Moving On to Happy Days

I have been very distressed by various threads I have read, some in which I have commented and responses to some of which I have initiated since I returned to Facebook at Easter Time. I should say, I am more distressed than usual. Disagreement with the prevailing opinion means being labelled "stupid" or "uncaring". I don't think I am either. But it is of no moment. I was sitting outside in the warm afternoon sun, thinking, attempting to pray. And then it occurred to me.



I have an opportunity here and I have been fighting the problem. In these times of home confinement I can stop resisting what has been offered, essentially a life of retreat, not the running away kind, but the spiritual kind. And if ever or whenever the time of official "stay in place" ends, hopefully I will have developed a new pattern that is no longer jarred by the babel of daily life.



It remains to be seen, of course. I am very weak as all created beings are.

But, I shall take one step at a time. I begin by returning, once again, to my father's stories. I happened to be going through a cupboard and ran across my binders full of them, along with a variety of other memorabilia which, if I do not record them here, will end up in a dumpster after I am gone, my being the end of this line of our family.  That is what is important. His personal history is history worthwhile.

So, here is a one pager from my late father.

HAPPY DAYS

A lot depends on when an event took place.  In the autumn of my years, some happenings long ago that seemed of supreme memorability become pale and forgettable in retrospect.  Still, there are some memories so epiphanic in scope that they still engender a tingle or two.

I left the confines of an autocratic parochial school and entered the public school system in the last year of the elementary stages.  Actually, I did not leave their confines. One might say I was expelled.

The precipitating cause of my ejection was a "Waterman" fountain pen.  It was mind, a treasured item in those historic days before the "ball point" variety of these banal days of superfluity.

As proof of my ownership, I painstakingly carved my initials at both ends of the pen.  It was stolen nonetheless. 

One day, during a test, I saw the item in the grubby hands of Spiros Tryforos, the scion of the owner of a chain of flower shops. When he refused to return my property to me, I beat him severely. This caused Spiro Tryforos, Sr. to enlist the intervention of our Principal, who was also the venerable pastor of our flock, in the name of justice.

I received several whacks with a wicker rod, and was told not to return to school unless I was accompanied by my father.

It would have been foolhardy to bring my father into this dispute.  The patriarchs of this community never disagreed on matters of discipline.  I brought my mother.

Mother did not speak Greek, but on this occasion, she berated the Principal and the flower vendor, who was also in attendance, with sufficient English articulation to cow them both.

"How dare you beat my child!" she expostulated. 

She then asked for a refund of unused tuition and said that I would not return to a school where the leaders were barbarians, I thought the word "barbarian" apt in that it is of Greek origin and used as a caustic negative to those who were not Greek.

It was one of the happiest days of my life.