some interesting comparisons. Both feasts serve as an opportunity for the underwriting of intergenerational family solidarity, reinforced by a generic, non-specific, national religiosity. In Ramadan fast-breaking and Thanksgiving, participants are called to step aside from routine priorities and sit with family around a meal. In the end, each provides, both literally and figuratively, the warm feelings of a full belly and the comforting, ethnocentric sense that one’s ways and those of one’s culture are superior to all others. Both feasts follow predictable and well-understood patterns, passed down over hundreds of years. In both cases, the ultimate, potentially powerful and influential voice of personal faith is all too easily made subservient to a penultimate patriotism and a nationalism that, by its very definition, flies in the face of a supreme devotion to the Almighty.
Both Ramadan and Thanksgiving, in their cultural expressions, are easy venues for use by radical extremist nationalists. They are perfect opportunities for those intent on revisiting, if not rewriting, history. They can quickly be subverted by the not-so-subtle “selling” of a version of generic, theocratic patriotism which substitutes timeless, religious, idealistic means for pragmatic, contemporary, political ends. I can only wonder if many cultural Muslims at Ramadan, like many cultural Christians at Thanksgiving, leave the table with a smug sense of both their own piety and the superior virtue of their own, largely unexamined way of life.
With so much hate talk poisoning the environment these days coming from both radical, civil religionists in the States and extremist Muslims elsewhere, we might do well to recognize some of the essential weaknesses and strong similarities between the two faiths, as expressed in these feasts. After the turkey and before the football and the nap, maybe we should add a little reflection on the side.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Shelf-life of a Smile!
In downtown Athens, merchants feel free to extend their store area out on the sidewalk, in front of their shops. Many restaurants here routinely take over the public space in front of the place by installing tables and chairs, as well as “temporary” lights and, sometimes, a television set, the better to watch futbol games. Rarely are the property laws enforced here, so, much of the time, the business owner appropriates the public spaces that surround the business with impunity.
As a result, I was not surprised that, during my recent visit to the key shop (see previous post: The Infamous Incident of the Vanishing Ignition Key), I was asked to wait on the street. The shop owner had proudly planted on the busy sidewalk two chairs, a potted plant, a small “coffee table,” newspapers and a coffee pot – the better to entertain the customers while they waited to have copies of their keys made.
After thumbing through the newspapers, I chose to watch the foot traffic, as it sought to navigate around me and the improvised waiting room. The chance to watch folks in their unguarded moments, simply being themselves, is always a treat. What better way to spend a cool, late-September morning, while waiting to get a new key for my car.
Shortly after taking up my post on the pavement, I looked up the sidewalk to see a young woman with a baby in a carriage. About the time that I noticed her, another woman, apparently a friend, also noticed and stopped to chat and admire the baby. After their brief conversation, the mother and baby continued on their way and the woman baby-admirer began to walk toward me. I couldn’t help but notice the smile on her face, for the length of several feet, after seeing the baby. Obviously, the experience of seeing her friend and “oohing” and aahing” over the baby generated pleasant feelings within the woman and her face couldn’t keep from smiling. As she walked passed me she was still smiling!
It set me to wondering: what is the shelf life of a smile? How long will a smile remain in one’s heart or on one’s face? And, does it return, later in the day? I can’t say what the woman was thinking about before she saw the other woman and the baby. I could not begin to know what problems were worrying her, how many deadlines were crashing in on her at work or what pressures she was facing at home. I have no idea whether or not she and her kids had argued that morning, whether or not her sex life was fulfilling or if she and her parents, spouse or ex were currently getting along. Who knows if she was able to pay the rent or if her ideas at work were being rejected by the boss?
I only know that, after seeing a friend and admiring her child, the smile on her face lasted into the next block! Since I did not follow that woman around all day, I can’t tell if the smile ever returned, later in the day, as she remembered meeting the mother and child. Do you reckon she thought about that happy scene later that evening when she was getting ready for bed? I don’t know.
