We’ve Come So Far?

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2000 years ago, the Romans possessed the skill to build aqueducts using stone blocks shaped by hand and stacked without mortar into columns and arches over thirty feet high, with more layers of arches on top. They laid roads of stone that spanned an empire stretching from India to Great Britain to Africa. Both were feats of engineering that still stand largely untouched and usable today, baffling and challenging modern architects. Yet humanity has come so far?

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Five thousand years ago, the Egyptians built massive pyramidal monuments to their dead kings. Using methods we can only guess at, they carved and hauled multiton blocks of stone up an incline and set them together so closely that a sheet of paper can’t fit between them. The pyramids still stand as marvels of engineering, marked but far from disintegrated by time. Yet humanity has come so far?

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Three thousand years ago, the Mayan people built stepped temples of stone that rose high above the rainforest canopy to celebrate the sun. They carved complex astronomical calenders into solid rock to order their lives. The people are long gone, along with all record of their lives except for those untouched temples and carvings. The stone still rises above the trees, perfect feats of architecture preserved from a hidden past. Yet humanity has come so far?

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Roughly three or four thousand years ago, an ancient semitic nation carved their lives inch by inch out of the desert mountains. Slowly their rough cave settlements grew into vast cities, polished red sandstone walls gleaming and ornate gateways towering over grand entrances. The people with the dream to create these monumental dwellings had no fear of the desert; they also possessed the knowledge and technology to pipe water into the city through sophisticated systems from nearby springs and rainwater cisterns. This indomitable people faded into history, replaced by interlopers and usurpers, but their mountain cities still stand to awe modern travellers. Yet humanity has come so far?

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Two thousand years ago, a tribal people in the Peruvian desert left their unique mark upon the face of the earth itself. With precise geometric knowledge and application, the Nazca etched stylized drawings of native animals into the rocky desert floor, along with a complex system of perfectly straight lines that stretched for miles. The drawings are so large they cannot be viewed in entirety from the desert floor; they must be viewed from the distant mountain peaks or from the air. No one now knows why the Nazca created their mathematically precise art, but despite millenia it is still visible and wondered at by modern civilization. Yet humanity has come so far?

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Some thousands of years ago, knowledge was handed down through song. Children were apprenticed early to scholars, who painstakingly tutored them until they could recite every word and intonation perfectly. Religion, history, and science were all passed from generation to generation in complex rhymes and rhythms; tales of heros like Beowulf and Gilgamesh shared memory with medical instruction. Not a word was lost and much knowledge was added over centuries of time, without a word being written down. Yet humanity has come so far?

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A little less than a thousand years ago, every book was created by hand. Tools were handmade and carefully customized by the artist, who then mixed his own pigments and meticulously painted every letter and line of every page. A single page represented days of work and incredible artistry, with intricate scripts enhanced by brilliantly detailed images and scrollwork. Yet humanity has come so far?

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The Sun Tree

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She stopped on the last rise overlooking the coast, breath catching in her throat. She swallowed painfully around the lump of it and sank to her knees. Shades of red and purple bathed her, along with the waving grasses that now slid around her shoulders in the ocean breeze.

For a thousand years her people had told tales of the sun tree. The great tapestry in the Hall of Ancestry depicted the Leaving, when the Ilanga had been forced from their beautiful sea haven by marauders from the Invisible Lands. They had built a new life for themselves in the deep forests, and the Sun Tree had become the myth of a far off Heaven where one could join the ancestors in eternity.

They had mocked her quest in the Hall, declared what she sought reachable only in death. When she persisted they denied her aid, believing she would abandon her purpose. Her heart drew her on, however, and she had slipped away in the darkness, living on what the land provided.

And now she faced the Sun Tree itself, its light held in sacred trust in the embrace of wide leafy arms. She rose on shaky legs and stumbled forward down the slope, her own arms outstretched. She stumbled with a cry of pain and, still bent double gripping an injured foot, failed to see the red and purple sails rounding the nearest point.

Book Review: The Storyteller

The stories of the kingdom have been forgotten, and as they disappeared the fountains have all dried up. A thirsty child is the only person who will listen to the last storyteller. Every day the old man offers a new story that builds on the last. Every day the boy’s cup magically fills with water as he listens.

When a djinn threatens to swallow the kingdom with an enormous sandstorm, the boy knows just how to stop it forever. He begins to tell the djinn every story he has learned from the old man. Every night the djinn agrees to wait one more day to hear the next story, and every day more people gather with their cups to hear. The boy pours all the water into the dry fountains until they are full. When the djinn finally loses interest and attacks the kingdom, it gets a big surprise.

