WASTED SPACE!

Janice’s grandfather, Grover Cleveland Riley, was known affectionately in the family as Papa. When I came into the family, Papa was in his eighties and had already survived two World Wars, the Depression, continuing tough times on his farm in Mississippi and the turbulence of the sixties civil rights struggles; in addition, he had outlasted two wives. He was, at the time, “breaking-in” (his words) yet a third wife. Somewhere in storage we still have (I hope) super 8 motion picture images of the aged but strong Papa, walking barefoot behind a mule, plowing his field in the cold of winter!

A few years after I married Janice, Papa’s once robust health began to fail. I remember one time, in the last hospital confinement before his death in the early ‘70’s, when my father was visiting with Papa in his room. Back when hospitals limited the number and times of visitors for patients, long days alone in his room were only occasionally broken by visits from family members and new friends, such as my father. On that day, my father would later recount to us that Papa looked directly at him and said: “Newell, there’s lots of wasted space in this room!” With much time to himself, the bed-ridden Papa must have been staring for hours from his bed, up into the ceiling and walls of his hospital room. With that limitation of the social world that often characterizes the elderly and, most especially, those confined to a hospital room, Papa sought to make conversation out of the imminent realities of his current situation.

Although Papa has been gone from us for many years now, so much of his life remains. Janice remembers how he always had orange slices candy for her; we recall the warmth (if not, oppressive heat) of those small heaters that burned in winter in the bedroom of his small, un-insulated, frame house. When Papa wanted to tell me that an idea or a project was not worth his while, he would say, “Son, there just ain’t no percentage in it!” To this day, when I tell Janice that I do not choose to become involved in a particular undertaking, I’ll borrow this well chosen syntax from Papa. Among our top remembrances of Papa, however, is, ironically, always his notice that “There’s lots of wasted space in this room.”

I suppose it is natural that, when one’s life begins to slow down and when one is faced with the reality that his days are numbered, one begins to reflect on inefficiency and waste. I take Papa’s statement to my father as reflecting on more than simply the construction design parameters of a hospital room from years ago. In a much larger sense, Papa was evidencing what I and others feel who have lived a few years and who, daily now, must acknowledge the reality that this life of ours is precious and fleeting.

With the perspective of some years, we are discovering that some projects must be abandoned because “there just ain’t no percentage” in them. And, with the benefit of maturity and a more keen concern for overall efficiency, we bemoan the sad reality of life’s abundant waste.

Oh God, show us how to so invest ourselves and our lives in such a careful manner that there can be an expectation of profound percentage of return and help us to join You in ridding this inefficient old world of its many costly and hurtful wastes!

Thirty-nine Tumbling Tangerines!

Like every other Athenian, I go to the grocery stores often. Not every day, but close to it. The smaller size of our kitchen and, for many folks, the diminutive size of refrigerators in these parts makes essential a regular return to the grocer. Recently, I was returning from such an errand, loaded down with my permanent, ecologically-conscious grocery bag and also carrying several of the earth-polluting, small plastic bags. On my back and over my shoulder, I carried a web-sack of tangerines.

Those semi-tart and sometimes sweet, but not-so-juicy tangerines with their built-in easy-open outer skin and convenient servable pieces (We had something similar in Mississippi where I grew up; we called them satsumas!) serve as great in-between-meal snacks and make me believe I am eating something healthy for a change. On this particularly cold winter day, I was hobbling along on the sidewalk at the top of one of the hills in the business section near our place.

I could see her ahead, sitting on the sidewalk, holding her baby. This Roma (Gypsy) mother of no more than sixteen years routinely sits on her behind on the cold pavement, with legs folded in front of her, one forearm cradling a nearly newborn and the other arm extended, her cupped hand begging for Euro coins. This is her family’s preferred space to beg. I suppose it’s a good location, what with the generous population of middle-class Greeks who walk by each day and the higher-than-average percentage of retired folks who live in the neighborhood.

I was prepared to focus on keeping my precarious, nearly seventy-year-old balance, to shift the weight of my many packages and to resist eye-contact as I walked by, towering over her from my six-foot position of “superiority.” I always struggle with the tension between helping to feed a hungry baby and not wanting to co-depend and enable a subtle system that perpetuates both poverty and the over-population that aids and abets it. Like most “sophisticated” people on the street, I have perfected the skill of largely ignoring the woman-child and her baby and just walking on by.

No more than twenty feet from her, my web-bag broke, spilling thirty-nine tangerines on the sidewalk! Wish you could have seen those tennis ball-sized, rolling, orange, fruit balls as they spread out on the sidewalk and commenced, PacMan style, to chase each other down the incline! Everybody took notice! My fellow pedestrians just stepped aside, allowing the rolling fruit to gain momentum, rapidly descending the hill.

For the first time ever, I saw the face of the little begging mother on the street. Normally, she keeps her head and eyes down; only occasionally does she look up into the glazed-over eyes of the people passing by, pleading both with her words and with her face. But, with thirty-nine cascading citrus balls rapidly rolling her way, in terror, she looked up.

And, then, she did the expected thing. With her free hand and her legs, she began to corral those run-away satsumas and draw them into her skirt and other unmentionable portions of her body, now mostly spread flat on the ground. With dexterity and rapidity, she rescued every one of them, allowing none to get through her hastily-arranged fruit-dike.

Well – then and there, I decided that I was making a “generous” donation of fruit to her hungry family!

Armless Jesus!

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?

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!”

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 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?

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?”