A wee droppie o’ scotch

This morning I was munching away on a warmed delicious, tenderly crispy butter bun, a half dozen having been purchased from The Courtenay Country Grocer a couple of days ago. Freshly baked when we bought them, and still as soft as though they had come from the oven this a.m. I was deciding whether to coat my next one with strawberry jam or marmalade when I had one of those sudden flashbacks that come during such contemplative moments.
It  was many years ago, at a Saturday morning farmer’s market on Salt Spring Island and I was taking photos of my son Martin and his younger brother Dominic behind a stall, (No not a horse stall! I love my children, they only get oats during the winter months). I often sold my pottery at the market  - set out for viewing and purchasing (hopefully) by the crowds making their weekly pilgrimage to the island for this much lauded event -  but that day I was there with Dom to help Marty raise enough money so he could attend a summer music camp in Courtenay. (It was being held at a school not far from where we now live. Oh my, the vicissitudes of life)!  Anyway, at home there had been a lot of head scratching going on as we pondered on a way for Martin to raise the wherewithal he needed. Finally we focused on a way, the short and sweet of it being that Dad, me, would make lots and lots of pottery jelly jars and together we’d fill them with marmalade; which Dad would also make. Lucky me! The truth is I loved it!  Fussing over a hot stove? Count me in! As a professional potter it wouldn’t take me long to make about 50 small jelly jars, and I had a great recipe for real Scotch Marmalade, I’d made it before, and knew it was a winner. So with a cry of, “Let’s go for it!”, we put our plan into action.
First things first, I had to get into the studio and get the pots out of the way. The quickest part was the actual making of them. First  they would have to be thrown (don’t go there!), then they had to dry before being subjected to the heat of the kiln - the hot sun quickly did its part. All in all it took about 6 days to throw, turn, dry, fire, cool, glaze, design, fire again and then at last the final cooling. Now into the kitchen and the next stage..

 The oranges, previously purchased and waiting, were washed, scrubbed  and hauled over to the chopping block. Each of us fellows, knife in hand, began the juicy cutting up of a chock-a-block full box of oranges. Martin and Dominic were really into it, and together we managed to do three large batches of marmalade in record time, (including the soaking period ), each batch containing a generous portion, yea liberal, of real Scotch Whiskey (the magic ingredient). The sweet hot marmalade was now ready to be ladled into their spanking new jars. When the syrupy jam was about a quarter of an inch from the top of the jars melted paraffin wax was poured in to create a seal. The boy’s mother Janet, my wife, using crimping scissors, had cut from many different pieces of floral patterned cotton more than 5 dozen 6" circles which the boys, when the marmalade was cool, placed over the mouths of the pots, tying them down with brightly coloured string. Everything was now ready. Early on the following Saturday morning boxes filled with the jars of the newly made marmalade were loaded into the car, and off we went.. 

They were so proud, those boys, as they set up their stall, studiously arranging the five dozen or so many patterned jars around the table. Martin set out a poster he had made to announce the product he and his brother were selling.  The poster, suitably mounted and eye catching, stated  prominently the important purpose of the sale. Positioning themselves behind their wares they settled back to wait for buyers.
There was, most appropriately set out, a sample pot of marmalade, a spoon for dipping and spreading, and small portions of torn French bread to spread it on. An invitation to try their product, and it certainly worked.
It didn’t take long before the jelly pots began disappearing from the table, and another jar was sacrificed to

the taste buds of eager buyers. It was clear that the purpose of the sale was the main reason people were attracted to the stall, and the boy's initiative a great selling point, but the ‘magic ingredient’ in the marmalade was the clincher. Every jar sold, some people taking two or three pots. Let’s face it, not only had they purchased the most delicious marmalade they had ever tasted, but also a lovely little pottery jelly jar that would probably hold many other spreads for years to come.A real bargain, too. I think they went for $5 dollars each! But mainly, they had helped a young man fulfill a dream. Anyway it worked. Helped along with a part time job, Martin  managed to get to the camp, and have a few dollars left over to jingle in his pocket.

                                    Martin plays his licorice stick at the Courtenay Music Camp
                                                               +  +  +  +  +  +  +  + +
Here’s the recipe. It’s certainly not difficult, and I have never known  it to  fail, either in the making, or the pleasure of the tasting. If you don't happen to have a wheel and a kiln never mind, there’s always those attractive little glass jelly jars. They also  make great gifts. Oh! And remember, when you open the bottle of Scotch its supposed to go into the marmalade! Do give it a go, lassies (or laddies), ye’ll nae b' sorry!

