Saturday, March 23, 2013

Road Trip

In 1969, the summer after the Soviet Union and its allies suppressed a rebellion in Czechoslovakia, I traveled through Europe with 62 other members of the Harding College Acapella Chorus.

The day we arrived in Vienna, our host asked if we wanted to drive across the border into Czechoslovakia to sing for a secret church in Bratislava and smuggle in nearly 300 Bibles. If caught, we could be detained or arrested. We unanimously agreed.

Early that afternoon, after packing the Bibles in our door panels, we drove to the border where we were stopped by armed guards. On both sides of us, rows and rows of spiraled barbed wire several feet high stretched as far as we could see. Sharp spikes protruded from the ground. Two burned-out, bullet-riddled vehicles, once bound for freedom, rusted in no man’s land.

We remained at the border for several hours, worrying and sweating as the guards examined all 63 passports and questioned our director. As we sat, we dared not talk about the one thing that was uppermost in our minds. The authorities were definitely suspicious, but what were they going to do with all those hungry, tired, American college students? They finally released us, well after dark.

In Bratislava, we parked in a back alley near the unmarked church. At the bottom of a steep flight of stairs, we entered a candlelit basement dominated by a table piled with fruit, flowers, and confections of all sorts. About forty church members, who had been waiting since early in the day, greeted each of us with a kiss and motioned for us to eat. After satisfying our hunger and listening to a short sermon in either Czech or Russian (I certainly could not tell which) we stood to sing—song after song, through tears, ours and theirs.

We sang in Latin, German and English—nothing they could fully understand, but we cried in perfect harmony.

Monday, March 11, 2013

Vegetables Anyone?

I have contacted a volunteer organization to possibly help with our grounds here at “The Home” and maybe put in a raised-bed vegetable garden to supplement our meals. I passed out a survey at lunch asking residents to tell me what sort of help they might need with their own individual plantings and if they would help with a vegetable garden. The reaction was not mixed; it was uniformly wary and distrustful. I’m trying not to get discouraged right out of the box, BUT . . .

I thought, having worked with churches for forty years, that I knew how to communicate with wary people. People here at “The Home” are not just wary; they are “once bitten, twice shy,” paranoid.

First of all, they had to be assured that I have permission from the administrators to do what I have done. I do. (Reminder to self: In future, have the director imprint her pinky ring in wax on each sheet.)

Secondly, those who are now gardening do not want anyone telling them how to do what they are now doing. Fine. There is a place to circle “NO, I do not want any help.”

Some are sure that improvements in the grounds would mean higher rent. Others want to know if it will cost anything. Others who have tried similar projects in the past assure me it can’t be done. So on and so forth.

A few surveys are trickling in, and some are favorable. I’m going to give it a few more days and field any questions. We’ll see.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

The Miracle of the Fishes


I’ve dreamed of living in a commune ever since my three or so days as a hippie. (I did the best I could at a conservative Christian College; I went without makeup and a bra, but no one noticed.)

In my dream, I live in a balmy clime with fellow carefree idealists. Our make-shift accommodations are simple but sturdy abodes filled with handycrafts and repurposed junk. I spend my days creating objet d’art, gardening, sewing, dancing, singing. I do not cook.

My dreams have come true—sort of.

My current situation involves communal living in which I do not have to cook, but that is as close as it comes to my original concept. My husband and I live in a unique community of 65+ year-olds who have been brought together primarily by impecuniosity. Our accommodation is a 1960’s era one-story apartment building conceived as a retirement home for impoverished widows. It is now coed with a few apartments for married couples.

The common areas of our abode are lavishly decorated, some in Danish modern and others in Spanish Colonial. European antiques and original oil paintings are scattered throughout—a far cry from the simple life of my dream. But the non-profit foundation that supports it all has suffered financially, and much of the upholstery, carpets and fixtures should have been replaced years ago.

Which brings me to the fish—sort of.

In January, Bruce and I moved here on the same day as another couple; I’ll call them Ike and Mamie. After a couple of days, Ike, an avid fisherman, noticed some empty picture hangers on the fireplace wall in the south den and proceeded, with permission, to hang up four, stuffed, wide-mouthed bass. The hangers were not particularly well-placed for said fish, and an elaborate, bedraggled, artificial flower garland from some previous tableau hung at a strange angle over the whole arrangement. It looked—I will try to be kind—odd.
“If the garland stays,” I told him, “I will have to fill the fishes’ gaping maws with flowers.”

The garland disappeared, and the fish were rearranged to look natural—sort of.

Two days later, the fish disappeared.

Turned out that, according to Ike and Mamie’s all-knowing, all-seeing neighbor, Bruce and I were the culprits who had hung the fish.

“No one is allowed to change the décor in any way,” she told them, “and those new people,” meaning Bruce and me, “are troublemakers.”

So, to protect us from the neighbor and her delusions, Ike took down his fish.

“You tell her,” I said, when I heard the edict, “that those fish are symbols of our religion, and we go into the den and worship them twice a day.”

I don’t believe Ike took my advice, but Lo, I sayeth unto thee, the fish are back.