Carnal Love and Death

Between The Garages

My childhood friend Larry tried to kill me and his sister tried to seduce me. I think the seduction, if you want to call it that, (I know I do), happened before the attempt on my life; so there could be a little cause and effect going on here.  I don’t think my friend Larry really meant to kill me, but he sure came close; of course it came close with his sister too.

There were far too many distractions along the way and I seldom got to school on time.  My route took me through and past numerous orchards and vineyards, as we were located in the Niagara Fruit Belt. There were pear, plum, apple, peach, and apricot delicacies to choose from en route. It was like going to school via the Garden of Eden without the snakes, but with most of the temptations.

One temptation we could never ignore was a construction site.  Because we lived on the rural-urban fringe of the city there were many such sites and several on my route to school, which made it almost impossible to attend school with any regularity. The fact that I failed grade one had a lot to do with my early morning visits to construction sites. It was only an ironic twist of fate that I ended up as a teacher and not a construction worker.

There was always something sublimely complying about the deep dank hole in the ground that formed the foundation of a new house, or the fresh smell of cut lumber, or the irresistible framing which served as a jungle gym to my youthful enthusiasm.  For some reason, maybe because we were stupid kids, we never figured out why contractors and new home owners did not appreciate us playing at their building sites. Despite the fact that we seldom did major damage, we were chased by the usual suspects of construction workers, their bosses, their dogs, and/or the future home owner out to protect their investment.

We were young, fit, fast and flexible and we seldom got caught.  Often in hot pursuit, we would head out across the orchard, backing on to the construction area, as if on cue we would split into several directions to throw off our pursuers.  Eventually, we would jump any fence, hedge or other intervening barriers to make good our escape.  As kids we always had the advantage when running through vineyards.  With each new line of parallel vines, without losing speed, we would drop and roll to the next row of vines until our pursuers, even dogs, gave up. We would then infiltrate the neighbourhood on the other side of the orchard.  After a suitable length of time, using every clandestine means at our disposal, short of disguise, we would slowly and one at a time infiltrate into our own neighbourhood until the heat was off, leaving the construction workers, their bosses, their dogs and/or the future owners wandering aimlessly in the wrong neighbourhood looking for us, with no leads. 

I spent lots of time at Deserei’s house because I was good buddies with her younger brother Larry and they were our next door neighbours. Deserei would often invite me downstairs into their unfinished rec room, sit next to me, really close on an over stuffed, soft couch while showing me pictures from the Eaton’s and Sears catalogues.  She would often lean into my body, while whispering in my ear, “What do you  like?”

She was totally into fashion and I wasn’t yet familiar with the concept. Deserei would ask me to pick, from a given page, the best looking outfit, pair of shoes, or model.  The difficult part was somehow justifying my catalogue selections to Deserei as my choices were often random and I had no set of criteria to guide me. Deserei could keep going with the catalogue game for hours. She had stamina which I greatly admired. I humoured her because I was excited just being in the same room with her sharing a couch. There was something vaguely tactile that attracted me to her and she smelled really good.  I would find every opportunity to lean into her, easily facilitated by the softness of the couch, in order to get a better look at the page under scrutiny, pretending to study every detail when I was just trying to be as close to her as possible.  This was heaven, or something very close.  In fact later in life I was to discover that it actually was heaven.

With the help of  Richard, my big brother, Larry, and a few miscellaneous friends, we excelled at building underground forts. I believe it was a niche market and apparently we had cornered it. My father had helped us with two tree forts in our backyard, one in a plum tree and the other in a willow tree. He had also built us a playhouse of epic proportions, complete with moveable glass windows, and furniture. We had to share this with our sisters and their friends; so it lost some of the luster for us, therefore, the quest to go underground.

We chose our fort location with precision, usually close to existing construction sites to reduce the cost of materials and transportation. Our basic design was a huge pit or trough-like hole and by using unwanted valueless lumber from the nearest residential construction site we fabricated a lattice or framework of 2 X 4’s and 2 X 6’s, depending on availability. This sturdy and heavy framework was covered with whatever plywood the contractors happen to be using at the time. We preferred three quarter inch for its durability, if nothing else, we were all about quality.

Once the plywood was situated we would joyously fling shovelfuls of previously excavated dirt over the entire project. The soil was covered with sod and within two weeks the whole thing was overgrown with weeds and was therefore perfectly camouflaged with the existing environment. Naturally, being attentive to detail and cognizant of the need to breathe while underground, we inserted eaves troughing and pieces of downspouts along the edges of the roof, penetrating into the cavern below.  A second smaller trench, covered with branches served as an entranceway. The floor was modeled after soddies from the prairies and other Depression era homes with dirt floors. Ours were covered in generous layers of the venerable St Catharines Standard, allowing us to keep up with the news while staying relatively dry and cozy. 

Our fort had three rooms; we called them chambers, as this was actually part of a secret lair project from where we hoped to achieve world wide dominance, or at least hide from our parents when we were called in from play. Each chamber was joined to the next by a tunnel about three feet in length. Along the earthen walls we dug shallow enclaves to situate candles. We discovered that by the time we got to the third chamber (here after referred to as the inner sanctum) the candles would barely burn.  Apparently, and no one told us this at the time, candles need oxygen to burn. 

After one lazy summer afternoon of scrutinizing the Eaton’s catalogue shoe section, in later life I was to discover that to a woman a shoe is not a shoe.  A shoe, in all its discomfort and impractical design and numerous short comings, is actually a piece of art. 

Our garage, built from scratch by my dad, and our neighbour’s garage were side by side with a narrow space between them. This space was an actual location we referred to as “between the garages,” for obvious reasons.  My dad stored lumber here from his various projects. We used the pile of lumber as a step to getting up on the roof. We liked doing this because we were kids and it was there, some adults have the same attitude about mountains.

