Churched

My father once said that my mother went to church every time they opened the doors. This was kind of true. She was in the choir, which meant rehearsals one night a week. She was the substitute organist and, as the lead soprano, often sang solos. 

My dad, on the other hand, blatantly and irreverently claimed salvation through association (typically hilarious). Because he didn’t attend, my sister and I sat by ourselves on the front pew under our mother’s stern eye. At ages five and six we were expected to sit still and be quiet, which we did.

Mom also taught Sunday school and, while dealing with troublesome children wasn’t her forte, she did it because no one else stepped up and she thought it was important.

And she had a job outside the home, which in those days was considered forward by some of the more narrow-minded parishioners.

In short, she was a hard worker, a busy woman. 

I considered church, like school, as simply another boring thing I was required to do. I had no idea why I was there, and nobody ever told me. Furthermore, the service never altered in any way. Someone read from the Bible, we sang and recited the same responses every week, and a man stood above us and gave a mind-numbing talk while I distracted myself by scribbling observations on the program and showing them to my sister. In Sunday school my attention went to the rude boys who, my mother explained, were rude because they wanted attention. Apparently their ploy worked. 

When I was thirteen or fourteen, the youth group gave a fund-raising spaghetti supper. The older teens were to put on an entertaining play and the younger ones would pour tea and deliver dinner to the tables. The mothers would supervise, and a time for preparation was scheduled for the afternoon on the day of. My mother was busy with our younger sister and couldn’t participate. I was washing cups for the after-meal coffee when a few women began a conversation in the adjacent pantry. 

“Where’s Bea?” one asked. 

“She never comes to these things. She’s too busy to help.” Snide tone.

“Some women take no responsibility, even when their own kids are involved.” 

“The children suffer when a mother works outside the home.” 

I’d thought these women were kind. They buzzed around the fellowship hall with smiles. They gave sincere compliments. They arranged outings and lessons for us. 

Soon after, I let church go. It was fifteen years before I realized that every person who called themselves Christian wasn’t a hypocrite. 

David, also, was raised in the church. When young, he was an acolyte. Unlike me, he appreciated the unchanging order of worship. He knew the seasons of the church and the purpose of the various parts of the service. I guess he paid more attention during confirmation classes than I did. When our kids came along, he thought it was a good idea to do the church thing, and I went along with it because it seemed to matter to him. 

Finding a church home was the next step. The American Protestant church in The Hague was cliquey and crowded and, while I think children are important, so child-centric that there was no room for anything else. So we switched to a small Anglican church which focused on harmony, and we were happy there. 

In the UK we tried a Baptist church that was near our home. Having been raised in the Bible-thumping south, I’d been subjected to some choose Jesus or go to hell sermons, but I never expected to hear one in a quaint little English village. So we tried the nearby Anglican church where, more often than not, the homily focused on how materialistic and misguided Americans were. This was the best we could in that location and I never felt comfortable there. 

In thirty-odd years we’ve attended ten churches in six different countries, and we’ve compared the similarities and differences of five denominations. We’ve become adept at recognizing a good fit. If a church is frantic, if appearance is its focus, if the congregants aren’t warm toward one another, we walk away. When I enter the right church for the first time, I feel tranquility and open-mindedness, not as nebulous concepts, but as palpable entities.  

My intention isn’t to push church at people, though I find guidance and comfort there. Lately Christianity has been commandeered by the right and, in reaction, vilified by the left. Because Christianity is misrepresented by one faction and maligned by the other, it seems unclear what Christians stand for. Believe me, the majority of Christians have no political agenda and are heartsick over the current divisions in our communities and in our country. The aim of any God-seeking church, and any Christian within the church, is to be a positive force; to encourage, help, and tolerate; and to choose peace. We praise, we petition, we wait. And then we do it again.

The cross at the church we go to now.

On a lighter note, I went shopping the other day. Peasant dresses are back in style. That’s a lot of flowery fabric!

You wear this one when you want people to confuse you with a Delft vase.

The Canadian Experience

Common wisdom has it that Canadians are efficient, compliant, and optimistic. As a rule, cultures don’t like to be gathered in and bound by simplifications; but in my experience there’re reasons for generalities. For instance, Austrians are indeed dour. The French are spontaneous and doggedly romantic. Ukrainians have a reputation for being determinedly tough, which they’ve proven to be. And I’ve never met a Jewish person who couldn’t turn a single dollar into five.

