Geraldine
FREEDOM FREE STYLE FREE SUBJECT
I can hardly remember the story that was brought back to my mind last week by my favourite nephew, Rémy. Sometimes, you are reminded of facts that lie between reality and fiction and it’s really hard to untangle them all. So, I’ll give it a try…
It happened in the 1970 when Remy was only a very young boy, around his fourteenth birthday. He used to like playing with his palls and in those days, the big game was to try and find and old moped apparently lost for all, and give it a try in the small streets of their neighbourhood.
Rémy and his family lived in a small suburd of Grenoble, with little 1930 year houses and their small gardens with a lilac tree here, 2 or 3 rose bushes there , a few flowerbeds and a little gravelled lane towards the garage. Here and there a few new blocks of flats had risen with small parking places and ranges of garages.
So, these friends would gather in a little square, some with bicycles, others with boards or scooters. And some of them remained « pedestrians » and would give anything to become motorized…
It was on a Wednesday afternoon where Remy and Oliver had spotted an old shaby looking moped in the garage of one of those blocks :
- What about trying this one ? Do you think it’s safe Remy asked Oliver ?
- Well, apparently there’s noone around. We could try and give it a go.
They creeped into the garage, Oliver on the watch near the door, and Rémy grabbing the old blue scooter and pushing it quietly into the street in order to start it a little further because of the noise.
Gosh ! It was heavy ! They pushed it through the small streets for a while until they got to the nearby park. This should do. We can try and start it now !
I don’t know if you remember, but in those days, starting a moped didn’t involve a key, but a lot of strenght and sweat : You turned the gas knob, got your foot on a pedal and turned the throttle twist grip in order to get it stared . This could take 4 or 5 tries before any success. And make quite a lot of noise !
So, Rémy gave it a go, once, twice, three times or more and hurrah… the engine started throbbing and they both climbed on it and slowly started riding around the park. It was great ! What a fantastic feeling of power and freedom and whealth ! They were so aware that in their family they couldn’t have afforded to buy one of these for ages. They went a bit further, out of their area and found themselves driving towards the outskirts of town, towards the country. And Remy then accelerated as they began to feel the thrill of the race. They could feel the warm wind on their faces and taste the tang of nature. Oliver started tapping Rémy on the shoulder to make him stop.
So, Rémy slowed down and finally stopped on a parking area.
- What is it ? he asked Oliver
- Well, I also want to try. And maybe it’s time to turn back before we get lost. Could I drive now ?
- Yes, OK. Your turn. Make sure you slow down before the curves. It’s not that safe and, being two boys on it, we could easily skid !
- Don’t worry, I know how to handle a scooter as well as you can !
So, Oliver took over, they turned back and as he was accelarating to feel once more the warm air on their faces, he didn’t have time to slow down enough before the curve, lost control and the bike went straight through a fence onto a wasteland and they both fell backs over their heads. They tried to stand up, feeling completely groggy, above all Rémy who had been ejected from the back and fallen more heavily. After a few minutes, they looked at each other and spontaneously shouted out :
« And now ! What on earth are we to do ? »
They looked at the scooter : the front wheel was twisted, one of the pedals had got ripped off, the seat laid a meter apart in the gravel and the tank was emptying itself on the ground !
« Let’s move away before it catches fire, said Oliver. This is dangerous ! »
- « Oh my God ! How do we get back now. What are my parents going to say… and do ? Yes, and look, my trousers are torn at the knees and you have a mark on your right arm : it looks as if it is bleeding ! »
- « Yes, but it’s not too bad and I’ll be able to hide it. But what about the scooter ? We are going to have to leave it here ».
They left the moped, straightened themselves up and went back to the road and started walking towards the town putting their thumbs up in hope that a car would stop. Which happened, except it wasn’t a car, but a small Police Van which opened the window and asked the boys where they were going. « Back to our suburb in Grenoble » said the boys. Ok climb in behind. The boys were absolutely petrified, but couldn’t refuse. So, in they climbed.
« Where exactly do you live ? said the driver. «
« Oh ! you can just leave us at the park, that’s where we meet our friends in the afternoons ! »
« Well, we think it’s best to take you back to your homes and make sure your parents recover you. You look as if you’ve gone through some kind of trauma ». By the way, what were you doing alone along the road so far from home ? »
The boys were taken short, they didn’t know what kind of a lie they could tell and hadn’t had time to anticipate the situation. So they remained quiet and closed their eyes.
Next they knew when they opened them was they were being taken into the Police Station, separated, and Remy was sat on a chair and questionned. What’s your name ? address ? parents phone number ? ».
