Cake Anyone?

The following is not the most pleasant story.  I'm sorry....

I learned a lot of new things at my mechanic's garage a few days ago.  While I was waiting to have a new compressor installed, I went across the street to a well-known bakery and bought a cake for the guys who work at the shop.  I took it back to the waiting room and invited them to partake.  One in particular was very taken with the treat and came back for seconds.  This time, he sat at a stool and began to pontificate.  As a pleasant way to break the ice, he asked me if I ate meat and when I replied that I did, he told me I was a murderer and that the first commandment is, "Thou shalt not kill."  He asked, "If you were starving, would you kill a cow?"  "Yes, I would.  I wouldn't like to, but I would." Then, I said that the first commandment is not, "Thou shalt not kill," but is, “You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength."  The man informed me that he didn't believe in the Bible anyway (so why quote it to me?) because it was written by the Roman Catholics.  He strengthened his position and further added a great deal of credibility to his argument (not) by stating that his father was a pastor and his mother went to church all the time.  I replied, as gently as I could, "Uh, the Bible was written in Hebrew and Aramaic and then translated into Greek. The Roman Catholics had nothing to do with it. It was written mostly, by Jews."  
"Oh, the Jews," said he.  They don't do anything!  They kneel at the wall for 23 hours a day and don't work."
"I don't think they kneel at the wall and if they do, it wouldn't be for such a long time."
"Jews don't work," said he. 
"I think most Jews work.  I think you're painting them all with the same brush." 
(I'm sensing just a bit of antisemitism here.)  
"They all hated Jesus and killed him," he continued, maybe to prove to me that he wasn't painting them all with the same brush (LOL!)?
"Sorry, that isn't true at all.  All of His followers in the beginning were Jewish...and so was He.  The Jews that wanted Him condemned were the Sanhedrin (the high priests) because He called them hypocrites and pointed out (on several occasions) their many failures.  He had thousands and thousands of followers who were Jews. His Jewish followers didn't want him to be killed."
Again he 'quoted' the Bible telling me about a story in which many scrolls were thrown into a fire and people were running and saving them and flapping their arms around from the heat.
"I'm not totally sure, but I don't believe that's a story from the Bible, at least one I've never heard," I said.
"Well, you must be stupid!" By now, he was shouting and waving his arms erratically over his head.
One part of my brain was saying, "Please Father, get him out of here.  Send him back to work." Another part was saying, "He's completely gone...forgive him (which of course, I did).  Alas, I could feel my blood pressure rising!
He finally left when I turned my back to him and looked out of the window.  I should have done that much earlier, obviously.
Why am I telling you this story?  I guess, just to relieve that 'pressure' by sharing it with all of you, to demonstrate that a little knowledge is, as they say, a dangerous thing (as if we didn't already know) and to remind us all that antisemitism (in fact, anti anyone that is different from ourselves) is very much alive and well on planet Earth. 

Una Rosa Con Cualquier Otro Nombre

Voy a hacer algo differente.  Voy a tratar de escribir algo en Espanol.  Espero que usted entendera!

Hace seis anos hemos vivido en Majorca.  Cada jueves, me encontre con un groupo de personas en un pueblo a 25 minutos de nuestro pueblo, para estudiar la Biblia. La jefe del grupo era una mujer de Texas que esta casado con un hombre de Majorca.  Su nombre es Sandra y su marido Adrian. Ellos tenian dos hijos pero querian otro hijo.  Los medicos les dijeron que Sandra no podia tener mas hijos. Pero....sopresa...Sandra quedo embarazada! Que alegria!  

Durante 6 meses han buscado un nombre para la bebe (una nina) pero ellos no pudieron ponerse de acuerdo en un nombre!  Todas la personas en el grupo tenian sugerencias, pero cada vez Sandra dijo, Dios dara su nombre.  Ella es una mujer de fe!  Estaba segura que Dios le daria un nombre!  

Ya era hora de salir de la isla.  Era la ultima vez que iba a ver el grupo.  Era en mi coche...estaba muy triste por dejar la isla y llore.  Me pregunte sobre el nombre del bebe.  Encontraron un nombre? De repente, una palabra salto en mi mente.  Habia oido esta palabra antes y sabia en este momento que seria el nombre del bebe y sabia que cuando lo oiga, Sandra estaria muy, muy emocionada y que me diria algo sobre este nombre.  Sabia que este nombre fue mandado por Dios!  

