Happy St. Maarten's Day

Happy St. Maarten's Day

November 11, 2007

_____________________________

I want to be where the sun is always shining, and the tropical breezes flow so freely.

I want to be where the clear blue water washes over the shiny shores in placid splendour.

I want to be where the mountains stand majestic and reign supreme o'er the lands.

I want to be where the seagulls sing their songs of pleasure soaring over the fisherman's catch of the day.

I want to be where family surrounds you, and the sounds of their laughter embraces you like a warm blanket on a cold day.

I want to be where my soul is at peace, at home in my place under the blue canopy of the caribbean sky.

I want to be there, onthat isle, so small, yet so grand in all its simple sophistications.

I want to be in that place called St. Maarten, my home by the sea.

Henriette Rosevina Halley

Copyright ©2006 Henriette Rosevina Halley

Misfit and her progeny

Misfit our family cat has finally had her kittens!!! Cade is very excited...

Welcome to the Family!!!

Happy Birthday to my wonderful son Cade, who's just turned ten today. Cade, Mommy loves you soooooo much. May your day be extra special!

Allen Cont'd

Allen was tremendously ambitious as far as the sport of baseball was concerned. He was talented at the sport and soon became a favorite on the field. His initial playing position on the team was as short stop, at which he excelled. Many were the times that I can remember that his team would come up short, and lose the game. But they didn’t take it to heart; after all, it’s only a game…isn’t it? Not to Allen. This child would sit and cry and wail and curse the fates, his teammates, the weather, you name it. Such was his love of the game that it seemed to be a matter of life or death. There were times when, even though the team had defeated their opponents that he would go over each and every play repetitively, lamenting even the smallest of errors.

His love for the game, to this day, still confuses me. I cannot understand his captivation and obsession with the sport. I cannot imagine being consumed so entirely by anything. I think in the end, that baseball was the one influence in my brother’s life that was in essence his “raison d’etre”. I think that his heart would not have lasted as long as it did, were it not for his passionate involvement in the sport.

I fondly remember the many times when the game was over, that all the other players would walk off the playing field with their uniforms streaked with dirt, grass stains and all the normal wear and tear of having played ball. But my brother would walk off the field with his uniform almost in tatters. He reminded me of that kid in the Charlie Brown comic strips (I think his name was Linus). He seemed to feel that baseball was his fated path in life, and he embraced his destiny with unconditional abandon.

I sat in front of the computer screen with MS Word open, the blank page, taunting me. For you see, I did not really want to write the conclusion to the story of Allen. As long as the paper remained blank, I could, to a certain extent pretend that the history had in fact not occurred. It’s difficult for me to put into words the full gamut of the emotions that at times are capable of consuming me, body and soul, while at other times seem but a vague memory.

It’s strange, is it not, the way the mind can be overwhelmed or ignore, what is in effect the same event? Sometimes it seems like a mountain so massive that the simple thought of climbing it causes one to fall to their knees, destroyed by the immense weight of a seemingly insurmountable challenge. A grief so profound and all consuming that simple words cannot describe or translate.

It is thus that I sit today, embarrassed by my deficiency of proper words that could mayhap relate my feelings to you. This story is about my brother, Allen, but it is also a story about me. For he can no longer speak for himself and the only way that his story can be told is through my memories. I should not have waited until today to write the conclusion of this story, for today Allen would have been celebrating his 36th birthday. It has now been almost ten years since he left our lives, so abruptly.

Happy birthday my brother…wherever you are.

Allen

It wasn’t easy, being me. No, I wasn’t green or disfigured, or even slow on the uptake. I was, however, somewhat unlucky. A fate which has been my dogged and steadfast companion to this day. It was this tendency that somehow prevented me from perpetrating the more calamitous blunders in my life, as I had grown so habituated to tragedy that I could almost see it coming.

I won’t torment you with the details of my inauspicious initiation to the bleak world that was my wretched providence. Suffice it to say that the foundation that was being laid would have been enough to make angels weep. Being as I saw this as nothing out of the ordinary, I took it all in stride, and accepted my lot as the norm.

My childhood was littered with unfortunate accidents, mishaps and too many broken bones to mention. I went through a cornucopia of medical dilemmas, which left my doctor in a state of puzzlement. I even contracted a disease which was thought impossible for a person of my race to acquire.

There was only one person, who incidentally was a member of my immediate family that seemed afflicted with this tendency towards misfortune. This person was my younger brother, Allen. It is his story that I’m about to relate. I cannot delve into his feelings about his grasp of the events that occurred in his life. If I thought myself unlucky, then there’s no word strong enough to describe his plight.

Allen started out his life with an energy that was boundless and full of an unquenchable thirst for more. He never crawled as a baby; he went from sitting up to running. And running, and running. He was constantly bumping into things and bruising his forehead, shins, elbows and knees. He was a walking bruise, but nevertheless seemed intent on keeping up his hectic pace.

Despite his predisposition towards injury, there seemed to be nothing that intimidated him or any goal that was deemed unachievable. He faced life with an attitude that was immeasurable in energy and with an ill concealed glee.

As an adult Allen would be tall, but as a child he was always the runt of his group of buddies. Being fair skinned he was prone to freckles, which labeled him “chocolate chips” or “chips” as the affectionate moniker eventually developed into. Though plagued by misfortune, he always had time for those who seemed in need of a helping hand.

Our parents were consistently confronted with any number of wandering waifs and strays that he amassed during the course of his forays. His petition for their nourishment was always met with gratification, for my parents were passionate in their conviction that no child should suffer hunger, albeit a temporary state of affairs. It seemed our pantry was forever bulging at the seams in the event that an itinerant sufferer of hunger should have the need to be fed. He was hero to the unfed masses.

Strangely, though possessing two left feet, his greatest passion turned out to be baseball. I think this obsession was partly my father’s doing, as the sport was initially his great love. It seemed natural enough that Allen would follow in his footsteps. Baseball was a recreational hobby for my father, but for Allen it would become his very life’s meaning. It was on the diamond that my brother’s goofy klutziness disappeared and was replaced by an agile athleticism that we could scarce believe. It seemed as though he were born with the ability to play ball. And his devotion to the game was legendary to all that knew him as a ballplayer.

His first time at bat is a story in and of itself, in its hilarity. I should mention that he started little league a couple years early, and his first year was spent on the bench and being a bat boy (to his absolute frustration). When the coach told him that he would be allowed to play in the next game, his excitement could barely be contained for all of the week before game day.

The game started out typically with many an error and interludes to tie laces and wipe runny noses. The opposing team was taking a beating, as their pitcher couldn’t seem to find his zone, and was replaced by another. This fellow seemed to all in attendance to be a little large for little league, but no one ventured a complaint. He was even worse than the previous kid, as he repeatedly beamed the batters.

We’d gotten to the fifth inning or so, when Allen was at last called up to bat. This young man, who had hardly slept a wink the week before the game. Who could only talk about finally being allowed to play. Who had promised that he would “send the ball to the moon” at his first at bat. This same young man suddenly was glued to the bench in the dug-out. My little brother suddenly developed a bad case of the “don’t wanna play no mores”. The tears flowed down his freckled countenance as he expounded on the reasons he shouldn’t be forced to play. He reminded the coach of his lack of stature. He questioned the coach’s sound judgment in calling him up to play in spite of his youth and lack of experience.

His apprehension was unmistakable; he was not getting up in front of that pitcher. It was only after my father’s intervention that he finally relented and proceeded with obvious reluctance to the batter’s box. Fortunately, he avoided being beamed and was able to gain first base from a base hit, and thus was launched his career as a baseball player. From that moment on, it became clear that Allen’s only purpose was the game. All other events in life were considered unwelcome superfluous distractions, and took a backseat to his obsession with baseball.

To be continued…

A Clean Getaway

I’m sure that you’re familiar with the term “petty thief”, yes? Well please allow me to submit a brand new connotation: “Pity Thief”: A burglar who gives one cause to feel pity or sorry for, i.e.: The Pity Thief stole the clothes pins from the washroom.

