The Inevitable Incarnation of Miss Havisham

 

Illustration of Miss Havisham by Harry Furniss 1854-1925

Being a Dickens enthusiast, I felt permitted to bring happiness to one of his characters in a manner of intrigue. Hope you enjoy

Freshly polished red nails adorned slender fingers which aristocratically wrapped around the ornate handle of an umbrella, flourished open. Drizzle dripped rhythmically from the umbrella upon the surface of a puddle as she released a puff of cigarette smoke. Noticing the puddle growing larger and toward her black high heels, she stepped toward a higher point on the sidewalk. A Checker cab gently pulled toward the yellow curb careful not to spray road water upon her dress.  Seemingly in one graceful slow-motion she collapsed the umbrella, released the cigarette into the curb drain, and stepped into the cab closing the door. As the cab pulled into the traffic, the wind-blown drizzle grew into pouring rain as if it had obediently waited until she was protected in the cab.  

   

    Miss Havisham rode with a well-deserved sense of regal status in the back seat of the Checker cab. She carefully applied red lipstick with the aid of gold and jewel adorned compact. Clicking closed the compact; she gracefully slipped it into her small purse, pulling out a jewel-studded cigarette lighter. Smacking the bottom of the pack of Viceroy, three butts jumped eagerly such that Miss Havisham could easily grasp one with her dainty red-nailed fingers.

    Lighted, she drew from the cigarette and vented, most lady-like, the smoke out of the window which was lowered just enough to exhaust smoke yet not allow entrance to drizzle. She looked as if puzzled at the cigarette. She looked out of the window. The buildings and landscape had changed since last she visited this era. But her destination remained the same, even if with a different professor.

   

Dr. Charles Roy sat at his desk looking out his window with a view of the statue of the college founder. He had earlier received a phone call which, while his invocation of a certain incantation promised, seemed far too preposterous to actually anticipate. Yet, it had happened. And Charles then anticipated a yet more preposterous event. As the door sounded with the knock of knuckles, his heart raced. He rose from his chair; each step toward the door seemed laden with weights. As he opened the door and saw Miss Havisham standing there, elegant beyond what he had imagined, he explained “Imagine, if you will, a Biblical archeologist has just walked into a cave and discovered the Ark of the Covenant. That is much the way I feel at this moment! How is this even possible?”

 Miss Havisham responded…  “I have received similar response from each professor before you. I really see no reason for it. I’m actually quite boring. Now, what can I do for you Mr. Roy?” She spoke with uncommon confidence as she made her way to the east wall of the office. Finding the hidden button on the wood-work, she pressed. A section of wall opened. On a small table sat bottles of decades- old whiskey and two covered shot glasses. Miss Havisham poured herself a drink and offered one to the professor who stood astonished.

   “I never knew that was there!”

   “It was installed during the 1920s” She said enthusiastically as she handed him a shot of whiskey. “Drink that. It will help.”

   Befuddled and bewildered, Charles Roy obediently drank the whiskey.

“Again, what can I do for you, Mr. Roy?”

“Well, if you will allow a personal, silly question…is Aurelia really your first name?”

“No.” she said flatly.

Charles motioned with his hands an invitation for her to put forth her name.

“I’m sorry, only Charles, I mean that Charles and I are to know that. But surely it is not Aurelia.” She spoke “Aurelia” with a sense of disapproval.

“Uh…how many times have you visited this office?”

“This is my seventh visit. Every time a professor of British literature stumbles upon the hidden incantation and becomes curious enough to speak it aloud, I show up all graced-up in the dress of the day. I don’t really know how it happens, though I have my suspicions. I most enjoyed the 1920s. It was a time of excess festivity, quite exciting. But I have to say, this is becoming a bit wearisome. Now, if we can get on with it. I must return to a particular stall in the ladies room of an obscure restaurant in,” she glanced at her pendant watch, “three hours and twenty-six minutes…and some odd seconds.”

   “Uh…may I?” he spoke as he pointed toward the whiskey.

   “Yes, now that you know it is there. I do require this…replace it when it is empty. And never tell your replacement of its existence.”

   “Our little secret.” Offered Charles, hestitantly.

“Our little secret.” Miss Havisham affirmed with a smile bearing a slight coquettish mannerism.

There was something different about this professor of British literature. Charles offered no questions about other characters in Great Expectations. He offered no readings of his own to suggest a better ending, or development of character. His questions seemed of a personal nature. Miss Havisham was gaining the idea that perhaps Charles was interested in her…personally, rather than as subject of British literature. That fact was indeed one to spur curiosity in her.

Loosened by the whiskey, Charles offered a few points of humor to which Miss Havisham responded favorably.

“Miss Havisham…it would be a very great honor if you would take a brief walk through the college garden with me. The rain seems to have stopped and the walks are graced with beautiful flowers”

“It will have to be quite brief as I…”

“Must return to a particular stall in a ladies room soon.” Charles finished.

During the walk Charles and Miss Havisham talked of flowers, birds. Charles recited original poetry to her. Her heart softened with receipt his affectionate attention. She had never been treated so lovingly.

   Upon reaching the wishing pool, Charles handed Miss Havisham a coin to toss into the pool.

“You have to close your eyes. Think for a bit about your wish. Take your time.”

Miss Havisham, eyes closed, created her wish in her mind.

As she was wishing, the sun evaporating the overcast and drizzle, Charles pulled from behind a rock in the flowers a package he had previously planted. He opened the package, retrieved the small felt-covered box, and opened it ceremoniously.

As Miss Havisham tossed her coin in the pool and opened her eyes, she turned toward Charles who had rested on one knee, holding out the opened box.

Miss Havisham was taken aback as never before. This was not what she expected. It was not what she wished. It was far better, carried much more intrigue. She, with puzzled expression on her face, looked at Charles, and the enormous diamond ring.

“Are you serious?” she asked solemnly. She wondered if perhaps he too was a character written into this reality. “Are you…are you real. I mean not written?”

“I’ve wondered about that myself” he chuckled. But truly, I carry all of the objects of a real person… birth certificate, parking tickets; I’ve even been fired from other colleges. Yes, I’m convinced I am real.”

“And…you’re asking me, a contrived character, to marry you?”

“Yes.” Charles replied with a degree of anxiety that she might decline his offer. He continued to explain that his interest in her was at first sympathetic. And then, as he studied her more, he became infatuated. And then infatuation had become love.

“Well, I never expected this! How will this work?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. But I also have my suspicions. So, what do you choose, that particular stall in the ladies room, or the ring?” he asked.

Miss Havisham had never experienced such excitement in her heart. This moment, this Charles, this flower-graced walk way, this ring, overwhelmed all of the disappointment she had previously experienced by being left at an altar so many years ago.

“The choice of the ring means no going back…for either of us.” Charles prompted.

With a bit of humor in her voice she replied “I don’t have much to return to. But the story I leave behind will inevitably change.”

“Yes, likely. But how it changes, we won’t know until we’ve done it.”

With fullness of emotion, affection, the genuine quality of actual human feeling rather than character attribute, Miss Havisham felt her personal nature changing. She felt the breath she took into her lungs. She noticed the cool breeze upon her skin. Inebriated with sensation, intoxicated with emotion, Miss Havisham threw all of her sense of existence into the most meaningful “yes” she had ever uttered.

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

Miss Havisham and Charles embraced, they kissed, and, holding hands, Charles led her, gingerly, along the sidewalk to the Garden Gazebo where stood a fellow in Ecclesiastic apparel.

“You’ve already made arrangements?”

“Indeed.”

“How did you know I would say yes?”

I didn’t. But I always tell my students…’If you are willing to make a fool of yourself, opportunity will eagerly present itself.’”

“Is the ‘man of the cloth’ fully aware of this quite irregular ceremony?”

Charles carefully chose his words after a moment of deliberation “He knows no more than the witnesses, colleagues who know only that I have been engaged with you for years.”

With the aroma of flowers and still evaporating rain-water, the ceremony proceeded to conclusion as the Priest uttered “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And with that long overdue marital status achieved, Charles Roy felt that he had emotionally arrived. And Miss Havisham had reached a point of peace of which she had never previously known.

    Miss Havisham looked at Charles and suggested “You have given me a new last name. It seems fitting you would give me a first name.”

Charles declined the opportunity…”I was hoping you would make such a choice.”

She smiled a smile beyond the poetic description of even her original creator and studied for a moment. In all of her existence, this was the first moment that a she had opportunity to be creative. As she chose her name she leaned toward Charles and whispered. He smiled upon hearing for the first time her chosen name, reserved to his knowledge only.

