[lit-ideas] Sunday Story
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 3 Apr 2011 12:32:18 -0700
With their well-trained gazes and techniques, it in the lives of others that
scholars usually discover madness and superstition.
At the burrito stand close by work, those who wait in line are invited to shake
up a tube of Chinese fortune sticks. The notion is that if one stick sticks
out more than others, that's what lolly stick wood gods (or whatever) have in
store for you. Several weeks back, the lady who spoons guacamole and beans and
rice (chicken for the heathens) invited me to try. Not wanting to appear rude,
I did. "Something bad is about to come your way," was what I pulled. "No
problem," I quipped, "it's already happened; our furnace broke this morning.
I'll get someone to fix it." She offered me sweet chilli.
Weeks later, in time for Spring's warmth, and April fools, we now have heat. I
imagined we safely beyond that particular stick's reach. A colleague at work
recommended a dessert beer. I have taken all kinds of flak from friends for
suggesting that there is such a thing as dessert beer. What I'm talking about
are dark Belgian beers, old and approaching the alcoholic content of wines.
You have a sip or two at the end of a meal and it's like port: a smooth, short,
final swig. My colleague's recommendation, however, was quite different, a
large bottle of stout which when opened revealed a nose and flavor tones of
creme caramel. The first few sniffs and tastes were truly extraordinary. How
can this be? And then the flavors registered; about as tasty as instant eggs
on a polystyrene plate. Promise turned to horror.
For reasons too complicated to explain, this week we thought we might move the
our antique hot tub--twenty five years old and still running--about six feet to
the south. Absent my mighty friend who chucks telephone poles about and stones
and all that his Mormonism allows, while wearing a kilt... absent his help,
Gardening Guy and I felt we didn't have a quorum for the full task. So we did
a trial lift, aimed at discovering how the tub was constructed, and how it
would consequently need to be supported in its new location. Concluding that
it was a little on the heavy side, we let it down. My big toe was a slow to
retreat. Thanks to a good, thick, Wellie and a sufficiency of instinct... not
even a bruised toenail.
"Ha!" I cried, to that old god of sticks, "See!"
Hubris. We discovered that a rat had decided in the cold of winter to move
into the tub's heating compartment. Much bleach and hosing, but then I was
sure we'd finally moved beyond the lolly god (or gods') reach.
Gardening Guy bonked his head on a beam. Bled like someone who takes aspirin
to prevent strokes. (This is He who lifts two hundred pound rocks all day long
and then goes off to play soccer.)
Ice, water, and a sticking plaster fixed this. I gave up all responses, silent
or otherwise, to superstition. Got on with the job.
Notify the Chinese, Hadrian, all future archeologists: our stone wall is close
to done.
Yeah verily, it is an good wall. Strange, perhaps, made even, in that it has
grown organically rather than according to a sound plan, but it is beautiful
and very strong. I confidently assert that if any enemy, armed with ancient
cannon and the like, tries to sneak up the valley below, approaching from the
south west with the sun at their backs..., we'll be ready.
Or we will once I've primed the Duck Punt gun.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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