     SCOTCH ORANGE MARMALADE

6 navel oranges                          1 cup lemon juice
10 cups water                              1 Tbsp. butter
10 cups sugar                              1/2 cup Scotch Whiskey

Shred the oranges, discarding the tough centre fibre. Put them in a pan with the water and soak overnight. The next day cook covered until tender.

Let cool, then stir in the sugar and lemon juice until dissolved. Boil until mixture reaches 220 degrees F. Remove from heat, skim the froth and stir in the butter and whiskey. Pour into jars and seal.

Makes 12 jelly glasses.                                               
                                                  Mary Dzielak-  Calument, Quebec

                                                                   
The Harrowsmith Cookbook, Volumes 1 and 2. The above marmalade recipe is in volume one, along with numerous other wonderful jam and jelly recipes. Not to forget the oodles of other great recipes. My volume one is dog-eared from so many years of use, number two is more recent and much less worn. I f you haven't come across these volumes do give them a look see, you will certainly not be disappointed!

     Chocolate Island -  Salt Spring Island in the background.

in the beginning -

Well, can you imagine - ‘The First American Cookbook’! It may be a facsimile of the original “American Cookery,” 1796, by Amelia Simmons, but it is true facsimile, looking the same as when it came hot of the press so many years ago.

This copy was published by Dover Publications in 1984. I’d like to quote from part of the description of it on the back cover of this edition which states that -

‘This facsimile of the first American-written cookbook published in the United States is not only a first in cookbook literature, but an historic document. It reveals the rich variety of food Colonial Americans enjoyed, their taste, cooking and eating habits, even their colorful, language’.

The style of the writing is a joy to work through, forgetting to read "f"' as "s" occasionally tripped me up.  But the manner of writing itself is charming. The gracious style of relating to the reader in a type of common sophistication that has long gone, and which we find, in this age, amusing. But this is a cookbook, and as such is filled with homely advice, interesting methods of preparing many foods and a keen observation of the seasons and the produce available during those times.
I’m going to quote two recipes, and forgive me if I infringe, but the bravery of the cook and the quantity of ingredients in many recipes, particularly in baking cakes etc., would be highly intimidating to most cooks of today.
                                                                     Diet Bread

     One pound of sugar, 9 eggs, beat for an hour, add to 14 ounces of flour,  spoonful of rose water do.(ditto) cinnamon or coriander, bake quick.

Beat for and hour!?!

and                                                   Soft cakes in little pans

     One and half pounds of sugar, rubbed into two pounds of flour, add one glass of wine, one do. rose water, 18 eggs and a nutmeg.

No further advice or cooking time given

 This delightful and historic cookbook is a must have for anyone truly serious about cooking and the history of cooking – especially in America.

Myself, I love cookery books. I read them like novels. What could be nicer than lying in a hot bath, luxuriating in its comforting warmth as the soothing scent of pine (pick your favorite) wafts over you. All the while sipping a glass of Merlot, or perhaps a Shiraz, as you peruse a thick - possibly newly acquired  - cookbook, chock-a-block with recipes and luscious photographs.
I have a great number of them, as well as  stacks of recipe oriented magazines. Scores of collected recipes, gleaned from here and there, burst the seams of their respective folders. Then there are the stuffed notebooks and weighty ring binders filled with recipes from sites all over the internet which have been gathered over many years. Although I am fully aware that it is a miniscule collection compared to many other recipe aficionados.
A while ago – oh! dear, trying to remember when certain things happened and recall them accurately makes one feel like a suspect in a police interrogation room, time too often lives in the nether world of limbo. Two months ago, two years ago, who knows ago, anyway a long time ago I became a fan of of cooking Blogs. There are the most amazing amount of them out there. Thousands and thousands. Talk about blowing the mind. But! And here we go, some are so far removed from others by their layouts, their descriptive patter or just their friendly, inviting attitude and honest affection for their readers they lead the pack. Or (I prefer what I said in the last sentence, though the following one has merit), maybe it’s simply because their recipes and in your face pictures leave you salivating like any canine who finds a luscious, juicy bone dangled before it.
                                        