I absolutely love this beautiful book. Inspired by the heritage of Moroccan storytellers and weavers, it connects children from every culture with a tradition that no child can resist. At the same time, children are taught the often forgotten truth that who we are is built upon the stories of where we came from, and that forgetting the past threatens the destruction of our future.

Inexorable

He had lived his entire life in its shadow. Gazing up its sides with jaws agape like the tourists he ferried. Losing himself in the whispering roar of its invisible flow.

His boat had been a favorite; no one knew the glacier like he did. Every pop, every boom, was a message. His passengers returned again and again for the thrill of watching the birth of icebergs, the formation of bridges, and the crumbling of secret worlds.

When not on the boat he had walked the white expanse of its surface. He could walk the same path every week for a year and never become bored. Crevasses opened and sealed. Turquoise pools formed and drained and left intricate honeycombed tunnels that summoned impotent longing. Caves appeared and just as magically vanished again as snow became ice and slid to its eventual doom.

Ten years ago he had ferried his last load of gasping, camera happy tourists. His body, like the ice, cracked and moaned under the weight of time passing, and at eighty-two, the crevasses in his memory formed honeycomb of their own. But he remembered the glacier. She had been the love of his life. He had pored over her ever-changing yet changeless face every day for sixty years, extolled her unpredictable beauty to hundreds of thousands who marveled with him. He remembered the glacier.

The Square

It was an odd place, cobblestone streets and medieval plaster houses confusingly paired with modern storefronts and colorful canvas awnings. Agatha loved it. Every birthday and anniversary, she insisted we have lunch at the little bistro on the tiny mishmash of a square.

The city had long since turned the houses into a retirement village, which meant that the crowds tended decidedly toward the downward side of the hill, if you know what I mean. I asked Agatha on one birthday somewhere in her early thirties why she preferred the square to any of the popular and romantic downtown spots. She said she couldn’t think of anything more romantic than the square.

Agatha loved watching people, and I loved watching her, so I rarely saw what she saw. But that day she made me pull my chair next to hers and look out over the square. She showed me the couple at the next table whose wrinkled fingers entwined as they sipped black coffee from plain mugs. She showed me the elderly man pushing his wife around in her chair while she chattered excitedly about the window displays in the little shops. She showed me the three sisters with bobbed hair and oversized handbags who made the same round of the square every day, just for the chance to be together.

For thirty years she made me promise we would retire to the square. She never saw her wish come true. Today would have been her 65th birthday, and for thirteen years I have ridden the elevator from my fourth floor plaster-walled apartment to sit under the green umbrella in front of the bistro. Now I watch the young people who occasionally visit, wondering what they are thinking, what Agatha would have made of them. They are different these days, yet the same. I wonder if one day that boy with eyes for only one person will sit here fifty years from now, and hope that bright-eyed girl he adores will be holding his hand over a mug of coffee.

Memories

My youngest turned five this week. It’s an odd feeling to realize my last baby is now officially school-age. I thought about trying to throw a big bash to mark such a momentous occasion, but with all the fullness of life we have going on right now that just wasn’t gong to happen. Fortunately she had other ideas.

Birthday traditions in our family are pretty simple. At first it was a matter of being newly married and poor, then having small children and poor. But then it became something so powerful and precious that we could not change it. At first it was a box mix cake decorated the best this unartistic mama could manage in the birthday kid’s favorite theme of the year. Five dollars worth of tablecloth and paper plates to match the cake. Family only. As the kids got older they started wanting to help with the cake, and the tradition evolved into me doing the baking and providing materials for a cake topper while they decorated the way they wanted. However the cakes might have looked to outsiders, to the kids they were birthday masterpieces.

This past December our tradition underwent a new evolution, one that is proving to be the most precious of all. My oldest learned to bake, and with that knowledge begged to make her younger sister’s cake from scratch. She baked, the birthday girl decorated. Today we had the third birthday since this new development. Our days of boxed cakes are over for good. My days of creating the magic are over; I’ve been relegated to the rank of supplier. Instead, I watch my children excitedly creating their own magic, working together to produce a vision of their own imagination. I get to watch them make unforgettable memories.

The Chapel

“Boris, dorogoy, please come away from the window! The hall will not come to you, no matter how hard you stare. We must go to it, and soon or we will be late and the Chinovnik will mark against us.”

Boris sighed and twisted his cap in gnarled fingers, his eyes not leaving the hall. “Remember the day we wed there, Anushka? It was still the village chapel then, and as lovely as any cathedral that morning!”

She leaned her wrinkled cheek against his arm and smiled at the memory. “I can still smell the flowers the children picked to cover the floor. The chapel was full; no one in the village would miss a wedding!”

