When I was a teenager I dreamed of getting into a firefight, or a standup knife-fight to the death. I dreamed of being a combat hero and killing hundreds of enemies singlehandedly. I wanted to kill a bad guy because, in my mind, that represented some sort of rite of passage into warriorhood. It is strange, a little funny, and a little sad, to look back at that and see how much I’ve changed.
At the ripe old age of 27 I don’t think that desire of my younger self was totally wrong. In fact I would go so far as to say it was tremendously right, and could not have been any other way, without weakening my character a great deal. I still maintain that it is a very good thing for a young man (such as myself) to look forward to a fight out of the sheer joy of fighting. I trust that adventurous instinct. Someone who fights for the joy and excitement of fighting is much closer to the truth than someone who does violence out of malice. It is more likely to produce courage, honor, and freedom of spirit, while malice, even non-violent malice, can produce only backbiting, hatred, injury and death.
So the blood and vinegar me was a natural part of my development, and is still a part of my character. I still think fights are fun once you get into them, but the difference is that I don’t want to get into a fight. I have much to learn, but nothing left to prove against any human being out there.
There are so many younger soldiers who are lamenting the withdrawal from Iraq and Afghanistan. They feel cheated, like they missed their chance. Some boldly hope out loud that we go to war with Iran or North Korea. Oh God in Heaven, please no! If it must be, then I will do what I must, but I pray with all my heart that it never happens. It isn’t that I am afraid of being killed or wounded. I have faced that before and will face it again. By God’s grace I have never yet backed down or failed my mission. It’s just that there would be so much killing. So much pain. So much hatred. The hatred is what really frightens me. My soul shrinks back from it, like my naked flesh would shrink back from an acid bath. It hurts. It stings and suffocates. Hatred of me by other people is not so bad. It definitely hurts, but the fighting spirit I was born with rebels and tosses it back. I refuse to be damaged by it (but might not that refusal itself be damaging?) But hatred of others is far worse. A war is always a breeding ground for hate. The Iraqis hate us, because of the lies they have been told, and all too often because of the truth they have seen. Americans despise Iraqis because they haven’t discovered sit-down toilets yet. They hate them because it was an Iraqi who blew up their buddy. They bitterly wish that we could nuke the whole Middle East. The sneering and mistrust, and the sense of righteousness in sneering and mistrusting is the drug of choice in a combat zone. How else could we do what we are told to do? There is a way, but it is not open to most.
And all the people who would be killed. I have never desired the death of any person. Even when I was spoiling for a fight, it was not the death of the enemy that I wanted. I saw a challenge (he wants to kill me) and my spirit rose in response (Bring it!) But if I do have to kill someone (and make no mistake I will if I have to) what a waste! Every human being was born beautiful, alive, practically bursting with hidden promise, called to inexpressible glory. How much good is each human soul capable of? And each one is not a nameless, faceless, number in a vast sea of other people. That is now who he is in the eyes of God, and therefore that is not who he is to me. That person, my enemy over there, has been loved into existence by the Holy Trinity. He is unique, absolutely unrepeatable. In all time and space, past, present, and future, and through all eternity, he is the only one there is. There can never be another. What a tragedy! All the good that he was capable of, gone. All that he might have been, gone. No second chance, no do-over. There will never be another one of him to pick up the slack.
How could this be a good thing? How could this be subject for celebration?
It may seem strange that it is a soldier who thinks of all of this and puts it in words, but it should not be strange at all. Who else would have cause to think about it? And how could you stand to go through life as a soldier constantly shoving it under the rug? If you have never looked at what you do, squarely and honestly, and asked what it means, then you should not be doing it.
So I look and I ask, and I answer. I will not always be a soldier, but I have been called to be a warrior, because, as much as the idea of human violence fills me with sadness, there is something else which matters even more deeply. I don’t particularly want to kill anyone, but all my life I have wanted to protect everyone. I want people to live and be free, to be happy and find the greatness they were created for, and the sad truth is that too many cannot. Especially the children, born into worlds of violence, or brutally stolen from their homes, their innocence destroyed, their futures obliterated before they had even a chance to see them; these children need someone to protect them, and sometimes to protect an innocent person a guilty person must die.