Strange are the ways of life. I had just finished writing that last bit when I decided to say a word or two about my favorite food Blog, TasteWithTheEyes and of its founder and chief, Lori Lynn, the whiz behind this really great site. Sooo I stepped into my RSS feed to have a gander (I get it in my Google Reader each day) and lo and behold I find that Blogger Blog had just chosen Taste With The Eyes, as the Blog of Note for today, Thursday, November 26th, 2009!  Kudos, kudos, kudos and double kudos because Lori Lynn is herself a woman of note, certainly to the hundreds of people who regularly follow her blog, and to me especially. And here’s why:-
few months ago I had written to Lori;  it was a request for Julia Child’s Yorkshire pudding – the photo of it looked so great. (Forgive me one and all, it’s true, I do not have Julia’s cookbook on my shelf, mia culpa, I will make amends). I also make this festive dish - a few times each year - and collect all kinds of recipes of same. I have a couple that are really good, (so many variations of so few ingredients), but Lori Lynn’s photo did such great service for above said humble but delicious pud  that I wanted to give it a try. To make a long story short, this lovely, very busy lady took the time to email me the recipe. Her reply to my query was not one of those very short get this over with replies but, though not long, had the sense of the sender having taken time to write it, and answer with thought and care. Lori finished her reply with a request of her own, to let her know how it turned out. Well, I certainly shall. It is on the menu for Christmas dinner and I’m sure it will be scrumptious. A toast to Julia! And a warm thank you to Lori, most generous of bloggers.    

                                                        Fruits of the Seasons!

  

  Just Joey,  the most beautiful of roses and my favorite of favorites.







             

The Music of Life

And so the seasons

Why did summer go so quickly, was it something that I said? etc.,. . . may be an old song but it keeps coming back like a. . . (should I risk it?). . .ahem. . . song. Well, look at it this way; I'm in the 8th decade of my life and suddenly summer, having blazed across the weeks of its allotted season, slipped by me when I was looking the other way, leaving only a few sad, brave roses to remind me she had been. Autumn came along, stepped  over the  doorstep and stood beside me as I looked out from my window, admiring her  handiwork. I wondered again how this new season came into my embrace while my arms still ached to hold, if but for a day, the deserting love of summer past. Oh! the beauty and scents of summer! Oh! the colours and forms of autumn! The seasons! How infinitely lovely, how infinitely lucky we are who live each one in its entirety. Autumn, as we watched together suddenly left me without comment, surprising in her haste. I glanced at the door she passed through, shrugged and looked again towards the sea and saw no longer the glorious colours  of a moment before but mountainous waves, stinging slanted rains blown in mad confusion by the wind. What a devil this Autumn was leaving us to contend with such unwelcome and unfriendly days. Ah! Well, coming soon to a garden near you, stroking his frost woven beard, waiting impatiently around the next corner is Old Man Winter, ready to slam the door on Autumn and eagerly blow upon one and all his fiercely white and terrible winds. Frosting trees and shivering lands with crystals of snow he pokes his icy fingers into every unprotected nook and cranny; laughing as we dream of warming fires and season's cheer shared with friends and family. But at last, his time run out, the Old Man  slips and lags behind, unable to hold back the racing child who leaps and bounds ahead, happily thawing ice and snow with eager sun and warming April rain. Joyous Spring, full of boisterous youth, bursting with the promise of renewal, scatters his cornucopia of wonders over a waking world. Though all the seasons of the year are loved in their fashion, and some hold a place more dear than others, it is Summer, the maiden of light, who wears the crown.

                                                   Summer is a-coming in,                               
                                  Sing a loud "cuckoo!"
                                  The seed grows, the mead blows
                                  The wood springs anew.
                                  Sing, cuckoo!

                                  For her calf lows the cow;
                                  For her lamb bleats the ewe;
                                  The bull rouses, the buck browses,
                                  Merrily sing, cuckoo!

                                  Cuckoo, cuckoo, O, sing you well, cuckoo;
                                  Nor let your song be through:
                                  Sing cuckoo, now, sing cuckoo;
                                  Sing cuckoo, sing cuckoo, now.
                                                             (An ancient English song)

Oh, glorious summer, you've been, you've gone and how dearly we long for your return, but your siblings who bring in the seasons must have their day; and as always, they lay the way for your return.

And now - forgive me but I must  give due where it is due. The above tribute to the Wonder of the Seasons was brought about by the remembrance of a certain  poem by Ezra Pound, an American poet of the early years of the 20th century. I will not go into his varied history but with the freeze of winter coming my memory launched said poem into my tottering mind.