Cuando llegue a su casa, le conte todo lo que me habia pasado en el coche.  Le dije que Dios me mostro que estaria muy emocionada cuando escuche el nombre y que este nombre seria el nombre del bebe! Pero antes quiera verificar el significado en el ordinador. Ella era muy, muy impaciente de saber el nombre. Cuando termine de verificar el significado, dije, "Este nombre significa un retorno a la tierra prometida.  El nombre es Aliyah." Sandra empezo a saltar y llorar. Dije "Dime que paso." Ella me dijo la historia, "Ayer por la noche, Adrian (su marido) me hablo sobre su familia en Inglaterra. Estaba hablando sobre los nombres de sus primos."  Me dijo, "Sus nombres son Paul, Dean, Donna, Nigel y Martin.  Quince anos despues, mi tia tuvo un bebe y la llamo Aliyah." Sandra dijo, "Me gusta mucho este nombre.  Porque no me lo has dicho antes?"  

Es una coincidencia o un milagro?  Creo que es un milagro del Dios.  Sandra sabia que Dios le daria un nombre...y....en mi opinion, le dio uno! 

Just Another Day in Jimena (Revised in November 2017) My first ever attempt at writing fiction...I apologize in advance!)

                                                                                                                                                                                                       

The bell in the clock tower struck four.  8:50 a.m.  Another day in Jimena.  A day like any other.  They’d come here 8 months before, hoping to find meaning.  They’d meant to leave, but got stuck in this place of hills and valleys, of whitewashed abodes.

The place they’d rented, just for a week they promised each other, was rustic, not at all what they wanted.  She’d wanted something more modern.  She loved her creature comforts.  He’d wanted a place near the beach to windsurf.  Yet, here they were, eight months in and still waking each morning at 8:50 a.m. to the bell in the clock tower striking 4.  Still in Jimena.

She can’t remember when he started drinking.  Breakfast was a thing of the past.  Wine started the day, beer ended it.  The thin, muscled stomach of which he’d been so proud, now hung over his belt; his shirts no longer buttoned.  She too, had started enjoying her drink.  She found herself waiting anxiously for the bell in the clock tower to ring 7 times.  Almost noon.  Not too early, she’d tell herself as she poured the fermented liquid into a dirty wine glass she’d pluck from the pile of unwashed glasses lining the counter.

When was the last time they’d washed the dishes or taken out the garbage or bothered to remove the empties?  The smell didn’t bother them anymore. Nothing bothered them much anymore.  She looked at him…his empty, rheumy eyes stared back at her…hopeless.  They were hopeless in Jimena.

No more contact with the outside world.  They hadn’t checked their email for months.  They knew people worried about them, but somehow they just didn’t care.  The last time she’d heard from her sister and her son, they’d expressed concern."“Well, let them worry,” she sighed as she poured them both another.

                                                                    *******

Morning in Jimena. The bell in the clock tower struck 4.  They woke up.  He grimaced in her direction.  His teeth were stained blue; hers were, too.

 

A knock at the door.

“The door,” he slurred.

“You get it!  Did you break a leg?”

“MERDE,” he swore, as he dragged himself from the bed.

She heard the lock turn; heard the door open.

“Who is it?"

He didn’t answer.

“WHO IS IT,” she yelled.

A woman’s voice. “It’s your neighbours, Louise and Brent. We haven’t seen you for so long!  We decided to visit.

”

Her husband entered the bedroom followed by the two.  They both had one hand behind their backs. Their eyes opened wide with disbelief as they took in the rows of empty bottles, the unwashed sheets, the dirty clothes piled high on the floor.

She threw back the stained blanket and tried to stand up. Staggering, she fell back.  She managed with great difficulty the second time.

“Why are you here,” she asked belligerently.

As if of one mind, the two took their hands from behind their backs.  Grinning from ear to ear, they held them out.  Two bottles of wine.

They poured the alcohol into four filthy glasses.  Her husband made the toast.  “Here’s to another day in Jimena.”  

