storms

 

It only took two months to complete

I had left it undone for two months at least, which is obscene. I put the task off as it seemed non-critical in the face of larger global issues. In fact, I have long felt that tidying cupboards and drawers etc is best left to my close family members after my passing. I’m quite convinced that after writing that line there was a communal hiss of annoyance, “well count me out!” from my kith and kin around the world.

It’s not as if my belongings will attract rich pickings. In my case, anyone willing to tidy and address the chaos of my life will discover mostly loads of unused notebooks along with a hoarder’s collection of pens.  I will happily admit these two are my main weaknesses and despite already having a lifetime supply hidden away, the need for more ever beckons.  But back to my two-month lapse in tackling a much-needed task. I speak not about the drawers and cupboards but something much more personal, my handbag! Ever since I discovered the joy of a small backpack my handbag has literally become invisible. No more bags slipping down my shoulders or filling my hands. Now I experience the world free of this lifelong encumbrance. The blissful freedom is added to because the backpack also serves to straighten my posture. I’m not sure if I am developing a stoop or a dowager’s hump but either way the backpack makes it feel straighter. The only disadvantage is that out of sight is definitely out of mind. 

Today I tackled that forgotten task. I sorted out my bag.  I discovered boarding flight tickets and receipts galore. Official papers I thought I’d lost. An odd collection of passport photos. I think I’d become convinced that another set would produce a less horrendous result.  There were endless scraps of paper, chocolate wrappers, and handwritten notes to myself. I am a writer of to-do lists that are aspirational rather than achievable. For example, tidy my handbag had appeared on one list over four weeks ago. 

So why am I recommending it? Well, as a reflective tool the debris of your handbag exposes the personal state of your life. The chaos and confusion speaks volumes. Even one’s priorities in life become crystal clear. For example, I am obsessive about my phone and carry it everywhere. Not because others might phone me or I might need to phone others but because it records the number of steps I walk.  I now feel duty-bound to carry it with me at all times. Heaven forbid I do even five unrecorded steps! If I forget my phone I almost weep at the lost steps. Yes, you’re right - it is sad! I have even on occasion been caught by family members bounding from one foot to the other while watching TV and holding my phone, in a vain effort to boost my pathetic daily score. When I first downloaded the health tracking app it would send me little congratulatory texts. Like, 'well-done you’ve beaten your average daily step count'. Or tell me excitedly that I had walked the equivalent of London to Paris in the past week. Now, all that has stopped. The app is either sulking, disappointed, or knows me far too well to be willing to comment.

I carry some of my precious little notebooks in my handbag and at least half a dozen much-loved pens. Including one that will write on the moon. I kid you not. I have alcoholic wipes and a portable spray for these pandemic days as I am convinced that these hand dispensers in shopping centres are a source of contamination.  It is what everyone touches after all.  Masks are also a must. Who would’ve thought such things would be commonplace. This world is certainly unpredictable. Here I sit outside a café in Malta drinking coffee and remembering the last time I did this was December of last year. Spending all this time under lockdown really re-calibrated my personal habits. It feels really good to put pen to paper again. I have taken them from a very tidy handbag with a driving license, bus pass, personal cards, and currency all carefully sorted. I look around at others in the café wondering how tidy their bags might be with a righteous air.  I am then forced to admit that little amuses the idiot and what puerile things I pride myself on! 

But do tidy your bag. A dear cousin of mine had her house burgled and the police officer examined the atrocious mess of her bedroom and told her sympathetically,

“I’m so sorry that they have really trashed your place!”

 My cousin was thinking that it was actually tidier than normal, as the thieves had removed some of the contents. She didn’t say that of course! But it does suggest that at least with a tidy bag you can spot when something has gone missing and that is helpful right?  

There is also that peculiar feeling that when you tidy one thing, your bag, a drawer, a shelf that you have turned over a new leaf.   That having completed that one task everything else in your life becomes accessible and achievable in a strange way. As Confucius (551 BC - 479 BC) so eloquently pointed out, 

‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step’.

Ruins, trees, leaves and poetry that awakens

Robert Burns struggled to make ends meet for much of his life and died aged only 37.  He suffered from bouts of despondency and when describing himself he was as direct and honest as ever.

"My life reminded me of a ruined temple.  What strength, what proportion in some parts!  What unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others".