Deserei suggested that we needed a break from the catalogues; my eyes were blood shot from the strain. She held my hand and led me “between the garages.” I should have known something was up because I didn’t think she had any desire whatsoever to get the panoramic view from the garage roof.  Did I mentioned for a young girl she was extremely voluptuous and could easily have appeared on a catalogue page herself, possible on the swim suit or lingerie pages, but what did I know because when she purred (and I swear I thought it was a cat), “I’ll let you see mine if I can see yours.” I thought she was referring to my Swiss Army knife with the multiple blades, can opener and what looked like a corkscrew.  I should have recognized one of the most famous of pick up lines for what it was.  I was naïve, curious and very eager.

Deserei was already taking her clothes off.  I vaguely recall that Deserei wore a pale blue pair of tight Capri pants. Her toe nails were painted in a deep purple and nicely contrasted with the Capri’s. Her sandals were of light brown leather the colour of her silky hair, which flowed long and straight to her shoulders. She was highly tanned with strong muscular definition along her calves. She wore a white peasant type blouse, hiding a delicate lacy bra which with great effort held back the formidable abundance of her splendid endowment.  Her cleavage was an inviting darkness full of shadow and wonder.  Around her long neck she wore a delicate gold chain caressing a heart shaped pendant. I did not know, nor would I ever, what lay inside the pendant.  My breath came in short spasmodic gasps.

I soon discovered to my boyhood amazement what was under her blouse and I was mesmerized by here proportions and magnificence.  There truly was a God and I was thankful for all of his creations.  My mind was frantically and desperately in over drive trying to absorb and assimilate every nuance and magnificent detail of the beauty radiating before me.  I was the proverbial deer blinded, yet attracted, by the rapidly oncoming transport truck with high beams blazing.  I froze  in those headlights and would have been content to die then and there.  Life was complete, this moment indelibly frozen in eternal time and space, as I stood before a now naked Deserei.  I raised my trembling hand toward the light and this magical moment was synchronized with the exact moment that Larry stumbled between the garages,  “Hey, what are you guys doing?”

Of course I will never know what could have happened next and I bear no malice towards Deserie’s idiot brother Larry for his interruption while I lusted after his sister, other than the standard wish that he would rot in the fourth level of purgatory until the end of time. 

The next day found me forlorn and alone in the inner sanctum of our fort, whiling away the time with some sort of carnal magazine with fold out pages.  The air was already quite stale this far into the fort; so when I had my first whiff of smoke I didn’t panic until my eyes were watering and began to burn, as massive billows of smoke from the smoldering newspapers wafted towards me.

The depth of the chamber was such that I couldn’t get enough leverage with my arms or my legs to push the roof off because with all that stolen lumber and dirt it weighed about 17 metric tons, nor could I move forward to the next chamber without crawling over burning newspaper.  I began to scream loud and long through one of the air tubes to the outside world.

I was only ten; so when my life flashed in front of me I had to rewind several times to pick out the skimpy detail, because there really wasn’t much content.  I did pause several times at the clip with Deserei between the garages, but even that couldn’t bring me much joy during such a crisis.

I don’t believe in miracles, but I do believe in my brother.  Even though we didn’t always get along and he frequently blackmailed me about not telling our mom about his smoking down by the canal, or about the cat incident and the ax, or about the broken cellar window, or his driving in a stolen car with an under aged driver while under the influence, or about the crossbow he made from a car spring that nearly decapitated his friend Victor.  I forgot all of that, as my brother literally tore the roof off of our fort and flung it to the side, like a superhero, while simultaneously grabbing me by the forearm and practically throwing me out of the pit of death. I was saved.  

Minutes later Richard had me smoke damaged but alive before my mother, still oddly clutching my fire damaged copy of the July 1960 copy of Playboy Magazine rescued along with me from the fort.  My dear sweet Mennonite mother took a long hard look at her prodigal son.  She probably didn’t know whether to slap me on the back of my head or give me a hug.  In quick succession she did both.

Honing in with our fine detective skills we narrowed down the incriminating web of evidence and concluded that Deserei’s brother, Larry, had indeed set the fire.  After coming clean with my brother about Deserei  and my out of body experience between the garages my brother concluded that the fire was likely designed to be an honour killing.

My brother and I, with a heightened sense of social justice, went over to Larry’s house where I hid behind a hydro pole.  Richard marched up to the Larry’s door without letting me in on his game plan.  A jubilant Larry came to the door.  He became progressively less jubilant as my brother explained to him that I was dead.  From the corner of the house I could only hear vestiges of sentences spoken by my brother, “Yes, burnt beyond recognition...His dying words... he identified his killer...certainly reform school for life Larry.”

I had a sense of the subtle nuances which were being played out and like Mark Twain, I knew that the rumours of my death had been greatly exaggerated, but definitely had the desired effect on Larry, who, as I could see from my vantage point, was in tears.

In one week I had experienced the delights of carnal knowledge, a near death experience, the loyalty of a brother who always had my back, the love of my mother and the long abiding dream of what could have been “between the garages.”

Mennonites in the Militia

From Growing up Mennonite...

Mennonites in the Militia

Have you ever noticed that after a particularly violent summer storm, once the rain has abated and the rainbow is shining like a neon sign in Times Square, (God’s promise not to destroy human kind ever again, no matter how bad we get) beams of light stream out in a powerful geometric array from one central source (likely the sun) through cracks in the still dark cumulus clouds.  That my friend is “God Light” not to be confused with the “Spielburg Affect” in which ominous cloud formations herald the coming of alien life forms at Devil’s Peak.  “God Light” (copy right protected) is quite the opposite phenomena and a technical term and image I picked up either while attending Sunday School or Daily Vacation Bible School (DVBS) during the formative years of my Mennonite childhood.

“God Light” is one of those indelible images that never fades in my mind, in fact it is fixed in my mind through reinforcement from the numerous pictures I have viewed from decades of Sunday School attendance.  In my mind’s eye I also see Jesus Christ standing either on a mountain top or sometimes on a church steeple with long purple, flowing robes.  He is smiling, well groomed, sporting a trimmed beard and probably at the peak of his career at a time when his heavenly father was well pleased with his achievements here on Earth.  In this undated image Jesus was likely content in the knowledge that he could heal the sick, feed the hungry, drive spirits from swine, bring lizards back to life (a childhood trick apparently), and the source of much of his early success, turning water into wine.  God Light shines all around, and still takes my breath away and that may be about as spiritual as I get.