Do Canadians show themselves to be true to type? Here’s what I’ve learned:  

In Vancouver the reflective windows of the high-rises are crawling with window cleaners. While the employees such as receptionists and other servers bemoan a post pandemic shrunken work force, we are, in fact, impressed by the number of people behind counters, behind steering wheels, and behind brooms. Their dearth of employees isn’t nearly as evident in the portion of Canada we’ve seen as it is in our part of Texas, where some restaurants are still closed and every business in Marble Falls is short-staffed.

As a late afternoon excursion, we’re taken to an indigenous art gallery, led through the history of the native work, given the names and successes of the artists, and told how the land we’re standing on is occupied territory belonging to a tribe whose name I forget as soon as it lands in my ears. Inwardly, I rebel. It’s bad enough that guilt is pressed upon me concerning American aggression and slavery without being fed Canada’s guilt, too. Without resentment, our guides dwell on the indigenous people in an indoctrinated way, as though giving them an overabundance of credit for having once had a culture is enough to make up for destroying it.

As to the matter of compliance, we’ve been asked to keep our masks on when we move through hotel lobbies and when we’re up and about in the train. How do we react to this directive? We grumble because it’s stupid that, when our group is packed in a train car for hours at a time, we’re asked to don masks as, together, we make our way to the dining car. Annoying to dig masks from pockets in order to cross through a lobby where no one else is masked. The Canadians, however, don’t get ruffled about trivialities. They simply comply and get on with things.

However, I’m coming to think this composure is contrived as I watch our tour guide struggle to maintain equanimity when the bus doesn’t arrive to take us to the train station. Outside the broad front glass of the hotel he turns reddish, expends great energy in his pacing, and spits vile words into his phone. Then, terminating his call, he visibly alters his bearing and expression to reflect confidence and tranquility as he comes inside to assure us that there is no problem and that we will make our train on time; though the minutes are passing and we all know that the train never waits. Out he goes again—more pacing, more calls, more furrowed brow; and once more he returns to us, promising that all will be well.

In the end he’s able to come to an agreement with another tour guide, who graciously offers to share his company’s bus. Our guy’s expression morphs from dark helplessness into one of relief; and then into dismissal as he mentally tucks the unpleasantness away, straightens his stance, and demonstrates his Canadian resilience—though I believe in years to come he will remember the perfidy of the bus driver as one of his bleakest professional experiences. As to the other tour guide’s generosity—what a Canadian thing to do.

Half an hour later as we roll from the train station, ten or fifteen railway workers line up along the platform and wave good-bye. Friendly! We move forward at a glacial pace for half an hour or so; then the train comes to a stop and, as slowly as we’d gone in one direction, we begin to go in the opposite, consuming the same amount of time as well. It’s circulated about that there’d been a need to switch tracks, a manipulation that could have been done earlier. We got up at five for a nine o’clock departure. Because of the delay caused by the nonappearance of the bus and the forward and backward route of the train, we lost two hours of sleep. Ah well.

A puzzling yet uplifting thing that happens is that all day, as our train rolls grandly along, people wave to us from their yards, their porches, and their upstairs windows. Also, they get out of their cars as they’re being help up at the crossings, and wave cheerfully as we pass by.

After a ten-hour train ride, when we arrive at the place where we’ll spend the night—what a long day of non-movement and too much eating—I make a beeline for the lobby washroom and, during the forty seconds it takes me to pee, the self-flushing toilet flushes three times below my bare butt, sending wet droplets and a cold breeze upward. Disturbing and wasteful. This happened in the hotel in Vancouver, also, leading me to the undeniable conclusion that this, in Canada, happens more often than it should. It’s an offense I’ll never get used to.

On the upside, we’re now indulging in a free day at the Jasper Park Lodge, where our room is large and we share a rustic common area with four other couples, which I intend to use for my solitary five a.m. writing. And after a delicious breakfast David and I will walk around beautiful glassy lakes while elks wander through and marmots peek from their burrows. And the air is fresh and cool, and snow-topped mountains surround. It is a glorious relief from the hot windy drought in the hills west of Austin.