« Where’s my friend Oliver ? »
« He’s in the other room. One of our police officer is asking him the same questions. How did you get to the place we found you ? »
Remy decided to tell the truth. He didn’t know what to say, how to lie, what story to tell, so he just explained what had happened.
Then, later, the door opened and in walked the Police Officer with both his Mum and Dad !
Rémy went blank ! He felt as if he was going to faint.
« Well, Rémy, said his Dad. We’ve been told about how you stole the moped and the accident. You are so terribly lucky not to have been hurt … or…. Killed ! You will have to explain why… and above all find out who the moped belonged to and buy another one. The best will be to find small jobs at week-ends and during the holidays. Your Mum and I really hope you’ll realize how wrong you got it all and will knock some sense into you. And they left the Police Station together.
So, that was the reason Rémy spent a whole year washing our windows, mowing our lawn, and washing our car and caravan. That’s what made us close , but I had forgotten the story..,
Annemarie
What’s in a Name
Kenya’s first president, Jomo Kenyatta (among many other figures), is credited with saying: “When the missionaries arrived, the Africans had the land and the missionaries had the Bible. They taught us how to pray with our eyes closed. When we opened them, they had the land and we had the Bible.”
I have always wondered how are given names affect us growing up and as adults. Parents name their children for many diverse reasons - to denote our origin, to honour someone in the family or in the past; nowadays, after a celebrity or conversely just to be different or maybe imbibing those names with their own hopes and ambitions.
Will John Smith grow up very ordinary? Will Paul Getty 111 be expected to follow in his father's footsteps? Will Fifi Trixibelle have bouffant hairstyles and breed poodles? Certainly an unusual name attracts attention and is easily recognisable; take Damion Grammaticas the correspondent. There’s gravitas! Proselytising missionaries travelled round the world renaming children and adults alike to bring them into line with the Christian faith and at the same time indigenous people lost their own cultural background.
Akello was one such. Rescued from a brutal life as a child soldier with the Lord’s Resistance Army in the far reaches of northern Uganda he was Christianised with the name Raphael (the patron saint of healing) by his adoptive missionary family before starting new life in Wales. The only black boy in his Welsh school Raphael achieved both great grades and an equanimity of spirit despite the sing-song taunts of some of his contemporaries.
Now Raphael sat with his wife in the evening sun on the rough wooden bench in their allotment. Garments flickered and danced in the coastal breeze behind the old stone house. A trug filled with beans, cascades of crimson cherry tomatoes and plump scarlet strawberries nestled on the ground in a clump of aromatic thyme. And it was here that Vision, Grit and Whimsy found them when they arrived for the family pow-wow initiated by the three children.
You may well ask why these names. For Raphael and his wife, Kenyangi, their hopes and fears were instilled in the names. The firstborn of the twins appeared in her white Welsh world with long black eyelashes framing a faraway look in her brown eyes. “Oh, with a look like that she could be an architect, a philosopher - who knows,“ said Raphael, “let’s call her Vision. “
Her twin brother, after an epic struggle to arrive, lay in his cot, fists clenched and shiny black face screwed up. “Such a determined little baby,” Raphael said with admiration. “What about Grit? It’s a strong masculine name. Maybe a doctor or even a surgeon when you look at those long, strong fingers and such perseverance. “
Two years later a long, lean bean of baby with a mound of curly black hair and luminous mahogany eyes was born. Conceived after a magical, unplanned visit to Venice, they named her Whimsy. Surely an artist or a great writer thought her parents.
As it happened all three children lived out their parents dreams/hopes. Vision was an architect working with the town planners, Grit had studied long years to become a lawyer and Whimsy? Well she tried her hand at writing, failed as an artist but excelled as a modern dancer.
As the setting sun drew down the darkening skies to the distant ocean, Vision began in a somewhat hesitant manner.
“We…er .. all three appreciate what you as parents have done for us, especially knowing your childhood, Dad. I have now been working with the town planning for five years but my heart's no longer in it.”
“And I’m fed up with the law, stuck in courtrooms, endless paperwork etc. “ added Grit.
“As for me, I have tried various things without much success,” said Whimsy “and although I love dancing, you, Mama, have given me an even greater love for gardening. So… we are gathered together, as they say, not to distress you in any way but to tell you the three of us have chucked in our jobs and we are setting up our own little business. Vision will design homes and I will design the gardens while Grit does the physical work, with my help of course. We haven't even had to find a name or logo as you two have already done that perfectly. 'Vision, Grit and Whimsy'! And we have two projects in the offing!”
