Thank you Jesus

I watch the bobbing light, the dawn rising and even with some early morning kisses I do not fall back to sleep. I must honor the work of Jesus and José with my words - and I do

‘Use a Wheelchair’ enough friends and family said that, that it became another ‘if three Russians tell you you are drunk you might want to lie down’ moments. And so, feeling immensely foolish and embarrassed, I did. And each wheelchair led to another brief encounter of sweetness. First up there was Chris at EuroStar. “It’s your lucky day, I’m with you all the way.” And he was - and he easily took on more than just us. Chris was watchful and would spot others who seemed lost and as if they needed more help and guidance. For them too he would quickly point out their way forward.

Feeling foolish in Amsterdam. Photo by BL Murch

It took only a few hours before we were safely tucked into our daughter’s home in Utrecht. The little overnight case holding Beano comics and Cheddar cheese along with the toothbrush was unpacked and we settled into the now ritual Sushi takeout supper the family orders for our first night with them. The Dutch, along with the rest of Europe and the world, do not celebrate the American Thanksgiving holiday, though a different form of Thanksgiving from America may eventually come to pass. A Thanksgiving to be free of the yanked choke-hold that is oozing out of the United States. As I write, motions are being written and presented to the senate that American citizens may not hold more than one passport and visitors to the United States should show five years of email correspondence and social media activity. There goes the United States airline industry for a start.

This little family holds all its traditions dear, those from Argentina and those from America. Assados and barbecues, soccer and football alike and so that weekend the Thanksgiving meal was a lunch on Saturday. Swedish friends with their two children and an American couple who had just recently moved from Ireland to the Netherlands gathered around the table. My Granny jobs had me thinking back to Mudda, my oldest friend’s grandmother, sitting at her daughter’s kitchen table, slicing beans. She would slip me half-a-crown with instructions to bicycle down to the tuck shop at the end of the road and pick up a packet of Craven A cigarettes for her. There would be sixpence left over which she would slip back in my pocket to buy sweets for us later. During those childhood years Mudda fed me my first cigarette. As I took my Granny place with the beans I felt quite virtuous, knowing I had only given David comics. It felt good to sit at the table topping and tailing green beans before peeling the potatoes.

Saturday’s meal was fabulous as was the company. Beatrice has mastered mashed potatoes like I never could. The beans were served with a shallot and balsamic dressing and the turkey - well of course it was perfect - and then there were pies.

Pumpkin Pecan and Apple Pie. Thank you Beatrice.

The conversations flowed over and across Kim’s Game - another Thanksgiving tradition Bea had brought forward from her childhood when we joined friends in Inverness. Animated talks continued until someone picked up the brochure that had been mailed to every household in the Netherlands that weekend. The cover was eye-catching purple and the cartoon figures stood out in relief, as through the pages they showed what to do in case of a drone attack. No enemy was mentioned but the recent Russian drones flying into the airspace of the Netherlands, Poland, Germany, Estonia, Sweden, as well as Ukraine leaves the whole of Europe nervous and jittery - which is just the fun of it for the Russian President. As winter sets in to Northern Europe another country’s president, too far out of reach for those drones, tosses off instructions and memos to President Zelensky. While Ukraine’s President repeats that he will not cede any territories to Russia the infantry troops must hold the ever-increasingly dangerous line while under such constant attacks.

On Sunday our bags were packed in the car and we left Amsterdam for an overnight in Dublin before flying back to California. Both the Irish attendants, for those in need of assistance, in and out of Dublin Airport, were so young and had perfect capped white and even teeth - and I wondered - why. I couldn’t help thinking that once - like young race horses - they had been promising young boxers and that maybe injury had set them aside to languish and grow bald working for Air Dublin at the airport. The tips could be good and it is almost healthy work with all the walking and maybe a better life than working in construction or the restaurant trades.

Flying our bodies 6000 miles across land, sea and any remaining snow-capped mountains leaves them shaking and in turmoil. For the first few nights back in the Hayloft there is a strong full moon over the lagoon and farm. Dawn has barely broken as I lie awake and look out of the glass doors to the fields beyond. The tall eucalyptus trees are only just outlined against the sky. A faint light flickers up and down as a small converted golf cart is driven slowly along the rows of vegetables growing in the fields beyond. The light bobs and then pauses for some minutes before carrying on along the row. The cart is idled and I imagine the Jesuses and Josés of the world wearing thick jackets and pulled-down caps over stained jeans climbing down, knives in hand as they each pull an empty crate from the back of the golf cart before bending down and harvesting from another row of chard. The work and rhythm is repeated as the dawn lightens until the cart is full and they return to the office and waiting truck ready to accept these gifts. For this harvest, working though it is, is a gift to us all. I watch the bobbing light, the dawn rising and even with some early morning kisses I do not fall back to sleep. I must honor the work of Jesus and José with my words - and I do.

Workers mannually harvest ripe produce on Rick and Robyn Purdum’s farm. Fruitland, Idaho. 7/20/2012 Photo by Kirsten Strough via USDA

This has been A Letter from A. Broad.

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch