Monday, February 28, 2011

The Colour of Poverty

Brett and I lingered over our candle-lit dinner, and reflected on our day.  While I had taken the opportunity to lounge the day away, he had ventured out with his camera slung around his neck, intent on capturing the heart of Malawi via his lens. Children had swarmed around him, jumping, posing and begging to have their pictures taken. Laughter followed him around the beach and through the village, as he wandered. The sparkle in his eyes told me that he had enjoyed every minute of it.
I had seen that myself, when he ambled up the beach with his entourage of boys giggling and yelling. They had stopped at my towel where I was reading, and their antics were a sight to behold. Gregarious boys were laughing and running circles around us. Shy girls quietly clung to the outskirts of the circle, a part of the fray, but by their nature, removed. A few daring girls came over to feel my hair and skin, to see if it felt any different than their own black counter-parts. I encouraged their curiousity and admired their beauty as well. It was a delightful exchange and the mirth was infectious. By the time the group dispersed, I was smiling and laughing too. 

Over dinner our conversation was a little more serious though.  While the children had been happy and friendly,  their poverty was all too apparent. They were dressed in nothing more than rags. Excessive wear had robbed the clothes of any colour that they once may have sported. The contrast between their childish glee, was strangely muted by their drab monotonous colour palette. While it did not dampen their enthusiasm, it did diminish our joy.
One image remained in my mind of a little boy in the group that had been wearing a pair of trousers that were bereft of a crotch or bum. His little “chaps” spoke volumes of the standard of living that was so disparate from my own, so far away.  While Brett reminded me that he probably kept his better clothes for school, that could not shake the vision from my eyes. I would not have kept his clothes for rags back home, but here he was running around in public without adequate covering. I am not overly prudish, but his exposure hurt my heart and soul.
 As we watched the last light of the day disappear, we wondered what we would learn the following morning. It would prove to be interesting, as we would see exactly what some of these children did wear to school. It was the last day of the term for the students at Mwaya Beach Primary School. A couple of boys that Brett had met on the beach had invited us to tag along with them to hear test results and tour their classrooms.
I watched the full moon rise into the sky, before being driven under my mosquito net for the night to dream of my date at the chalkboard.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Saturday's Email of the Week: Got a Guffaw

Thank God it's almost Spring and chapstick won't be so necessary any more. Ew!
  

This will be particularly interesting info for those that suffer from chapped lips.


THE ORIGIN OF CHAPSTICK

An old cowhand came riding into town on a hot, dry, dusty day. The local
sheriff watched from his chair in front of the saloon as the cowboy wearily
dismounted and tied his horse to the rail a few feet in front of the sheriff.

"Howdy, Stranger."

"Howdy, Sheriff."

The cowboy then moved slowly to the back of the horse, lifted his tail and
placed a big kiss on the horse's butt hole.  He dropped the horse's tail,
stepped up on the walk, and aimed toward the swinging doors of the saloon.

"Hold on there, Mister," said the Sheriff, "Did I just see what I think I
saw?"

"Reckon you did, Sheriff. I got me some powerful chapped lips."

"And does that cure them?" the Sheriff asked.

"Nope...but it keeps me from lickin' 'em."

Friday, February 25, 2011

The Neverending Story




Turn around
Look at what you see...

Reach the stars
fly up and you'll see

Dream a dream
and what you see will be

lives that keep their secrets
will unfold behind the clouds

And there upon the rainbow
is the answer to a neverending story

In your hands
the birth of a new day

** Those are 55 words, but not mine today. I borrowed them from Limahl, the singer behind "The Neverending Story". It is the theme song for a movie by the same name, that I loved as a kid. I watched it with my girls tonight and they enjoyed the story as much as I did back in 1984, and still do today. It is a movie about believing in yourself and your dreams. It touched my heart with its pure message, and I share with you above some of that.


If you have a Flash Fiction in 55 words, go check out the fun over at G-Man's. He is always a swell host and will make a point of coming to visit you. Happy Friday everyone!

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Heart Song

golden haired angel
with gentle nature and charms
riding love's heart waves
fed by birth's memories and
the joyful sound of laughter


Hearts


Happy Birthday Princess
My first baby turns six today.
Love you forever


If you are looking for a glut of poetry
you could go take a gander at the folks at One Stop.
Today is Wednesday and the poetry is, as always,
hot and ready!


Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The Glass Castle: A Memoir By Jeannette Walls

The Glass Castle: A Memoir;  by Jeannette Walls (© 2005 Jeannette Walls, Publisher - Scribner, 288 pages)

I went to a friend's house for dinner not long ago. We hadn't seen each other in almost two years, so there was a lot of catching up to do. We discussed our children, our jobs, but more importantly, what we were doing with our lives to bring us a spot of joy. Both of us discovered that we had joined book clubs since we had seen each other last. Before I left, she handed me a book that she had read a few months back. She had enjoyed it and thought I might too. I got a brief synopsis, then went home with smiles on my face from dinner with good friends  and the acquisition of a new book for my bedside table. The Glass Castle was that book. I think I read it in about 3 days.

The Glass Castle is a memoir from Jeannette Walls. The cover proclaims the book a New York Times Bestseller, and the back page remarks that it won a Christopher Award and a Books for a Better Life Award. While I can appreciate praise, I opened the book ready to make my own judgement of how good the book really was. I met Walls sliding down in the seat of a taxi, trying to remain unseen by her Mother, as she rifled through a dumpster. An interesting start. I read on.

From Walls' introduction in her elegant party attire and lavish apartment on Park Avenue in New York City, we are taken back  in time to her youth. Her first memory is from the age of three. She begins her tale casually describing an accident where she is badly burned while cooking hot dogs in her family's small trailer in Arizona. Her Mother manages to get a neighbour to drive them to hospital, where Jeannette spends the next six weeks recovering from the burns and subsequent skin grafts that were necessary to save her life. She is strangely calm and accepting of the trauma, almost relishing her stay in hospital where she gets regular meals, clean clothes and bedding, plus much attention from the doctors and nursing staff. While her family comes to visit her, her Father comes across as brash and un-trusting of the environment. After arguing with the doctors on yet another occasion, her father materializes one day to check Jeannette out "Rex Walls-style"; he clandestinely unhooks her from her sling, picks her up in his arms and runs pell-mell down the hallway and out the emergency doors to their idling car.

"You're safe now," he proclaims, but as I read on, the truth of that seems improbable.

Jeannette was one of four children of Rex Walls and Rose Mary. As the story continues we get to know the Walls family; Dad's drunken ranting, cussing and raving, Mom's obsession with painting and little else, and the four children that seem to be pretty much left to their own devices to fend for themselves. Money is always tight and often non-existent. Food is a luxury that is wolfed down for its scarcity. In the first dozen years of Walls' life travel is frequent, but usually in the form of a "skedaddle" where most everything is left behind, as they depart in the middle of the night.

The years are tough, but Walls weaves a story that does not ask for sympathy. While her father is a self-serving alcoholic, he loves his family and tries to install his values in the children. They often wear threadbare clothes and get teased for being skin-and-bones, but all of the kids boast high intelligent and polite manners. Cleanliness might not be held in regard, but knowledge is of the utmost importance. Walls demonstrates this when she recounts a Christmas where a lack of money translates to a bleak looking holiday. With a keen sense of ingenuity and pure love, Rex gives each of his children a star for Christmas. With the gift of the star, also comes all the knowledge about its attributes, that belies the intelligence that can be found within Walls' stormy Father. You cannot help but acquiesce the materialism that surrounds the holiday and indeed of the North American culture as a whole.

The abject poverty leads one to assume that the Walls children are all doomed to abysmal lives. The funny thing about it is, that the morals and strict adherence to a decent education, often found while wandering through the desert or tinkering with broken objects, does exactly the opposite. I remind myself that the story starts with Walls obviously being well off, and this is due in large part to her strength of character and perseverance. She paints a bleak history, but cannot truly lay anger on the table at almost any point. While her struggles are more than most could bear, she offers us glittering jewels of life in amongst the dreariness that threatens to wash away the whole family. There is much pain in the telling of the story, but when I turned the last page in the book, I also found much love that touched my heart. Again, I don't think that Walls is trying to hold up her life as an example of what not to do or what to do, but she manages to find life along the broken path. She makes you want to look at your own path and find your own inner beauty amongst the scar tissues that we all have. I finished the book, sad that it was over, but warmed by this woman who was honest and true to herself and her life, refusing to let any little thing get her down. She made me want to be a better person and then reminded me, that I am.

So yes, I think the book was worthy of being on the New York Times Bestseller list for over three years and would recommend it to anyone who isn't afraid to get dirty, throw rocks and have rocks thrown right back at you. The Glass Castle is a dream that we all reach for and Walls is generous in letting us see hers.

LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails