"Over the moon"

Angie's contribution:

Over the Moon - or in other words delighted, chuffed, thrilled to bits, exultant,. How many times, especially in recent years, we hear this phrase. The sportsman achieving his goal, the employer on being promoted, the bride on her wedding day, the mother looking at her new born child, the lottery winner, etc. Infact all of us, at some time in our lives have been Over the Moon. Delirious with happiness, beside ourselves with joy. There is now though, perhaps more than ever before, an expectation that we should experience this emotion not just once or twice in a lifetime but at regular intervals and perhaps with minimum effort on our part. Maybe the phrase has been watered down in fact. Perhaps, to some extent, it is the invidiousness of adverts which underpins this expectation. If you buy the right sofa,  washing powder, bed, supermarket food, beauty product or even air freshener, you will indeed be Over the Moon. Bowled over by the comfort/brightness/cleanliness/ tastiness/ transformation etc. To the naive and gullible the other promoter of 'Over the Mooness' is the celebrity culture. The idea that once you are famous( no matter for what  or how earned) you will automatically be utterly happy. In spite of the stories they hear of celebrity downfall it is still seen by many as the magic elixir that will bring day long happiness and a life of luxury. Another, even more recent, is the social media phenomenon where the fortunate display their good news in words and pictures and the 'followers' emulate in droves, all vying to show the most exciting/ glamourous/ enviable/ unattainable/ just beyond reach portrayals of areas of their lives where they are 'over the moon ' Seeing the number of people now sleeping rough on our streets one wonders what would make them 'over the moon'. The obvious one, to be told they need never again be exposed to the elements, or suffer the ignominy of having to beg. Or hearing of all the immigrants dispossessed, widowed, orphaned and worse. Over the Moon? Just to be a family again in a safe place would be that and more. They have just raised millions of pounds in the UK with their TV appeal for the charity 'Save the Children'. We see films of children who have to act as carers to a single sick or disabled parent, children devastated by disease or deformity, children abused physically and mentally. Over the Moon for them? Just a normal healthy family life. This Christmas many people will be 'over the moon' having received the desired gift, partied, over indulged, dressed in shimmering finery and basked in the presence of their loved ones.  For whatever reason though, many will not. There will always be those whose lives did not deliver, from no fault of their own.  Life is not fair, more of a cosmic lottery. Ironic, since the cosmos is seen to be a complex and ordered system, the opposite of chaos. The Moon, one satellite orbiting planet earth. When the 16th century nonsense rhyme appeared, and the cow jumped over the Moon, little did they know how much knowledge man would acquire, how he would walk on the moon, and fly around it and be conversant with its structure. Those astronauts were indeed - over the moon. ______________________________________________________________ Jackie It was in the middle of the night when my family and myself finally managed to attempt to make the crossing.    The water was calm when we started out but the boat was for 6 people and we were 25  and didn’t know any of the other refugees.  I was only ten years old but I realised from the tension in my fathers face that this was a running for your life situation.   I clung to my mother and the small bundle she clutched that was my new baby sister.  I knew the boat was made of wood as I could dig my fingernails into the side of the railings when there was a particularly aggressive wave.  We huddled together as best we could and looked up at the sky, the moon gave little comfort playing hide and seek with us in the clouds as we prayed silently for a safe journey.  When the storm started up the boat began to rock gently back and forth with the waves -,  Chug chug and splutter we could all hear that the engine of the boat was having problems.   - a few sparks flew into the sea like stars in the sky of back home.     We had only been going for 30 minutes or so.   Then there was silence, a silence only broken by the wash of the waves against our fragile wooden vessel .   Then someone managed to start the engine and It was pleasant enough , I felt that the journey would be bearable;   but then  the wind gathered strength in minutes -  it became like a combination of a washing machine and eternal roller coaster.    The froth was spraying all around and constant water was coming over the top of the boat making it very difficult to see.  The ship was going up and down 30+ meters constantly.   We were all thrown against each other as  the ups and downs were accompanied by many jerks,  as waves on the swells pushed the boat around.   UP and down up and down…… This reminded me of home - of my playmates;  when my cousin and I had played with the old fallen oak tree using it as a see-saw, balancing on the stone in old Mary’s garden.    I thought of my cousin with envy now,  she was probably sitting outside her hut this very moment - drawing in the street dirt or playing with the pigs.    It was almost impossible to get real sleep;   those who called themselves “crew”  fell  into a halfway state of being part awake and part comatose.   Fear gripped me - I felt scared, so scared that I’m ashamed to say my bowels gave out on me  several times.  I wanted the voyage to be over - to arrive and put my feet on firm earth, I wanted the world to stop churning;  in the end I felt drained of all emotion except for the anticipation of arrival in a new country.  I heard someone say they had checked our location on the GPS on their phone and we were exactly between Turkey and Greece.    White foam sprayed and flew everywhere and looked like the soapsuds that Granny used to wash the dishes with at home.   Great gusts of wind gathered the sea and slapped us like wet sheets on the washing line.    By this time we were going up and down several meters constantly and my stomach was protesting - I felt dizzy with nausea and watched as my parents hung on to themselves and their possessions - mother clutching her newborn trying to feed her in the bouncing boat,  father straining to see in the blackness of the night.   Then the big one.   