                                                                    Ancient Music
                                                                                  by Ezra Pound
                                         Sing goddamn, damn. Sing goddamn!
                                  Sing goddamn, damn. Sing goddamn!
                                  Winter is i-cumin in,
                                  Lhude sing goddamn!
                                  Raineth drop and staineth slop
                                 A nd how the wind doth ram
                                 Sing goddamn!

                                   Skiddth bus and sloppeth us,
                                An ague hath my ham
                                 Freezeth river, turneth liver,
                                Damn you, sing goddamn.
                                Goddamn, goddamn, tis why I am goddamn,
                                So gainst the winter’s balm.

                               Sing goddamn, sing goddamn, DAMN!

Love him or hate him he sure hits the nail on the head with this!

 Bill Gates recently gave a speech at a High School about 11 things they did not and will not learn in school. He talks about how feel-good, politically correct teachings created a generation of kids with no concept of reality and how this concept set them up for failure in the real world.

Rule 1: Life is not fair - get used to it!


Rule 2 : The world won't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.


Rule 3 : You will NOT make $60,000 a year right out of high school. You won't be a vice-president with a car phone until you earn both.


Rule 4 : If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss.


Rule 5 : Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your Grandparents had a different word for burger flipping: they called it opportunity.


Rule 6: If you mess up, it's not your parents' fault, so don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.


Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you thought you were. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent's generation, try delousing the closet in your own room.


Rule 8: Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life HAS NOT. In some schools, they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as MANY TIMES as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.


Rule 9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you FIND YOURSELF. Do that on your own time.


Rule 10: Television is NOT real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.


Rule 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one.

The great successful men of the world have used their imaginations... they think ahead and create their mental picture, and they go to work materializing that picture in all its details, filling in here, adding a little there, altering this a bit and that a bit, but steadily building -- steadily building.

                                                                          Robert Collier

                                                              American Writer, Publisher

Action and Reaction

       Wow, where the mind goes when you let it out of the house! I had just read an article about discrimination against gays and blacks in America, and of new laws, recently passed, upholding such appalling bias. That such things could still go on in a democratic country, founded on fairness for all, numbs the senses. There is discrimination in all countries and Canada is no exception, but it’s not written into law here.  
     Shaking my head in wonder and sadness I suddenly found myself transported back to South Africa and my own battle with societal laws. At that time ‘apartheid’ - the former official policy of the Nationalist Government – was the measurement of the ‘correct’ way to handle the teaming Black population. Being of great innocence in the matter of the niceties of separation and the manner of hiring African help I goofed often. And, for my well meant errors, made myself the brunt of many jokes and jibes, not only from my fellow actors but from the African help I was compelled to hire.
     Compelled? Yes, compelled.
     I had been informed soon after I decided to stay in South Africa that it was morally decent and also morally right to hire as many Africans to help around the house or garden as one could afford. Well, I only had an apartment, not very large either – living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom – sparsely decorated and cleaned by myself every day or two. I also cooked and did the dishes. There was only one of me so it wasn’t too difficult. But, apparently it was incumbent on me to have a maid, because that would mean one more African would have a job and be able to feed her family, however meagerly. So I hired a maid (a.k.a. a cleaning girl) ,  – the first African woman who came to my door seeking work.