I just know that the happy experience at least momentarily brought joy to the woman’s face. Although my days of strolling babies on the street are (most likely) over, some way, somehow, I want to be the kind of person who, when he is met on the street, can cause a smile to appear on others’ faces - maybe for as long as two blocks!
What about you?
As a result, I was not surprised that, during my recent visit to the key shop (see previous post: The Infamous Incident of the Vanishing Ignition Key), I was asked to wait on the street. The shop owner had proudly planted on the busy sidewalk two chairs, a potted plant, a small “coffee table,” newspapers and a coffee pot – the better to entertain the customers while they waited to have copies of their keys made.
After thumbing through the newspapers, I chose to watch the foot traffic, as it sought to navigate around me and the improvised waiting room. The chance to watch folks in their unguarded moments, simply being themselves, is always a treat. What better way to spend a cool, late-September morning, while waiting to get a new key for my car.
Shortly after taking up my post on the pavement, I looked up the sidewalk to see a young woman with a baby in a carriage. About the time that I noticed her, another woman, apparently a friend, also noticed and stopped to chat and admire the baby. After their brief conversation, the mother and baby continued on their way and the woman baby-admirer began to walk toward me. I couldn’t help but notice the smile on her face, for the length of several feet, after seeing the baby. Obviously, the experience of seeing her friend and “oohing” and aahing” over the baby generated pleasant feelings within the woman and her face couldn’t keep from smiling. As she walked passed me she was still smiling!
It set me to wondering: what is the shelf life of a smile? How long will a smile remain in one’s heart or on one’s face? And, does it return, later in the day? I can’t say what the woman was thinking about before she saw the other woman and the baby. I could not begin to know what problems were worrying her, how many deadlines were crashing in on her at work or what pressures she was facing at home. I have no idea whether or not she and her kids had argued that morning, whether or not her sex life was fulfilling or if she and her parents, spouse or ex were currently getting along. Who knows if she was able to pay the rent or if her ideas at work were being rejected by the boss?
I only know that, after seeing a friend and admiring her child, the smile on her face lasted into the next block! Since I did not follow that woman around all day, I can’t tell if the smile ever returned, later in the day, as she remembered meeting the mother and child. Do you reckon she thought about that happy scene later that evening when she was getting ready for bed? I don’t know.
I just know that the happy experience at least momentarily brought joy to the woman’s face. Although my days of strolling babies on the street are (most likely) over, some way, somehow, I want to be the kind of person who, when he is met on the street, can cause a smile to appear on others’ faces - maybe for as long as two blocks!
What about you?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Say What??
Since it was my day to “cook,” I called Janice while waiting in the longer than desirable line at the bank. Just as she answered the phone, the electronic “Of course-your-are-waiting-in-line! That-is-not-our-concern! You-can-just-learn-to-like-it-or dislike-it!” sign-board lit up number 128; I was holding tightly my sequence number 150!
When Janice answered the phone, I told her that, since it was my day to “cook,” I had changed my mind about lunch. Instead of going to the Greek souflaki “joint,” to fetch two gyro pork sandwiches, I had unilaterally made an executive decision; since it was my day to “cook,” I was choosing to go to the KFC place around the corner. She seemed to handle my mid-course cuisine change with little bother, indicating in some less than enthusiastic tones that whatever I chose, as long as she did not have to cook it, was fine by her.
Fully confident now, that both my initiative and my selections would be honored on the “home front,” thirty minutes later, I completed my business transactions at the bank and proceeded toward the KFC store. As I walked in, the attractive, young, behind-the-counter attendant smiled and welcomed me to the store in perfectly good English. It is not at all unusual for young, minimum-wage employees at fast food establishments in Athens to speak English and to want to practice on those of us who, despite our best efforts, always look like non-Greeks.