Robert Burns

Alfred Joyce Kilmer wrote this lovely poem about trees; He was killed by a sniper's bullet at the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918 at the age of 31.

"I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree."

Oliver Wendell Holmes (August 29, 1809 – October 7, 1894) was an American physician, poet, and polymath based in Boston.  He wrote a poem entitled The Last Leaf, here is a verse from it.

"And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling."

    

"Every now and then let us answer the forest's call,

To come see life's beauty and the miracle of it all;

If we listen with our hearts as we walk among trees,

We may understand the message carried on a breeze,

For us to blend with the forest's spirit so it will beguile

Us into walking under its lovely trees for just a while."

from a poem by Belinda Stotler

"Everything I touch

with tenderness, alas,

pricks like a bramble."

Kobayashi Issa (June 15, 1763 – January 5, 1828) was a Japanese poet and Buddhist priest famous for his haiku poems.  It is of ancient Japanese origin and every Haiku contains 17 syllables in 3 lines of five, seven, five.  Their shortness and conciseness mean they can pack a real punch.

Enos A. Mills (April 22, 1870 – September 21, 1922) was an American naturalist, author and homesteader. He was also the main figure behind the creation of Rocky Mountain National Park.  He had high hopes for what trees represented and what they could contribute to the world. 

"The forests are the flags of nature.   
They appeal to all and awaken inspiring universal feelings.  
Enter the forest and the boundaries of nations are forgotten.  
It may be that some time an immortal pine will be the flag of a united peaceful world."

-   Enos A. Mills  

Michael Abateo - drugs, buses and buckets with holes

The days passed and Michael Abateo felt the futility of each day without Maria slipping through his fingers. He had learned to hide his feelings from those around him. It wasn’t much progress but he told himself at least he wasn’t burdening his family and friends. On the surface, he functioned as everyone else. Only he knew of the nightly despair when he lay in bed staring at his ceiling feeling like life was a game he really no longer had the stomach for. Because of the long endless nights, he’d taken to having a long afternoon nap. His neighbour JT teased him over this habit. Michael had found after months of not sleeping he had begun to dread nightfall but perversely the afternoon nap called out to his soul.

He did not want to wake up from his nap and when people phoned him during this precious period he resented it deeply. His doctor had offered him sleeping tablets but Michael had bad memories of his mother using such tablets. He felt it had given her a good night’s sleep at the expense of mental clarity. She would mix up people’s names, forget what had happened, lose her handbag and even her way home. It might not have been linked to his mother’s lifetime habit of two paracodol Tablets every night but Michael had been flabbergasted to discover how many of his own contemporaries were also heavily medicated.

His collapse after his wife’s death had triggered a painful honesty from both friends and neighbours. And he reckoned most people created a façade to hide the pains they endure. This veneer of normality was sustained at all costs. Michael had begun to think of it as a shell. Most people were like snails with a hard exterior shell and a soft centre.  Grief had somehow turned Michael into an exposed slug with no shell of protection at all.  Everyone noticed his vulnerable state. Suddenly, others opened up to him about their own depression, the Valium, their sleeping tablets, their unfaithful spouses, chronic illnesses and the people who had stolen their inheritance. This last point about wills and inheritance had been so toxic in nature Michael had even found himself watchful of his own children for a while. Then he realised that in their case he had to control them vigilantly to ensure he paid his own bills because they were both so anxious to support him financially. An independent person all his life he was not about to except handouts from his own children! Another side of him, however, was so relieved that they seem completely devoid of any desire of property or belongings. There seemed to be an epidemic of materialism and he was delighted to discover his son and daughter both seemed immune. Of course, his wife had probably ingrained that habit in them. They often joked that she could give away her own coat in a storm. She was generous by nature and always thinking of others, visiting hospital patients, picking up groceries for elderly neighbours. The children soaked up her kindliness as their birthright and Michael loved to see how clearly, they reflected her habits even today.

