I’ve never really understood art-lovers who can stare at a canvas for seemingly hours on end finding some hidden meaning in a red square on a green background. I still don’t, but as I sit here in the sunshine, my memories allowing me to feel the warm rays on my skin, I look at the park in minute detail. The leaves on the trees as they start to change colour; the bright reds, the soft oranges, the dull browns. How they sway in the gentle breeze that is caressing the park, whispering to each other in a language we don’t understand.
I lower my eyes and am mesmerised by the diamond-like sparkles that dance across the water. Running and leaping and chasing each other as the water moves underneath them. They hold my attention until a pebble scatters them, only to re-appear once the ripples die down.
A flock of birds suddenly take flight, flying in formation perhaps off to warmer shores as the colder weather starts to take hold. I watch as they seem to fly in perfect unison, a system of carefully devised positions allowing each bird to take a turn leading the flock, before a new one takes its place when it is time for the leader to take a break. Injured, sick or older birds have an easier time flying as they are sheltered from the head winds by their leader.
It reminds me of a documentary I once saw about African wild dogs. It talked about how they utilise their strengths and protect their weaknesses. A strict hierarchy is in place and the pack is led by the alpha pair who are in charge of the group and make decisions for them, which the rest of the group unquestioningly follow. Newborns, the injured or sick and the elderly, all very vulnerable members of the pack, are given full priority. The pups are always fed first, and no-one ever fights over food as they believe there will always be enough. Any injured or elderly members of the pack are cared for by the rest of the pack and the elderly are seen as valuable members, care and support being given to them without question.
We used to value the elderly. We used to believe that they had something to teach us, that they could lead us through our most difficult moments. But we lock them up now. We disrespect them and we believe they have nothing left to offer society. I suppose life today is so different to when they were young. Perhaps they can’t teach us what we need to know as they are too disconnected from this fast-paced life we live nowadays. But perhaps that is where we can learn our biggest lesson.
Phew! I don’t know if my wife would recognise this soul-searching, navel-gazing man sitting on the park bench in the midday sun! But I’m changing, I can feel it. And perhaps that is what this experience is all about.
I stand up and decide to spend time walking through the park, my park, one more time. I say goodbye to my ducks, eyes lingering just that one moment longer to watch them as they go about their daily life. I turn and commence my stroll through the nearby woodlands and to the garden of statues that has always felt to me like a magical place to be.
I’ve not always been a big one for modern art, having a tendency to lean towards the more classic side of life, but there is something in a sculpture, or a statue, that always captures my imagination like a painting never could. The way it looks like it could just spring to life at any moment. This creates a certain unease in me, as well as delight, depending on the type of statue or sculpture I am contemplating. This idea of a statue actually secretly being alive brings back a memory. I remember when I was a young lad and my mother took my brother and me to see a visiting circus as it passed through a neighbouring village. It was the highlight of our month, and as the days and nights slowly ticked by until circus day, I could hardly sleep with excitement!
When the big day arrived, I leapt out of bed ahead of my brother, got myself dressed, ate my breakfast and waited patiently by the front door, hair brushed to shining, boots tightly laced and polished, jacket on and buttoned up to my neck. It didn’t matter that my mother and brother were still only just starting to get themselves ready, I decided to sit patiently by the front door until we were ready to leave.
When it was time to go, Mother gave a stern warning that we were both to be on our best behaviour or else we would come straight home. Not wanting to miss such an opportunity of a lifetime my brother and I solemnly nodded our promise to her and we headed out the door towards the bus stop. Of course, a juvenile promise does not always last long and we were soon arguing over who was going to get on the bus first, who was going to pay the driver and who was going to sit next to Mother. We were both promptly separated, our mother sitting in between glaring furiously at the two of us. ‘Final warning!’ she said through gritted teeth, but I knew we would go no matter what; it was as much a treat for Mother as it was for us.
When we arrived at the circus, we queued up with the rest of the crowd to buy our entry tickets and then went through the gates and into another world. There were people everywhere! The crowds were huge and for a brief moment I thought I would be carried out to sea by the waves surrounding me. I gripped Mother’s hand even tighter and leant into her side as we pushed through the crowds to go and see the World’s Strongest Man who we’d seen on the posters that had been put up around our village.
We followed the crowd into the tent, a strong smell of straw filling our nostrils, and there he was, dressed in funny looking shorts, a white sleeveless T-shirt and an over-sized and very black moustache. He spoke with an accent from another land, which only added to his charm, and as he flexed his muscles and bent down to pick up a very heavy looking bell bar, I could feel his strength increasing my own until I could no longer sit still. I stood up and put my arms out next to me, bending them at the elbows to show Mother just how strong I was too! She told me to sit down and watch the show, and with a twinge of disappointment I did so, and was soon absorbed again in the incredible display before my eyes.
He juggled cannonballs, lifted a heavy bell bar with only two fingers, and held a very surprised lady from the crowd above his head. After several more displays of pure brawn we left the tent and onto the next feat of incredible talent.
We came to a tent that was different from the other ones. This one was much smaller and was covered in tiny lanterns containing flickering candles. Mother asked us both to wait outside and as she pushed back the curtain to enter, I caught a glimpse of a woman with a strange looking scarf over her head, and a table with a round clear ball on it, in front of her. The curtain closed only to quickly open again with a warning from Mother to not wander off and to wait for her there. When the curtain moved again, it was a different Mother who emerged. She looked slightly shaken and pale and she grabbed both of our hands and walked quickly away from the tent. I wondered what had happened and eventually found the courage to open my young mouth and ask if she was OK. ‘It was just a silly bit of nonsense,’ is all she would divulge, and I knew to let it go.
We had been asking Mother to see the mermaid that they had apparently found off the coast of Africa, or so the poster said when Mother read it to us. With excitement and anticipation, we entered the tent and there in the middle was a pool with clear sides and a beautiful iridescent green tail splashing around in it. At the other end of the tail was a beautiful mermaid, with chocolate brown skin and long flowing hair. She wore clam shells and a fishing net, which I imagined at the time was the fishing net they had caught her in, and she was simply captivating! She let out a mournful sigh, dived deep into the pool and to my utter delight swam up to my side of the pool under the water and waved directly at me! My mouth dropped open and I suddenly found I couldn’t move. I was captivated and felt I had made contact with a creature from another world. I felt a hand touch my shoulder and I knew it was time to go. I waved a shy good bye and went back out into the daylight, feeling like a different person.
Our final visit was to the tent of the Human Statues and I was nervous as we followed the crowd in. It was dark inside the tent and we could make out silhouettes of people as they stood in unusual positions not moving. I was too scared to look at them directly and I allowed Mother to guide me as we walked around the room, my fingers occasionally parting before my eyes to all
ow a peep into the Unknown.
A bell rang, the statues changed position, and then were still again, a complete silence filling the tent. I felt my courage start to return and little by little I removed my fingers from my eyes and allowed myself to catch a nervous glimpse at what was around me. I found statue after statue up on blocks, one looking like Cupid with a bow and arrow and foot lightly held up in the air, others in positions with arms over their heads or standing on one foot, but all of them staring off in front of them, not seeing anything in the room. I felt very uncomfortable and quietly whispered to Mother that I would like to leave. This request was met with ‘You’re such a baby!’ from my brother, but I could see the relief in his face.
So here I am, back in the garden, and surrounded by statues, but this time I know they will not come to life when a bell rings but will remain like this forever. The statues are beautiful, a dark green bronze that has dulled over time. I walk around them and take the time to contemplate each one. There is a statue of a little girl holding a cat and as I stand looking at her, a small hand reaches out in front of me to touch the statue. I turn around to see a girl of no more than three or four years old, reaching out to stroke the cat and I am struck by the incredible resemblance. Her little face stares at the statue, her eyes recognizing a four-year-old dream before her. As she runs off towards her mother, her tiny voice sweetly requesting a cat of her very own, I move onto the next statue. It is of a mother holding a baby whose little hand is reaching up to touch his mother’s face. It is a beautiful moment captured by art, and as I gaze at this statue, I realise how short life really is, how quickly children grow up and how quickly we grow old. I move on to the next statue and the next, some bringing out emotions I hadn’t felt in a long time. I walk past a horse, its saddle shining a bright gold in the sunshine, polished by years of tiny bottoms climbing joyously on to it. I decide to do the same and as I climb up into the saddle, I feel young again, like a little boy, the present moment full of happiness and the life ahead full of promise.
I look around the garden one more time, sadly saying goodbye but thanking it for providing me with such happy and peaceful moments over the years. I climb down off the horse and head towards the gate.
I leave the statues and continue out the other side of the woods and into an open field. A brightly-coloured diamond is flying high up in the sky. As I follow the string down, I arrive at a little boy, no more than six or maybe seven, holding on to it for dear life. I am surprised he doesn’t simply take off, up into the sky to float across the rooftops of the nearby houses! But his little skinny body remains firmly on the ground, occasionally being swayed nearly off-balance by a strong gust of wind.
The kite suddenly crashes to the ground and as the little face crumples with disappointment, his father appears at his side bearing words of encouragement and support. Up goes the kite again, only to crash to the ground once more. ‘Don’t give up,’ says the father, ‘You just have to wait for the right moment and the kite will fly again.’ It sounds like a metaphor for the ups and downs of life, I laugh to myself, but there is something in the connectedness between the two that holds my attention. There is another kite on the ground, still folded up, and I imagine it belongs to the father, but he is so focused on the moment with his son that it lies forgotten. The two laugh together as the kite once more takes off, and the father holds the little boy’s waist for a moment while he regains his balance.
It is such a lovely moment between father and son, one of such complicity, that I stand there smiling, feeling the privilege of being witness to such a beautiful and intimate moment. The kite sways and swerves, cutting through the sky with such velocity that the father again reaches out to steady his son. ‘I can do it!’ says the son proudly as he sits in that delicate space between being little and being all grown-up. The kite crashes to the ground again and the father runs over to inspect the damage. ‘Perhaps we should call it a day,’ he says, which is instantly met with a loud protest of disappointment. ‘One more try then,’ the father says begrudgingly, but clearly proud that his son does not give up easily.
