However, there’s another word which is even worse than the eatery. It is the word:

Inimical

I’ve been reading an author lately who likes this word. I couldn’t pick the meaning up from the context. It wasn’t clear to me how it is pronounced, either. Finally, I got my sorry self up and looked it up.

According to Dictionary.com:

ih-nim-i-kuhl
It means:
1. adverse in tendency, unfavorable; harmful
2. unfriendly, hostile

Ha.That figures. No wonder that word won’t cooperate with me! It’s in its very nature to rebel.

An interesting side note: If I can’t hear a word in my head, I don’t know how to spell it. Which is partly why it was hard to look inimical up – I didn’t know how to say it.

She had been glorious. Beautiful, yes, but not in the way most people thought of beauty. She didn’t have the pale skin, luminous hair or blue eyes that were the hallmarks of perfection. She wasn’t tall or willowy. But, oh, oh, she had been perfect. Perfection was complete in her. He remembered the way her eyes looked as she laughed. That night – that one night – at the moon base. Her hair was dark and full and it curled on her shoulders like a mane. Her eyes were glinting at him in humor and love. Her round shoulders and lovely form had filled him with satisfaction. That was the night he’d asked her to marry him. She’d said yes. She’d marry him. He’d had to ship out 2 weeks later, but those two weeks had been heaven, with her in his arms.

He remembered the night he’d had to say goodbye to her. They were down in the moon base inn, eating a meal neither of them wanted to end. In the back ground the jukebox was softly singing:

“. . .like sweet memories
They will return
As will I . . .”

Oh, how he’d hated to leave!

A soft voice broke his reverie. He looked up bewildered, then remembered where he was: In an old fashioned restaurant, having a dinner with Eddie. He said,
“Er . . . what?”
“I said . . . she musta been something.”
“She was . . . but what makes you say that?”
“That song started playing and you got all dreamy eyed. Figured you said goodbye to someone pretty special, once.”

He nodded, taking in Eddie’s young face, the silver implants glinting just above his brow. He wondered if he could understand what it had been like. But now was not the time to think about that. Right now it was time to do a checklist of the ship before they went on their retrieval mission in the morning. He motioned to Eddie, and they left, leaving payment for the meal on the table.

“She was a real beauty.” He said. Caught unawares, Eddie glanced up from the instrument board. “What?”

“She was a real beauty.” Tam Havok repeated. “Oh, she was beautiful all over. But what made her shine was her mind, her intellect, her humor.” A faint smile crossed Havok’s face as he remembered. Eddie watched him silently, seeing love on the older man’s face. Havok went on,

“She had an amazing smile. Such a great laugh . . .the way she’d toss her head back and glance at me out of the corner of her eyes . . .” his voice trailed off and once more he was concentrating on flying the space ship.

It took three days to retrieve the old satellites and bring them in, and now and then Havok would tell Eddie about Eline.

“She was so good with children. They loved her. She knew just what to do to make them smile, what to do to soothe them when they were crying. I was looking forward to her holding our own children in her arms.” He was silent until Eddie asked,

“What happened, sir?” Then he sighed and answered,

“I lost her, Eddie. So long ago . . . I lost her.”

The tablecloth was not as smooth as it looked; there were little snags here and there, betraying its age. It was like the rest of this moonbase restaurant; well taken care of, but a little worn, lived in. That’s why he and Eline liked to come here; it felt like home. The soft lamplight cast rounded shadows on the wall behind Eline, and, glancing up, he thought he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. They’d known each other for a year, been married for 2 weeks now. He, Tam, had to ship out in the morning for a 9 month tour. Right now it felt like he’d be gone for an eternity. He ran his fingers over the tablecloth again, noticing the little tears. A song was softly playing on the antique jukebox. It was a sad song, about leaving, and he felt it fit the situation, though maybe a little too well.

He was brought out of his morose thoughts by Eline’s soft voice.

“There’s no need to look so despairing, Tam.” Her voice was gentle, trying to lift him from his sadness. “I’m faithful to you, you know that. I’ll be faithful to you always. And it’s only 9 months.” He sighed, and she reached for his hands. “It’ll fly by, I promise. It’s not even a full year. Then we’ll be together again.” She smiled at him, and this time he knew he saw tears in her eyes; they mirrored his.