“Of course.” He responded with an affectionate kiss upon her cheek.

It was from afar, both in geography and time, that Charles, that Charles, blessed them  “May you each always have a living heart that never hardens, a loving temper that never tires, and a page-turning future!”. He rested his pen and then enjoyed a far, far better rest than he had ever previously known.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

An Instrument with Which to Write

 

   As far back into my youth as I remember, I have enjoyed writing. I have sought to create compositions which others would read and then offer in response accolade regarding my creative and grammatical abilities and skills. I sought to be known as a writer, identified and introduced in public as an accomplished artist of well-spoken and enviably-written English.

   Of course, I discovered that fiction, the essay, the biography were far too lengthy and complex a project to which I could submit my patience. And so, the poem seemed a manageable pursuit. My earliest poems were of a simple-rhyme construction, such as:

I seldom meet a girl so fair

As sunlight shines through morning air.

But on occasion as I do

They’re yet not fair quite so as you

 

   I certainly do not mean to insult simple rhyme. I have continued creating such rhyme for pleasure and for mild distraction for myself and a possible reader. One such poem was published in The Lyric during the early 1990s;

 

“Expired Coupon”

I found an expired coupon

There on the hallway floor.

I put it in my pocket,

But did not know what for.

Then later I discovered

A purpose that was fit.

I wrote this simple poem

Upon the back of it.

 

    But I do confess that these simple compositions grew to seem intellectually unsatisfying. And so I began to explore other types of poetry.

    Upon discovery of William Carlos Williams, and specifically three of his poems, “Red Wheelbarrow”, “Plums”, “Between Walls”, I gained a prolonged interest in non-rhyme as an entertaining means of describing and celebrating reality. I sought to imitate Williams, but the skill never developed. The proper inspiration was debilitating by its absence.

Still, I tried with

 

“Penny”

By the yellow curb

in a pool of oil and rainwater

lies a Lincoln-head.

 

An old one for sure,

but nonetheless valued

by a barefoot boy of five.

 

He clutches it tightly

as a prize

he’s won the right to claim.

 

An English teacher commented upon my returned paper “it fails to achieve Williams”.

  

    The search for, and successful use of words that flourish and garnish a sentence with grandiose adornment has caused a sense of pride and achievement within me. Arranging a sentence in fanciful, unexpected grammatical flow has tickled the literate nerve within and prompted its expression without.

    As I matured, I discovered that poetry, fiction, and biography are not the only means by which entertaining language can be delivered. Creativity can adorn even common speech in ordinary settings.

    As pastor of a United Methodist Church I have opportunity to compose sermons peppered with phrases that give flavor to what might otherwise be unpalatable topics. These sermons are an opportunity to deliver such language.

    I enjoy composing birthday greetings. It takes only a moment to spice up an ordinary sentence with an adjective, adverb, or simile. And people are worth such wishes as “May all the cosmic forces of beneficence conspire to create a day fulfilled beyond your highest expectations.” Or, “As God’s muse, you shall today inspire his creative impulse and make the world a better place.”

    I have become satisfied that these everyday, ordinary language opportunities are sufficient to fulfill my interest.

   The most effective instrument with which to write is the inspiration provided by the common, ordinary moments of one’s life. A well-told story, a birthday greeting, a letter to a friend, even an email can become a literary device by which one may flourish and garnish a sentence or paragraph with grandiose adornment.

 For me personally, the ultimate instrument with which to write was presented as a Christmas gift to me by my wife, Sherry Borglum on December 25, 2017. Sherry, observing how I make notes, record observations on the backs of receipts, napkins, and other ephemeral paper medium, gave me a “Fordite” ink-pen. As described by the pen-creator, Bob Belz “ Fordite is a generic name given to accumulative paint layers that were created from the over spray from various manufacturing processes.”

   Sherry knows I am constantly making notes with pen. She knows how much I favor Ford vehicles. And so this gift is quite unique and wonderful.

It shall provide much inspiration by which I may compose, compile or otherwise create sermons, greetings or an exercise in ego-satisfaction with sentences such as "Why settle for one perfectly adequate word when a second superfluous synonym can decorate the sentence with a charming grandiosity, however otherwise useless it may be?"