Going to church each Sunday was literally a ritual, while living in Waterloo we would get into my Dad’s 1950 Ford and drive the length of Weber Street to the Ottawa Street Mennonite Brethren Church.  My dad was a slow driver and would always make comments about drivers who passed him only to be at the next stop light at the same time.  My dad had his ways.  One of those ways was not to join the church.  Its not like membership at a country club.  Joining means getting baptized.  He never did, so in this way he was somewhat of a renegade.  I don’t know what stopped him but I think it was a real issue between he and my mom, and I’m sure church members in their shunning way were able to exert subtle and not so subtle pressures on my parents.

If there is one thing Mennonites are good at, that would be shunning and I say that with a total absence of pride.  There are so many things I am really thankful for having been raised Mennonite, but this cruel practice of shunning is not one of them.  Statistically, look at it this way, there are about one and a half million Mennonites world wide and at least a dozen different denominational categories.  For example, my tribe called Mennonite Brethren broke away from the larger Mennonite Church while still situated in the Ukraine prior to immigration to Canada.   

Enter one, Jacob Amman, truly the “Man of the Year” (1693) who introduced the concept of shunning by breaking away from the Mennonites.  He favoured the social avoidance of baptized Mennonites who left the church; so you see even the Amish were formed as a splinter group.  I’m not sure how far Mennonites can continue to splinter before they lose viability. I only mention shunning and its judgmental counterpart because my family felt the cruel hand of shunning because of my unbaptized father who liked to make wine and kept a TV in the house, and I later conjectured because I was a nuisance in Sunday School, a DVBS drop out, a German School reject as well as a total failure as a choir member and that’s what this story is really about.

I think to over compensate for my father’s sinful ways and to stave of the specter of shunning I was encouraged to do things like go to church regularly, and attend Daily Vacation Bible School in the summer months. Now that’s a double whammy, like taking cod liver oil and then licking the spoon.  In the bigger picture my sibs went to a Mennonite High School, Eden Christian College, we were also encouraged to attend Bible College where it was hoped we would meet our future spouse. I even volunteered, over my Spring Break, with Mennonite Disaster Service. I went to Pennsylvania to help after a flood season. There was also MCC for foreign service and the list went on.  Not to toot my Mennonite horn too loudly, Mennonites could be found around the world helping people.  They may shun each other, but will quickly pitch in to help others, doesn’t make any sense, but that’s all part of the Mennonite enigma. 

Driving through the suburban country side during summer months in most Southern Ontario communities, I often observe church signage advertising their Sunday schedule, or they make statements like “Jesus is the answer”  (What was the question?) and advertise, flea markets, bingos, upcoming miracles, UFO sightings and their Daily Vacation Bible School Program.  An opportunity for the chosen to go to a summer program, in a church, during the summer.  Yeah, that has about the same appeal to me now as it did when I was a kid. In fact back then it set shivers of fear and dread spiraling through my central nervous system. I think I developed ticks.  

Today, church educators try to spice things up a bit to attract kids to their summer programs. Themes are used, such as the Rainforest, or Ecology, “Superhero Missionary,” or whatever creative trick adult minds can devise to get kids inside a church during the months of summer these same months recognized, I might add, in the Bill of Rights and Freedoms as the “inalienable months of freedom.”  I felt then as I do now that DVBS is a violation of my civil rights. 

My mom wanted me to go to the DVBS at the local Mennonite church which happened to be a rival church, not our own MB church.  They wore a different coloured bandana. My mom was also able to over look the minor theological difference between the two churches and saw an opportunity for me to go to church in the summer when my friends were at the canal swimming, and generally having summer fun in the manner in which God intended.

The worst thing about VBS, other than it was in the church, in the summer, when my friends were swimming and having fun, was memorizing verses and reciting them in front of the entire church congregation at the end of the program, somewhat like a religious graduation ceremony.  I guess I shouldn’t complain because I have since learned that certain students and believers of the muslim religion will memorize the entire Quran.  This rote exercise in futility probably gives them about as much insight into living a righteous life as does memorizing IKEA assembly instructions, but at least with that you end up with a completed bookshelf, or chair and a free allen wrench.  At least I didn’t have to memorize the entire Bible, but I still have trouble with IKEA instructions.

My favourite verse was, “Jesus wept,” also the shortest verse in the BIble, unless someone can show me a verse with one word.

On the final day of DVBS, during the grad ceremony, I can still vividly remember walking to the pulpit to make my brief recitation.  My mouth was dry, my lips were cracked, my vision blurry, my mind as blank as blank could be.  There was no TelePrompTer, nor teacher to cue or coach me.  For a prepubescent kid I sweated like a pig as a hush fell over the congregation as if I was about to commit a felony or a miracle.  I was hoping the sweat on my shirt would form a pattern resembvling the image of the Virgin Mary and everyone would be distracted at such a revelation, but oh no, that little trick only works at a Catholic DVBS. They seem to have a “Mother Mary Monopoly”. I was of the Anabaptist persuasion, we separated from the mothership and formed our own franchise in the early days. I was so screwed. 

I was too nervous to ad-lib, and how does one ad-lib a Bible verse anyway.  I looked to the stained glass windows for inspiration, any God Light?  I at least looked for a bolt of lightening to strike me dead and end my misery.  As is normal under such a stressful situation I experienced a flashback, like a literary out of body experience, sending me back to two weeks prior.

Stage Directions: Page takes on a translucent-like appearance as reader participates in the flashback...

DVBS had just started and as far as my mother knew I had biked over to the church to attend. In reality I had doubled back, actually took my bike through the orchard behind our house and hid in our garage.  I was prepared to stay there for hours and remerge to synchronize with the DVBS dismissal time and then slickly tell my mom in all sincerity about the insights and Biblical revelations I had experienced in DVBS.

Had there been a mall I guess I would have opted for that distraction, but malls were still not really a mainstream phenomina and it never really crossed my mind to go to one, so there I was in a dark hot, humid garage on a summer day when my friends were at the canal swimming.  My DVBS subterfuge apparently did not allow for the fact that at some point in the morning my mother would take out the kitchen garbage and put in into the metal garbage bin in the garage where she automatically caught me doing my time.  Mission aborted.