But I want him to die like a human being. Even in death I can never despise him, but I must instead afford him the respect he never afforded to himself. Hopefully that way, in some small measure, I can restore some of his humanity. At least, let me not lose mine.
There is a certain comic heroic air In a sidelong view of my silly petulance. Clattering down in calamitous dusty thunder Pasteboard cards demand to be rebuilt Despite the dismay of the ruins of all that is. But all that is, is far too big for me I cannot bear too much of it at a time. What is, is through nothing else but love Meted out in generous frugality; Forth from the Eternal Moment, cut to size To fit the confines of restrictive time. What is is greater praise than what is not Diapers changed than greatness dreamed about;
And what is asked is greater than what is done The mop demanded than the chosen Mass. And so what is (this mop bucket) Is Indeed. And here, and now, and nowhere else, all Grace, All Strength, All Peace, All Joy, All Love, is found.
There are some who complain about the emphasis on "chivalry" in the Church, seeing at as a mechanism for women to abuse men, and a smokescreen for men to use women. Some would even say that many men espouse knighthood as nothing more than a cover for objectification. I disagree. I would say that finding a man who espouses true old-fashioned knighthood is very rare indeed, if only for the general lack of martial ability. Martial prowess, or at least the lifelong pursuit of martial prowess, was an essential element of that knighthood (as opposed to modern knighthood which has nothing martial about it.) So a modern day knight, in order to follow the old code, ought at least to train in a martial art and be proficient with a gun. This is one of the problems with the modern shadowy "knighthood" that everyone talks about incessently, is that it is incomplete. They emphasize only the soft, gentle, velvet side of the fully masculine character of the knight. So we have men who endlessly preach the "warrior poet" ideal, who couldn't throw a decent punch to save their lives (or anyone else's life for that matter.) And even that basic ability is a far cry from the simple definition of a warrior, which is one who studies the arts of war and uses them.
So when I say that I pursue the concept of knighthood in a modern world, I mean that I literally practice the art of killing other human beings. I literally meditate on my own death and prepare for it on a daily basis. I actually pursue an elite physical fitness, coupled with martial arts training, and all the other arts of modern combat. I study and meditate on Just War doctrine, and the Theology of the Body, and various forms of pacifism and constantly refine my moral code which determines where, and when, and how I can justly kill. It has cost me a decade of my adult life to pursue this ideal, and it is still the underlying principle of everything I do. This is what I mean by knighthood; not that I have attained it, but that I pursue it every day, and most especially that it is not some vague collection of moral platitudes couples with archaic civil niceties. It requires the pursuit of real skills. When I say that I pursue knighthood, I mean that I can literally snap a man's neck with my bare hands, and I can literally rock a baby to sleep with those same hands. So if being civil and making a steady paycheck are all you've ever heard of "chivalry" then All you've ever heard is a waste of breath. Holding a door for a lady is meaningless if that is the extent of a man's chivalry. Valentine's day is bosh, if you don't have a soul of steel.
I think this is why I never really see eye to eye with many bloggers on the question of chivalry. To me it is a way of life, a virtue encompassing the pursuit of all virtues. It is a balance of extremes; the measured, committed, unswerving development of excellence in both extremes of masculinity. I pursue it for it's own sake, and for the sake of God, who calls me to it, and I don't much care whether any woman alive approves or disapproves. I accept and appreciate the support and encouragement of women who pursue their own femininity with the same dedication, but I don't give the naysayers a second thought. Truth be told, while most women approve the ideal on paper, in my experience, most are at least a little frightened by it in real life. Especially if they are not pursuing their own calling with the same determination, they are sometimes even totally put off. you see knighthood, when pursued in its entirety, makes you totally other. It makes you something that is not in any way more like a woman, but something that is unmistakeably and unflinchingly other. It doesn't take long for most women to get past the initial approval and realize that this ideal might just be more than they bargained for. It might get their man killed someday. It will certainly make him inaccessible on some level. In some ways he will always be beyond her influence. It means while she will always have his devotion and his love, she can never have all of his heart. In a word, he is "Not a Tame Lion." Loving a man like this requires a strength of femininity unlike any other for she will certainly have to die many times over in the course of their life together.