There’s a reason for this condescension, as for the second time this week our home’s been hit by the crime wave that is slowly finding a foothold in our community. A brave and “Pity Thief” took it upon himself to boldly trespass and abscond with the laundry detergent and dishwashing liquid that I negligently left out on the porch last eve. This is the second daring robbery this week. Two days ago, the detergent, coffee creamer and black pepper were victims to this thief’s treachery. I dare say the fellow or fellows appear to be clean lads. I’ve dubbed this larcenous gang The Soapbox Bandits.

I feel that a neighborhood watch should be put into effect, what’s next? The Clorox, perhaps? I sit in dread anticipation of their next audacious endeavor. Maybe I should await their arrival and offer the use of my washing machine, so that I might be left with some detergent to do my wash the following day, then again, maybe not.

I cannot imagine this bandit’s reasoning. Should these events be taken as a shrewd ruse to make me assume this fellow to be a timid thief? Or are there some dark ulterior motives to these irrational pilferings?

Or could this be our reputable utilities & water provider’s way of making sure that less water is being used in light of our “water shortage”? (See Aug. 14 post). A conspiracy theory you say? Perhaps, but I guess only time will relieve me of these questions that have me tied up in knots.

I leave you with fair warning to lock up your cleaning supplies come nighttime, you never know, you could be the next victim of The Soapbox Bandits!

A Clean Getaway

I’m sure that you’re familiar with the term “petty thief”, yes? Well please allow me to submit a brand new connotation: “Pity Thief”: A burglar who gives one cause to feel pity or sorry for, i.e.: The Pity Thief stole the clothes pins from the washroom.

There’s a reason for this condescension, as for the second time this week our home’s been hit by the crime wave that is slowly finding a foothold in our community. A brave and “Pity Thief” took it upon himself to boldly trespass and abscond with the laundry detergent and dishwashing liquid that I negligently left out on the porch last eve. This is the second daring robbery this week. Two days ago, the detergent, coffee creamer and black pepper were victims to this thief’s treachery. I dare say the fellow or fellows appear to be clean lads. I’ve dubbed this larcenous gang The Soapbox Bandits.

I feel that a neighborhood watch should be put into effect, what’s next? The Clorox, perhaps? I sit in dread anticipation of their next audacious endeavor. Maybe I should await their arrival and offer the use of my washing machine, so that I might be left with some detergent to do my wash the following day, then again, maybe not.

I cannot imagine this bandit’s reasoning. Should these events be taken as a shrewd ruse to make me assume this fellow to be a timid thief? Or are there some dark ulterior motives to these irrational pilferings?

Or could this be our reputable utilities & water provider’s way of making sure that less water is being used in light of our “water shortage”? (See Aug. 14 post). A conspiracy theory you say? Perhaps, but I guess only time will relieve me of these questions that have me tied up in knots.

I leave you with fair warning to lock up your cleaning supplies come nighttime, you never know, you could be the next victim of The Soapbox Bandits!

What Water?

It's pretty entertaining at times, the drivel that finds itself in our daily newspaper. Today I saw an announcement from our electricity and Water Company advising the general public that there is a water shortage on the island. No! Big surprise! I had no idea, what with our water going out daily between 3 and 5 pm and not returning until the following morning! And then, they preposterously ask that we use the water sparingly! If we had a water supply to begin with, this might not seem like such a laughable suggestion.

As to the shortage, it was my belief that we had a desalination plant. Correct me if I'm wrong, but does this not infer that the water we use comes from the ocean after being put through a process of "desalination "? I was so confused that I simply had to Google it, and to my gratification it was proved that I'm not as stupid as GEBE would like to make me out to be! Britannica Concise Encyclopedia terms it: “desalting Removal of dissolved salts from seawater and from the salty waters of inland seas, highly mineralized groundwaters, and municipal wastewaters. Desalination makes such otherwise unusable waters fit for human consumption, irrigation, industrial applications, and other purposes. Whew! I was a little concerned for about a minute.

I understand that this paradise we call home is presently overpopulated and therefore our infrastructure is a little strained. But this overpopulation did not occur overnight. It is thus that I ask: "Did we not see this coming?" I mean, people, give me a break! We are bursting at the seams with masses from too many countries to keep a track of. How many is it now? 500? I know I'm being silly, but we need to be aware and keep up with the demand of the public at large.

