World Peace (1957)

From World Peace, by Swami Sivananda, publ. 1957:

Only removal of ignorance can stop all future wars and dissensions. Spiritual culture, ethical education, measures that are best calculated to instill love and a sense of unity in men and women can prevent nations from resorting to war.  If all people begin to practice kindness and mercy, how can they at the same time stand with weapons and guns in their hands to destroy each other? Individual peace alone can lead to the establishment of universal peace. May there be peace, plenty and prosperity throughout the whole world! May all nations be united by the bond of love!

As She Wanted It (after Death)

©2009, Ramona K Silipo. All rights reserved.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s a group of friends and acquaintances gathered annually on Christmas Eve. We decorated a tree, ate a fabulous feast, caught up –some of us saw each other only at this gathering– and told stories. Late in the evening, when the house was uncomfortably warm from all the bodies in activity, we stopped. We quietened. We gathered around a round table with a candle in the middle. Each of us lit a candle from the one on the table. Each of us remembered a friend who was not with us that night. Some of us spoke several names, others only one. But each person there had seen someone die that year.  The last year I attended, our group had shrunk from 14 or 15 to eight.

In that time, when AIDS was still a pandemic killer, I knew dozens of people –young and old and middle aged– who died of it. I saw so many die, said good-bye to so many, that I came to terms with death because I had to in order to survive in some sort emotionally capable state. I learned the power of mourning through the various stages of grief, and of allowing grief to consume me for a brief time, to emerge from it able to move forward. None of these are easy lessons, and I think many of us never allow ourselves to let go and wallow in grief when we need to do it. But with literally dozens of people I knew dying around me, I had to learn to deal with death.

So this year, when we had to deal with three family deaths in rapid succession, I was able to cope with the aftershock.

I have always, even with the deaths of my parents, found repugnant and a bit stomach-turning the common rituals after the event, with the expense and ostentation and superficiality of the typical church funeral.  So as a rule I do not go to funerals. A memorial gathering in a theatre, with shared memories and readings from plays or a few songs was about as far as I  go. My husband knows that I want no fuss and no expense when I go, just cremation and scattering the ashes around the rose bushes or wherever. I’ve said he might go as far as a Memorial Meeting for Worship, if he thinks people need it, but I’ll get back to him on that closer to the event.

Even so I hold in compassion and patience people who do believe in that sort of thing. There’s no denying that the pomp and religiosity of a typical funeral allows many people to grieve in a way they would not permit themselves to do under any other circumstances.

My husband’s sister died early in May. She had cancer for five years, and had gone through all the various treatments to extend her life. She had planned a full production number of a funeral, complete with matched black horses drawing a Victorian carriage with her polished casket inside it, songs she selected (including, I thought slightly perversely, Leaving on a Jet Plane), a huge limousine for the family, an official mourner in Victorian costume and a reception afterward with good eats. She took care of every detail. And as her brother’s wife, I attended the performance. Everything went off without a hitch; Sister would have been very pleased with the way her plans went off like clockwork.

I did not know Sister well. I’d been married to her brother for only six years, and I saw her perhaps four to six times a year, for lunch with the family. We were acquaintances who had been at family gatherings and shared pleasant conversations, enjoyed laughing together and exchanged gifts neither of us really wanted. We liked each other, but never had a meaningful conversation that lasted longer than three minutes. We were so very different we would probably never have met had I not been married to her brother.

But I watched her journey with more than a little admiration, as she pushed through the powerlessness, anger, frustration, struggle and fear, to acceptance. She ran a huge emotional and psychological gamut, with her good days and her bad days. But she lived well right up to the end, and she left people with fond memories and loving good-byes.

The only bone I would pick with her is over my husband’s children. There was a history there, in that my husband’s first wife had a habit of sending vile letters to people; and Sister did not want the children to know of her illness because she did not want to deal with any nastiness from her former sister-in-law. I understood this completely, having read some of the calumnies and attacks by Ex-wife in other contexts. But I felt strongly that the children had a right to know that their aunt was ill, and that they had a right to say good-bye to her.

My husband talked to his sister about the children’s visiting her many times during her illness and treatment, but she did not want to make herself vulnerable to unpleasant letters from the children’s mother. So my husband felt that he had to honour Sister’s wishes. Finally, when she knew that she had little time left, Sister wanted to see the children. My husband tried to arrange it, but Sister died before he could arrange it.

My husband’s dad, his only surviving parent, was gratified to see so many people in the church. So was my husband. The place was packed with people, hundreds of them, who knew Sister and needed to say good-bye to her. Her step-children and her husband were devastated, of course, and allowed themselves deep, wrenching weeping which would not be acceptable in any other context.  I think that’s the most you can expect from a funeral.

