{“And, as well, those individuals who see computers and the entire digital age as a giant endeavor cumulatively invented by man’s mighty, mental power rather than a small glimpse . . . an installment which He chose to entrust with us . . . into Jehovah’s fathomless intellect, an intelligence as expansive as the universe and far too deep for thorough understanding.”}
“Elohim said it Himself, ‘Before the world was, I am.’ The only issue the theory of evolution proves is the extent to which some folks will go to disprove and discredit God.” That’s what Clarence said.
Maggie was always glad she had him for her husband, her umbrella in faith because she really didn’t cherish going into such depths of meditation and self-dissection. She found it constipating and painful. And, unsettlingly true.
*
Virginia quizzed Maggie as to their coffee time and, now and then, would casually drop in when Clarence was not off to work. She had told her dear friend on numerous occasions how blessed she was to have Clarence, to be able to sit, listen, take in his gracious understandings of the Master on leisurely afternoons.
Virginia, also, enjoyed hearing him sing as he puttered around in the backyard. He had a very nice baritone voice as had her own husband before he passed. Virgie and Hal adored square dancing and, since he was the caller, they attended every occasion. Hal was a bit different from other callers in that he sang the calls.
People came just to hear him sing. Margaret always thought Virginia looked silly in all her fru-fru—the net petticoats, calico dress.
“And, Virgie doesn’t have the best of legs. If she could just lose those clunky shoes! Lower the hem a bit.” That was Maggie . . . maybe, Mr. Bill . . . it’s hard to say.
However, no one could deny the joy and excitement, sheer energy and entertainment the couple bestowed upon participants and onlookers alike when they “got busy.” Almost always Hal and another man would kid around, pop jokes, insult each other. Sometimes, they’d gang up on some man in the audience—a pre-arranged ruse. It was a hilarious routine. Virgie missed all that, her husband, his companionship—although she rarely spoke of it. Maggie knew very well what her friend yearned for in life, did not begrudge her occasional visits. Gee! How time flies.
Sadly, Virgie took on the part so many single, older women find they must play in a society that maximizes the importance of youth. Periodically, she brought out the costume, pinned her hair back with ribbons and barrettes, drove herself down to the pavilion where the dance was to take place; however, without her life-long partner to bestow his station in life, it was a pitiful and empty effort. Her attempts to socialize, to be gay and bright, charming and effervescent—what appeared to younger folk as eccentricities and self-delusions of the old and feeble—became more and more difficult. One young man found her so loquacious, in his mind, exaggeratedly peppy that he suggested to her that she may, herself, be on the brink of Alzheimer’s, that she may well be squeezing her toes in the seeping tidal sands of some form of mental dementia. This hurt the dear woman.
“He had no call to say such a thing!” She said to Maggie with tears welling up.
Her efforts to be a part of the fun came less and less often until, finally, she gave her calico dress and shoes to the thrift store.
She explained to Meggie, “Well, it no longer fits. Someone else may as well have use of it.”
Had Virginia been a young, bubbling beauty, that young man would have appreciated her ways, even prided himself in the thought that a lovely woman wanted his attention so much that she flirted with him. As it was, he saw a wrinkled, aging woman flirting with him or, in Virgie’s case, trying to be a part of the event, trying, as the expression goes, to “get a life”. Overcome with his own self-importance, he failed to consider God’s promise that:
10...“. . . as a flower of the
field he (all brethren) will fade away.”
NKJV ™
James 1:10
That’s not to say plenty of young women don’t endure similar abuses . . . or men, for that matter. It’s, simply, to
say, such pain dips deep.
*
That was all, indeed, many years ago—after Maggie lost Clarence, after her boys left home for college, before Dr. Frank gave her the news that she had fallen pray to Alzheimer’s tenaciously tangled tentacles.
*
Try as she might, Rosie could never quite get a handle on circumstances—she had endured too much for too long—and this little baby that was part hers, part the one person she most detested in the world was threatening to tip the scale. Her daddy was diligent in coaching his daughter toward a hospitable regard for the infant. More than anything, he wanted her days with him to be peaceful. He didn’t want Rosie inwardly screaming and clawing the infant from her body. He wanted to give her reason to love the baby, to look forward with joy at seeing him—or her. Rosie’s daddy knew that when Rosie knew he wanted the child, she would, as well. When Rosie saw that he could love his brother’s baby, she would, too.
Rosie’s daddy’s pastor told him, if it were possible, it would be ideal if Rosie could come to a point where she didn’t hate Marlon so, but Rosie’s daddy felt in his heart that that “hate” was what may well save Rosie in the future both physically and spiritually. And, to urge her not, merely, to forgive but forget would subtly belie the truth of the situation—that an evil man had done a malevolent thing to her and the little child she would soon give birth to. He would not lie to his daughter. So, he concentrated on the baby.
Rosie’s daddy came to realize through talks with his pastor, that, if ever there were an optimal moment to deal with the authorities on Rosie’s behalf, it was now while Rosie was still with him; while she had been given up, albeit temporarily, by his wife; while Rosie was residing in a different county—his county—with judges who might be partial or at least fair toward their own citizens; while the good pastor was willing to go with him to court, speak for him, witness to Rosie’s state of health; since they had located an attorney who worked pro bono; before Rosie returned to her mother whereupon the baby would be claimed by the older woman. Rosie’s daddy got busy.