With the high prices that we are paying for our utilities, aren't we entitled to proper services? I find it extremely inconvenient to have no water after a hard days work in the heat and humidity of St. Maarten that I might take a cool shower before I go to bed. I don't know about the average person, but I'm simply too busy during the day to be wasting water. I do have a job, and a life!

So now I find myself returned to the days of my grandmother, hauling buckets of water and bathing out of a kerosene pan! My next venture is to dig a li’l hole out in the backyard, cuz the toilet sure can’t flush!

Sisters

My Heart's Still In It

Crumbled Walls

There's a Pill for That!

It’s funny how I think sometimes. I wonder at the motivation that propels me. When I’m feeling a little down, I tend to shut myself up away from people. The simplest statement can make me go absolutely nuts, and bring about much ranting and raving (sometimes foaming at the mouth will occur, though thankfully not often).

Today was one of those days. You know the kind of day I’m referring to. The kind of day where the alarm clock goes off and you don’t hear it, yet miraculously manage to snooze button. Where you wake up 2 or 3 hours late for work in a blind panic, stumbling over all manner of debris strewn about your room. The day where you can’t find your left shoe, not even in its habitual location under the kitchen range. Where the water heater works just up until you get up a good head of lavender foam. The day when the gas your gas tank has strangely “dissipated” to places, persons or vehicles unknown. The day where you would have been better off staying in bed shouting to the top of your lungs: “Je suis en grêve!” Essentially, the day when Murphy’s Law comes into full effect.

Typical of my nature, on such a day I usually allow myself get bogged down by morose feelings. Self pity is the emotion that is first and foremost in my blue funk series. I seem to need to savor the sad melancholy. Odd, that. So I dug myself in, locked my bedroom door. Sad country songs could be heard wailing from within the walls of my self imposed exile from amidst the living. Luckily for me, I tend to become a cleaning demon at this point and woe be unto the merest hint of a speck of dust. My rag and I become a formidable tag team unit in the vanquishing of all things unclean.

It was in this mode that I arrived at my closet door, with the intent on thinning out the herd of officious garments that no longer had any fashionable reason for being present. And it’s then that I re-discover, sitting forlornly at the very rear, waaayyy out of sight my little cigar box that I’ve carted around with me since my college years (We’re talkin’ mid eighties here!) I had totally forgotten its’ existence, though strangely it had been religiously transported along on my many moves and travels around the globe. Believe me, this is a feat of unimaginable magnitude, as there have been many, many, many such trips.

I hadn’t seen or thought about this little memento from my college days for a long time. The little cigar box brought back memories in a profuse deluge of bittersweet memories. Recollections both good and bad, leaving in their wake a silent ache for things I’d forgotten to remember. I sat there, on the floor next to my bed going through all manner of souvenirs that I’d collected during my stint at Ye Ole Alma Mater.

Eureka! Here’s the faded picture of me riding that motorcycle that I bought for a song and a dare my sophomore year. I’d been extolling my antics on that fierce iron steed to my son a while back. Naturally he doubted the veracity of every word of my colorful account of my colorful biking adventures. But in my hands I had the inimitable proof of how cool his Mama had been in her hey-day. I had always meant to dig up this evidence to prove my moxie!

And look, goodness gracious! Here’s Bags, a dear and treasured friend. Robin, Moya, Katie, even Kajova the magical omnipotent German shepherd who resided in our dorm unbeknownst to the collegiate “officials”. And in the background stands Berkely house proud and bold, the dorm that holds many treasures and secrets of a youth well spent. The place where I passed through the horrors, difficulties, pleasures, ecstasies and discoveries of becoming an independent adult.

And then…. There she was. Her countenance all smiles. Her freckled face glowing with young hopeful beauty. The gleam in her eye speaks of ambition and her life force, undeniable in its vivacity is easily discerned by the sparkle in her eyes. The steadfast friend who is ever there with a solid, considerate shoulder to lean on. An empathic ear, that listens without judging. A friend who does not criticize and who is always willing to take your character, flaws and all at face value. And regrettably, the friend who’s passing has left a gaping void. Colleen. My freshman year roommate. A sad tear rolls down my cheek when I recall the brief, yet solid friendship we shared our first year out of the nest.