Journaling Into the Future

 

The personal attribute of being sentimental seems to have acquired an unfavorable assessment in a world which moves quickly and ferociously, tears down and buries architectural contexts and leaves history behind in a cloud of cultural dust.

    I am sentimental. I claim it, I embrace it. I value the past because of what it was and that it has brought us to this current point, personally, technologically, and otherwise. I enjoy reading history, biography and connecting the dots of who we are and how we got here, and perhaps where we are going.

Having been born into and raised by a very poor family puts one at odds with such a personal attribute. Poor folk, having to quickly find work in another town or city, having to beg car rides from friends or others, having to leave an apartment before being evicted, cannot afford to carry with them the luxury of sentimental items such as old school records, photos, and other such items.

Thus, much of the artifacts of my personal past wound up in trash dumpsters rather than my continued possession.

So, through the residential moves, the different schools and friends, I learned to develop a reliable memory. I learned to treasure that memory. I created journals composed of notes written on the back of grocery store receipts, library check-out tickets, and just about anything which would receive ink or pencil lead. I would write the date, weather conditions, personal interactions and overall comment on the day or event. My first journal was a plastic Captain Crunch Treasure Chest which I gained by sending cereal box tops to some post office address which I am sure has changed owneership. I kept my notes on the backs of receipts in sequential order bound by a rubber band in the “hidden compartment”. My next journal was a “Dutch Masters” cigar box discarded by my grandfather and retrieved from the trash before it gained soil and stain.

At some point my living circumstances became stabilized and I began using actual notebooks designed as journals. I accumulated so many of them that from time to time I have had to review and consolidate recorded entries into a compilation, which I continue to compile.

Looking back on the recorded history of my life, I have discovered that I hold much appreciation for the negative circumstances and events in my life. Surely not so much as the positive, more favorable situations, but negative event also brings much value.

Not only is life precious, but the stories, the events and circumstances are equally meaningful.

A first date, a first kiss, discovering stereo effect with headphones, a fiery streak of meteor in the night sky, these things evoke emotional and intellectual response. They place us at sure geography and point in time.

Reviewing our memories and our journals allows us to remember who we have been and more fully discover who we presently are. In my personal case they have faithfully anticipated who I would become.

People find it a bit excessive that I plan ten years out into the future with goals, vacations, and such. And true enough, many unpredictable vents emerge that force modification to my plans. But generally, my plans succeed. It’s much like writing comments in a journal of the future.

Of course I may be an anomaly of some strange kind. But I have come to believe that well-kept journals and a diligent review of those journals provides for us a basis upon which we may in the present create and project into the future successful and treasonable memories.

Yes, I am sentimental. And I plan to be so at least for the next well-journaled ten years.

A Tale of Two Donkeys

 

Image from Catholic Courrier

There are, in the Bible, two donkeys that have very important roles.

The more familiar donkey is the one upon whom Jesus rode from Mount of Olives into Jerusalem. I draw your reading attention to Luke 19: 28-40 in which the familiar donkey has his “fifteen minutes of fame”.

In this episode we learn of the instruction Jesus gave to his disciples to go fetch a “never before ridden” donkey. The disciples ask what I surely would have asked…”Why in the world would someone lend such a very important asset to a stranger?”

You see, I think this donkey was critical, or would be critical in the livelihood of the family. I don’t think the donkey was a pet or some incidental animal that they fed without any economic return. It was a big deal that the owners released their asset because they were told “The Lord needs it”.

   So, our lesson from this donkey is that we should be willing to release valuable assets for our Lord’s use.

   But what about that other donkey?

Image from Pinterest

I refer you to Numbers 22: 21-31 in which Balaam is riding his donkey until the donkey sees an angel of the Lord wielding a sword. The donkey will go no further. Balaam beats his donkey. So the donkey goes on until he sees an angel standing in a narrow path that led to vineyards. He stops again. Balaam, trying to show who's boss, beats him again. And then a third time this happened and the donkey says…“What have I done to you to make you beat me these three times?”

Balaam, seemingly not surprised at the fact of a talking donkey, responds  “You have made a fool of me! If only I had a sword in my hand, I would kill you right now.”

The donkey said to Balaam, “Am I not your own donkey, which you have always ridden, to this day? Have I been in the habit of doing this to you?”