She was speechless.

Flashback over. 

I was still speechless.  Stalemate.  Flashbacks only buy you so much time and when you come out of them you still are stuck in reality. Somehow I mumbled something and stumbled away from the podium after my stellar Biblical pantomime, likely bringing shame to my entire family and all of our ancestors which could likely result in an honour killing that same afternoon.  As a theological note Mennonites don’t actually openly endorse honour killings, nor do we practice ancestor worship, but in the religious sphere, I always felt that good karma derives from a sketchy knowledge of comparative religions like a Darwinian evolutionary survival skill.

My mom, bless her huge loving Mennonite heart, always wanted me involved in things, if not the unsuccessful DVBS program, than German School.

German School was offered in the basement classrooms of the MB Church on Scott Street where my family attended.  As an adult, who speaks only one language, I can well understand why my parent’s generation would desire to have their beloved culture and other Mennonite traditions live on through the German language and through the over achieving seed of their collective loins moi (mich?).

German, as taught in a MB German school, like the Quran and the three R’s taught in frontier pioneer schools was all taught by rote.  The first word I can remember learning in German class was Vogel, which means bird.  The paperback text book had a wonderful illustration of a Robin and I associated robin with hood and somehow remembered vogel.  Now every time I see a bird the socialist in me thinks of taking money from the rich and giving it to the poor. Funny how the mind works.  My first phrase I learned while in the Mennonite student exchange program in Germany was, “Ein Beer bitte.”  I had come a long way in linguistic development and cultural understandings.  My insights had no bounds.

None the less I must have been a disappointment to my parents.  Not only was I a DVBS failure with severe attitude and truancy issues, it soon became apparent that I had no discernible aptitude whatsoever at learning a language.  I still struggle with English. It is not without coincidence that later the church choir director would make a parallel statement about my singing abilities.

I can’t in all honesty say I don’t know any German at all as such a statement would be a complete disservice to my upbringing, because like most good Mennonite kids of my era I grew up watching Hogan’s Heroes (a WW II comedy set in a concentration camp, doesn’t sound funny.  I guess you had to be there) that along with German school and living an entire year immersed in Germany in the wine region of Bad Durkheim, it is safe to say, that today, I can fluently speak in excess of 60 German words.  In addition, while traveling I can identify German tourists at a glance, at a distance.  Clearly education, travel and cultural exposure was not entirely wasted on me. While I can’t boast being a prodigy, I can say, “Ich Bien ein Berliner.”  Which I’m told, after Kennedy said it, might actually mean I am a sausage.  Language is such a hit and miss thing at the best of times.

My mom, like mother Teresa, never gave up on a cause.  I was her cause.  Her youngest child who one day would be set adrift in a large and frightening, secular world considering Sunday School, DVBS, choir and German School, as they related to me, were no longer really issues of family discussion. My mother, despite her lack of formal education did have the ability to think out side of the box.  She lived by the phrase “paradigm shift” and made one with me.  My mom in her wise problem solving mode decided to send me to cubs, a decidedly English institution. In fact, at the time,anything not purely Mennonite was termed either “English” and remember to wrinkle your noise as you pronounce the word, or ”Canadian” another wrinkle.

I believe that I may have been the only Mennonite in my church or possibly community who served active duty as a cub.  As it turned out I had somewhat of an aptitude for cubbing. It did not involve a different language, there were no Bible verses to remember, I did not have to sing and it wasn’t held during summer months. As a result I rose rapidly through the ranks to boy scouts and eventually Rangers, the young adult version. 

Cubs was so very much not in the Anabaptist tradition. We wore uniforms with long socks, green shirts, and cute little caps. It had a somewhat cuddly neo-nazi look to it. Every little thing we did we got a badge for it and I thrived on positive reinforcement.  I had an arm full of badges for building fires (my dad was a pyromaniac), marksmanship (I loved guns), knot tying, map reading (I became a geographer), survival skills, arts and crafts, etc.  If we did something one of our leaders would be sure to pin a badge on our arm.  I learned to make presentations without freezing up in front of an audience.  Cubs did not use pulpits which took off a lot of pressure while public speaking.  I was truly built for the secular world.

I think my mom’s plan to change her timid little Mennonite boy into someone with a skill set marketable in the global economy finally started to pay off. I may have been a tad weak in my Mennonite traditions, but I turned out to be a damn fine cub. It was a start. 

During my grade nine year at Waterloo Collegiate Institute, at a time when Canada must have been far more militaristic then it is today, all male students were expected to join the militia. “Canada, you say.  What a pity.” My God this was the sixties, peace and love were in the air, Jupiter was aligned with Mars, Men were not yet from Mars, or women from Venus.  It was the era of the hippies, free love, drugs and oddly, high school students marching and carrying really heavy rifles.  There were no flowers stuffed down the barrel.

Its not like I volunteered for militia, apparently it was on the curriculum.  I didn’t have the vocabulary back then but since my hackles were raised I had an inclination that militia, as practiced in my high school was some fascist, neo nazi, bullshit perpetrated on a guileless, quasi patriotic civilian population by the vast Canadian military industrial complex, or was I thinking of another country?  I joined because I had to join.

The day I got my uniform I realized what pompous, narcissistic little shits the “regular” militia guys were.  By regular I was not thinking entirely of their colons.  The regulars actually wanted to be in the military.  I think I was experiencing a latent anabaptist reaction to a military presence.  I can never really be sure if at that moment I wanted Menno Simons to be proud of me, or it was a conversion of convenience, like marrying to get a green card.  Either way after just a week of marching in the hot sun in the parade ground, which doubled as the staff parking lot.  I concluded: let the Americans protect us.  They have more guns.  What  purpose did NATO and NORAD serve I asked in my own internal monologue. Personally, I wanted no part of the military.  I played my Mennonite card and with a note eagerly signed by my mom had me back on the streets faster than you can say, “Brunk Revival Campaign, born again Christian and Jesus Saves.”