“And one more thing - we have officially changed our given names. We love them; they have made us strong but now we have chosen Ugandan names to recall our Ugandan heritage. But more about that after the delicious dinner Ma has cooked!” promised Vision.
Sarah story
“So, kids, what do you want?”
“I’ll have, um, I’ll have chocolate. No, strawberry.”
“And you, Princess?”
“I want banana.”
“Well, they don’t actually have banana, Princess. Choose something else.”
“Um, um, pineapple?”
“I’m afraid they don’t have that either, sweetie. How about pistachio?”
“But I don’t like pistachio!”
In the meantime, Ricky had changed his mind, just as the man was scooping the strawberry ice cream into the cone. “I want vanilla.”
The man gave him a sour look before changing the contents of the scoop, while their mother chose orange sherbet for Princess, who made a fuss and threw it on the ground as soon as she received it.
“Put these kids to bed,” ordered their father as soon as they got home. “I have to order that new pump for the furnace.”
So Evelyn put them to bed and Bruce settled down at his computer. He looked at one model of pump, then he looked at another and then another. He compared their descriptions, he compared their prices, and he was still at it when Evelyn got back an hour later after she had gone through a choice of ten bedtime stories.
“Just take that first one,” she said. “It looks sturdy.”
“But it’s awfully expensive.”
“Then take that one, it’s the cheapest.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good pick—I’m not sure it’ll last.”
And so they argued about it for another hour, and finally decided on a pump and ordered it. (When it came, five days later, they discovered it was not the right choice after all.)
In the meantime Evelyn went to her computer. “O dear,” she said. “It’s writing group on Monday and I haven’t even begun. And I’ll never be able to do it this time!”
“Why not? You always come up with at least three or four stories on every theme.”
“That’s just the point,” she said. “This month there’s no theme.”
“No theme?”
“That’s right. They made the horrible decision of suggesting free choice. We have to pick our own theme. And that doesn’t inspire me at all! I can’t do it!”
Such is life in our times, an era of (almost) unlimited choice. Sometimes, or so it seems, it’s better to have something simply imposed on you, and you make do. That’s the way it used to be, and things didn’t turn out so badly most of the time.
Jackie
I hit the yellow round panic button and immediately regretted it as it exploded in my face – showering tiny particles of plastic that went flying all over the ski cabin.
We were stuck 500 meters high, 28 jammed into a capacity rate of only 20 in this dilapidated ski lift which was supposedly taking us up to the Swiss mountain top in safety. There were Italian boys careering about in this small space being very loud and disturbing everyone, a grandmother and her young grandson, married couples with older children , school children and teenagers in groups There was only room for standing so we were cramped to say the least.
The yellow button which had big letters written on it “Push in case of an emergency” was sorely out of date. I could see scratchy handwriting that the last revision was in 1995. What… this is outrageous I thought but kept the news to myself not wanting to alarm an already panicky group of people. Somebody is going to pay for this I thought.
One of the Italian boys dropped to his knees, hands together pointing up to the heavens, started to pray out loud. This didn’t help matters at all. I flipped - keep your voice down I hissed and he blabbered out loud in Italian taking no notice. I did hope God understood Italian.
The wind started and the groaning and screeching of the now overly stretched cables holding up the ski cabin was a little worrying to say the least.
There had been a storm forecast but as the ski station was computerized, ski lifts obeyed machines and not the weather man heading up to 2000 meters automatically.
Swaying above glistening ski slopes where skiers swished down the slopes screaming their joy at the powdered snow and freedom of movement. We all watched in envy as a group of people saw us and started to wave – we waved back frantically although so high up it was impossible to tell whether they could see us or not. Tell them to send help I mouthed through the glass.
The hours went by and it became increasingly cold the wind started howling through the large cracks of the cabin door and windows – I remembered the forecast had been stormy with well below 0° temperatures I checked the weather app on my phone -10° already at 5pm. Fingers and toes started to feel numb. Something had to calm people down so I started to sing –Christmas carols. Easy really as it was end of November and the festive season round the corner. But passengers were too stressed to continue for long. We suggested putting women and children in the middle of the cabin to keep warm and the men on the outside as they seemed more likely to bear up to the cold drafts
Eventually at dawn after a long painful night of moaning, groaning trying to reassure people we heard the blades of a helicopter rescue and one by one we were hauled to safety. The ski resort was sued by 28 people but the company argued that as we were 28 people and not the 20 allowed as maximum capacity we didn’t have a hope of winning but we argued the yellow button was out of order …and it took so long to get help etc. etc.
This was 5 years ago now and the case is still being battered in the courts.
Do you think we have a case?