Emboldened now, by her alleged English language fluency, I confidently approached the counter and said, in a clear and distinct articulation: “I want an order to go!” With a forlorn look of disdain on her pretty face, she frowned and said: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” Sensing that Greek would serve us both better, I shifted to my Hellenic glossary and said: “Den perasi!” (the rough equivalent in Greek of “It’s okay!”) Without missing a beat, she looked at me and said: “Thellete Coca Cola?” (Do you want a Coca Cola?)
Walking out later, with my order of hot wings and chicken strips (with a Coca Cola) under my arm, I smiled all the way home, just thinking about that interaction with my new Greek, teeny-bopper friend. This mixed up dialogue has now become a part of the lexicon of our lives. When I say something that Janice either doesn’t like or doesn’t understand, she says back to me: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” In response, I now say to her, “Thellete Coca Cola?”
I’m thinking that when it comes my turn to “cook” again, I might just say: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” or “Thellete Coca Cola?”
When Janice answered the phone, I told her that, since it was my day to “cook,” I had changed my mind about lunch. Instead of going to the Greek souflaki “joint,” to fetch two gyro pork sandwiches, I had unilaterally made an executive decision; since it was my day to “cook,” I was choosing to go to the KFC place around the corner. She seemed to handle my mid-course cuisine change with little bother, indicating in some less than enthusiastic tones that whatever I chose, as long as she did not have to cook it, was fine by her.
Fully confident now, that both my initiative and my selections would be honored on the “home front,” thirty minutes later, I completed my business transactions at the bank and proceeded toward the KFC store. As I walked in, the attractive, young, behind-the-counter attendant smiled and welcomed me to the store in perfectly good English. It is not at all unusual for young, minimum-wage employees at fast food establishments in Athens to speak English and to want to practice on those of us who, despite our best efforts, always look like non-Greeks.
Emboldened now, by her alleged English language fluency, I confidently approached the counter and said, in a clear and distinct articulation: “I want an order to go!” With a forlorn look of disdain on her pretty face, she frowned and said: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” Sensing that Greek would serve us both better, I shifted to my Hellenic glossary and said: “Den perasi!” (the rough equivalent in Greek of “It’s okay!”) Without missing a beat, she looked at me and said: “Thellete Coca Cola?” (Do you want a Coca Cola?)
Walking out later, with my order of hot wings and chicken strips (with a Coca Cola) under my arm, I smiled all the way home, just thinking about that interaction with my new Greek, teeny-bopper friend. This mixed up dialogue has now become a part of the lexicon of our lives. When I say something that Janice either doesn’t like or doesn’t understand, she says back to me: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” In response, I now say to her, “Thellete Coca Cola?”
I’m thinking that when it comes my turn to “cook” again, I might just say: “So sorry, our machine is broken!” or “Thellete Coca Cola?”
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Infamous Incident of the Vanishing Ignition Key!
I finally located a parking place, a “country mile” (in the city of Athens) from where Janice and our guests exited the car. While they grabbed an outside table at Ambrosia, our favorite Greek taverna in Koukaki, one of our favorite sections of the city, I had gone “in search of” a place to hide the Hyundai.
The last thing that Janice said to me was, “Don’t forget the umbrellas!” Her normally accurate meteorological clairvoyance was in anticipation of what certainly seemed to forecast sprinkles of rain in the imminent future. Locating three nearly functioning umbrellas beneath the front seats, I hid the after-market GPS, climbed out of the vehicle and fumbled with the car key, in the futile attempt to lock the doors.
Falling from my hands, the key with its weighty electronic security apparatus seemed to sing a sinister song back at me as it landed on the street grate beneath my feet. In one of those slow motion moments, my already slow-motion brain joined up with my temporarily non-functioning vocal apparatus, itself a rare occurrence for me. Inaudibly, I whined and whimpered helplessly, as the cognitive reality of what I was witnessing slid slowly into some dusty, distant and slightly-used portion of my brain. It was a lot like being in a dream, where you try to scream, but can’t!