      Mind you, I hardly made enough to feed myself or pay for my flat but a moral issue was at stake and old bleeding heart here was going to give of his best, of his blood if necessary. I had a maid. Now, what?
     Well, I was told I had to feed her. . . so I did!
      During a break in the taping of a Lux Radio Show play - in which I was a character- a couple of the actors asked if I would like to have lunch with them that day. Unfortunately I had to excuse myself, explaining, quite innocently, that during the lunch break I had to get back to my flat and make lunch for my cleaning lady. I should have taken heed of their stunned expressions, and the way their voices rose a full  octave higher when, in perfect unison, they exclaimed, “Your cleaning lady?” “Yes.” I said, and proceeded to further stun them by adding, “ So you see, I wouldn’t have time to join you, because having to prepare and set out her lunch would make me too late, you’d be finished by the time I got back.” Innocently chortling I continued with, “Anyway, I hardly get a bite myself at lunchtime, more often than not I have to run like crazy to get back to the studio on time.”
      Now that, if you think about it, would have been gauche even if I had done it for a cleaning lady - of any color - in Canada or England. That is if I could ever have afforded such an impossible luxury as to have had a cleaning lady in Canada or England, or anywhere!  But, here I was doing it in South Africa! And my asinine reason for being unable to have lunch with my friends showed me straying so far from the path of normalcy, never mind naivety, that you’d have thought I had told the funniest joke ever, one that would have titillated the most jaded of listeners. 
     Imagine my total discombobulation witnessing the scene that followed! Bursting into gales of laughter so consuming they must have bordered on pain, the two actors stumbled around the studio lobby doubled over, shaking uncontrollably, clutching their bellies and gasping for air. The antics of these two fellows soon had the rest of the cast in hysterics, even though they had no idea at this point as to what the over-the-board hysteria was about.  Finally, between gasps, hiccups, tears, snorts and their uncontrollable laughter, they managed to tell one and all of my ‘luncheon with the maid’ routine. This of course, set everyone off into further gales of embarrassing mirth.There wasn’t a one who could stand properly. The walls supported two or three, those who had not slipped to the floor were formed against it as though they were playing statues. One fellow had fallen on his knees, his head bent into the carpet as though in prayer while his hands beat out a constant tattoo to some laughter inspired rhythm. A usually very sedate actress sat tottering on the edge of a chair, holding her head and  and crying out to all and sundry, she’d just wet herself. Guffaws of laughter swept through the building as staff from other shows and studio offices came running from every direction uncertain as to whether what they were hearing was laughter, or the screeches of people being brutally strangled. It was a tidal wave of mirth, tossing my ego to hell and back. It took ages to settle down.
      I can just imagine what I must have looked like.  I was stricken, embarrassed beyond belief, crimson cheeked, and ready to burst into tears as I saw quite clearly, from the rowdy  demonstration of mirth, what a ridiculous thing I had done.Talk about losing face! But my fellow cast members were good sports, and though they found it difficult to refrain from breaking down every time they looked at me they they didn’t rub it in (much), or treat me any less differently than before.
      It was explained to this uninitiated newbie, between sudden outburst of laughter, that I must tell my African cleaning lady that unfortunately I had no longer time to return each day and prepare her lunch, but, would purchase a quantity of meat, enough for her to divide into the five days of the week she cleaned, also vegetables, indispensable in a stew, and the white cornmeal -  called ‘mealy meal’ by the Africans - necessary to sop up the gravy. It was explained to me that though she would not be happy about the new arrangement she would get over it. They also –  and this really amused them – had a ball jibing me about how Rosie (her name) would get as much mileage out of recounting the story in the Townships as they would, when it was re-told in the pub after the broadcast that evening. . . and no doubt, many evenings to come.
   