Oddly enough, the reception afterward gave me a chance to meet family members I hadn’t met before, and to talk with some whom I’d met only a year ago at Sister’s 50th birthday party. The reception had a lightness about it that Sister would have enjoyed, and virtually everyone commented that everything had been as she wanted it.

Driving home, I thought again how sad it was that the children did not get to say good-bye to their aunt, but I didn’t say anything about it. It had, in fact, been a pretty good day, all thing considered.

My objective is to write fiction that feels completely real –snapshots of life, fleeting moments of insight, unexpected realizations– that sort of thing. I hope you enjoy reading these brief stories.

The Last Time I Saw Kathie

©2008 Ramona K. Silipo. All rights reserved.

This was the third time I’d met Kathie at a café between our houses. Her son Raphael, twelve, was in school. I calmed myself. I didn’t want to get angry.

“My God!” People looked, but I couldn’t help it.  She had a sutured gash above her left eye. With tremendous effort, I lowered my voice. “Did Robert do that?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. No tears, no emotion at all. “I asked Raphael about the dirty magazines. They were his, not Raphael’s. I asked him to keep them at the office and not bring them home. He said he’ll have whatever he wants in his house.” Almost a recitation.

The anger pushed like a fist from my gut upward, nearly choked me. I wanted to scream at her. But with iron self-control, I said, “You’ve got to leave.”

“We’re married. We work together. He pays for everything. I can’t leave.” Her voice was flat, lifeless.

I pushed. “Stay with us as long as you need to.”

“It would be months,” she mumbled.

“That’s OK.”

“It’s too complicated. Raphael’s school is here, and his friends. . . “

”Stay with us,” I repeated, choking back my rage.“I’ll lend you money. I’ll support you however I can if you get out now. I can’t support you if you don’t leave.” Saying it almost killed me, but I was powerless to help her if she couldn’t help herself at least that much.

She stood up and  pulled her sweater tighter around herself. “Then I guess we’re not friends any more.” She left.

My objective is to write fiction that feels completely real –snapshots of life, fleeting moments of insight, unexpected realizations– that sort of thing. I hope you enjoy reading these brief stories.

Jasper and the Unbaked Rolls

This is another story that came to me in an e-mail, with no indication of the author or source.  If anyone knows the author or source, please e-mail me so I can put the credit in this post.

Please note: The story is funny, but the outcome could have been serious, even fatal. The ASPCA has unbaked yeast dough on its NEVER-feed-to-dogs list.

We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10-year-old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.

Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me.

Lest you think this is a bad case of  ‘no discipline,’ I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.

Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time.

I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole house that worked, thus the assignment. I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for several hours.

Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30 PM. When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty.

I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated. I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night.

God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.

We rose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing put the dog out to relieve himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt, and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction.

He couldn’t lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our backyard, he couldn’t stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon. I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol.

Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister’s house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day. My sister lives outside of Muskegon on a ranch (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and me, we took off.

Now I know you probably don’t believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that’s not the worst of it.

Now he was beginning to let off gas and it smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen’s, thankful she didn’t live any further away than she did.

Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister’s garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper’s latest endeavor to walk without running into something.

Of course, as the old adage goes, ‘what goes in, must come out’ and Jasper was no exception. Granted, if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but a dog’s digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen’s house. Having discovered his ‘packages’ on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor.

This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor. And as if this wasn’t degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed, too.

Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry’s sister’s house. I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear … I presume.

I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I’m doing research on the computer as to: ‘How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet’

Greta and the Cockerel

We had a new Greta adventure Wednesday morning. The people next door keep chickens and they have one rooster. Well, the rooster got out of the coop and flew into our back yard, whereupon Greta did her greyhound race memory thing and chased it. She pulled a lot of feathers out and stopped it cold, but dropped it immediately when my husband said, “Greta, drop it.”

We thought it was dead, and took Greta inside. I went back to pick up the corpse, and it was gone.  It was only stunned.

About two hours later, the stupid bird came back into our yard.  My husband spied it from the upstairs window, where he’d been looking out for it periodically for a while.  I guess a rooster is very macho and has to live dangerously? My husabnd called me to keep Greta inside. He rushed downstairs and went out and tried to catch it to put it back over the fence, but it wouldn’t cooperate.

Finally the kid who cleans the animal pens next door arrived; my husband spied him from the window.  I went next door and got him, and he caught Rooster  in one try and took it home.  I had a good look at him, and there wasn’t much damage, just  a little blood on its neck, and its tail was distinctly lacking in feathers, but it seemed OK.

I noticed it didn’t  crow all day, as it usually does, so I perversely hoped that Greta got its voice box or whatever roosters have that makes the crowing sound. Once in the morning is cute; all day and all night gets wearing. No such luck. He was back crowing as usual the next day.

Anyway, when the drama was over,  Greta lay on her cushion as though nothing out of the ordinary ever happened.