                                                                     ********

It had been five months since the visit.  The lives became more hopeless with each bottle consumed.  Loneliness was an anchor that paralyzed them.

In one of their more lucid moments, they talked about it.  It was time for a change, they decided.  Time to leave Jimena.  Time to start hoping again.  Their rent was paid until the end of the month, but they didn’t want to wait.  A forgotten emotion....anticipation?

Bags packed, they piled into the car.  He started driving down through the narrow village streets passing people they hadn’t seen in months, waving happily at each one as they passed by. They could almost taste the hope, it was that palpable.  They looked at each other and smiled, excited for the future. They heard the bell in the clock tower strike 6.  It was almost eleven a.m.  They had lots of time to make their flight.

The countryside embraced them.  They used to love this road; it had always filled them with peace.  The rolling hills, the gentle curves, the cows and horses grazing in the fields.  They could feel the stress of the past year rolling away as they got closer to the highway that lead to Malaga and the airplane.

The roundabout leading to the highway was just ahead.  Their future was just ahead. 

                                                                     ********

The car that hit them hadn’t been there half a second before.  They were dazed, but not hurt from the impact.  Before they knew it, a police car had arrived.

“Your driver’s license, please.”

He reached into his wallet and with trembling hands, pulled it out and handed it to the officer.

“This has expired.  I smell alcohol.  Have you been drinking, sir?”

“We had quite a bit of wine last night, but nothing today.”

“Please get out of the car and blow very hard into this, sir,” he said, brandishing a breathalyzer.

He did as told.

“Sir, I’m afraid we’ll have to impound your car.  Your blood alcohol is much higher than the accepted limit.  If you’ll just step this way.”  The officer opened the back door of the police car for them.  They removed their luggage from their trunk and placed it in the trunk of the police car.  They climbed into the back seat.

They used to love this road…it had always made them feel peaceful, but now it just felt like hope dashed…hope no more.

The officer dropped them back at their apartment in Jimena.  Hungry, they opened the refrigerator.  All there was inside was a single bottle of wine; a single bottle of wine.

 

The bell in the clock tower struck 8.

MAGNIFICENT - A GIFT

"All right.  Roll from the bed onto the table."
"Do what?  Onto where?"
"Come on.  You can do it!"
"I can't feel anything at all from my chest down to my feet and you're telling me to move?"
I lift my head and glance down at the body to which I seem to have no connection.  The epidural has severed it into two halves - mind and a big hunk of meat, formerly known as legs and torso.  I touch the disembodied appendages. They even feel like meat - cold, flaccid.  The lack of summer sun and thirty pounds of extra weight add an air of raw chicken flesh to the goosebumps that cover them. Why is it so cold in the operating room?
"Sorry, there's no way I can move from here.  You're going to have to help me."
Two strong nurses make short work of the transfer, straining only slightly under the bulky load. Starched linens snap as they cover my prone body with a tent-like structure, thankfully cutting off our view of it.  The harsh artificial lighting causes me to squint as I glance up at my husband.  A hospital mask hides the lower half of his face which is still, I'm sure, registering fear.  He hates hospitals and when the doctor informed him in no uncertain terms that he WOULD go into the operating room with me, he had paled considerably.  I reach for his hand to comfort him and smile brightly.  I'm not at all afraid.  Everything will be fine. Yes, it's a shame that natural childbirth hadn't worked out for us, but women have cesarean sections all the time and rarely die.  
The sound of scuffling feet behind us herald the entrance of the doctor and his assistants.  They make their way to my lower half and are hidden behind the 'tent'. We hear the movement of a cart and then, "All right.  Let's get this baby born. Thirty-two hours is a long time to wait.  I'm going to make the incision now. You may feel some pressure, but it won't hurt."
"If I feel a thing, it will amaze me, Dr. Patrick."
I look at my husband and our eyes meet.  We are going to see our son, finally! Elation and fear. Are we ready for this?  Even after all of the books and manuals on childbirth and babies, we feel so unprepared.  Ready or not, it's about to happen!  I feel some pressure and then see my husband's eyes widen as a single drop of blood flies through the air and splashes onto his cheek.  He doesn't like blood, either.  I squeeze his hand. His eyes close tightly as he successfully fights the urge to pass out.
The operating table vibrates wildly under me while the linen tent above me undulates rapidly.
"What's going on down there?  Are you trying to kill me?"
The doctor laughs.  "We're just about to deliver your baby.  
A long pause.
"Here he is!"
I wait for the cry, but the room is silent.  Oh, my God, is he alive?  Why isn't he crying?
A nurse runs out of the room carrying a bundle.  Oh, Lord.  Please let him be all right.  I can't speak. Can't ask what is happening; too afraid to hear something dreadful.  Tortuous, long minutes pass. We are both frozen in fear.  Please God, please.  My heart hurts - it's pounding so fast.  Please, please, please.  A CRY! The most wonderful sound ever.  My baby cried!  I cry!
The nurse comes back into the room and places the tightly-wrapped bundle beside me on the operating table. Our son's eyes meet mine.  Such wonder.  A miracle.  A gift from God.  He looks just as we had imagined he would.  Brown eyes, big, crooked nose, little red curls dot his head.  He is MAGNIFICENT.