Chateau Lake Louise. A breathtakingly lovely hotel. If you’re ever in Alberta you should stay here.

Requisite reflective view from Chateau Lake Louise.

On the Athabasca glacier. Our third glacier. They wheeled us around up there on a huge vehicle. Thanks, David, for helping me upload these photos in a foreign land.

Travel Day

David reads the text from American Airlines.

“Our flight’s delayed by an hour,” he says. This is troublesome in that we’ll miss our connecting flight out of Dallas. He does a quick search and continues, “Looks like there aren’t any other flights at that time or earlier.”

“Not only that,” I tell him. “But the hot water heater’s not working.”

He slumps. Our travel day isn’t off to an auspicious start.  

Other than taking Dilly to the dog sitter, I’m packed and ready. Delivering her to Sunrise Beach and returning home will take forty-five minutes.

“We could drive it,” I suggest.

The drive to Dallas is just over three hours. A hassle, but it’ll get us there in time. We alter our plans. David rushes to finish his packing—but on the road from dropping off Dilly, he calls.  

“Now it’s undelayed,” he says.

No damage except to our equilibrium.

Air travel is wild these days. Having heard how busy the airports are, we arrive at Austin’s Bergstrom Airport an outlandish four hours before our flight. For some reason—because we’re traveling internationally?—we’re not allowed to check in electronically. We spend an hour in the check-in line. I don’t feel grouchy about the length of the wait because things could be worse. For instance, in line behind us an Indian man and his wife shuffle along. They’re shrunken, gray, rattled by the chaos, and much too old and infirm to leave their homes.

It’s obvious from the milling crowd at the gate that the flight is going to be packed. When it’s our group’s turn to load, we’re told that the overhead compartments are full so we’re required to check our carry-ons. As do most people, I pack the necessities in my carry-on—the plugs for my devices, my Kindle and reading glasses, my laptop, and a sarape for when we reach the cool night air of Vancouver. I panic about what to grab. I understand that this happens. But how did we come to be in this group in the first place? It seems so random. I explain to the woman that I need my carry-on with me.

“Check it or you won’t get on the plane.” Abruptly, coldly, she turns away. I know she feels harassed, but so do I. I kind of hate her.

I will not have access to the possessions I consider to be necessary for the next seven hours. Flustered, I am given only a minute to decide what to carry by hand on to the flight. I grab my Kindle and my reading glasses; and my small suitcase is tagged and carried away.  

When I get to my seat I rethink my pressured choices. I left my laptop in the unlocked carry-on. The chance of a baggage handler stealing my laptop is a billion to one. But on it is my latest, almost completed, novel, Sovereign Worm, a dramedy based on love potion blunders. I won’t stop fretting until I roll my carry-on away from the luggage carousel in Vancouver. Also, I resent every person on the flight who was allowed a carry-on.

UPCOMING INSENSITIVITY ALERT!

As David prefers the aisle and I like the window, in making our reservations we always leave the middle seat vacant in the hope that the flight won’t be full, and no one will take the middle seat. This led to another disturbing incident I had on my last flight with American.

The seat between us was claimed by a massive man—three-fifty would be my guess. His girthy butt cracked the armrest—literally broke it—as he forced himself into the seat. I was squashed up against the wall of the plane, his flesh spilling over on to my arm and shoulder, pressing against my hip and thigh. I wrote a note asking if there was another seat available on the plane, and if so, might I move? When the flight attendant swept by, I called out a “Hey! Please.” She came back, but was unable to see me because I was hidden by the corporeal mountain. I waved the note in the air to catch her attention; and she reached around him and plucked it from my fingers. Moving up the aisle a few feet, she assessed my pitiful situation. Then, folding the note, she walked away; and I never got a response. I mean, I could understand if she couldn’t do anything about it, but I should have received acknowledgement of, and perhaps sympathy for, my plight. Recompense in the form of a few passes to the lounge or a free ticket would’ve been thoughtful.  

Back to the present: On the second leg of our journey to Vancouver, once again the middle seat has gone to an extremely overweight man. I ask if he’d mind changing places, a suggestion he’s amenable to. At least this way, I’m not pressed against the wall of the plane for hours.