The wave of all waves - it was as high as mountain Glory near our village back home - water swirled down onto our small vessel - I can hear the cries to this day of horror and disbelief as it engulfed us entirely drowning our ability to hold on - pounded away human life and expectations - took away tiny possessions wrapped in paper or thin blankets - scattered family’s hopes and dreams. Years later, I sit in my comfortable room  - I have a job, a wife and my own child of 10 years old.   I have never been back to my country as the pain of loosing my family that devastating night to the fury of the sea is too much to bear.              The moon, only witness to my fate has my family imprinted on its face and I take comfort that one day I shall soar into the sky and over that moon to join them. _____________________________________________________________________________ I was on my honeymoon And it was the monsoon Clothes strewn and me in a swoon I didn’t see you at first ‘cause It was the afternoon Then like a balloon Shining on the lagoon Because, You see It’t was the month of June You shone so bright A reflection on my teaspoon And I looked up to my My new groom Who then used his spittoon And I raised my head And wished I was Over that moon ______________________________________________________________________ Over the Moon by Annemarie In the playground the whisperings, nudgings and furtive glances of the children were directed at Robert. He stood by himself murmuring: " Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly." Then the school bell clanged loud and clear, the children running, pushing and shoving to get into line before being called in to afternoon class....Except for one small boy, secreted behind the door of the boiler room. When all was quiet and empty he slipped stealthily behind the building, climbed the fence separating the small village school from the surrounding pastureland and sidled off along the edge of the field towards the wood. The trees were already black skeletal prints against a clear blue autumnal sky, the lower branches still clinging on to a few copper and bronze leaves, the ground below carpeted in amber and gold. Robert trudged to the gap in the hedge murmuring to himself all the while "Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly." He crawled through the brambles and undergrowth, thorns tugging at his clothes and reached a path which led to a clearing in the copse, where an old man sat on a stool, rhythmically shaving slivers off a long piece of newly sawn elm. Around him were hand-crafted chairs, a table and half-finished wooden objects. This was Robert's secret place, this was Robert's secret  friend. He crept into the clearing and watched while Mr Ackerman worked. When the old man had finished working the piece of elm, he lifted his grizzled head, looked at Robert and said, "Well, Robert, this is a surprise. You've not been for a while. No school today?" "Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly," murmured Robert. ”And why is that, young lad?" asked Mr Ackerman. Robert stood before the old man, staring at him. The eight-year old boy stroked the newly-shaved piece of elm and said quietly, "The other children say I am stupid. I can't play properly. I can't play properly. I can't do school. I can't do school. I don't want to do school." "Now listen here, young Robert, don't let nobody tell you you can't do anything. We are all good at something so don't you listen to those voices that tell you otherwise. Now let's you and me make something with all these beautiful things nature has given us."  And the old man gathered up various pieces of sawn wood, the scent of which still mingled with the Autumn air and he placed them on the soil in front of Robert. The boy put down his school bag. He carefully collected and stacked in size and in colour - gold burgundy, orange - the fallen leaves which spattered  the soil. He picked up the pieces of wood, sorted them into their different types and laid them in lines, all the time sing-songing to himself "Ash and elm, oak and sycamore, birch and willow,   Trees in the wood, trees in the gardens and trees in the meadow, " just as Mr Ackerman had sung and taught him their 'wood song'. From the lines of wood he had so carefully arranged he picked various pieces and formed the outline of a house. From the stacks of leaves he selected an especially large, deep crimson maple leaf for the door and four narrow, lime-green willow leaves for four narrow windows  He scoured round the cabin and from his found treasures finished decorating his house of wood. "Well, young Robert, isn't that the most handsome house ye've built! And all by yourself. Shall we now make a sign for your house?" Together they rubbed smooth a piece of ash, scratched Robert's name in another small piece of wood which they then attached to the newly prepared post and stuck it in the ground next to Robert's design. Then Mr Ackerman poured two mugs of homemade apple  juice and the two sat companionably by the open fire each lost in his own little world.    Meanwhile pandemonium had broken out at school with the discovery that Robert was missing. The playground teacher did not want to admit that she had taken her eyes off the children, particularly Robert, whilst she had a quick catch-up with Facebook and none of the children had seen Robert since playtime when ” he sulked, miss, and  went away because he can't play properly like we said". This was not the first time he had disappeared but it was the longest that he had been missing. His parents had been called and after several hours' search by all and sundry his father remembered the mysterious blocks of polished wood which had appeared in Robert's room and his son's fanciful tales of a very old man with a grey beard who lived in the middle of the wood. Setting off with his torch he followed a path from the back of the garden which led to the wood. In the mild moonshine night puddles from the previous day's rain were dark and mirror-like. He searched through the trees shining the beam here and there, calling his son's name. The father continued further into the wood and then in the stillness he heard a faint high-pitched voice and then low gruff tones. He followed the sounds, crunching twigs and leaves underfoot. The full moon was now higher up in the darkened sky and as he approached the clearing he saw a ramshackle cabin lit by the glow of a wood-stove fire. Outside he saw the silhouette of young and old against the moonlight as they both leapt in the air. The father stood very still watching, listening. "There you see, young Robert, you can do so many things. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, " said old Mr Ackerman, as holding hands, the old man and the little boy once again jumped over the moon, so perfectly reflected in the big back puddle.