This kind of knighthood is my ideal. I take it very seriously indeed, having devoted my entire life thus far to the pursuit of that ideal. This might explain why sometimes all the angst over the place of "chivalry" in the Christian blogosphere seems like much ado about nothing to me.
Once Upon a Time, I wanted to do a project. It was Christmas and I was going home on leave, but I wanted to do some kind of cool thing. I also had a cousin that I hadn't gotten anything for, and as I am her confirmation sponsor, I thought it ought to be something that some thought and effort went into. So I thought to myself, "Why not make a box? How hard could it be, right?"
Accordingly I bought some lumber. The original idea was to make the thing out of cedar, but the cedar wood at the hardware store was kind of cheap and grainy looking. The red oak, however, was smooth and crisp, hard and solid. It had a weight and smell to it that spoke to me, and as for the feel? Well, I'm a pretty tactile person, so I do not exaggerate when I say that I fell in love with the feel of it. So it was a match. I bought the wood and lugged it upstairs to the woodshop in the top of the shop.
Conscious of safety at all times, I ensured I had emergency medical equipment on hand in case of an emergency involving power tools.
Also, on a job like this it is critical that you keep your strength up. Running the risk of passing out from hunger while operating powertools is simply irresponsible. So I made sure I was provisioned up. Then I ate my provisions in the first two minutes. Several more supply runs had to be made throughout the duration. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, you know?
I measured twice...
And cut once...
And repeated a few doxen times, and voila! (That's French for, "It's not as easy as it looks, and there were some setbacks and a steep learning curve, but I managed to do it anyway, and decided to put it in montage format to condense the story-telling." That's really what voila means.)
I decided to use a combination of glue and mechanical fasteners (dowel rod pins in holes in the planks.) The forms I built to keep the holes consistent weren't perfect so there was a little error. Some of the seams were really good, others were horrible. A little bit of sanding with a belt sander fixed that, but whenever I set up my own workshop, I think I'll probably use a disk sander instead.
Once I got the holes drilled and was ready to pin the sides and bottom together I had to build frames so that I could clamp them. Otherwise there is too much gap and the seam ends up ugly with lots of glue bulging out. They still ended up like that. More sanding.
This is the bottom of the chest.
Once all the sections were set and sanded I had to put them together. The corners were all cut at a 45 degree bevel but I only had two large clamps. I tried using kettlebells to weigh it down, but they didn't put anywhere near enough pressure on it.
So I used slats of wood, ratchet straps, and twine to jury rig 24 separate clamps, one for each corner and direction. It looked crazy but it worked. If i ever really get into woodworking I'll need a bunch of those long clamps.
Starting work on the top.
I took a break over Christmas day to enjoy the day. I sauted up this mushroom dish, which turned out to be really good. I don't know why the picture ended up on it's side though. It isn't on it's side in the folder I uploaded it from. Oh well. It's probably gremlins. If you're using a laptop I suggest you turn that on its side for optimal viewing. If you are using a desktop you could probably turn the monitor on its side, but lying sideways on the desk might be easier. While you're doing that I'll jot down the recipe as closely as I remember it.
2 things of white mushrooms
2 things of baby bella mushrooms
1 thing of oyster mushrooms
1 thing of shittake mushrooms.