He treated his girl to treks into town whereupon they’d get a bite to eat and do a little shopping for the “new kid on the block.” That’s what her daddy called the baby. They two decided on painting the tiny room where Rosie stayed light blue and yellow. It would, also, serve as the nursery. If the newcomer turned out to be a girl, they’d easily add some pink and rose-red accents. If it were a boy, Rosie wanted to accessorize with deeper blues and greens. They bought some small prints which she framed with cardboard and fabric, hung them a couple of feet above the floor. If the two children were still with the man when the baby started crawling, he, or she, would have stimulating pictures to look at. If they were not, Rosie could take everything back with her. They bought a couple of plastic toys and Rosie’s daddy built a few from wood making certain they were all safe should the baby chew on them. Rosie wrote and illustrated some short stories to read to the baby—mostly about animals, some about herself, her daddy, the baby, their house—and her daddy bought a few, built a tiny book shelf to store them.
The girl hand-painted three little terra cotta pots with whimsical creatures like the ones she’d seen in the store and her daddy helped her transplant ivy from his outside bed into the pots to put on top of the bookshelf and around the room.
For once in his life, Rosie’s daddy was certain of one thing: his girl and baby would be back in his life to stay. The attorney told him Rosie and baby may have to return to the mother for a time, but it would be very brief, that he was certain the judge would give the father full custody. So, Rosie’s daddy set out making permanent plans for the present and their future together.
The man gave Rosie full run of the place, everywhere except the garage. He forbade her going in.
“Don’
t open the door.” he required. “Don’t even think about it. I have paints and thinners, turpentine, other caustic things in there that you should not be breathing. And, no more painting for you until after the baby’s born. We have to be smart about this.”
Then, after a full meal which always included a large glass of milk, he made certain she was in bed no
later than 8:30 every evening, earlier, if possible. He reminded her of their doctor’s strong admonition, for he spoke quite plainly to the girl and Rosie’s dad hung on every word:
“You’re much too young to be having a baby—not that you and your dad won’t provide well for him or her, but because your own body needs full nourishment. You entered adolescence early; your body is changing rapidly, requiring huge amounts of vitamins and minerals. And, here you are having to provide for a little one yourself. The fact is God planned for such eventualities. The baby will get his—or hers—first. You’ll get the leftovers. So, we must make certain you eat well, take your vitamins, minerals, get a fair amount of fresh air, sunshine. Work, exercise in moderation doesn’t hurt anyone. And, so important, lots of good rest—read a book . . . Do you like to read?”
Rosie nodded to the affirmative.
“Lie down and rest your eyes for 30 minutes maybe an hour; nap. Go to bed at night on time, no later than 8:30. You think you can do all that?”
Rosie and her dad nodded to the affirmative.
It helped Rosie greatly that the doctor never mentioned the biological father. He made it clear to her that she and her baby were his patients, his utmost concern, and he would have nothing less than a beautiful and perfect outcome. And, she must follow his instructions to the letter. Rosie felt great peace in the knowledge that she had two . . . no, three . . . no, four very
capable men looking after her—her doctor, her dad, his minister, his attorney. All she had to do was take care of herself. She could do that.
This was when her daddy put in a small chicken coop and, now and then, brought home a beef roast, a fish . . . a little crab, a little shrimp. And, always fresh vegetables from the garden. They walked down to the neighbors’ orchards and gathered pecans and pears.
The neighbors told Rosie’s dad, “Gather all you want. Give us a tenth and we’ll call it even.”
Rosie loved adding pecans to her cakes.
9
Maggie took in a long, deep breath, smiling contentedly; exhaled. The pretty little ribbons on the flower arrangement Virgie had brought and set on the nearby side table fluttered slightly ahead of the woman’s breath. She was alone, except for the occasional nurse who checked her IV, now and then an orderly to roll her to her side or back.
*
The bull . . . it was back . . . chasing Margaret as in all her other dreams, but this time was different. This bull was no mixed breed as all the times before. Instead of black, the animal was gray, a fully registered Brahman . . . and hornless. But, Maggie would not make the mistake of slowing down to determine its temperament or intention. She ran head long into what in the dream appeared to be the doorway of her home and, inadvertently, left the door slightly ajar. When she got safely into the house, turned and looked around, she saw the door open and a hugely large face peering through the crack. The bull. His big, doe-like eye was staring at the woman—a sweeter, kinder animal than ever before that,
even still, could at any moment plow the door open and continue tracking her. But, he didn’t. He remained on the outside. One mammoth oeil-de-boeuf peeking in, staring at Margaret as though he wanted to come in but was much too polite to force himself on her.
And, the dream ended. Periodically and all too frequently since childhood the bull had visited her in nightmarish form. It snorted and farted at her, gouged the air with its horns and drove her onto a precarious perch upon her uncle’s corral fence. It was frightening in her early years, but as the dream came always with the same plot points, the older, more mature Maggie took control, manipulating it to fit her own scenario. But, at 58 years of age Margaret’s bull dream took on this very different form. The change was puzzling to the woman, and greatly appreciated. She’d never looked a gift bull in the mouth, so she waited to see what would come next.