MAGNIFICENT - A GIFT

The sterility of artificial lighting and the silver sheen of highly-glossed medical instruments...we're in the operating room at St. Joseph's Hospital.
"All right.  Roll from the bed onto the table."
"Do what?  Onto where?"
"Come on.  You can do it!"
"I can't feel anything at all from my chest down to my feet and you're telling me to move?"
I lift my head and glance down at the body to which I seem to have no connection.  The epidural has severed it into two halves - mind and a big hunk of meat, formerly known as legs and torso.  I touch the disembodied appendages. They even feel like meat - cold, flaccid.  The lack of summer sun and thirty pounds of extra weight add an air of raw chicken flesh to the goosebumps that cover them. Why is it so cold in the operating room?
"Sorry, there's no way I can move from here.  You're going to have to help me."
Two strong nurses make short work of the transfer, straining only slightly under the bulky load. Starched linens snap as they cover my prone body with a tent-like structure, thankfully cutting off our view of it.  The glare of the harsh lighting causes me to squint as I glance up at my husband.  A hospital mask hides the lower half of his face which is still, I'm sure, registering fear.  He hates hospitals and when the doctor informed him in no uncertain terms that he WOULD go into the operating room with me, he had paled considerably.  I reach for his hand to comfort him and smile brightly.  I'm not at all afraid.  Everything will be fine. Yes, it's a shame that natural childbirth hadn't worked out for us, but women have cesarean sections all the time and rarely die.  
The sound of scuffling feet behind us herald the entrance of the doctor and his assistants.  They make their way to my lower half and are hidden behind the 'tent'. We hear the movement of a cart and then, "All right.  Let's get this baby born. Thirty-two hours is a long time to wait.  I'm going to make the incision now. You may feel some pressure, but it won't hurt."
"If I feel a thing, it will amaze me, Dr. Patrick."
I look at my husband and our eyes meet.  We are going to see our son, finally! Over the months, we'd speculated about his appearance. J.P. has black hair and dark brown eyes and I, as you know, have blond hair and green eyes.  Large noses can be found on both sides of the family. We laughed as we envisioned our future child's 'looks'.  "His eyes will be brown, because brown is dominant over green, his hair will probably be red, and he'll have a big nose for sure." 
Elation and fear. Are we ready for this?  Even after all of the books and manuals on childbirth and babies, we feel so unprepared.  Ready or not, it's about to happen!  I feel some pressure and then see my husband's eyes widen as a single drop of blood flies through the air and splashes onto his cheek.  He doesn't like blood, either.  I squeeze his hand. His eyes close tightly as he successfully fights the urge to pass out.
The operating table vibrates wildly under me while the linen tent above me undulates rapidly.
"What's going on down there?  Are you trying to kill me?"
The doctor laughs.  "We're just about to deliver your baby.  
A long pause.
"Here he is!"
I wait for the cry, but the room is silent.  Oh, my God, is he alive?  Why isn't he crying?
A nurse runs out of the room carrying a bundle.  Oh, Lord.  Please let him be all right.  I can't speak. Can't ask what is happening; too afraid to hear something dreadful.  Tortuous, long minutes pass. We are both frozen in fear.  Please God, please.  My heart hurts - it's pounding so fast.  Please, please, please.  A CRY! The most wonderful sound ever.  My baby cried!  I cry!
The nurse comes back into the room and places the tightly-wrapped bundle beside me on the operating table. Our son's eyes meet mine.  Such wonder.  A miracle.  A gift from God.  He looks just as we had imagined he would.  Brown eyes, big, crooked nose, little red curls dot his head.  He is MAGNIFICENT.