First you heat the pan with olive oil just covering the bottom, and toss in the shittakes. Mince up 5-6 cloves of garlic and add them. Three or four heaping spoonfuls each of basil and oregano, and couple of tsps or tbsps (whichever is smaller) of ground rosemary. Then the oyster mushrooms (the shittakes should be getting rubbery by now if you've been adding things quickly. Throw in a bunch of thyme and sage and keep stirring. The heat should be on the lower side of medium by now. The baby bellas go in next,
and the whites can go in shortly after. Now I would keep stirring for a while, but you're going to need to add salt (and I like just hint of pepper as well) so you'll just have to keep adding, stirring and tasting unti it is just the right amount. You want it to bring out the flavor of everything else, not take over. When its done you should eat it while it is still hot. It probably wouldn't be good leftover.
There should always be food and family. Whoever invented those two things would have my vote if He was running for president of the universe.
Back to work, putting the top together.
You can tell I was wearing the headphones while I used the belt sander. My entire head is covered with sawdust, except for the one strip right across the middle. If it looks like my mouth is hanging open it's because I'm singing along to some L'Angelus.
Top and bottom done, mostly, but not attached to each other. Getting them to line up, while I was pretty close all things considered, still tooks some creative sanding.
Inscribing the lid. I borrowed my sister's woodburning kit, and after I finally figured out how to use it, it went pretty well.
This is the inscription, traced and partially burned.
Spille half my varnish. Oops.
The varnishing was the hardest part. The darn stuff wouldn't set. It's supposed to be applied in temperatures between 50 and 90 degrees farenheit, but the weather took a turn for the arctic. It hardly got above ten degrees I think, that whole week, so I had to keep the stove going in the shop constantly. As you can see, the shop isn't fully weatherproofed yet (my brother is working on it.) The warmest place was at the top of the stairs with the trapdoor to the upstairs shut. So that's where I stashed the pieces while they were drying. That was a tricky bit of work, trying to move heavy pieces, wet with fresh varnish, without smudging them or dragging them through the dust. It worked, sort of.
Layn wanted to do a project.
Archie and the cat. "Dude, it is too dang cold out. How about a truce. I won't tell if you won't."
All finished from the back.
All finished from the front.
It's even finished on the inside!
This post has been burning a hole in my pocket since December, but I could post it until it arrived because I didn't want the surprise spoiled. Totally worth the wait. :-D.
This evening, after I finished my kickboxing routine, I decided to go out and enjoy a little kettlebelling before I was done for the night. Accordingly I went out to the truck, unstrapped the 44kg kettlebell I keep in the back of it, and started doing swings. My goal was 20 sets of 10, although I got a little froggy in the middle of the workout and threw in two sets of twenty (took the frogginess right out of me.)
As I was nearing the end of my workout a little boy came out of one of the nearby apartments. He was small enough to be about seven, but spoke well enough to be about ten, so I’m not sure how old he was. He was wearing black jeans and a black coat and carrying a power-ranger’s sword and I’d seen him running around the complex with other kids before. This time he walked right up to me, bold as brass, and said, point blank, “Are you strong?”
I chuckled (under my breath) and said, “Strong enough to lift this thing.” I nudged the kettlebell with my toe.
The young feller looked down at the ugly chunk of metal and strode over to it with a swagger practically oozing testosterone. He seized the iron handle in his two small but mighty hands (they didn’t even come close to wrapping all the way around) and heaved. He heaved with vigor. He heaved with vim. The kettlebell scraped on the sidewalk as it slid a little, but it weighed, I would guess, roughly twice what he did. He let go with a gasp, “Whoa! That’s heavy!”
I laughed a little bit, not in an unkind way, but he wasn’t finished yet. He manfully stepped back up to the plate, as it were, and once again gripped the iron beast with determined mitts. He pulled and pulled and pulled, and this time managed to tip it a little to one side. “Don’t hurt yourself,” I said, momentarily falling into my obligatory role as responsible adult. He let go, huffing and puffing.
“You’re a bit small for that, kiddo,” I told him, sympathetically. “You’ll have to grow into it.”