At last, something like “Oh, no!” (edited for publication) was released from deep within the chest of my fearful soul. Targeted to no one on the street (or in the world, at all), my angst was entirely directed internally, since I was, in that terrible moment, the sole companion to myself. In some combination of disgust, self-loathing and that universal sense of personal impotence, I watched in horror as the car key bounced on top of the sewer grate and ultimately fell through one of the too-large spaces between the heavy metal bars of the drain cover.
No dummy, I knew immediately that I was as deep in trouble as was my now-still-sinking car key in the sludge. Walking head down in the twilight streets, all the way to the restaurant, I rehearsed my embarrassing report and the plan for rescue that I had quickly devised. While Janice and the others enjoyed a great Greek meal, I, the lonely and long-suffering hero, would catch a cab back to the house, retrieve the other ignition key and return as the rescuer, hungry but successful. In her wisdom, it was patently obvious to Janice that we should simply manually lock the doors, leave the car on the street overnight, catch a cab home after dinner and return tomorrow by trolley to retrieve the car. No need for Bob’s heroics.
On the next day, I stopped by to see my neighborhood friend who owns the key store. In an intriguing combination of my stammering Greek and his “pretty good” English, he delivered the bad news. The replacement key would cost 80 Euros (over $100!) and he could not make the key unless I brought the car to him and proved that, indeed, I was the owner. It’s only money, right?
Well, I am convinced that there are “higher lessons” to be learned and that the moral consequences of this story are obvious and numerous. Talk amongst yourselves! Readers are encouraged to use their imaginations and build personal applications about life’s fragility, human incompetence, the role of “luck” or “karma” or human incompleteness or mankind’s propensity toward klutziness and the occasional lack of manual dexterity, even among the most deft and adept among us. Ever the martyr, I’ll accept the exalted role of moral pedagogue in this. Go ahead! Use me, if you must! Learn from my (all too human) mistakes!
For me, I’ll just point out that it did NOT, in fact, rain that evening. SO, in a stereotypically warped instance of self-serving male logic, I am convinced that the loss of the key is, in fact, all Janice’s fault. If she hadn’t insisted that I bring those umbrellas…. Well, you understand!
The last thing that Janice said to me was, “Don’t forget the umbrellas!” Her normally accurate meteorological clairvoyance was in anticipation of what certainly seemed to forecast sprinkles of rain in the imminent future. Locating three nearly functioning umbrellas beneath the front seats, I hid the after-market GPS, climbed out of the vehicle and fumbled with the car key, in the futile attempt to lock the doors.
Falling from my hands, the key with its weighty electronic security apparatus seemed to sing a sinister song back at me as it landed on the street grate beneath my feet. In one of those slow motion moments, my already slow-motion brain joined up with my temporarily non-functioning vocal apparatus, itself a rare occurrence for me. Inaudibly, I whined and whimpered helplessly, as the cognitive reality of what I was witnessing slid slowly into some dusty, distant and slightly-used portion of my brain. It was a lot like being in a dream, where you try to scream, but can’t!
At last, something like “Oh, no!” (edited for publication) was released from deep within the chest of my fearful soul. Targeted to no one on the street (or in the world, at all), my angst was entirely directed internally, since I was, in that terrible moment, the sole companion to myself. In some combination of disgust, self-loathing and that universal sense of personal impotence, I watched in horror as the car key bounced on top of the sewer grate and ultimately fell through one of the too-large spaces between the heavy metal bars of the drain cover.
No dummy, I knew immediately that I was as deep in trouble as was my now-still-sinking car key in the sludge. Walking head down in the twilight streets, all the way to the restaurant, I rehearsed my embarrassing report and the plan for rescue that I had quickly devised. While Janice and the others enjoyed a great Greek meal, I, the lonely and long-suffering hero, would catch a cab back to the house, retrieve the other ignition key and return as the rescuer, hungry but successful. In her wisdom, it was patently obvious to Janice that we should simply manually lock the doors, leave the car on the street overnight, catch a cab home after dinner and return tomorrow by trolley to retrieve the car. No need for Bob’s heroics.