Having given that vitriolic and anti militaristic statement I also have to admit that I loved to shoot a rifle.  Sorry Menno! Our school, buried deep within its bowels, had of all things, a rifle range.  I wondered what else they had buried under the school, or maybe some questions are better left unasked.  There were certain urban myths left unanswered.  Like did Jason Hurlbutt from 11-C actually move to Regina like school officials told us?

In order to pursue my love of shooting I had to put up with some of those mis cretin regular military types who also liked to shoot things.  We used old military rifles which were altered with a 22 bore, so the power they purported was illusory, but then so was the uniform.  My non-anabaptist friends wanted to know how they too could become Mennonite and get out of the militia while still being allowed to shoot a rifle.  My mumbled, inarticulate, but otherwise evasive answer had to do with a tangled web we weave when first we try to deceive and once I got passed the drowning of anabaptists I had pretty well lost my audience.

I have never attempted skit shooting, that may be more part of the Anglican faith.

     

Really Deep Religious Thoughts

Really Deep Religious Thoughts

I have grown up in the Mennonite World and for the past two years I have lived in the Muslim world. It was my students who gave me the best insight into their culture and religion.  I was struck with the many similarities between growing up Mennonite and Growing up Muslim. I have had two long years in this little desert country to think, ponder, research and delve into the complex intricacies of these two religions, Mennonite and Islam. For example, did you know that the names of the followers of these two religions each begin with the letter M.  Don’t let that I in Islam fool you.

Even though I pride myself in being somewhat of an armchair Mennonite/Islamic scholar/theologian don’t feel at all intimidated by the depth of my insights or the vast extent of my knowledge.  As Mennonites like to say, “be in the moment,” although that could be more of a zen thing now that I think of it. All I ask is that you read this chapter with an open mind and get what you can out of it, even if you have to read it twice, that just makes the book seem longer with more value for your money.  This whole book has been a satirical, tongue in cheek, quasi historical diatribe and I for one have had enough.  This chapter is serious.

It is impossible really to separate religion from the culture.  The two form an intricate interwoven fabric of values and norms that would be about as easy to separate as Siamese twins using 17th century surgical technology and know how.  The Islamic faith and virtually the entire basis of their belief system is often referred to as the Five Pillars. It is a rich architectural analogy that really seems to work, although I think it was Samson who pulled some pillars down in a rage over a really bad hair day he was having, but that could be more a Biblical than a Koranic reference.

The first pillar of Islam deals with prayer, ironical as I wrote that word prayer, I happened to be sitting in my office in Kuwait, in fact I can go one further, the call to prayer sounded at the same moment my I-Pod blasted out Placido Domingo singing Verdi’s Celeste Aida.  How ironic is that?

Personally, I have adjusted to the call to prayer and often wage a war of attrition with my I-Pod or TV set to drown out the call to prayer in its entirety  as it is projected from two giant minarets, sounds like a contradiction, I know.  Each tower is mounted with four loudspeakers so the Iman can be heard in surround sound. The minarets are situated directly across the street from our apartment at about the fourth floor level. Fortunately, our apartment is on the eighth floor and this affords us a small measure of acoustical relief.

During the call to prayer, each of the approximately 1000 mosques in Kuwait is actively broadcasting a similar message in 1000 different voices.  I have always felt, since living here, that Cat Stevens, now called Yousef and a devout Muslim, should be hired to make a Call to Prayer CD with a little acoustical guitar added in, so that all the mosques could pump out an identical message that had some musical merit.  Some Iman’s sound rhythmic while others just wouldn’t know their way around a Gregorian chat if it bit them in the ass.

The sound begins to bounce off buildings, echoes, and recoshes in every direction, like a 22 caliber bullet off a cement wall, to the point that the “call” morphs into an incomprehensible jumble of Arabic that I doubt many Kuwaitis could discern in any logical fashion. Yet it seems to work because as I look out my bedroom window I see the faithful begin to assemble from the four points of the compass and know exactly how to align their prayer mats with Mecca.

I have often wondered what the call to prayer actually means.  And I know as a reader what you must be thinking at this point, if I am such a hot shot Islamic/ Mennonite scholar/theologian why don’t I know what the call means.  The best way to interpret the meaning to the call to prayer, other than googling it, is too simply use sound recognition and basic phonetics. Its quite simple.

I successful used this system with my own children when they were young, while on family vacations.  I loved to drive and listen to opera which of course, like the call to prayer, is in some strange foreign language (I know I could google that too).  But I didn’t have to as it was quite easy to offer my kids a play by play translation of anything from  Puccini to Gershwin based on word parallelism.  Oddly, I soon discovered that many operas are actually about extreme sports (little known fact), such as hang gliding, motor cross racing, snow boarding, bungy jumping, heloskiing and various Nascar themes.  At least it kept my kids entertained and today they have a greater appreciation for extreme sports.

If your biological clock is not tuned into the schedule of the call to prayer, one only need get a copy of the Arab Times in which the prayer schedule is posted.  I am at the point at which my bladder is synchronized with the 3 am call to prayer. Sometimes I am up and semi awake and just tooling along the dark hallway to the washroom before the call even starts. Most often I could be back in bed before the “call” is finished.  I took it as a personal quest to do so.  During  many nights I don’t even hear the call to prayer any more.  I have hardened my heart.

Mennonites, like Muslims, are also expected to pray.  We are not on an exacting schedule and it is more up in the air (pun) as to what we say in our personal relationship to God and even when we say our prayers. Thank God we lack structure in regard to prayer.  I don’t want to be told when and where to pray.  We may pray in the car, in bed, kneeling down, on or off of a tiny rug, while walking, before meal time, at bedtime in rhyming couplets, free verse, or just as an inner monologue in traditional speech bubbles.  Basically, prayer is a free form open ended communication with out a cumbersome service provider and bad reception, using completely integrated and Apple compatible software.  The point is as Mennonites we probable pray a lot and for any number of reasons.  

As kid I prayed long and hard for a puppy, a new bike, a rifle, cap guns, snow days, White Christmas, a long and happy life for the Easter bunny and a heavenly host of other similar items, events or products.  I had mixed results with my praying and so the verdict is still out as to its effectiveness.  