He and his wife had repeatedly disagreed on only one thing during their long marriage and that was politics. They both supported opposing parties and would have long intricate debates were each would try to convince the other of the truth of their side. Neither would give up. Michael sometimes felt that these intense discussions with his wife helped to improve his arguments when sitting chatting in the café with his friends. Having been exposed to her arguments and points he was ready and armed to counter similar arguments from others. Although they disagreed on politics they had enjoyed the many heated discussions. Michael was proud that she had a good brain and could make rational pertinent points in a debate. He needed to keep himself on his toes to even meet her halfway.  But since she had gone he had no stomach for politics of any sort.  In fact, his son and daughter had been arguing about some political happenings at his table on a Sunday when Michael had silently lowered his forehead to the table and wept.  Michael felt his tears were a slug trail he left in his wake over which he had no control. They had been devastated by his sudden grief and he could not explain, for the life of him, why all things political suddenly made him want to weep as if his heart was broken.

There were other changes he’d noticed.  Fiestas to him had become noisy firework events that left streets full of tiny pieces of paper impossible to clean away. Since he had been cleaning the house in Valetta he hated the endless slips of paper which blew behind gates, got into drains and even under doors. The endless fireworks, which in his youth had excited him, now caused sudden chest pains that he struggled to hide from his family. Their unexpected bangs made Michael put his hand over his chest to still his fluttering, panicked heart. 

His father had been a hunter but now Michael could not understand those who blasted the birds from the sky. He did not share their enthusiasm for killing or their love of guns. His father had come through World War II and had seen what guns could do. He had often taken Michael to the military graves above Pembroke and read out the names and ages of those youngsters who had paid with their lives. Once he’d found the name Archer, 24 years old on a grave and it mentioned that he was an only child.  His father had pointed out that instead of that family having their only son marry and have family and then grandchildren all those dreams and hopes had died with Archer’s death.  “Can you imagine? He’d asked Michael, “Can you feel the loss, the pain?  “A whole family line ended here in this grave!” “That’s all that’s left.” His father’s voice had filled with emotion at all those lost lives stolen by a war.  Only now, a grandfather himself did Michael understand some of his father’s emotions.  Before they left the graves, his father would always bow his head in respect in silence making Michael do the same. Guns were not just for hunting, his father had said, they also took human lives. His father had lectured frequently him on how to clean the barrels of guns, put on the safety catch and on the savageness of war.  The birds his father shot were always eaten and never wasted. It used to be Michael’s job to clean the birds and he had complained long and hard that was too much work for too little meat. His father didn’t like people keeping birds in cages either. He told Michael that humans couldn’t fly so they imprisoned those who could out of sheer jealousy.

Michael liked to go to the hardware shop. The proprietor Joe was a sharp-tongued character who showed Michael absolutely no sympathy. For some strange reason, it made Michael feel more normal. Joe’s attitude was if you have a pipe to cut, join or seal etc he'd sell you something but if you want to chat, get sympathy or gossip you were “In the wrong shop!” This phrase was frequently shouted at customers. The entrance to the shop was a tiny corridor almost blocked by ladders, fans, ropes and gadgets. There was usually a queue because although Joe had no people skills he was an excellent handyman and could usually fix anything. That morning Joe had waited in line mop bucket in hand. When his turn came Joe had put a bucket on the counter and said,

 "There’s a hole in my bucket!”

Joe scratched the back of his head and examined the bucket, and pointed out,

 “You’re not lucky with buckets, are you?  The last one you brought in, the wheels broke off, didn’t they?

Michael nodded and explained,

“I don’t know why they keep buying me these fancy new buckets with wheels or holes for my mop. What happened to just plain old normal mop buckets?

Joe groaned,

“I remember you kept complaining the last time that the wheelie mop bucket kept tipping over. Now you’re missing the lid that should cover this hole here at the bottom.”

He looked at Michael and accused him,

“It would’ve been in the box it came in. You probably threw it away by accident, didn’t you?”

Michael admitted, “I might have, by accident”.

Joe examined the bucket and then took a swig of a small bottle of orange soda on his counter.  Michael asked,

“Do you have a stopper, cork or something that would fit the hole?”

Joe snorted angrily,

“No!”

 And then he carefully screwed the lid of his orange bottle over the hole. It was a tight fit but it snuggly covered the tiny exit. One more twist and the job was done.

Joe, held out the mop bucket to Michael and said,

“Go and sin no more!”

Michael asked tentatively,

“How much do I owe you?”

Joe, glared into Michael’s eyes and said,

“200 euros! It is a unique custom-made fixture, the only one in the shop”.  Then to Michael’s surprise Joe had started singing that old rhythm,

“There’s a hole in my bucket dear Lisa, dear Lisa”. 