I feel a shameful sorrow for having forgotten for even a second the tragedy that brought her demise. How could I have let time dull the sense of urgency I felt when speaking of her. How did I lose my determination to keep her memory alive, at any cost? When did I lose that fervor that I felt, which even now is slowly rising as an ancient dinosaur from a place deep within history’s unyielding embrace? Remorse holds me in its contemptuous grip. And a poignant regret at having for one minute forgotten this paragon who deigned to call me friend comes to the fore with an overwhelmingly compelling force that very nearly brings me to my knees.

A sense of defeated sorrow pervades my senses with languid progress as I go through my little treasure/memento cache; reliving memories that have long since gone by. Too many years bridge the span to now pick up the pieces of the broken shards that had been casually left on the curb along life’s twisting path. How could I possibly attempt to begin such a formidable undertaking? And all the while the little voice in my head is incessantly whispering reproachful castigations for my failure in seeing my pledge through to it’s realization.

Ah, bitter is the pill that I must now swallow, for I realize that my passion was lost along the course of my stay. Alas, I rue the verity that there’s in fact very little that I can do to bring the force of her persona back to full, vibrant life. I’m ashamed to admit that I was hard pressed to at first remember all the detailed events surrounding that devastating day. That tragic day when I was forced to experience my initiation to adulthood by the full and horrific experience of tragic loss of life, no holds barred, no penny spared.

On that April day, the last day of spring break, I lost more than just a roommate and two very dear friends. I lost the veil of innocence that had up till then sheltered me from the cruel facts of life. I lost my sense of security that this was just the beginning of life for me and my peers. I lost respect for the civilized society of which I was a member that would allow such atrocities to be carried out. And that would dole out punishments hardly befitting the crime.

Yes, I am part of that society. That culture, that permissive awareness that we call civilized behavior. Wrapping our inabilities to properly appellate an immense, abhorrent defect in the behaviors of the so-called “addictive personalities” in shiny pretty boxes. Which we then tie with colorful bows, and display on special shelves, with special considerations for their varied imperfections that have special needs.

We give these little pretty boxes a certain dominance of our authority and management of our God given rights by these special treatments for their special afflictions. We offer the little boxes, bright colored ribbons and stickers that bear the warning “Fragile, Handle With Care,” so that all would know of the need that these packages have for extra special attention and care in handling. We provide the packages with a special storage space, that is made to be as comfortable and as agreeable as is possible.

But my belief is that the truth is that all we’re really doing is giving those pretty little boxes the keys to the medicine (oops, gift-wrap holder/container/whatever) cabinet. In obliging their weaknesses, we encourage their dementias. In granting them relief of woes that they themselves should be solely responsible for, we give them the reigns and bit that allow them to masterfully bring us to stride. Most of us even willingly financially support this action by paying skyrocketing insurance policies that in turn faithfully provide the little packages with their bright and colorful wrappings and ribbons and special shelves.

It is my personal belief that the time is come to call a Spade a Spade and (as we say in St. Maarten) Give Jack his Jacket. Too many excuses are being made for abhorrent social behaviors in the guise of “mental illnesses.” You’re either manic depressive, bi-polar, schizophrenic, suffer from anxiety disorder syndrome, or you have an addictive compulsive disorder. If your leg twitches, it’s now Restless Leg Syndrome, if you can’t sleep, it could be caused by obstructive sleep apnea, if you sleep too much, well, must be Narcolepsy. Heaven forbid we should call someone lazy! We give exotic, grandiose and often unpronounceable names to all manner of diseases heretofore known as simple character traits. Different people, different traits…go figure, who woulda thought!? And you say there’s a pill to fix it? Where oh where do I sign up for this marvelous treatment of my twitchy toe?

We seem to be obsessed with the need to neatly and precisely label each and every little minor tic or mannerism that the Homo Sapiens species normally displays. In doing this, we are unfortunately providing the means for the slackers, loafers, good-for-nothing sloths to take advantage of a system that has gone so far south of what I personally believe should be the norm. There’s now a perfect pretext that’s medically certified and endorsed by our governments and insurance agencies. We are, in fact, financially supporting these “personalities” with their daily fixes and doses for the easy life.