But he ignored my condescending remark with righteous scorn, and undaunted, seized hold of his enemy one more time. His face was focused, his miniscule fingers were clenched, his every fiber rocked with masculinity. Mighty was the struggle! He tipped it, he tilted it, he rolled it, and dragged it, but still one stubborn corner would not come off the ground. With a final, all-or-nothing effort, he pulled it on top of his bootlace (which was completely untied) and let go of it. “Whoosh,” he said. “I almost got it.”
“Yeah you did,” I agreed, because he had.
He turned to walk away, but it was the kettlebell’s turn now, and it yanked back on his bootlace and would not let go. “What the…” He exclaimed, glaring at his nemesis. I lifted it up so he could run away, calling over his shoulder, “I almost got it!”
A few minutes later he came running back out of his apartment. This time he had added a hood and some sort of face wrap, transforming his coat into a ninja suit. He was tearing across the yard for all he was worth, but he spared enough breath as he went by to say, “Sorry, buddy, but I got to go. See you.” And he was gone.
That is a kid who is practically made of greatness. Blessings on him!
Margaret awoke while it was still dark. Hans had coughed, and his wheezing breaths had paused, then stopped for too long and it had awakened her. He was breathing again now, and she allowed herself to relax. It wouldn't be long now, she knew. He could not hang on much longer, and it was better so. She reminded herself vehemently that it was better so, and looked over at the clock. Her vision was not what it once had been, but she could just make out by the light of the embers on the hearth that both hands were pointing nearly straight down and just a little to the left of the six. It was about six-thirty. She sighed and slowly eased her old feet onto the floor, finding her old worn slippers. Then she knelt painfully for her morning prayers, letting Hans sleep as she always did these days. There was work to be done and no one to help her with it so she prayed quickly, sure that the Lord would understand. The chickens needed to be let out into the yard and fed, the eggs needed to be gathered, the fire needed to be built up both on the hearth and in the stove, the dog, an ancient German shepherd named Fala, needed to be shooed up from her bed in front of the hearth and sent outdoors. By the time Margaret had breakfast heating on the stove the sun was up and she could see the mills swirling through the frosty air in the distance, on the other side of the canals. If it warmed up enough they would walk along the river for awhile, if he felt strong enough.
Hans was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, his thinning, tousled hair looking like straw in the shafts of sunlight from the barred window. His eyes were curious today. He didn't know where he was, or who he was. In some ways that was better. On the days that his mind was blank he was easier to deal with, more pliant. Other times, when he fancied he was a little boy again he ran everywhere as fast as his old limbs would take him and she could never keep up. The few and far between times when he knew things were the most painful. Then he would reproach himself and beg her pardon for being such a burden all these years. Today he was a blank slate. Perhaps she would teach him his alphabet, later. For now she had to feed and bathe and dress him.
He liked the food today, sometimes he didn't. The eggs and biscuits were warm and done perfectly, she still cooked as well as she ever had. He didn't want to bathe at first, until she convinced him, mostly by signs and gestures and the reassuring tone of her voice, that the water was warm and nice and wouldn't hurt him. Then she dressed him like a large baby in his old, old shirt and overalls, and the wooden shoes that no one ever wore anymore. She dressed him just like the children that they had never had, and in many ways he was very much her child. The innocence and trust of an infant looked out from his china blue eyes, or sometimes the petulance and weepiness of a two-year old, or the playfulness of a schoolboy.
"Aunty Lars," he said, suddenly.
She started. He was a child again, and in this particular fantasy he thought she was his long dead aunt. "Yes, Hans," she answered.
"Aunty, Captain Decker comes by today."
"Of course he does my love," she said. His eyes were the eyes of a little child, out of place in his gray stubbly face. There were only a few days in the month in which she could shave him without danger of him moving suddenly and cutting himself. He rocked back and forth and bounced a little, a potbelly he had never had as a boy jiggling as he did so.
"Can we go see him, Aunt? I want to wave him by."
"It is cold out today Hans," she said.
He laughed. "Silly Aunt, it is summer. See the tulips," he waved towards the window with a withered hand, blue splotches showing through the transparent skin.
"No dearest, that is snow."