Michael stood unsure and Joe shouted,

“Go on, I’ve better things to do than waste time on you and your buckets.  I won’t charge you a cent if you get out now!”

Michael left and the man’s annoying brusque temperament perversely felt like a breath of fresh air.

Michael used buses now. He’d found his coordination had begun to fail when driving. It was hard to let the car go but harder still to be driving long past the point of safety. When he looked at his grandchildren and their young friends he knew he'd made the right decision. They were far too precious to risk on roads with him behind the wheel. Buses were his main means of transport and he liked the company and the noise. People always gave him a seat for which he was deeply grateful. Being old has some advantages! He needed a seat because of the jerky driving of bus drivers as they raced, swerved and stood on brakes unexpectedly. He had been on one journey where the tourists were packed in like sardines and someone was obviously leaning on a buzzer (the stop button) by accident. But, the bus driver, Hugh was sure someone was deliberately “fucking with me” as he put it. He shouted abuse over his shoulder at the busload of puzzled and surprised tourists.  He cursed the rest of the way to San Gwan in Maltese and Michael sighed because he understood him all too well.  The bus driver’s father was a regular at Michael’s café in the village.  The old father had told Michael in private about his grandson’s drug addiction and the heartache it had brought everyone especially Hugh. Michael knew that the driver’s anger was not really directed at tourists but at those who made money out of his son’s addiction.  The boy regularly stole from family members had drifted into petty theft and then drug dealing. This had resulted in him being in and out of prison or rehab. Others had urged Hugh to cut off his son and free himself of the constant heartache and expense.  But as Hugh had told a relative, “I feel my son is in a deep dark well and there is only a long thin thread from him to me. Everyone is urging me to cut this last link but I cling to this thread. I cannot get him out of this hellhole but I will hold onto this thread of love. ”

As Michael exited the bus he told Hugh to give his greetings to his father and smiled at him.  Instantly Hugh’s scowl had lifted and he smiled back at Michael recognizing him. He told Michael,

“Call and see us, will you?  The house is too quiet these days!”

“I will,” said Michael, “and tell Evelien she is still the most beautiful girl in the south of the island!”

Hugh laughed and queried,

“Not the most beautiful in Malta?”

“No”, Michael responded with a chuckle, “that would be my Maria.”

It felt good to say his wife’s name again with laughter and pride.

Hugh nodded and agreed,

“Inside and out Michael, she was beautiful!”

-->

Michael walked out the door and waved over his shoulder at Hugh.  He would remember this moment it felt like the first genuine feeling of happiness he had felt since losing Maria. 


The two links below give older stories about Michael Abateo

part one - Maria and Michael Abateo forty winks

part two - Michael Abateo deals with dirt and life

Patchwork quilt journeys and lessons learned

It seems surreal to be sitting back in Malta on my favourite bench, enjoying the sound of the sea and blue skies above, after an absence of almost 3 months. Travelling leaves little time for writing. Family time must be savoured wholly not crammed in between tasks. At least when I travel that's the mode that seems to operate best for me.

Now I sit and digest the experience of the past months. Savouring time with my mum in Northern Ireland where the pace of life is slow. There is a focus on gardening, eliminating weeds and tending borders. Her home is ordered and tidy with even cupboard contents and drawers all lined up with military precision. There is a never-ending battle with dirt and grime but she has fought these foes for seven decades and has honed her techniques. I looked on in amazement as she tackles the tasks of the day. At almost 85 she does not measure her energy levels and recalibrates the duties of the day. No, she looks at the goals needing to be accomplished and just goes and goes until they are completed. Even if afterwards she has to collapse in her armchair, it is with a deep sense of satisfaction – her tasks completed.

I look on in amazement. I am not like this. A book, a thought, a walk comes into my orbit and I down tools, instantly distracted. My tidiness is purely superficial. Examine the cupboard or a drawer in my home and you will find evidence of the chaos that permeates this universe.

Perhaps my writing is also my chaos. This trip has fuelled a thousand thoughts but none of them fully formed. I'll share some of them in the hope that they will give a patchwork quilt of these months.