I know as a kid, my brother and I shared a bedroom, actually we shared until we were in our twenties, despite the fact I had prayed for a separate room since grade 7; so I guess you can better appreciate my point relating to prayer effectiveness.  Perhaps praying for selfish things is not acceptable and if there is any pre screening or editing process for prayers on the way to heaven some of these more self centered wishes may get filtered out.  I don’t know for sure I can only pray for understanding. I have even considered prayer wheels in my unending quest for understanding.

When my mom was in my room at bed time we always prayed on our knees beside the bed, in what I would term a regulation pose.  When mom wasn’t there, if I did pray, I would pray in a prone position in bed, under the covers moments before falling asleep.  As a teen ager I think my prayers grew to be even more self centered and often had sexual themes about girls I had crushes on in grades 9 through 13. In retrospect I believe this era of prayer was probably verging on blasphemy and explains why I had pimples into my twenties and was very awkward with girls.  God works in mysterious ways.

As a university student I had a moratorium on prayer.  University days were a time of self doubt, religious doubt, a lack of faith in governmental institutions, a fear of nuclear war, and sexual transmitted diseases.  University was a time during which many Mennonite youths likely drifted from their faith. It might be safer to say that I didn’t so much drift away as much as I escaped in a high powered speed boat, like the ones used by drug runners in the Bahamas, and I made a dramatic rooster tail as I temporarily sped away from my religious roots.  The problem with drifting or speeding from your faith is that it is difficult, if not hypocritical to pray for guidance along the way.  

You see the thing about prayer I think is that we have to become vulnerable, have faith and trust in God.  As a student, and even now I still have core questions as to whether prayer can be answered.  One school of thought is that God did not create Man.  We created God and in our own image, but in some circles I could get shunned for even having that thought.

Recently, I had a excellent opportunity to reconnect with my Mennonite roots while trying to explain just exactly what Mennonites were to a class full of my own Muslim students.  How on earth could they possible relate in any meaningful way to a conservative  based religion founded by holy prophets from isolated Middle Eastern desert countries?  How could they grasp a religion, such as mine in which women were often covered and dressed in black, religion in which men held dominance and controlled everything from finances to family planning and who often had long beards and wore sandals.  It all seemed so theoretical.

How could I convey to my students the subtleties of my religion that originally had an agrarian base and a very nomadic existence as Mennonites in their diaspora settled around the world from Paraguay to Alma Ata on the Chinese border?  How could Muslim kids connect with the idea that we read from a holy book and often went to special classes, frequently held during the hot summer months, to memorize long passages of scriptures? How does one try to elucidate the concept of the importance of family and extended family over the importance of the nation state?  In so many ways explaining the characteristics of Mennonites to questioning Islamic students was like getting a camel through the eye of a needle.  It can’t be done.  My students just thought I was making it all up like I did most of my other lessons.

I soon grew to realize what a bizarre religion I had sprung from, even some of the stories we were taught in Sunday School don’t really hold up under heavy scrutiny.  I have heard these Bible stories over and over again to the point that it is difficult for me to write a piece of fiction without including Biblical allusions. Do you remember my reference to Samson in the introduction?

Bottom line is that I’m thankful I live in a multicultural tolerate country (Canada) which embraces religious freedom. I am most thankful that the Christian Bible was first written in English, I refer of course to the King James version, and not in some difficult foreign language that is read from right to left and from the back of the book to the front.  I believe, like most Christians, that the Bible was divinely inspired.  Had it been written in other languages like say latin, (no longer on the curriculum), Hebrew or even Greek each time it was translated it would lose some potency as meanings were lost in translation.

Was the Earth really completely flooded?  Did Noah actually gather up 2 of every species or just a partial representative sample?  Does God answer prayer?  Why is there suffering in the world?  Why was my 2005 tax return audited?  Religions create more questions than they answer.

I can only be reminded of the words of the Dali Lama who once said, “ ..test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” I just pray the next time he is reincarnated the Chinese will give him his country back.

Amen.

Grade Eight Class

Grade 8 class

This class I’m in is so nosiy and so loud,

They run and yell always thinking they’re so proud.

They don’t listen they don’t learn from the teachers,

They’re not mad they just don’t want to hear.

They hate to do work they hate to listen,

I cannot believe I was like that at age eleven!!

They always abruptly interrupt the class,

All of them even know that they’re not gonna pass.

They talk and they laugh,

They don’t listen to any of the staff.

But that is why they are always so much fun,

When they put down their pencils they know that they’re not done.

I wanna be just like that,

To talk, to laugh, and just standing around with friends and chat.

I know myself and I know that I am so boring,

But I’m fun because of them and always smiling in the morning.

They are so lucky to have so many great friends,

I am so lucky that this fun is never gonna end.

This class is so lazy the homework they get is what they hate,

But hey I guess that’s why they call it grade 8!

Written by a grade 8 native student

Back to the Future

Back to the Future

I was asked to be the substitute teacher for a grade 11 class because the regular teacher was sick and there are no real qualified subs out in the community.  I was it.  The first session involved watching portions of the Last Lecture a presentation by Randy Paucsh. The lecture from this dying professor is about realizing your dreams.  I have only seen part of this lecture previously and I thought that perhaps a few of the senior kids would also find it of interest, but that would be a NO.  In a second class I was to show a video clip narrated by Leonardo DiCaprio on the topic of global warming.  It was a documentary from the 11^th hour.

I would describe the student response to the videos in this way.  Sad.

Of the eight students in attendance several were texting during the viewing, several more had their heads down during most of the presentation and saw nothing and probably heard nothing as well.  I had tried to discuss each topic in way of a little intro prior to the viewing, but there was no evidence of curiosity or any level of interest whatsoever.  No questions, no comments, no understanding, no insights, no care.

One girl did not respond when I spoke to her.  Another just got up and left the room never to return.  Most laughed when Stephen Hawkins spoke through his voice synthesizer.  They did not know who he was.  I asked. 

Another healthy girl got up said she wasn’t feeling well and left the class. 

On either topic these students have no base line knowledge and no context with which to put larger world events into.  They have such a narrow realm of understanding and they may not even know it and if they do they do not care.

