Treasury of Joy & Inspiration (4 page)

Gilligan's Aisle

by Jeanne Marie Laskas

December 1996

From
Washington Post Magazine

H
aving braved
a Chicago snowstorm and rush-hour traffic, I trudged through O'Hare International Airport dragging my suitcase like a kid with a sled. There were people, bags, packages, babies, sour faces and airline representatives motioning like crossing guards. A monitor above
our heads said “delayed” a few times and “canceled” a lot.

Three hours. That's how long my flight to Pittsburgh was delayed.
Three hours.

I had two choices: I could lie to myself and say this was a great opportunity to catch up on paperwork. Or I could plunge headfirst into a bad mood.

My gate was tucked away off the main corridor, a little peninsula unto itself. The only seats were next to other people, and I was in no mood for other people.
Who needs holidays anyway? And who needs snow?
I sat on the floor, folded my arms across my chest and adopted a look of quiet rage.

After about 20 minutes of examining every carpet stain within view, I looked up to see a lady with a Crate & Barrel shopping bag take a seat next to another lady with a Crate & Barrel shopping bag.

The first one introduced herself, opened her bag and rooted through tissue paper. “Twenty-five percent off!” she said, producing a bowl.

“Thirty-three percent off!” said the other, digging out a plate.

They laughed and started chattering away. The sound of such facile friendship was deeply annoying.

A businessman
who was sitting behind them twisted in his seat and said something. The ladies cracked up.

A man with a cane seated one spot away joined in. Soon a purple-haired kid pulled off his earphones and started listening in. This happy group had a regular conversation going.

Must be nice,
I allowed.
If you like that sort of thing.

After an hour my lower back hurt. I got up and took the seat next to the kid. “And my mom and my dad split when I was four,” he was telling the ladies.

“Aw,” said one.

“Uh-huh,” said the other.

The businessman caught my eye and said, “Don't I know you from somewhere?” We compared travel notes and found no intersections. He introduced me around anyway, and just like that I was in. We swapped stories: Forgotten luggage. Epic delays. Missed connections. Airport chair design.

A Gilligan's Island effect was taking place: we were stranded and having a great time.

A dark-haired man over by the window started snoring loudly. The businessman laughed, which we took as permission. We all broke up.

It was two hours more before a plane arrived at our gate. “What's the protocol here?” the businessman asked. “Should we applaud?” We took a vote: yes. So when the door opened and the people came out looking as miserable as each of us had felt, we stood up and clapped. The people were not amused.

“Hey, what book are you reading?” one of the Crate & Barrel ladies said to a stern-looking man carrying a novel. He stopped and stared. “Here,” he said, handing over the book. “I'm done.” Other passengers gave us magazines and newspapers.

When it came time to board, we lagged behind our fellow travelers. The purple-haired kid carried the Crate & Barrel ladies' bags.

We were quiet now. We didn't know what to say. One of the ladies broke the silence: “Do you think we should have a reunion sometime?”

 

The Gold-and-Ivory Tablecloth

By Rev. Howard C. Schade

December 1954

A
t Christmas
time men and women everywhere gather in their churches to wonder anew at the greatest miracle the world has ever known. But the story I like best to recall was not a miracle—not exactly.

It happened to a pastor who was very young. His church was very old. Once, long ago, it had flourished. Famous men had preached from its pulpit, prayed before its altar. Rich and poor alike had worshiped there and built it beautifully. Now the good days had passed from the section of town where it stood. But the pastor and his young wife believed in their run-down church. They felt that with paint, hammer and faith they could get it in shape. Together they went to work.

But late in December a severe storm whipped through the river valley, and the worst blow fell on the little church—a huge chunk of rain-soaked plaster fell out of the inside wall just behind the altar. Sorrowfully the pastor and his wife swept away the mess, but they couldn't hide the ragged hole.

The pastor looked at it and had to remind himself quickly, “Thy will be done!” But his wife wept, “Christmas is only two days away!”

That afternoon the dispirited couple attended an auction held for the benefit of a youth group. The auctioneer opened a box and shook out of its folds a handsome gold-and-ivory lace tablecloth. It was a magnificent item, nearly 15 feet long. But it, too, dated from a long-vanished era. Who, today, had any use for such a thing? There were a few halfhearted bids. Then the pastor was seized with what he thought was a great idea. He bid it in for six dollars and fifty cents.

