Perspective

“Is your glass half empty or half full?”  I find this a deeply irritating question. One choice is more acceptable than the other and you know which one you’re supposed to choose. There is an implicit criticism if your glass isn’t filling up. Americans are not half-empty glass people. We seize the day. We see opportunities where others see problems. We take the bull by the horns. We also take a lot of prozac and start wars, but there you go.

Yet, perspective does matter and a different example of this creeped into a little pep-talk I was giving myself the other day.(You know how you do that sometimes) We locked ourselves out of Chassenat and it looked like we’d be spending the night in the camper. The prospect was not at all appealing. Merlin can be quite cosy when kitted out for action but we’d emptied him of all comforts. Duvets, food, books, computers and crucially, drink, were all in the house. It was dark, raining, and cold. Merlin was a damp and cheerless place. I felt lost and began to panic. This seemed just too symbolic to me and I gloomily assessed our situation. Here we were, two ninnies in a foreign country spending the night in a caravan parked in a garage and not going anywhere. What the heck were we doing with our lives? Joost scrounged around while I began my decent into the half empty glass. I’d almost reached the bottom when he said brightly, “Hey, let’s play cards!” and held up the pack he’d found in a drawer. That reminded me. Perspective does matter.

People react differently to being lost. For some, it is a minor annoyance to be efficiently resolved by reason and deduction. For some, it is an opportunity to release pent up anger about an entirely different matter. (These people drive off quays.) Others surrender all responsibility and ask directions from the first person they see. (very reasonable) I, on the other hand, become a deer in the headlights. My surroundings become alien to me and a house I may have recognized 10 minutes before becomes a haphazard collection of wood and brick. I lose all sense of direction and am unable to retrace my steps or go forward.

Like most things, this can be traced back to the American Bicentennial. I was 15 years old. I can’t believe it but did the math. In 1976, America commemorated 200 years of independence. Every town had festivities; parades, tractor pulls, watermelon stands and fireworks. My mom sewed beautiful prairie dresses and bonnets for me and my sisters to wear. We loved them. Mine was white with tiny blue flowers. It had puffy long sleeves and lace trimmed cuffs. That dress is still in the costume box in the upstairs closet. There are no bust darts. That tells you something else. Unlike the hard-boiled children of today, I was a very young 15.

My brothers wore over-alls and DeKalb or Pioneer seed caps. We dressed up in our costumes and drove to Elkhorn for the day. My dad parked the car at the new St. Pat’s, our church just outside of town. This was formerly the church social hall but the congregation had outgrown the real church and recently relocated here. The old St. Pats was nearer the centre of town. It was a lovely prairie church with a real steeple, white clapboard cladding and peonies bloomed in front. The new church looked like the regional office of an insurance agency. We worshipped in a big prefab room on metal folding chairs. A bingo board hung on the wall, the bar was still in the back and it smelled like cigarette smoke. It also had plenty of parking. For a few bucks you could park near the old fairgrounds closer to town but my Dad went here because “I ain’t gonna pay to park the damn car in Elkhorn” It was a beautiful sunny day. We walked to town along quiet streets shaded by old trees. The lampposts were hung with flags and music could be heard in the distance. Before running away with my friend Carole, I was told to meet back at the car at 5:00.

The school marching band led the parade. It was followed by two olds folks wearing crowns in an open convertible. The Bicentennial king and queen had to be born in 1910 or before. They waved as they drove by. Behind them was a long procession of tractors. Antique, brand new, top of the line, or just the riding mower, they’d all been washed and waxed and the farmer’s waved. Some pulled hay racks loaded with people drinking beer and waving. Then there were vintage cars and the Jaycees had a real crepe paper float to carry the bicentennial time capsule. Everyone waved. As always, the parade ended with the town fire trucks blowing their sirens.

The crowd broke up and most people headed for the food stalls.Carole and I bought a caramel apple and headed for the games. The Knights of Columbus had a dunking machine outside Dinker’s bar and kid’s games were set up in the post office parking lot. We thought we were too old for musical chairs but the winner got a pie and those pies looked good. We didn’t care if the other contestants were under the age of 10. We played and played until Carole beat a little boy to the last chair. Triumphantly we choose our pie. It was fully-loaded with whipped cream and topped with a chocolate candy kiss. We sat down on the street kerb and plunged in our spoons. They came out again heaped with livid green jelly. “Key lime!” we moaned. Who likes key lime pie? We couldn’t believe our bad luck. Then Carole picked up the pie and balanced it on the palm of her hand. Before she could take aim I got my hand under hers. The pie took flight and the descent covered us both with whipped cream and green jelly. We laughed our heads off.

The day passed until Carole went home with her parents and I realized it was time to go to the car. I set off but suddenly found myself beneath the train trestle. This wasn’t right. I was going the wrong way. I felt uneasy and turned around to try another street. It was getting late. Then I saw The Old Maids. I knew this shop. Sometimes we stopped here after church to buy bread. It wasn’t really named The Old Maids but we called it that because it was run by two old sisters who wore black dresses. They sold a bit of everything. The floor rippled with uneven floorboards and the windows steamed in the winter from the old oil stove near the door. We loved going here because they had a bin of 50 cent toys and sometimes we could buy one. I walked a few blocks farther and made a few turns. I wasn’t quite sure where I was anymore. Then I saw St. Pat’s. – but it was the old St. Pats. I was still far away from the social hall and really didn’t know which way to go. My parents always drove. I never really noticed where it was. Kids don’t. I was hot and tired from the celebrations and it was almost 5:00. I walked in one direction but a big dog started barking at me so I turned around. I walked the other way and realized I was heading back into town. I turned the corner and there was St. Pat’s again. I was walking in circles. It seemed hours had gone by and the sun was getting low in the sky. In front of the church, a fire hydrant had been painted red white and blue. I sat down next to it and started to cry. Then I heard a honk and looked up to see the 11 members of my family staring out at me from the windows of our station wagon. My dad rolled down the window and told me to get in. That day set the pattern for when I’m lost. You can understand why it’s difficult to keep things in perspective.

A few days ago I was taking a walk here in the neighbourhood. I’d followed this route before and It included some road but also some forest and fields. I walked along merrily for about 45 minutes and suddenly became uneasy. The path didn’t look right. Had I made a wrong turn? Surely I would’ve noticed that kitchen sink in the ditch.That sick feeling of panic began to grip. My brain heated up. Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, a shadow moved. I looked down to see a little dog trotting alongside me. He was the size of a small piece of hand luggage and glanced up at me with cheerful, pally eyes. They implied that we were old friends who frequently did things together. I’d never seen this dog before but couldn’t politely correct his mistake. Maybe his eyesight was getting bad. At first I made nervous conversation but he wasn’t interested in chat. He was on a journey. This was a fun day out. I relaxed and we walked along together in silent companionship. Sometimes he would run ahead to chase at a bug or smell a tree trunk. Sometimes he fell behind to scratch or dig but he kept returning to my side. He was having a ball. I was still lost but his enthusiasm was infectious. Looking around, I admired the slant of the sun over the hills, the shadows in the ploughed fields and the first cat tails in the hazel trees. Eventually I realized that we were actually on the right track. There was that house with the shocking blue shutters. The little dog walked with me all the way home. He got to Chassent shortly before I did and waited for me around the back of the barn. I don’t know how he knew where I lived. Maybe my eyesight is getting bad.

Which brings me back to that pep talk. Being lost and being on a journey are really two sides of the same coin. One side is more desirable than the other but you can choose. You can panic if you want. However, you can’t enjoy the journey if you’re constantly worried about the path. It’s better to play cards, or smell bugs or admire the cat tails.