A close friend has spent weeks in a mountain house in southern France. Situated in an idyllic hamlet overlooking spectacular views, it has proved the perfect antidote to years in the Paris city centre. Normally hard-working and ever up to speed with the virtual world he has had to cope with no Wi-Fi. The shocking change of place and pace from a hectic dirty city to the silence of the hillside and the buzz of insects and happy birds. He took to whittling, carving odd-shaped wooden light sabres and became engrossed in moss removal from old stone flagstones.  Both, he told me were the pastimes of paradise. Interspersed with meals and coffee on the table positioned outside to soak up the views.  Reading books was the main entertainment and with what excitement did he share their contents. Afterwards, I sighed in remembrance of days past when a slower pace of life allowed us time to digest what we read. Not this fetid immediacy of media assault online. 

The permanent indigestion of too much input dulls the senses. It's good to be reminded of other times, other places, other ways.

My other joy during this trip was to spend time with my grandsons in England. After two months of endless rain all summer in Northern Ireland it was shocking to discover that Folkestone still had proper summers. Even in September, the sun shone and school kids wore shorts to school. As my son his wife both work in London, my mission this trip was to accompany my four-year-old grandson in his first three weeks of big school.  I also had his two-year-old brother to care for. It was somehow weird pushing a toddler in the buggy and holding the hand of a small school child again after three decades. Given that I hated school myself it was with some trepidation I took on this epic task. Fortunately, Charlie made the job much easier being almost eager to run through the school gates. Other parents or guardians had weeping youngsters to disengage from while Charlie never even looked back. He explained patiently to his younger brother that he was going to school and would be back in three hours to see him, so he was not to worry. Then he’d turn on his heel and scurry into school.

I was left with ample opportunity to notice the tears unshed in parents’ eyes as they faced this cruel test - the first separation. Some mothers stayed on, ages after the school gates had closed in case a familiar head appeared above the window ledge in the classroom.

One father had adopted a prolonged waving goodbye ritual to his daughter.  She was a  tiny fragile figure who waddled slowly and reluctantly towards the classroom door. He climbed the school gate so that she could still see him waving even from a distance. She would occasionally stop, shoulders slumped in apparent despair and turn to look back sadly at her dad. This would engender a huge arm waving movement and shouts of  “have a grand day Leanne, I love you!! “ Not easy to do, halfway up a six-foot metal gate. His forced good humour and bonhomie would end with her entering the classroom. Then, he'd suddenly be silent all emotion leaving his face. He would drop down from his perch on the gate and walk hastily away. It's hard for dads, mostly it is mothers at the school gates and they tend to chat in bunches with other mothers. Comparing notes on how first days at school are doing. Remembering coats, water bottles and school bags. Hugging their children, they reluctantly let them go.

Fathers tended to festoon children rather like preparing them for battle. School bag over head and shoulder, coat over the other arm as if supplying armaments for the day ahead.  I noticed one morning, an older boy (P3?) waiting for the school gates to open. A crowd of older students stood waiting impatiently laughing together.   The P3 student was tall for his age and had his foot on his scooter. Strange that they have come back into fashion those odd-looking contraptions from my childhood. 

As he waited, he rocked to and fro on the scooter. A little bit overweight with thick glasses he seemed absent-minded. He didn't even notice a group of mothers behind him waiting with the youngest children hand-in-hand, his scooter almost hit one mother behind him and she scolded him whispering disapprovingly to the other mothers beside her. Suddenly, the scooter slipped up the gate. Perhaps the pushing crowd put him off balance and he fell awkwardly landing full weight on top of his own scooter. The crowd stood back while he jumped to his feet, face almost against the gate not moving. It had been a bad fall and the scooter was damaged but we all stood as a fellow statues watching his ramrod still back. Then a huge builder type man pushed through the crowd and picked up the broken scooter and asked the boy, “Are you alright mate?”  Immediately the boy burst into tears of pain and the man put his hand on his shoulder and lead him away to the open area away from the crowd. After the children had rushed through the now opened gate into school, I spotted the father kneeling examining the damage to the scooter and talking soothingly with the P3 pupil.  I then realised the boy was not even his son. His own son, a small reception class pupil, was standing patiently beside his dad. I could see the older P3 boy was calmer now and all three of them walked together to the now deserted school gate. 

I felt rather ashamed that in that sea of mummies and grandmothers, including me,  it was a father who saw the hurt in that small straight back facing the gates and took decisive compassionate action. It is probably in such small deeds like this real education takes place for all of us.

“Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom.”

— BAHÁ’U’LLÁH