He carried the cloth back to the church and tacked it up on the wall behind the altar. It completely hid the hole! And the extraordinary beauty of its shimmering handwork cast a fine, holiday glow over the chancel. It was a great triumph. Happily he went back to pre
­
paring his Christmas sermon.

Just before noon on the day of Christmas Eve, as the pastor was opening the church, he noticed a woman standing in the cold at the bus stop.

“The bus won't be here for 40 minutes!” he called, and he invited her into the church to get warm.

She told him that she had come from the city that morning to be interviewed for a job as governess to the children of one of the wealthy families in town but she had been turned down. A war refugee, her English was imperfect.

The woman sat down in a pew and chafed her hands and rested. After a while she dropped her head and prayed. She looked up as the pastor began to adjust the great gold-and-ivory lace cloth across the hole. She rose suddenly and walked up the steps of the chancel. She looked at the tablecloth. The pastor smiled and started to tell her about the storm damage, but she didn't seem to listen. She took up a fold of the cloth and rubbed it between her fingers.

“It is mine!” she said. “It is my banquet cloth!” She lifted up a corner and showed the surprised pastor that there were initials monogrammed on it. “My husband had the cloth made especially for me in Brussels! There could not be another like it!”

For the next few minutes the woman and the pastor talked excitedly together. She explained that she was Viennese; that she and her husband had opposed the Nazis and decided to leave the country. They were advised to go separately. Her husband put her on a train for Switzerland. They planned that he would join her as soon as he could arrange to ship their household goods across the border.

She never saw him again. Later she heard that he had died in a concentration camp.

“I have always felt that it was my fault—to leave without him,” she said. “Perhaps these years of wandering have been my punishment!”

The pastor tried to comfort her, urged her to take the cloth with her. She refused. Then she went away.

As the church began to fill on Christmas Eve, it was clear that the cloth was going to be a great success. It had been skillfully designed to look its best by candlelight.

After the service, the pastor stood at the doorway; many people told him that the church looked beautiful. One gentle-faced, middle-aged man—he was the local clock-and-watch repairman—looked rather puzzled.

“It is strange,” he said in his soft accent. “Many years ago my wife—God rest her—and I owned such a cloth. In our home in Vienna, my wife put it on the table”—and here he smiled—“only when the bishop came to dinner!”

The pastor suddenly became very excited. He told the jeweler about the woman who had been in church earlier in the day.

The startled jeweler clutched the pastor's arm. “Can it be? Does she live?”

Together the two got in touch with the family who had interviewed her. Then, in the pastor's car they started for the city. And as Christmas Day was born this man and his wife—who had been separated through so many saddened Yuletides—were reunited.

To all who heard this story, the joyful purpose of the storm that had
knocked a hole in the wall of the church was now quite clear. Of course
people said it was a miracle, but I think you will agree it was the season
for it!

Humor in the Face of Adversity

“Say something
funny!” That's what people say when they find out I'm a comedian. But how would they feel if I found out they were a plumber and said, “Fix my sink!”? So when someone asks me to say something funny, I reply, “You're good-looking!” And they laugh. Usually.

Once at JFK airport, the customs guy looked at my paperwork and saw that I was a comedian. “Say something funny,” he commanded.

“You're good-looking,” I shot back.

There was a pause, followed by a smile. Then he pulled me aside and went through all my luggage.
Eddie Brill, for
Reader's Digest

A Dog Like No Other

By Peter Muilenburg

June 1998

A
waning moon
had turned the muddy
­
waters of Oyster Creek to
quicksilver. Not so much as a zephyr stirred the inlet where our 42-foot ketch
Breath
lay
in the delta of western Africa's mighty Gambia River near Banjul, the capital of
Gambia. Days before, we'd sailed in off a thousand miles of ocean. Snug in this
anchorage, we could still hear surf thundering just beyond the low span of the
Denton Bridge.

The chance to see Africa had brought our family back
together for a couple of months. Our older son, Rafael, 20, had taken leave
from college to join the rest of us: Diego, 13, my wife, Dorothy, and our
little black dog, Santos.