Is It Time To Panic Yet?

It's 28 kilometers from Pliego to Archena.  The trip there should take about 30 minutes.  Margarita, our niece was dancing at ten that night and we were meeting the family to watch the show.  We'd wanted to see her perform for a long time.  She started on her flamenco career when she was just a child and had turned professional, so we were both thrilled that she and her troupe would be performing in a town close to us. Since said town was reputed to be charming, we decided to leave Pliego early so we'd have the chance to explore a bit before the event.

At 8 p.m. we hopped in the car for the short jaunt to Archena.  All was well until we hit the detour. This was no ordinary detour, at least not according to Canadian standards. This was 'A DETOUR'. It traversed a desolate landscape....barren countryside, untouched by rain for months on end. There were no cars, no houses, absolutely no signs of life. The road wound through small hills where vegetation was almost nonexistent.  It was eerie but at the same time strangely beautiful. The road was long!  Very, very long. At times we were convinced that we were lost and frightened ourselves by imagining we might drive forever in this strange, desert-like world of endless ups and downs. We drove and drove and drove some more. Beginning to despair. Finally, at 9:20 we saw a few houses and a sign that read 'Archena 25 kilometres'. How was that possible? It was originally 28 kilometres from our village, and after driving almost an hour and a half, it was another 25 kilometres? What kind of detour was that? Things were not turning out as we'd planned and we were starting to worry. The family was waiting for us and we were running late. We'd assumed we'd be able to cover the distance in half an hour, but we were learning not to take anything for granted on this trip.

A small village appeared in the distance. We could see a lot of activity on the main street but couldn't make out what was happening.  As we approached, we found that the road was blocked because of a village festival.  A parade was making its way down the main drag and that of course meant we couldn't go straight through the town.  Another detour.  It was just too much.  We looked at each other, completely overwhelmed by the circumstances and did what anyone would do in the situation...we burst out laughing.  Everything was conspiring against us.  It was just so ludicrous.  Our chuckles turned into loud guffaws.  I snorted unintentionally causing J.P.'s shoulders to shake as he howled with laughter. A police officer was allowing cars one at a time through a barricade, to protect the masses of pedestrians. Painfully, slowly, we inched forward, stomachs aching from belly laughs, tears streaming down our cheeks, giggling all the way.  At long last, we made it through the barrier.....and floored it.  

9:55!  Archena!  We made it with five minutes to spare! Park the car! Run!  Hearts pounding we arrived at the venue and took our seats with Francine and Martin, Maggie's proud parents, and made our excuses. The setting was breathtaking. Our hearts calmed, our breathing slowed. We were in a beautiful courtyard. Around us, romantic lighting; above us, tall palms, and in the black sky, a perfectly full moon. The air was balmy and warm; the voices hushed.  

In front of us the performers, two dancers and three guitarists (one a woman who also sang splendidly).  Oh, the music, oh, the dancing. Astonishing, sensational, jaw-dropping.  There is nothing like flamenco well done.  The strength, the control, the fluidity. The passion of the performance overwhelmed me. I looked at Margarita with new eyes and saw that the years of training and her natural talent had conspired to produce a sensational dancer. The combination of the music, the singing and the dancing was perfect and at times I found myself holding my breath.  