“Nor a christening,” he chuckled. “Who would turn down a half day’s holiday from the fields, especially when feast was involved? I remember on Sergei’s day all the women baked for a full day before, and we still ran out of food!”

“Ah, the greedy boys!” Anushka exclaimed with a laugh. “They would have eaten themselves sick if there had been any more syrniki! Ah well.” Her smile faded. “To speak of such memories in the village now is dangerous. We will earn a mark from the Chinovnik if overheard, or worse.”

“Let him mark,” Boris sniffed. “Love may be out of fashion with these oh-so-serious youngsters, but we will walk to the chapel like newlyweds.” He gently took her arm in his and they left the house, shuffling feet leaving two flattened paths side by side through the grassy commons.

Book Review: The Carp in the Bathtub

Harry and Leah have a problem. There’s a fish in their bathtub, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is that the fish is dinner.

Mama’s special Passover dish is gefilte fish, special fish balls made from a carp. The best fish always sell out early, and dead fish spoil quickly, so the carp has to live in the bathtub for a week waiting to be cooked. Harry and Leah love to feed the carp, and especially appreciate that as long as the fish is there they can’t take a bath.

But Harry and Leah cannot bring themselves to eat gefilte fish. Who could eat a friend? And thus year’s carp is extra special; he is smart and friendly, and his name is Joe. They have to think of a way to rescue Joe before Mama turns him into the Passover meal!

The Carp in the bathtub is a delightful story about understanding and responsibility. For my children it was also an introduction to a time and traditions different from ours while demonstrating that children everywhere and in every age are all the same. By the way, Harry and Leah still don’t eat gefilte fish.

Black and White Summer

This flash fiction was inspired by a photo prompt that I unfortunately don’t have the right to share. You the reader get to imagine the scene for yourself this week! Enjoy! *********************************************

Gramps kept the old black and white postcard in his wallet, folded up neatly to fit in a card slot. Sometimes he would take it out and gently unfold it, smooth it with a caress of his fingertips the way he touched Gram’s hair. I asked him once what was so important about a gray picture of a boat and trees. He gave me a long look and then handed me the creased and worn card.

“My brother was eighteen that summer,” he said. “I was ten. Wasn’t much we did together anymore, but we did like fishing.” Gramps put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair, staring into the distance with a half smile. “That summer he told me to pack my camping gear, we were headed upriver for a week. We threw sleeping bags, fishing poles, and a frying pan in an old boat he’d scrounged up and caulked and set off for a boy’s heaven.”

“Did you catch lots of fish?” I wondered.

“Enough to fry every day,” he chuckled, “but mostly we swam, chased each other up and down the bank, and slept in the sun. It’s a wonder the snakes didn’t carry us off; mosquitoes sure tried. Once, the boat sprung a leak. Not a bad one, but we were taking on water. Jack showed me how to stuff moss in the crack and caulk it with mud.”

“Did it work?”

“Well… not too well,” Gramps admitted. “But we were having too much fun to care. I’d never spent so much time with Jack, just the two of us.”

He sighed. “He enlisted the next day, headed to the Pacific. We were dirt poor and there were no photos, but I found this in a drugstore a week after Pearl Harbor. It may look like a boat to you, but to me that’ll always be Jack.”

The Christmas Gnome

Ellen switched on the light in the cluttered garage and sighed. She had put this off as long as possible but with the house being listed in a week there was no more time. Maybe she could just load all the boxes and junk without opening them, haul them to the dump, be done.

She ran her hand over the dusty top of the nearest flimsy carton, lifting the well-wrinkled flap in spite of herself. A flash of shiny red caught her attention, and carefully she unwrapped the tiny gnome from his torn tissue. A ragged smile played across her face as she rubbed the little fellow’s flowing beard.

The gnome had perched on the thick oak branch over the front walk every Christmas for as long as Ellen could remember. Once, when Ellen was about four, she had asked why, and Mom had told her he was the Christmas guardian. Nothing could steal the spirit of Christmas love as long as he watched over them.

Only when Ellen and her brothers had grown and gone did she ask Mom why the gnome still guarded the house. It wasn’t as if any children remained to believe in magic. Her eyes filled with tears remembering the gnome’s real story. Dad had given him to Mom their first Christmas, just days after they became engaged. The tiny presents held something that real packages could not; his vow to never leave her.

Dad had died when Ellen was two, a stupid construction accident. Mom set the gnome in the tree at Christmas, when her grief was deepest, to honor the promise. If she hadn’t died, he would be perched on that branch now, holding Dad’s love for her where she could see it. Ellen carefully closed the box and carried the gnome to the front walk. Dad would have wanted it this way, she thought. When she walked away, the gnome perched cheerfully in the stiff snow on that same old branch.