Breath
had been our only home since I had built the vessel on
St. John in the Virgin Islands in the early 1980s. Life afloat had knit
close bonds. Everyone had responsibilities—the boys were standing watch when
they were six. And for the past eight years, Santos, our loving, feisty,
11-pound schipperke, was at our side.

When we went to bed that night, Santos lay on the cabin
top, which he vacated only in the worst weather. He touched his nose to
Dorothy's face as she bent low to nuzzle him good night. His ardent eyes
flared briefly—he worshiped her—then he returned to his duty.

We slept easier with him aboard. It was his
self-appointed mission to ensure that no one, friend or foe, approached
within 100 yards of
Breath
without a warning. He'd sailed with us through the
Caribbean, the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, keeping sharp watch and good
company, and bringing us luck. In eight years we'd never suffered a mishap.
But during the night of January 2, 1991, that would change.

We were asleep when, just past midnight, our dock lines
began to creak. At first I thought a passing boat might have sent a wake,
but Santos would have barked. The creaking grew louder. By the time I
climbed on deck, the ropes groaned against the cleats that tethered our boat
to another vessel.

On such a calm night there could be only one
cause—current. My boat was tied stern to stream, and a glance over the side
at water speeding past the hull alarmed me. The ebb had tripled its usual
spring-tide rate. The cleats on the other boat looked ready to snap. If
anything gave, both vessels could spin off bound together, helpless to avoid
destruction. I had to cast off.

We were in a difficult spot. Just a few boat-lengths
downstream, two high-tension power lines hung across the creek. About 100
feet behind them loomed Denton Bridge. If we couldn't turn in time, our
metal mainmast might hit the wires. If the boat hit the bridge, both masts
would be pinned by the roadway while the hull was sucked under.

I called everyone up on deck. Sensing something was
wrong, Santos stood by, poised to react.

We cast off the lines and hung briefly to a stern anchor,
but we had to let go as
Breath
was swung
violently back and forth by the current's force. I gunned the engine and had
almost turned the boat around when I realized that, dragged toward the
bridge by the current, we were going to hit the power line. Dorothy clutched
a quivering Santos, and we all held our breath.

We just tipped the wire. There was a meteor shower of
sparks and we were through, but the second wire was coming up fast. I flung
the wheel over hard, but we struck the wire anyway—a long, scraping skid,
the top six inches of our mast pinned against the power line.

Electricity exploded down the rigging, and a hideous
incandescence lit the sky. Flames leapt up inside the cabin; fuses shot from
their sockets; smoke billowed out the hatches.

Then the fireworks stopped. The cable had rolled over the
mast, but we were trapped between the second wire and the bridge. There was
nowhere to go but back out—through the wire. Santos wriggled out of
Dorothy's arms and dashed up to the foredeck to be in on the
action.

The wheel hard over, we braced for impact. The mast top
hit the cable, sending down a torrent of red sparks. Santos, eyes fixed
ahead, stood his ground to defend the foredeck. He was growling for all he
was worth when sparks landed in his fur. Uttering a high-pitched scream, he
sprinted down the side deck, cinders glowing in his coat, and plunged into
the water. When he surfaced, Santos was swimming for the boat, his eyes
fastened on Dorothy. But the current swept him into the shadows under Denton
Bridge and out of sight.

An instant later a blast like a small thunderbolt hit the
mainstay. My son Raffy was flipped backward off the foredeck and into the
water.

Then we were through. Diego seized a fire extinguisher
and attacked the flames as I steered toward a trawler tied to a concrete
slab on the muddy bank. Raffy, a college swimmer, managed to get to the
bank.

Against all odds we were safe—except for Santos. Raffy
called along both shores, but there was no sign of him. We spent the rest of
the night tied to the trawler. As I tried to sleep, I kept thinking of
Santos. I felt a helpless sorrow over his fate.

The next day Dorothy walked for miles down the beach,
making inquiries at every hotel, talking to beach attendants, tourists,
vendors. Nobody had seen our little black dog.

She offered a reward over the ship's radio, notified the
police and nailed up signs. It was touching, but it seemed futile to me.
Just beyond the bridge were broad flats of sand pounded that night by row
after row of massive breakers. The thought of Santos funneled helplessly
into the surf made me wince.