Nature however, was calling and even though I wanted to sit there and watch, I desperately needed to visit the W.C. Reluctantly I made my way through the courtyard into the lobby of the charming, old hotel and began my search.  I found it at last but had to wait in a short line.  Finally, it was my turn.  I tugged at the heavy antique, wooden door, went inside and tried to lock it. The bolt wouldn't go into the slot, so I pushed the door open again, and tried to slide the lock to see if it worked. It did. Closing the door, I shoved the bolt....hard. Mission accomplished. The dimly-lit bathroom was hot and stuffy and smelled like someone had smoked multiple cigarettes inside.  "That's okay.  I'll be out of here in a minute," I thought. Finishing my business, I washed my hands and went to open the door. The lock was jammed.  I wrestled with it for half a minute, but it didn't budge. Hot, so hot in there.  I called out, "Hay alguien?" (Is anyone there?) "Hola?" No answer.  "Hola?  Hay alguien? Hola?" Nothing. Everyone was obviously outside watching the performance. I was alone in the semi-darkness. Starting to sweat, heart pounding, I said a quick prayer. "Father, help me please. Get me out of here, please!"  I struggled with the lock again, all the time calling out for help, but there was no one and it was impossible to undo the lock. Praying and praying, sweat running down my back, I jerked the lock again and again, to no avail.  "Okay, don't panic. Calm down. Take a breath and look around to see if there's anything that will help open door."  I turned and for the first time, noticed two long cupboard-like doors set into the bathroom wall.  It looked like they could be opened. Maybe there was something in there that could help in my escape! I turned the small handles, opened the doors and stared. What I saw made no sense. I blinked. There was another wall behind the cupboard doors! Panic set in again. This was a nightmare come to life! But wait. There were more handles set into the wall. Desperately, I turned them and behind there was a HUGE WINDOW! It was up fairly high on the wall, but completely open! Hallelujah! Thank you, Lord! I stretched my legs as high as I could, up and over the sill...I did it!  I made it; the fresh air a gift like none other.

Chocolate Milk? No?

I was addicted to Greek yogurt and chocolate milk.  On this particular day,  I was, for the third day in a row, craving chocolate milk.  Don't scoff.  In those days, these were both made from goat milk and if you hadn't tried Greek yogurt and chocolate milk, you hadn't lived! 

Smaro, my dear friend, decided that it was time for me to soar on my own. I had been living with her for a week and she was getting tired of always having to translate for me. "You have to try. You know enough Greek words now that you can go to the store alone. They'll understand you!"  "But, Smaro.  I can't. I just can't. Please come with me." My pleas fell on deaf ears. "No," insisted Smaro, "I won't go. You go. You'll be fine."  

The desire for the creamy, rich chocolate beverage outweighed my trepidation and off I went to the corner store. The owner was seated behind the display case which held containers of yogurt and trays of baklava and galaktoboureko....but none of the coveted chocolate milk.  He'd had chocolate milk every other day that week...to this my expanding stomach could attest.  Perhaps it was in the back room and he hadn't put it out yet? Nervously, in my best Greek, I asked, "Echete sokolatoucho gala?" (Do you have chocolate milk?) The man looked at me, opened his eyes wide, then raised and lowered his eyebrows once.  I stared at him and waited patiently for him to answer.  HUH?  No response.  Maybe he hadn't understood my accent? Again, this time much slower, I repeated, "E che te so ko la tou cho ga la?"  His chin jerked upwards, accompanied by the eyebrow raise.  He lowered his head quickly and looked at me once again. What the heck?  Maybe he was hard of hearing?  I tried again, but this time I raised my voice to be sure he could hear what I was saying. "E CHE TE SO KO LA TOU CHO GA LA?"  Nary a word passed his lips; he just repeated the same gesture, but this time he pursed his lips and clicked his tongue once on the roof of his mouth.  The man must be crazy!  What the heck is he doing, clicking his tongue, lifting his eyebrows.  Why won't he answer me? One last time....one last try.....louder and slower than before...."E   CHE   TE   SO   KO   LA  TOU   CHO GA LA?"  His eyes hardened, he gave me 'a look'....bent his right arm, threw his hand up and back, lifted his head violently, raised his eyebrows four or five times, and clicked his tongue over and over again. Panicking, I ran out of the store, back to Smaro's apartment.  

"Pou einai i sokolatoucho gala," (Where is the chocolate milk?) she asked when I returned empty-handed.  In my terrible Greek and with head, eyebrow, tongue and hand gestures, I tried to explain what had transpired and how frightened I'd been. When I had finished, Smaro looked at me and burst out laughing. "What? What's so funny?  Why are you laughing?"  She tried several times to explain, but each time she was overcome by throaty giggles.  She laughed until her stomach hurt. Holding her sides, tears streaming down her cheeks she finally managed to gasp, "Those are all ways we say 'NO' in Greek!"