I give you the future.

(Teaching in a school rated 588th in Alberta)

Gifts from Afar

Gifts From Afar

The three wise men apparently arrived quite awhile after the birth of Jesus, by about two years, (how wise is that?) and totally missed the birth of Brian (a Monty Python reference) largely due to disagreements over what to get the savior of mankind.  It is a dilemma when you think of it.  The future savior of an entire planet, the son of God; what do you get the man who has everything, or will soon have everything,  A pair of sandals perhaps, a tough call to make during the long camel ride from, some say Turkey, others say Iran (present day) and many just don’t know.

Since this is actually a fictional piece I have changed the names of the three wise men to Meshach, Ishmael and Mohammad. At first I hesitated to use the name Mohammad because of the controversy that may very well entail. Think of the British teacher who called a teddy bear by that same name and the extremist who were ready to cane her or at least lash her for shaming the holy name.  Then I thought who will actually read this thing and decided I’d go with a common Middle Eastern name with splendor. 

In my story it was actually the big M (not a player from Toronto) who argued most vehemently about getting the baby Jesus something, if just a gift certificate.  He is after all lord of the Jews, king of kings and deserves nothing less than gold. This idea fixed in his head, as he was a very anal and linear thinker totally dwelling in his right hemisphere, stopped at the next market place that they passed.  I think it was in Damascus, and picked up a gold brick. He had it gift wrapped in silk and placed in a wooden box inlaid with exotic wood carvings of camel riders at sunset.  Mohammad being clearly goal orientated and a short term thinker and no idea what he had just started.

It was Ishmael who argued with Meshach, stating that if they weren’t careful about this whole gift giving and shopping thing they could start a dangerous precedent and an orgiastic spiral of blatant consumerism on a global scale which could ultimately upset the balance of trade between the East and the West, resulting in the use of child labour with non-existent labour standards in Asian factories mass producing consumer goods that would never meet CSA approved standards of safety or quality. Therefore, he argued that the best idea would be to buy a small token gift of perhaps five sheckles or less, wrap it in newsprint, and that would in fact suffice.

Gift buying, on a small scale, Ish and Mesh argued would be a meaningful compromise between unleashing the evils of rampant consumerism within the milieu of a shopping culture it generates and the true meaning of gift giving, which the three wise men had not actually agreed on yet.  However, the enigma was this, what was the true meaning of gift giving. Was it like Mohammad’s example of giving according to perceived status, or was it a compromise position between the jaws of uncontrolled spending and that of giving for the sake of giving. 

Meshach later insisted that if we are so wise let us not give anything for what does the baby Jesus need any way?  It turned out to be a rhetorical question because neither Mohammad nor Ishmael was actually listening to this bit of lunacy.  I believe, as the story has been retold over countless generations, Ishmael made this outrageous statement just outside of Bethlehem.

I pause the story here to point out the dilemma and highlight what has happened so far.  Three wise men arriving very late, can’t agree on a gift protocol for what many Christians would argue to be the most important birthday ever, soon to become a national holiday celebrated during the Christmas holidays in the entire Western World, as likely Jesus was a spring birth, following the great Mesopotamian power failure also covering the Dead Sea region about nine months previous, and later described as a virgin birth. Perhaps, because Joseph was feeling a tad guilty about not paying the utility bills (when can you trust a man to organize such things?) for several months and thinking it was lights out as usual, and since no one could see any way.  I leave the rest to your imagination.

I digress, and return to the whole messy issue of what to get Jesus for his birthday.  It was just outside of Bethlehem; the three amigos had just pulled in their camels for an oasis stop off the interstate and parked under a date palm of magnificent proportions.  They were just finishing a snack of goat curd and pita when Mohammad elucidated the gift issue and made a final resolution to the problem. “Gentlemen,” he began, this is truly (verily) a defining moment in history. I know you guys think we shouldn’t do much of anything to celebrate the birth of the messiah, but I really think that we as Majis need to set the example.  You know not just talk the talk, but walk the walk.”

When Mohammad got excited he often broke into the jargon and clichés of future generations.  He was, after all named after a prophet. “I already got him a gift of gold.  I think at the next stop, maybe even at this waterhole, you should pick up something little, maybe a tool set, a swatch watch, or frankincense and Mir is always popular.  And true, I know Jesus probably doesn’t need any of this stuff, but what about giving for the goodness of giving?  What about being personal and touch the life of someone we love and play in forward and maybe, just maybe do some good in this sorry world.”  Mohammad began to sound like a fundamentalist southern Baptist preacher, but  none the less was still effective in rallying Ish amd Mish off to make their purchases.

The next night they followed the star to a manger where they found the babe actually long gone and staying with a cousin over on Third Ave, just behind the new casino the Bedouins had franchised.   They reverently presented the toddler, still breast feeding at 2, with the gifts of gold, frankincense and Mir, thus starting the cherished tradition carried on by most families to this day.

mr

Take Outs and Bloopers

Take Outs and Bloopers

Aluminum palm tress stand rigid as dress soldiers

On parade at a Montana truck stop,

Lincoln’s chiseled face, rock solid like his virtue,

A frantic mountain goat runs in maternal search

For its lost young separated by a tourist walkway,

We all stop to take pictures under Washington’s stern gaze.

Sway to sexy soothing saxophone serenade

like feeding butterflies sucking on orange nectar,

Women’s high heeled shoes arrayed symmetrically in a

Madrid store front window,

The stone Buddha smiles knowingly and eternally,

A thousand Harleys angle park in small town America,

Ripened citrus in a Seville royal garden scents the air

And seduces the senses.

Christopher Columbus rests in state.

He discovered the New World.

What would he think?

While you my love, necklace adorned lie naked

Next to my soul.  We discovered it all.

Everything else is either take out or blooper.