     
   Story Copyright ©2009 by Gordon Wales. All Rights Reserved. 

The Camel’s Back

                                         
           What was most noticeable about the unfortunate man was the smallness of his face, off-centered on a strangely undersized head, itself wrongly proportioned to the lanky, long boned frame of his body. His thin, hunched, overly wide shoulders sloping down into slight listless arms, which lay, one unseen beneath the table, the other immobile beside a plate of food recently set by a waiter, who hesitating for a moment over his oddly misshapen customer, walked away, grimacing at the man's disturbing appearance and annoyed by his seeming indifferent rudeness.
         A lifetime of sideways glances from strangers hovered around the man, his badly assembled body, a hair shirt of shame given to him at birth, visible to all. He wore it, not as a supplicant but as an exile from the world, a persona non grata, fully aware that he was one of those 'touched by the cruel hand of fate,' so often spoken of, but of  whom most preferred to know nothing.
         His head, bowed as he gazed into his food, turned slowly towards a table nearby. A stubby, rotund man, to emphasize some point or other, was jabbing a finger at his companion, spluttering his fried breakfast across the table and sprinkling unwanted portions over his companion's French toast. Becoming aware that he was being watched, the fat man turned to retaliate with a smart ass remark, but, surprised by the strangeness of the face looking at him, pulled back and stared wide eyed at his friend. They both turned quickly to the window beside them in an attempt to hide the shock brought on by their neighbor's features, and the smirking laughter which fought to escape through their clenched teeth.
         Returning to his waiting food, as though unaware of the reaction he had caused, the fellow picked up a fork and carefully broke his two-egg cheese and tomato omelet into tiny bite sized pieces.
         When the last small division had been eaten he reached for a paper napkin, gently wiped his mouth and from under lowered eyes caught the waiter's attention. Again not seeming to notice the silence and averted stares of the diners in his area, as they watched his every move with callous fascination.
         A loose strand of graying hair slipped over his right ear. Reaching up he carefully placed it back where it belonged.
         Laying the bill in front of the silent man, the waiter concentrated his attention on the various posters positioned around the walls as though only at that moment had he become aware of them.
         Placing the exact change on top of his check, and pushing a tip towards the  server the man stood up, and moving awkwardly through the tables, all eyes following him, made his way out of the restaurant and into a freshly falling Sunday morning rain.
          Walking, with a strange shuffling gait, he made his way towards the corner
traffic lights, indifferent to the wetness beginning to soak through his coat, seemingly oblivious to how quickly people stepped aside as he came towards them.
         Standing on the curb, he waited as the lights changed from red to green and the white symbol giving him permission to cross appeared. He studied the small running figure until the lights again changed to red. A furrow formed between his brows as a puzzling thought came to his mind. Why, he pondered, recalling the coarse, boorish  man,  who, though he had laughed at him, could in conversation spew half eaten food over his friend, and find no fault in the vulgarity of the act?
       With the screech of tires brought to a sudden stop, a large, black, custom built SUV slid onto the stop line before him, blocking the view of the advance lights at the other side of the road. Startled, brought back from the thought that had taken him, the man gasped in a mixture of surprise and horror as he looked into the vehicle that blocked his view. For one moment, before it roared off again, for one terrifying moment he had seen in the car's darkly tinted mirror like windows the reflection of a face - his face - brutally organized, amazingly grotesque .
       Waves of shock tremored his body as  his mind fought with itself  like an unleashed demon. He had never before seen his face with such utter clarity! Like a terrible Halloween mask shoved into the face of a child terrified it, so did the face that had confronted  him. But with the terror had also come a sickening nausea of awareness -  unlike the child, he could not simply turn and run from the mask, the mask was his face!
       He knew his deformity, he lived with it, and was aware that it shocked, but for the first time he had really seen the horror of it. Quasimodo, the Phantom of the Opera, the Elephant Boy he was all of them! An abomination! He wanted to claw away his body, his face, his whole being.
       He had laughed when he heard the whispers of people who wondered why the earth didn't open beneath him and drop him straight into Hell! They never considered the fact that he was already in Hell!
       Oh! Yes, there had been those who taught him not to let such thoughts enter his mind, they loved him, his parents and the doctors. No! They didn't love him, not the doctors.They studied him and they wrote about him and they taught him never to see his face, his deformed body as it was, the reality of what it was. They, in their foolish, cruelly misguided compassion believed he could hide his deformity from himself and therefore from the eyes of others! 
       People never shrank away from them! What did they know?  Nothing!  But he learned to know a lot of things. Oh, yes! When he went from his home he learned to always look down as he walked, see only the pavement beneath his feet. Very soon he learned that his strange shuffling gait was not something people did not see, but something they wished not to see. He also learned that people moved aside, away from him when he came near. He was something unpleasant, to be avoided. His very presence offensive!
       Whatever defenses he had built up over the years were gone now, vanished as the averting eyes of everyone had for years wished he would. The sudden cruel pain of fully seeing so clearly what  he had fought not to see, was despairing beyond measure. He cowered at what he envisioned lay ahead, seeing only endless darkness, a tunnel with no turning and no light at its end. The thin tenuous strength which had been his life line was gone, leaving him to an imagined world of unbearable aloneness. Tears of anger and self pity, hot as the fires he wished upon himself and those who, in unthinking and cruel compassion had built a wall of lies around him, who had falsely pretended to him and themselves it would be his bulwark against the world.
        Layers of destructive emotions he had not allowed to surface came surging up from where they had lain, buried for a lifetime; confounding and confusing, throwing him into a maelstrom of doubt and despair.
       There was no longer any street he needed to or wanted to cross, no longer any place where he could live a silent, lonely life, hide himself away; for he had seen what others saw - and he shared their disgust and their horror.He truly knew what everybody knew - he was a sad, ugly, tragic thing, a puppet come loose from the strings that had held him.
         His head, turning it seemed, of itself, watched as the bus that would take him home came speeding towards where he stood. He began to raise his arm as though to signal it to stop, but instead, stepped into the street, and welcomed it.                                                                                                                                                                                  
  Copyright © 2009 by Gordon Wales. All Rights Reserved.                                                                                                                                                 

 The following bit of wisdom is taken from "The Winds of Sinhala", by Colin De Silva:

 One of the most important things in life is to remember that people can only be themselves. You expect them to behave in a certain way. When they do not, your reaction - the hurt, the sorrow, the grief - is indeed the final product of their action. But it is still your own reaction. After all, the same behaviour can make one person laugh and another cry. You will never know whether people try as hard to make you happy as you would like them to, or whether they have tried at all, but you must not blame them for being what they are, merely because it is a disappointment to you.