Days later we'd repaired
Breath,
but Santos
still hadn't turned up. “Honey,” I told Dorothy, “we've got to get on with
our life—do the river, cross the Atlantic, get back to work.”

“But what if he survived?” she asked. “What if he finds
his way back, and we're gone?”

“It's hard to believe he survived that surf,” I said
flatly, “and then swam till dawn.”

She searched my face, looking for a reprieve from
reality. Then her eyes flooded and her voice broke. “I just didn't want to
abandon him.”

With heavy hearts the next morning, we hauled the anchor
for our trip upriver.

Our loss really hit home 50 miles upstream where we
anchored. Suddenly a strange face peered in the porthole and inquired if we
wanted to buy a fish. The fisherman had paddled up silently alongside. When
Santos was alive, that could never have happened. Now we sorely missed the
zealous barking we'd so often tried to hush.

Not a day went by without someone bringing up another
Santos story. He might have been small, but he was absolutely fearless.
Santos had a classic Napoleon complex. He had to have respect, and he got it
by making bigger animals run from him. He was all bluff. But with a
histrionically vicious growl and a headlong charge, he had put to flight
Rottweilers, herds of goats, troops of wild donkeys, even a meter
reader.

Once, on the island of St. Lucia, an elephant brought
over by a rich estate owner emerged from the woods into a clearing where
Santos was merrily scattering a flock of chickens. Our dog reacted in
character: he charged. The elephant panicked, flaring its ears, splitting
the air with its trumpet call and smacking the ground with its trunk as
Santos dodged and darted underfoot. We had to catch Santos and drag him
away.

We'd never see another like him, I thought as I steered
upriver.

Soon after, I woke one night to an empty bed. I found
Dorothy sitting in the moonlight. From the way her eyes glistened, I could
tell she'd been thinking of Santos. I sat down and put an arm around her.
After a while she spoke. “You know what I miss most? His shaggy mane filling
the porthole. He liked to watch me cook. Now every time a shadow falls over
that port, it reminds me of the love in those bright black eyes.”

We watched the moon slip below the treetops; then, our
hearts filled with grief, we went back to bed.

Two weeks passed as we made our way 150 miles up the
Gambia River. One afternoon Dorothy and I were reinforcing the deck awning
when I saw a catamaran with a man on board inspecting us with
binoculars.

“Are you the Americans who lost the dog?” he
called.

“Yes,” I said cautiously.

“I don't know if it is yours, but the police at Denton
Bridge have a small black dog found on the beach.”

Everyone tumbled up on deck shouting, “Oh, my God! Yes!
Yes!” But I cautioned, “Someone might have found a stray mutt and brought it
in, hoping for the reward. Don't get your hopes too high.”

Dorothy and I took a series of bush taxis and old buses
back to Banjul the next morning. With hope and trepidation we caught a taxi
to Denton Bridge to see if Santos had truly survived.

“You've come for your dog!” the police officer on duty
greeted us. He turned and called to a boy, “Go bring the dog.” Dorothy and I
waited on tenterhooks.

Then, led on a ratty piece of string down the path, there
was Santos. He walked with a limp, head down. But when Dorothy called
“Santos,” his head shot up, his ears snapped forward, his whole body
trembled as that beloved voice registered. He leapt into her arms and
covered her face with licks. Dorothy hugged him, her eyes filled with
tears.

The police officer told us that the morning after we'd
hit the power lines, a Swedish tourist was walking the beach and found
Santos—six miles from Oyster Creek. The Swede smuggled the wet, hungry
animal into his hotel room and fed him. When the Swede had to fly home, he
gave Santos to the police.

We noticed Santos's muzzle seemed whiter, and when we
patted him on his right flank, he sometimes yelped in pain. We wondered what
he'd experienced as he was swept into the surf and carried along the coast.
We marveled at his fortitude and his luck. But most of all we were grateful
to have him back.

Next morning we made our way back upriver. We arrived
just after sundown and shouted for the boys.

“Do you have him?” they called. Dorothy urged the dog to
bark. His unmistakable voice rang across the river, to be answered by a
cheer of wild exuberance.

Later that night we toasted Santos with lemonade. No need
for champagne when euphoria spiced the air we breathed. Santos was back. Our
family was intact.