    Well, there are a lot of preaching perspectives regarding this episode such as:

1.     The Lord opened the donkey’s mouth…not the donkey of his own initiative.

2.     And, the Lord opened Balaam’s eyes so he could see what the donkey saw. Again, it was the prevenient grace of the Lord that accommodated Balaam.

But my point in this essay is this…

God very often provides grace and salvation in the most unexpected resources.

There…finally…Balaam’s donkey gets his fair share of fame!

Reflections on Psalm 19

 

photo credit: NASA,GOV

   The whole of Psalm 19 comes across as recognition of wonder and a request for the enabling of a proper response.

While many preachers will invoke the last verse before delivery of a sermon, it is clear that the verse “Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer” is not really about preaching. It is truly about proper personal and social conduct as anyone goes through the day.

To paraphrase…” My goodness, what a great and wonderful day you have provided for me God. I will not take it for granted! Please nudge me to honor the wonder of this day by having good thoughts and good words for others.”

God, in his creative power, has provided a canvass for our artwork today.

Let’s paint upon that canvass great and wonderful creation of our own.

What great thoughts will you focus on today?

What encouraging words will you offer to others today?

 

Psalm 19 The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.

2 Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge.

3 There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.

4 Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun,

5 Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race.

6 His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it: and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.

7 The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.

8 The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart: the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.

9 The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever: the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.

10 More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold: sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.

11 Moreover by them is thy servant warned: and in keeping of them there is great reward.

12 Who can understand his errors? cleanse thou me from secret faults.

13 Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me: then shall I be upright, and I shall be innocent from the great transgression.

14 Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer.

Frank Sandlin: Mischief, Humor, Adventure!

 

all photos provided by Corinne Sandlin Larson

A belated tribute to Frank Sandlin who passed away September 21, 2007

If ever Frank Sandlin attempted to hide his “cat that ate the canary” smile, his lips betrayed him in the most devilish manner.

Frank always carried a smile that indicated he had some recent humorous story to report, or soon would have. These stories were emphatically punctuated with chuckles most contagious!

I worked with Frank at Concord schools from 1988 until 1999. He and I worked each and every high school basketball game together. The kids from Ox Bow Elementary school, where he worked as a custodian, would get his attention “Hi Frank!” And Frank would respond with some comment relating to some event of the last week. “Did they make you stay after school?” and other such replies were common from Frank.

He was for sure popular!

Ready for the Oscars!

Very good-natured and well liked by students and teachers, Frank developed a favorable reputation as someone to be proud to call friend!

And, much as he was good-natured and a “nice guy” as teachers report, I wish to highlight his humor.

Those stories he would tell of his weekends, his trips to Sturgis, South Dakota, loaded with antics, adventures accentuated with periodic laughter would brighten up any work day or break time. Frank’s presence faithfully caused the work-boredom to give way to an entertained spirit.

His real-life persona was what movie directors seek to place on the big screen!

And that Harley! If it was anywhere around summer-time, his butt was on that bike! Yes, stories from Sturgis, the open road, Frank had many.

As that bike entered the parking lot of the school that engine announced the presence of pure entertainment for the work day!

Sure, Frank did the work of the day. But his real contribution was to remind everybody that he, and they, were much more than just agents of elbow grease. He stirred up within us that sense of being present in the moment and enjoying personal experience with his humor, his stories.

Frank was fun to be around!

Too bad the movie directors never met him! he would have had a wonderful career on that big screen.

But them again, I’m not sure that screen would have been big enough for his mischievous persona!

In remembrance and celebration of Frank, I invite you to read the brief memoir from his sister, Corinne, below.

 I remembered how Frank would run into someone he knew pretty much wherever we went, especially in Elkhart but in other cities and states too. Shortly after we graduated from high school, we took a road trip to Florida and stopped at a random campground along the way, and Frank saw someone he knew staying at that campground. Another time we went to Ohio to go to a concert and stopped at a restaurant off the highway and I heard someone shout, “Hey, Frank!” across the dining room. When I lived in Denver, Frank came out one year for Christmas. After the family left, we decided to do some sightseeing. As we were driving up Pike’s Peak, I asked him if he thought he might run into someone he knew at the top of the mountain. He looked at me with that twinkle in his eye and said, “I don’t know, but if I do, I hope she’s good looking!” He did not know anyone that day, but he did take me to a biker bar and bought me a souvenir t-shirt. As it would turn out, that was our last trip together.