An Image


Dear Eugene,

Four big men are working on my trees now.  I admire big man doing big thing with big hands.

I served them water; I gave them smiles and many thanks before even the first fell; I will pay them more than what they've asked for.  But what else can I do?  What else can I do for them to know I really appreciate them, that they look like demigods on their Adamic quest to answer to God's call, to carry out the vocation of human with blood, sweat and tears?  And what a sight it is--they are--to behold?

I took one picture of one man at work, very discreetly, from my daughter's bedroom window, just for my own, my memory.  That's all; I won't take any more.  They must hate it in this day of cellphone and instantaneous sharing, putting in honest effort under the scorching sun and against bitter gust only to finally be spoken about like zoo animal, captured by a tiny furtive press on a little timid screen, maybe with a few thoughtless words of negative review for caption, and there, an epic tale told like a dirty joke that's not even funny.

I want to one day know how to pay proper tribute to them the way David Adams Richards does with his novels, his words, like what he did with "The Friends of Meager Fortune," a book that reads like the Bible, our (Canadian) "Moby Dick," our mythology in the deep woods and deeper winter.

Human, man and women, are made in the image of God.  I don't doubt that.  I trust that at the bottom of my guts and in the very tension of my sinews.

Yours, Alex

Comments

  1. UnknownJuly 30, 2018 at 11:39 PM

    Dear Eugene,

    Having crossed the Atlantic Ocean for my first time in my 40+ years of life, I arrived earlier this morning at one of the most glorified metropolis of historical demigods on Adamic conquests. Castles & cathedrals, markets & parks - a big playground for big people doing big things with big hands.

    On the way to the hotel from the airport, my Uber driver spoke about the big beauty of this big city which he had called home for over 35 years. Our conversation soon unearthed on this majestic land his deep longings for his vocation as a driver: freedom of choice, fair wages to counter hidden costs & happy connections with passengers. He seemed content, a big man doing big thing with big hands for his family, communities & now me. I wondered how just it might have been for me to have captured a morsel of his time & energy by a tiny furtive press on my family’s little timid iPhone screen to have reserved this ride. How could I have cared for him more tangibly beyond paying for his service in this city strained by demands & desires?

    Towards midnight, I met another Uber driver upon returning to the hotel after late dinner. He was also a big man but with ambitiously younger hands. In his Lexus, the radio played The Sound of Silence for about a minute before he changed the station. Its lyrics painted the scenery which I had just stepped out of before stepping into his car: Hello darkness my old friend... / In restless dreams I walked alone/ Narrow streets of cobblestone / ‘Neath the halo of a street lamp.

    In this city shimmering in double halos of street lamps & starlights, I want to one day know how to pay proper tribute to the men & women with their big or small hands - all like you & me - made in the glory of the image of God, working out their lives in the obscurity of darkness & silence.

    Yours, Kate

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