On the next day, I stopped by to see my neighborhood friend who owns the key store. In an intriguing combination of my stammering Greek and his “pretty good” English, he delivered the bad news. The replacement key would cost 80 Euros (over $100!) and he could not make the key unless I brought the car to him and proved that, indeed, I was the owner. It’s only money, right?
Well, I am convinced that there are “higher lessons” to be learned and that the moral consequences of this story are obvious and numerous. Talk amongst yourselves! Readers are encouraged to use their imaginations and build personal applications about life’s fragility, human incompetence, the role of “luck” or “karma” or human incompleteness or mankind’s propensity toward klutziness and the occasional lack of manual dexterity, even among the most deft and adept among us. Ever the martyr, I’ll accept the exalted role of moral pedagogue in this. Go ahead! Use me, if you must! Learn from my (all too human) mistakes!
For me, I’ll just point out that it did NOT, in fact, rain that evening. SO, in a stereotypically warped instance of self-serving male logic, I am convinced that the loss of the key is, in fact, all Janice’s fault. If she hadn’t insisted that I bring those umbrellas…. Well, you understand!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Going Down in Dee Feet!
It is definitely a personal first for me. Before this week, I have never had my feet analyzed – in public, at such a reputable, upstanding pseudo-medical establishment as a sports shoe store in the mall! Yep! I’m proud to say that my feet have “stepped up" and "stepped into” the scientific age!
Since we were going to the mall in search of new running shoes, Janice strongly suggested (as only wives can do) that I should temporarily abandon the near-universal male Greek practice of going sockless in summer. Before we left the house, I actually put on (clean) socks. Once at the spiffy sports shoe store, in front of God and anyone else who cared to look, I disrobed my pretty feet by removing the shoes I was wearing and the fresh socks (Told you I didn’t need to wear those socks!) and stood on this fancy, freshly sanitized “foot analyzer.”
I choose to believe it was because my unshod feet are, well, attractive (he modestly said); maybe it was just a slow day at the mall; I’m certain it is not because my feet are in any way eccentric; maybe Greeks don’t often get a close-up look at American toenails; but, for whatever reason, lots of passersby stopped passing by and gawked at my feet. So here I am, standing barefoot and, by the way, holding up each pant leg, so that they would not interfere with the podiatric photo-taking. It was certainly one of my prouder public moments since potty-training.
Buzzing, whirring and techno-electric sounds came from beneath my toes. A hush fell over the crowd. A faint, vibratory action only slightly titillated my tootsies. I continued to stand bendingly tall, despite my embarrassment. (“Never let ‘em see you sweat!”) After a few breathless moments, a suitable for framing picture of the bottoms of my feet appeared on the computer screen. Don’t laugh! Have you ever seen a scientifically accurate rendition of the undersides of your “under standing”?
Pavlo, (not Pavlov) the highly trained, 21-year-old, minimum-wage Greek guy who was trying to sell me a pair of shoes, looked intently at the picture. With a device that looked a lot like “etch-a-sketch” (from when my feet were much smaller and more suited to running and jumping), Pavlo drew computerized lines, took deep breaths, grunted knowingly and completed the scientific analysis of my feet. I resisted the temptation to tell Pavlo about my lower left hip, the slight curvature of my spine and other medically related conclusions arrived at by his professional colleagues in doctor’s offices on two continents.
At last, Pavlo gave a nod, indicating that the “test” was complete. With a couple of Star Wars-like computer sounds, he assumed full control of the Star Ship computer, charging the machine to come to its conclusions and to “beam up” its results, post haste. “There’s good news and not so good news, Mr. Neville!” Pavlo said. (They never get my name right over here!) “The good news is that your feet and (apparently) your stride are normal.” (What a relief! Put that on the resume’!)