Song of Camp Matigua:
Lost and Forgotten Boy Scout Camp
One of the loveliest things about my pool is that my time is just that . . . my time, all my own. I can swim anywhere my pool takes me and think. And I do do a lot of thinkin’. Sometimes, I like to think I’m a mud puppy. I glide up to the edge of the pool where the water grows gradually shallow and drag my tummy in the soft silt keepin’ just my eyes barely above the water top and come upon me mom to surprise her. She’d pretend to cry out with great alarm to see her little pollywog’s turned into a mud puppy. I squirm all around in the silt till I’m muddy from neck to toes. It’s ok ’cuz all I have to do is dive deep and I come clean and shiny-pink. Momma thinks I clean up real nice.
Sometimes, I like to ponder on
important stuff like what makes water wet. It ’muses my mind to think that my pool couldn’t possibly exist without quantum physics, without Fermi energy and u quarks, d quarks—important, significant stuff as that. Things the big boys think about. Just ponderin’ . . . if
my pool’s protons were a tiny bit heavier than its neutrons . . . well, it just wouldn’t be here and I’d be putterin’ around in . . . well, I’d not be here, either. And neither would you ’cuz there’d be no hydrogen and you and me, we’re hugely hydrogen. And my pool as I know it is hugely hydrogen . . . and that’s what makes water wet . . . and fun. And if u quarks were just a wee bit heavier than d quarks, then hydrogen would not exist and you, me, my pool could not, possibly, exist and water would not be wet . . . and no fun at all. But one thing I do know: my mum was right—I’m a little dynamo, a live wire, a real neutron, a spark white-hot ’cuz I’m Redi Kilowatt, ’cuz I got the energy in me. I kick and squirm. Sometimes, I turn summersaults and splish-splash the water. This always tickles my mom. She says she thinks I’m growing up. And we laugh together. We laugh and laugh. And I think of all the things I’d miss without my beached whale.
11
The O’Casey family was just going to have to celebrate 4th of July apart this time since Clarence had to be out of town. The boys always missed their dad, so their mother tried to plan fun events to give them pleasure during his absence. They hung bunting about the porch, put out their flags, strung red, white and blue twinkling lights around the tree trunks adjusted to come on shortly after twilight. The house always looked charming and, with Virgie joining in on the fun with their own decorations, that side of the street looked gay and festive . . . so patriotic. The boys donated some of their earnings mowing grass, throwing newspapers to pay on the electric.
As was her custom, Virgie tied a red, white and blue bandana around her Chihuahua’s neck. It was a nervous, jumpy little dog, quick to bark alarm at the slightest provocation. Its entire body hopped 3 inches off the ground in the effort. Maggie always had the greatest urge to go over and pinch it, but she knew he’d just bite her—having lightning speed reflexes—so she carried out the deed in her mind. Surprisingly, it gave her considerable satisfaction. She felt, if ever there were a dog in serious need of psychiatric help, it was Virgie’s Chihuahua. But, she tolerated the animal because she
loved her friend and knew how Virgie doted on it.
Hal and their boys were off to a church choir retreat, leaving Virgie home alone, foot loose, fancy free, bored and feeling neglected; so, Maggie invited her long-time neighbor to go on a little field trip—a picnic and swim with herself and sons. She was able to convince Virgie to leave the pet at home.
As so often happened, Margaret was not exactly clear about the location of this old Boy Scout camp—Camp Matigua—but she assured Virginia finding it was just a matter of getting in the car and heading in the general direction. How did she know that?
<
br /> {“Because that’s how she gets to almost every other place.” Mr. Bill’s insightful donation into the situation.}
“It’ll all come back to me, I’m sure. Once I refresh my memory with the highways and landmarks. It’s a cinch.”
Maggie had been there many years earlier with Clarence and they had had such fun. She wanted her boys to enjoy what was left of the place, a swimming hole frequented by the few people who lived nearby and the few who still knew its location and history. And, those few latter folk were dying off.
{“You have to give the old girl credit: she’ll give it her best.” Mr. Bill was, actually, talking about both women: Meg for not knowing where she was going but willing to give it a try and Virgie for trusting in her
friend’s ability to get them . . . get them . . . to get them somewhere.}
“And, if we don’t find the place,” said Virgie, always the optimist, “The day’s not lost: we can stop somewhere and get a cup of coffee. It’ll be an adventure.”
Actually, Maggie did make an impressive effort to locate the camp prior to setting out. She called the local Boy Scout office. They were all much too young and new to the area to have recollection of the place. The director suggested she call the Ballardsville newspaper; perhaps, someone there would have information or know of a senior citizen . . .
{“. . . in their living archives . . .”}
. . . who might. The editor, polite, had no clue, never heard of it and referred her to their state representative who’d been very active from childhood in the Scouting program. His clerk did his best, talking to his boss long distance, but, no luck.
Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten Page 5