The diamond returns to the sky and I watch the little boy’s face as he stares upwards, concentrating on control and not letting go. His little face bursts into a huge grin as the kite continues to soar, his small arms holding and controlling perfectly. His body may be on the ground, but his spirit is up there flying with the kite and I can’t help but smile again as the kite makes a sharp turn and the little boy manages to keep it in the air.
‘Did you see that?!’ he says excitedly to his father.
‘I sure did! You are doing so well! Soon I’ll be able to let you fly mine.’
What a sense of achievement! I’ve always encouraged that in my children. It’s so important to let them learn things for themselves, to let them experience the highs and lows while in the safety of a loving environment.
I leave the park, head back to the main road and continue on my walk not really knowing where to go. I turn the corner and walk past a small Italian restaurant, red and white check table cloths peering out from the window. I continue on until I come to the garage where I used to take my car when it needed more care than I could give it. I decide to go in and see if my mechanic is in today. As I enter the garage, I see legs poking out from underneath an old BMW, a foot tapping to the sound coming out of the radio. That’s him I think to myself and I wait for the rest of his body to emerge.
When he rolls back out from underneath the car, I watch him as he tears a large piece of paper towel from a roller on the wall. He wipes the black grease from his hands and picks up a multimeter, used for checking battery charge. He starts the car, pops open the bonnet and connects the meter to the engine. ‘Come on old girl,’ he says and smiles as the reading looks good. He unplugs the meter, rolling the cord back around the handset and returns it to its place on the work bench nearby. He may go home in dirty overalls but he certainly keeps a very clean garage. I always appreciated that about Chris. ‘The Car Doctor’ I used to call him as he could diagnose what was wrong just by listening to the engine. He knew every part of each car, inside and out, like a doctor who has studied the human body for years. Skills like his tend to go unnoticed in this world.
He washes his hands several times with industrial soap and then dries them carefully on a towel. He walks to the little office at the back of the garage, takes off his overalls and puts on a pair of clean jeans and a clean flannel shirt. He pulls on casual boots and a warm jacket, runs his fingers through his hair and turns out the light, locking the office door behind him.
He is a big man, and certainly not an elegant one, but there is a certain charm to his grizzly bear appearance. A roughness that when appreciated reflects a certain shine that you don’t find with more polished people. He speaks in gruff undertones and struggles to make eye-contact when you talk to him, but I am sure that underneath that rough exterior lies a heart of gold.
As he closes and locks the large sliding door to the garage, I decide I will follow him as I haven’t yet chosen who else I will visit. We cross the road, not waiting for the signal to turn green, and he waves down an approaching bus as he runs towards the bus stop. He nods to the driver, scans his ticket and takes his seat. He stares out the window, the passing shops reflecting in his glasses.
When we arrive at his stop, he waves an appreciative thank you to the driver and steps off the bus. We walk for a few moments and turn away from the main road. After a turn into another street we walk together up to a large community hall, and I watch as Chris greets the big group of people starting to gather inside.
‘Alright everybody, time to sing your hearts out!’ calls a very tall, dark-skinned woman with an American accent. The group move towards the stage and start to collect together in lines.
‘Right, now remember I want your bellies full of air, shoulders back and heads held high. You are singing about the Lord and I want everybody to feel the joy and hope that comes from knowing Jesus!’ The small b
and starts up and bodies start to sway. A warmth like I have never known before comes out of open mouths and envelopes me, like a rich hot chocolate with a sprinkling of spice. They have given their attention to the choir leader but their hearts to Jesus, and the effect is mesmerising!
She stops them after a moment, asking them to return to the beginning but this time to put more soul into it. She asks Chris to step forward and he does so with a nervous cough. The choir continues until they suddenly slow down, in perfect unison and with a rich humming, allowing Chris to step into his own. He opens his mouth at the same time as his arms and liquid sunshine flows out, like a soft velvet filling the room with comfort and warmth. His voice is deep and powerful and so rich that he takes me completely by surprise. Who would have known?! The man who could barely mumble a word to his customers is now the centre of attention, singing his praises to Jesus backed up by a choir of angels! I sit down on a plastic chair and settle in for what promises to be a wonderful afternoon.
As the singing comes to a close, I watch as the choir disassembles, and people start to put their coats and hats on again. As I watch Chris walk past me, I see that he is walking taller and with a spring in his step that wasn’t there before. The chatter is loud as people say their goodbyes and see-you-next-weeks and walk out of the hall and back into their everyday lives. Music has such a wonderful way of lifting people up and out of their problems. If laughter is the best medicine, then music must be the second.
I exit the hall and decide who I will visit next.
Chapter 6
The Goddaughter
As I climb onto the bus I notice a pregnant lady waiting her turn with a slightly anxious look on her face. She holds her work satchel protectively in front of her belly with one hand while using the other to steady herself as she starts to climb up the stairs. At the same time another passenger is trying to get on the bus and swings her elbow out in an attempt to get on first. I would like to think that she hasn’t noticed that her competitor is pregnant, but either way it is a rude act of unnecessary proportions and one that makes me angry.
A Lifetime of Goodbyes Page 6