"Yes Aunty, but the tulips are under the snow, of course."
"Asleep?" she asked.
"No Aunty. Tulips only sleep during the night. Don't you remember when you took me out into the garden at night and we watched the tulips go to sleep. But in the winter time they are awake beneath the snow."
"Maybe they are my love, maybe they are. But it is still cold out."
"I'll wear my muffler Aunt, and I will stay warm. Please let me go out and watch the boats."
She sighed. It was still cold out and would be until the afternoon, but he would not be kept indoors until then. She nodded and got his cap and coat off the pegs on the wall. He tried to put them on, as she wrapped up some cold biscuits and cheese for their lunch, but he couldn't remember what to do with the buttons. She buttoned them for him and let him carry the lunch because he begged her to. And they stepped out, a bent old man trying to run ahead of a gray haired old woman, she holding him by the hand and telling him to stay close. They walked across the fields, still covered with snow in some places, despite the warm April rain of the days before. The canals lay on the other side, and beyond them the Zuider Zee, and at the end of that, the dikes and the harbor, the ocean with all the ships that he used to build. A flat bottomed river boat drifted by, and Hans called out to them and waved. "Captain Decker, Captain Decker, it's me, Hans." The man in the striped shirt stared and then tried to pretend he couldn't hear. Hans continued to call, disappointment in his voice. He broke his hand out of Margaret's and tried to run after the boat for a few feet until he came up short of breath and had to stop, bent over and gasping. He cried and Margaret held him and told him it was all right, but he soon forgot all about it. A patch of tulip buds, breaking out through the snow caught his eye.
"Look, Sis, tulips. I'll pick some for you, pretty Betty." She was his older sister now and he scampered off to pull the tulips up by the roots and bring them back to her. He insisted on putting them in her hair and teased her about beaux that she never knew. They meandered down the banks of the canals into the village. Margaret pulled the tulip stalks out of her hair before they went in, but he didn't notice. He liked the town, it was so alive. He ran between the stalls in the busy market, calling merry greetings to long dead friends he fancied he saw. Most of the people were regulars, and they knew him and greeted him back. Hans begged Margaret to buy some ginger that she might make some ginger snaps, and she did, knowing that Alice, the pretty young girl who watched the stall, would let her give the ginger back as soon as Hans forgot about it, which he did in less than a minute.
He moved down by the shipyards, and she followed. She tried to turn him back, but for once he would not let her change his mind, though the day's outing was becoming longer and longer and very soon it would be too late for them to get back before dark. He would not listen, he wanted to go down to the shipyards. She remembered long ago, when he was a young man. She had first met him on her way home as she walked past the docks. Some sailors on shore leave had jeered and catcalled as she went by, and she had blushed bright red at their words, too frightened and embarrassed to do anything but put her head down and walk past, trembling and not daring to look right or left. And then, suddenly, a young man with broad shoulders and thick, calloused hands had stepped out from an alley and was walking beside her. He did not say a word to the group of jeering men, he just looked at them with his blue, blue eyes as cold as ice, and his hands clenched into fists. He had been a very tall man then, well over six feet and immensely strong from his work in the shipyards. The sailors shut their mouths and looked away. After that she had never walked home alone. He was always waiting for her at the end of the street, and he always walked with her, at least part of the way home. And she loved him for it.
Now he stared out into the dry docks, where men were building ships unfamiliar to him, new ships without sails that burned coal and put out a dreadful smoke. He didn't speak, but looked very hard as if he was trying to remember, but whatever thoughts and distant dreams that were dancing in his head, they faded and eluded him. She could almost see them like wisps of smoke curling away from his groping mind.
But perhaps they were not gone entirely. He took her hand in his and squeezed it with all his feeble strength and said. "Come on, little Meg, I'll walk you home. No one shall harm you while I'm around."
"I know they won't, Hans. I feel safe with you." She had always used to say that, as she leaned her head against his shoulder, and it had always made him beam with pride and happiness. It still did.