Everything I Know About Life I learned at My Garage Sale

Everything I Know about Life I Learned at my Garage Sale

As I near the end of my sixth decade on this planet, my favourite one I might add, Al Gore has made me more aware of the fact that as a species we have accelerated like a sub-atomic particle from about a population of three billion people when I entered the scene as a young baby boomer to about 7 billion people today.  Should I live to the mean age, for Canadian males of 79.7 years, we should have a population of about 9.3 billion people.  That, in and of itself, is great cause for introspection, but I’m getting ahead of myself as this little piece of writing is actually about garage sales.  I’ll make the connection to Al Gore and global warming later, or not.

The tough part about a garage sale, and there are many tough parts, is dealing with people who have the garage sale mentality and are perfectly capable of walking over hot coals or their mothers to make a deal and then get on to the next garage sale over one block from your own, where they are selling collector plates complete with documents of authenticity, that no one really wants to buy any way.   

Here’s a little bit of background information which should actually follow the introduction. We have to down size our place because of stringent economic conditions currently beyond our control in a world where destiny is in random synchronization with good karma.  In the vernacular we were screwed over by an insurance company and as a result my wife lost her income following a car accident in which she was the victim. 

C was sitting at a traffic light four cars back from the intersection when I guy rounded the corner behind her having just dropped his cell phone and managed to rear end my wife’s car and a rather high speed. The ironic part here is that the cell-phone-crazed-driver was driving a vehicle from Speedy Brake.  As a result of this accident, now over six years ago, the insurance company (refer to appendix for the actual name of this company) has recently requested that we pay back thousands of dollars in past benefits that we did not apparently qualify for, and therefore the garage sale; so here we are on a bright Saturday morning selling off some pretty good stuff to a group of strangers for next to nothing.

We organized the sale the night before.  It took us about four hours to get the items out to the drive way and display them on makeshift tables we made out of the many cardboard boxes that we have for the big move.  Prior to this it took weeks of agonizing over the reality that we have to sell our home that we poured our heart and soul into over the past five years.  Many evenings C and I sat silently in the backyard, surveying our beautiful gardens weeping over a cup of coffee too stunned for speech.

Once we made the decision to sell we rallied and organized and sifted and sorted our stuff until on  this fine morning I stood on my drive way unfolding the tarp which covered our history.  Five cars were parked in front of the house with people just waiting to pounce.  Sadly, I viewed my darkroom equipment sitting prominently at the end of the driveway in two large boxes labeled with a $20 price tag.  This was equipment I had collected since grade 11 at great cost and had used in many different homes and with which I had taught my kids, all four of them, basic darkroom procedures…all of this was going for twenty dollars.  In fact by late morning it sold for $15 to my neighbour who has a son interested in photography.  I was delighted that my stuff had found a good home and grieving as I helped my neighbor carry it over to her yard.

Our neighbour is a dear sweet older lady who understands perfectly why we are moving.  We have two versions of the story, the real one and  a reader friendly, watered down and optimistic one for more general consumption. For some reason I had given my neighbour the concentrated version and yet she bargained me down five dollars on my darkroom equipment. Late in life and on this day I realized I was still learning things about human nature.  It does not matter what your personal economic situation is, people, much better off still want a deal and will walk all over you to get it.  This from a 74 year old neighbour.

It is now time for a quote.  Isak Dinesen, I think he was Danish (1885-1962) wrote:

It is more than their land that you take away

From the people, whose native land you take.

It is their past as well, their roots and their Identity.”

He was actually writing in an historical context about imperialism, but I thought I could equally apply his quote to my garage sale as that is what I’m trying to do here, so work with me. My darkroom equipment was like my land it was part of my personal past and formed a good part of my identity.  As C, my dear wife of 8 years, and I were sitting in the shade of the garage during a lull in the sale I commented to her.  “When I watch some of our things go it’s like a little piece of you is lost forever into a timeless primeval abyss.”  I didn’t actually say the abyss part, but I was thinking it.  I guess the one lady picking over some of our stuff heard my comment and quickly apologized for wanting to buy something.  I made light of it with her and gave her a deal on a box of books for only two dollars.  Mind you one of my favourite books was in that box, one I might have wanted to read again, but I think you are now getting my point about introspection. Read the title again.

It was Confucius (551-479 BCE) who wrote, “ In governing, cleave to good, as the north star holds its place, and the multitude of stars revolve around him.”  I’m not sure if him refers to the North Star or a Chinese Emperor, nor am I sure about how this quote relates to garage sales as they were likely after the time of Confucius.  I do know that I had to cleave to good and navigate some sort of course out of our current mess. Okay, last quote.  I teach history I am not responsible for the quotes. Frederick Douglas, an American human rights leader wrote that, “Without struggle, there can be no progress.”  Between Confucius and Douglas I realized that without crisis there can be no change and that what I was learning about myself and my neighbours during our garage sale was also instrumental in altering our stasis

As one prepares for a garage sale there is the tedious and extensive process of sorting through memorabilia.  This is actually the most joyful, painful and time consuming part of any move.  One must move through this crisis or hurdle in order to move on to the next location where more memories will accumulate, at some point, one takes pause and looks through the photo albums, scrap books, old books and clothing.  Each has a significant or trivial memory, yet each is important.  The difference between the pack rat/hoarder mentality and the live lean and travel light philosophy is the ability to part with the physical evidence of your past.

There is actually a gene in the human genome that causes people to hoard.  I believe it serves as some sort of survival mechanism because if you save everything then possibly at some point you will have the crucial letter, or pennant, or platform shoe with bellbottom pants that will make you the best dressed guest at a retro party your alumni association is having at a university you attended 30 years ago.  I think I have at least part of that gene. 

 I start packing a box and out of the corner of my eye I see a father’s day card from my son P when he was just learning to print and already quite good at drawing.  It says, “to the best Dad ever... I love you.”  Then of course I have to read it again and make sure I don’t tear on it to mess up the water colours on the front of the card.  Then I have to show C who will lovingly cluck at the wonderful piece of art and Paul’s great talent while gently urging me on to pack the damn box the movers will be here soon and get on with it.  I quietly submit until I see this adorable pastel picture that J drew, I think she was in High School.  It was a night scene of an urban landscape and it was perfectly rendered in abstract terms.  At one time it was above my desk in a little apartment that J and I shared after the divorce…C clears her throat and I move on. Already I have a card and a picture in the box.  A frantic pace….