“The not so good news is that you will need extra support and, of course, if you continue to run each day, you will want extra cushioning.” The bottom line of these conclusions is that (Am I surprised?) the better choice for my shoe purchase “would need to come from the ‘higher end’ of the price continuum!” I love it when salespersons speak scientific and multi-syllabic!
So, I bought some new running shoes AND two pairs of specialized running socks! But more importantly, each night, as I take off my shoes, go to bed and put my feet up, I can rest easy, knowing that my own personal “base-line” has been established. My records are now (and for eternity) stored in the company computer. And, every time I need to consider buying new running shoes, I need not fret; I can simply consult my friendly and favorite, globally-connected, sports shoe company.
Still standing on my own two feet, another day older in paradise!
Since we were going to the mall in search of new running shoes, Janice strongly suggested (as only wives can do) that I should temporarily abandon the near-universal male Greek practice of going sockless in summer. Before we left the house, I actually put on (clean) socks. Once at the spiffy sports shoe store, in front of God and anyone else who cared to look, I disrobed my pretty feet by removing the shoes I was wearing and the fresh socks (Told you I didn’t need to wear those socks!) and stood on this fancy, freshly sanitized “foot analyzer.”
I choose to believe it was because my unshod feet are, well, attractive (he modestly said); maybe it was just a slow day at the mall; I’m certain it is not because my feet are in any way eccentric; maybe Greeks don’t often get a close-up look at American toenails; but, for whatever reason, lots of passersby stopped passing by and gawked at my feet. So here I am, standing barefoot and, by the way, holding up each pant leg, so that they would not interfere with the podiatric photo-taking. It was certainly one of my prouder public moments since potty-training.
Buzzing, whirring and techno-electric sounds came from beneath my toes. A hush fell over the crowd. A faint, vibratory action only slightly titillated my tootsies. I continued to stand bendingly tall, despite my embarrassment. (“Never let ‘em see you sweat!”) After a few breathless moments, a suitable for framing picture of the bottoms of my feet appeared on the computer screen. Don’t laugh! Have you ever seen a scientifically accurate rendition of the undersides of your “under standing”?
Pavlo, (not Pavlov) the highly trained, 21-year-old, minimum-wage Greek guy who was trying to sell me a pair of shoes, looked intently at the picture. With a device that looked a lot like “etch-a-sketch” (from when my feet were much smaller and more suited to running and jumping), Pavlo drew computerized lines, took deep breaths, grunted knowingly and completed the scientific analysis of my feet. I resisted the temptation to tell Pavlo about my lower left hip, the slight curvature of my spine and other medically related conclusions arrived at by his professional colleagues in doctor’s offices on two continents.
At last, Pavlo gave a nod, indicating that the “test” was complete. With a couple of Star Wars-like computer sounds, he assumed full control of the Star Ship computer, charging the machine to come to its conclusions and to “beam up” its results, post haste. “There’s good news and not so good news, Mr. Neville!” Pavlo said. (They never get my name right over here!) “The good news is that your feet and (apparently) your stride are normal.” (What a relief! Put that on the resume’!)
“The not so good news is that you will need extra support and, of course, if you continue to run each day, you will want extra cushioning.” The bottom line of these conclusions is that (Am I surprised?) the better choice for my shoe purchase “would need to come from the ‘higher end’ of the price continuum!” I love it when salespersons speak scientific and multi-syllabic!
So, I bought some new running shoes AND two pairs of specialized running socks! But more importantly, each night, as I take off my shoes, go to bed and put my feet up, I can rest easy, knowing that my own personal “base-line” has been established. My records are now (and for eternity) stored in the company computer. And, every time I need to consider buying new running shoes, I need not fret; I can simply consult my friendly and favorite, globally-connected, sports shoe company.
Still standing on my own two feet, another day older in paradise!
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