As this is the second time this has happened to me, I give the matter concentrated thought and come up with an excellent solution to the problem. If the airline required customers to include weight information when they buy a ticket, the controlling powers could place all the appallingly obese people together. In that way the larger folks would be able to relax about offending the lesser sized. They could allow their flesh to overflow with abandon. They could joke with one another about the absurd disparity between their backsides and the tiny seats. Truly, all would be happy.

This idea is brilliant, and I will share it with the airline immediately.

Meanwhile, hello Vancouver! With relief, I greet my carry-on. All is well.

A lovely city!

Now I know where all the Recall Drugstores went.

View from our room at the Waterfront Fairmont.

Distressing Incident

A woman enters a women’s clothing shop in Marble Falls. She is surly, not responding when one of the salesclerks greets her, and she keeps her hand far down in her purse, which is weird because inspecting clothes requires both hands. The hand in the purse plus the unfriendly attitude invites suspicion, especially considering that the two employees are on edge because of the school shooting last week—and that’s understandable because crazies are everywhere and one of them could walk in and start shooting at any moment.

The two staffers huddle together beside the cash register, discussing the customer in agitated whispers.

“Why is her hand in her purse like that? And why is she so rude?”

“She’s behaving suspiciously. It looks like she’s clutching something inside that purse.”

“Do you think it could be a gun?”

“I’m calling the police.”

The worker steps to the back area and taps in 911, giving the name of the shop and saying that a customer is behaving in a suspicious manner and that they fear she’s holding on to a gun in her purse.

“Stay away from her,” the responder instructs. “Get out of the store and wait for the police.”

And so the associates step outside, where they stand together and wait for help to come.

But then Bang! A gunshot reverberates through the area.

Panicked, the women race in different directions. One runs out to the street, gets in her car, drives home, and is too frightened to leave her house for the rest of the day. The other takes refuge in a nearby shop where she has a view of what’s going on at her workplace.

 A minute after the gunshot, the customer exits and wanders across the square, disappearing around a building.  

The worker, seeing that the woman is no longer in the store, returns to the shop and stands in the doorway to wait for the police. Because the location is sheltered, she has no way of knowing that out on the street fire engines, ambulances, and pretty much every police car the city owns have blocked traffic; or that, taking cover behind buildings that block her view, three big red-faced men approach wearing full body armor, with automatic weapons at the ready.

They storm around the corner, running toward her as they shout and point their terrifying weapons at her. They’re worked up and their objective is to conquer.  

“Get your hands up!” A thunderous voice. “Put your hands in the air!”

Do they not have eyes? This is a woman in her seventies, frail and small. Terrified to have three guns trained on her, she lifts her hands over her head. Later she won’t be able to stop shaking. She will vomit.

Eventually calm descends. The officers come to understand that she works there, that it was her co-worker who called 911, and that they’d heard a gunshot and a few minutes later the customer had come out and gone in that direction—she accompanies this with a wave toward the far corner.

She gives a description of the customer and the cops saunter away, intending to find the woman. The salesperson goes inside. She takes a deep breath. Knees trembling, she sinks to the stool behind the counter, gazes out the front window, and clears her head of all thoughts.

Ten minutes later the policemen return escorting the woman. They ask the saleslady to identify her as the customer in question, which she does. At this, the woman, standing between two officers, becomes furious and begins to yell.

“What are you accusing me of? I didn’t do anything wrong! I came into your shop and I left! There’s no law against that!”

In her anger, she is aggressive and takes a threatening step toward the clerk. The two men hold her back. Then they accompany her outside, talk to her for a few minutes, and send her on her way.  

One of the cops returns inside and explains that there was no reason to take her into custody, that you can’t arrest someone for being in a bad mood inside a dress shop.

“But we heard a gunshot! What about that?”

“Ma’am, there wasn’t any gun. It was probably a balloon.”

And he, too, takes his leave.

“I know a gunshot when I hear one,” she tells me later. “And people in the other businesses heard it too.”

She’s adamant. It’s a mystery.

There’s a lesson here, which I intend to take to heart. When I enter a store and someone gives me a merry greeting, I will respond cheerfully even if I’m feeling grumpy. And I’ll keep my hands visible at all times because who knows what someone might think if I don’t?

A Marble Falls Sunset