"You are safe with me, Meg. Pray God I am always around to keep you so." He walked with shuffling steps the length of the dock, going still further from the way home, following the streets that they had traveled so many times in their youth. He forgot his fancy before they made it to her father's old house, and they were now walking through narrow, deserted streets. He seemed no longer able to feel her hand in his and he began to tremble with fear. He hated to be alone. It was the worst when he got lost in his own mind, no longer able to see, hear or feel her. He called out to her, "Margaret, Margaret." He didn't hear her answer and kept calling, "Where are you Margaret?" There was nothing she could do but put her arms around him and hold him until the fit passed. Sure enough, he suddenly forgot about it as if it had never been, the evil of loneliness swallowed up in the childlike purity of his withered mind, like a drop of poison dripped into the ocean. Gone, erased from his memory.
Time went on, as they continued to walk, and afternoon found them on the dikes overlooking the sea. The sunsets they had watched from there, the starry skies, the moonrises. She dared not stay long enough to watch another one, and at last he was getting tired, and allowed her to turn him homewards. It was a long walk, but she was not worried. It would do him good, he would sleep well tonight with no pesky dreams to disturb his slumber, and the memories that flooded over her were very strong, very beautiful. It would not hurt to take some time to turn them over in her mind, to thank God for them. She had long ago learned to live without bitterness, not like the first few years of loneliness after the terrible war had taken its toll on his mind and body. She had often thought it would have been easier to be a widow, rather than losing him while he was still alive. It had been especially hard when she was younger, for his mind had gone long before her beauty had faded into its present comfortable grayness. She had learned since then, painfully over long years, but she had learned. Now she lived to care for her husband and her love for him was so strong that he seemed to be more a part of her than a separate person. When it was time for him to go, she would feel the loss terribly, as if she had lost her right arm and right leg, but it was not time to think about that yet. The day had warmed up beautifully, and he took off his jacket and made a show of flexing his arms, fancying they still had the muscle of his younger days. She wasn't sure where his mind was then, but it didn't last long and then he was quiet again as they walked home together through the fields, following along the wagon trails. They still had a mile to go as the sun set blazing behind the windmills, washing the sky in red and orange, purple streaked with pink and bordered by the deepest of deep blues, rapidly fading to a satin black. There was one bright star with the temerity to shine out while the sun was still over the horizon as if impatient to start the night's festivities. It was alone at first, but as the sun sank and surrendered more and more of the sky the one star was joined first by a few, then a dozen of its stronger brothers and sisters, and then by hundreds more, and finally, all at once, a million of the smallest and youngest in the family appeared, twinkling diamond bright in the black. Sometimes he used to say the stars had voices and they sang, like a choir of very high, sharp chimes, voices that no human could ever understand, but with a beauty that would kill anyone who once heard it, or break their heart and drive them mad. She looked into his eyes, small dark circles with an entire galaxy mirrored in them, and she believed him.
When they reached their door, the wind was just picking up with a little hint of frost, reminding her that it was not yet May. He was in a quiet, melancholy mood, and she left him to sit quietly as she hastily did the chores and warmed up the leftover breakfast. She made him some tea, with a drop of whiskey and they ate quietly, and he sat still and listened to her as she said her evening prayers.
As she said "Amen" she heard his voice whisper, "Margaret?"
Her heart beat fast, and she met his eyes, realizing that he was having one of his rare moments of clarity. "Hans?"
"Thank-you, Margaret," he said, his voice trembling with age, but his eyes clear and steady. "I love you.”
"I love you," she said, but the moment was gone. His eyes were vacant again.
She began to hum through her tears as she dressed him for bed and rolled the covers back. It was an old song, one that had been popular when she was a little girl, but he recognized it as she tucked him in, and he hummed it with her, until his eyelids drooped, and he fell asleep. Margaret brushed two gray hairs away from his forehead, and then with a sigh, she leaned over and softly blew the candle out.
Written by Ryan Kraeger, June 2007: inspired by the 1968 song “The Dutchman” by Michael Peter Smith.