 It is love that enables us to accept people as they are. Love can emerge suddenly, or it can be the product of a relationship. Since its seemingly natural form is with blood ties, such as between parents and children, brothers and sister, we expect too much from these ties.

 A man needs to be responsible for others in order to exist.

Another Place to Start

     I’ve been thinking about this – you know, starting, finding a beginning – and I thought “Does everything have to begin at the beginning? How about starting at the end?” Of course that wouldn’t work unless we decided to make that the beginning and go backwards, then again, it’s been done. Often. Successfully. Hmmm. Okay, I said to me, how about just starting anywhere, near the beginning, half way from the end, just off centre – right or left, up or down- enough already just start somewhere ! Alright! Alright already, I’m starting! Don’t push! Ahem. . .! If you’re proud of  a neat and tidy uncluttered desk, a broom closet that holds only brooms and such and closes easily,  if your photo albums are all up to date, and in order then perhaps I may upset you, but, you can always let me know about it and I will listen. Yes, I will listen. I promise, I will listen and listen. I’m a good listener. I’ve got large ears, listening ears. I’ve got large feet as well, but that’s not the point is it? I could try listening with my feet, but my ears might get jealous and who knows where that would lead - nowhere. Heavens, I don’t want to start nowhere! I’ll just start! No chronology here, just plain ordinary movement, left, right or centre. Q.E.D.

      

  I HAVE NO DOUBTS.....

I have no doubts that the Devil grins,
  As seas of ink I spatter.
Ye gods, forgive my “literary” sins –
     The other kind don’t matter.

                                                           Robert Service

Vikram Chandra

It is the most wonderful and surprising thing to pick up a book because of the art work on the cover or because the author's name intrigued and find that you have been led  into a world of glorious story telling. Cunning intrigue, human moral and physical decay, love, sorrow, poverty and staggering riches and brutal deaths all relayed by the richness of a mind that leaves you staggered. The beauty of metaphor and control of story and plot in the hands of a master.
Vikram Chandra is such a one.
I was at the public library to return previously borrowed items and on the look-out for further reading matter. I have many favorite authors to whom I return often, but I love to stroll the aisles and see what name or title or book art that will compel me to take the work, read the blurb about the author and the reviews  printed on the back of the cover. On the first occasion I had seen the name Vikram Chandra it was boldly displayed on a compelling cover over a good sized book. The size of the book wasn't daunting, it was the subject. So daunting I was immediately won to it. What's life without a challenge?
I am loath to give away the central character in the book but if you are intrigued by the notion of a monkey narrating a story, not verbally telling, but by typing it out, then off to the library with you.
I found it most difficult to get past the first 50 or so pages, my interest being held simply by the quality of the writing. A first novel! And of such stature of language and description I could not stop reading. My reward for such perseverance was to find myself living along with the characters who filled the pages. I was absolutely overwhelmed by the writing. The scope, the majesty of the work! Well, I am most certainly a fan of this fine  young writer. Well he's not so young now, but he was when wrote the book, 'Red Earth and Pouring Rain'.
My following trip to the library was to take out his next book, 'Love and Longing in Bombay'. Short and not so short stories of the passions, sorrows and loves of certain dwellers in that sprawling  metropolis. My wife is not keen on short stories, ( I am a lover of them, Alice Munro, Annie Proulx etc.,I mean. . . ) but she is certainly into these.
Well, the short and long of this is that I am almost half-way through his latest book ‘Sacred Games’ (he has  written only the three so far), and outside of it being of massive size, (900 pages),it is also a massive joy. I'm loving it. The  cast of characters, the story line - which never escapes from him - and the seeming ease of his writing. There are many times as I read when I stop to lay the book on my lap and gaze outward to the sea, where I see nothing. My inward eye alone has sight at these moments and still holds in its view the pleasure of a phrase beautiful turned, or a word that has surprised by its use in a certain situation. The colour of his descriptive narrative and his attention to the tiniest detail leave me silent and still. I can say no more than - 

I thank the powers that be

there are such weavers of magic

as he.