I understand addiction, believe me. Been there, done that, bought the shirt. However, I do not support, nor in any way endorse the considerations granted these so called “addictive personalities.” We are all, each of us in his own way addictive personalities. What do you call the young man who simply has to see his favorite team win the pennant, cup, or series? What about the mother who has to be sure that her children’s homework is done in what she deems as a presentable manner? What about bathing? Combing your hair? Brushing your teeth? None of these actions will cause life to cease in their absence, yet they’ve become rituals repeated over and over each and every day.

Even as children, we recite rhymes on the playground that bear omnipotent caveat, e.g. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” How could anyone possibly resist the lure of obsessive compulsive disorder? Who wants to break Mommy’s back? Not I! Therefore I shan’t ever set one tiny digit on any crack. Just to be safe, I’ll steer clear of tiles, or even carpet for that matter, TONS of cracks there! In the not too long ago, this was known as eccentrics. Me? I’m severely addicted to breathing! Living! Smiling!

In giving these addictions names and identifying traits, and treatments, we are providing excuses for irrational and unnecessary actions from our fellowman. Actions that have repercussions far and wide, and echo through the ages, by the incidents they recklessly cause to happen. The bull needs to be taken by the horns. The masks and veils and pretty packaging ripped off. Let’s have the piper paid, shall we?
The punishment should equal the crime. Until such time as we stop pussyfooting around the hard and difficult issues of today’s society, we will always be at a disadvantage to individuals who are more than willing to keep the blindfold tight around our humane sensibilities.

It is my profound belief that we are approaching this challenge in a bass-ackward manner. It has become increasingly evident that treatment is not the cure. You don’t stay a tantrum with candy.

But then again, who am I to judge? I do not claim to be an expert in psychology, sociology, or any other ology. I am, however, a human being, with two eyes, ears, and a mouth. I do hope that my foot is not too tightly wedged therein that easy removal cannot be accomplished.

Ta for now.

A quote by Kierkegaard

Aqueous - A Poem

Acrid and deadly the venom’s concealed by a smooth experienced tongue

Promises given no longer have meaning; the words are so casually flung

And veiled implications of treachery often by listening ears stay unheard

Loquacious and vapid the audiences pay no heed to the unspoken word

Their brains having grown aqueous from their trite slothful customs

Ostracize visions of Nirvana with vile words slung from ‘twixt odious gnashing gums

They no longer desire to heed warnings that they’ve deemed as irrational gibberish

Feigned badinage masks the deep-seated urges to malign sensible words they aught cherish

Minds thick as chaparral strut about with conceited yet colorful plumage Ignoring perceptual warnings that their homes had been built on hills of fetid garbage

Misplaced pride impedes any escape from the sty in which they now rut

Their will to change has been wiped clean by habituation to living ‘midst smut

Arrogantly refusing to sup at enlightened tables they macerate as wiser men dine

Their colorful costumes can’t stay their destiny, neither can it sweeten the soured wine

Surely their souls must have some small inkling of their rapid decline?

Will time’s passage cause rebels to rise and shake free of the shackles that confine?

Life’s brilliant kaleidoscope should be free that all seeking truth can bear witness to

Fiduciary agents have no right or claim to the passions that reside within you

Break yourself free from the implacable chains that seek to sink you to the silence below

I fear for your sanity, but your secret I’ll keep, for I stand in awe of what I’ve come to know

With pleasure I shall read your encomium and give credit where credit is due

You have but to ask for my hand in aid, for my fealty once given stays true

A flicker of light will herald the dawn, and thus the end to your difficult night

And the bright light of day will at last put paid to your extraordinary plight

I've been "out of the office" for a while now, as I've been fiddling around with Linux, just to see if this option was viable for my needs. I'm afraid I got just a "little" bit carried away. Sorry about that. I think I'm back on track now, though I have not written anything new, I do have a small little request from whoever happens to mosey through. I'm dabbling a bit in the painting area, and would be thrilled if anyone would comment on the painting below. Should I perhaps just pack it all in. Now, please remember folks, I've had no formal training or neither have I taken any art classes, so try to be just a little kind, k?

I'll be back by the morrow to post a new story, promise!

Rosevina