Instead of sitting and staring at each other, they got up and danced in the open space by the jukebox. Tam held Eline almost tightly, never wanting to let her go. He wanted to memorize the feel of her, the weight and warmth of her in his arms. Each step of their dance slowed until they were standing still, in the warm lamplight, feeling the wooden boards beneath their feet, the words of love in each other’s ears.

The next morning saw each other in the too harsh light of the landing dock. Drawn faces, though Eline was still trying to be cheerful for his sake. Oh, what a treasure she was! He longed to turn his back on his duty and rush into her arms. But he couldn’t. He said to her,

“One more kiss, please, Eline, please.” Then, “I’ll come back to you, I promise I will. I’ll be faithful to you too, and I’ll be back.” She nodded and laid a hand on his cheek. “I know you will, Tam, I know you will.”

Six months later, he’d lost her. He got an impersonal message via the subspace com system, and it said,

“Regret to inform you that Eline Havok was in a terrible aircar accident. She was rushed to the hospital, but did not make it through the night.”

Later on, he got more personal messages Eline’s parents, his own parents and his friends. He read them, and wondered how he would get any comfort from them. Slowly, over the years, the pain had faded, or at least, became less demanding of his attention. Now, telling Eddie, the tears slipped down his cheeks again.

“I love her.” He told Eddie. The young cyborg wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound trite or condescending. Tentatively, he lay his hand on Havok’s shoulder. He said, thinking perhaps this would be okay to say:

“Sometime, sir, if you want, I’d like to hear about her more.” Havok nodded and turned to look at Eddie.

“Sometime, Eddie. Sometime. She was a wonderful girl.”

Then they both settled down to bring the ship into dock, Havok thinking about Eline, and Eddie thinking about what Havok had revealed of himself.

This is an experiment of putting music with a story. Tell me what you think!

Xeno means “aliens, strangers, foreigner, guest”
Phobia means “fear of, frightfull”

So the old definition: the fear of strangers or foreigners.
The newer meaning, especially if you’re reading science fiction: the fear of aliens.

As a confusing little side note: The more classical meaning of ‘alien’ is ‘stranger’. I’d be an alien if I went to France. I’m not a citizen there, nor do I know anything about living there. If I was afraid of French men coming here, that’d be xenophobia. Or if I was a bit knock-kneed over some tall pointy eared logic-spouting space traveler, that’d be xenophobia, too.

¿Y quién de vosotros podrá, por mucho que se afane, añadir a su estatura un codo? Y por vestido, ¿por qué os afanáis? Considerad los lirios del campo, cómo crecen: no trabajan ni hilan; pero os digo, que ni aun Salomón con toda su gloria se vistió así como uno de ellos.

As much as I say to you: We should not toil arduously* for our lives, for what we eat or what we drink; nor for our bodies, what we wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the sky, that do not sow, nor harvest, nor gather the harvest into granaries; and our heavenly Father nourishes them. Do we not have more value than they?

And who of you can, by much effort, can add a foot to his height? And for clothing, why do you toil? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they do not work nor spin; but I say to you, not even Solomon, in all his glory, dressed himself like the lilies.

This is what the spanish ‘afán’ means. I’m thinking the connotation here is that of working your fingers to the bone to take care of yourself on your own strength. It’s not saying we shouldn’t work, but that that should not consume us. God is the one who ultimately provides for us; it’s not our own power that keeps us healthy and clothed.

Thousands and thousands of Persian soldiers were attacking Greece. The Greek army only had hundreds of soldiers to fight off the thousands. However, they managed to hold them off for 3 days. The Greeks held a tiny pass; only a few soldiers could fit through this critical pass at a time. The Greeks held this pass and killed every Persian soldier that attempted to take them. However, their position was compromised by an irate villager, and were overcome by these Persian soldiers.

At the end, few Greek soldiers survived. They were allowed to go home, but it was a sad affair. One centurion(who has command over a hundred men), could present 10 men to their families. The Greek army had been decimated.

Most of the time, when I hear ‘decimated’ I think of the terrible battle where only 10 percent of the soldiers survived.

Well, I stepped on up to the door and let myself in, pausing to let my eyes adjust to the dim indoors. There were stairs just to the left of the door, going up to the rooms. On the right was the office, and desk where I would check in. Down the short hall was the dining room, and the kitchen beyond that. I came over to the table and faced a young woman I doubted was Mrs. Well herself. The girl’s nose almost wrinkled as I came closer.

“Ma,am,” I addressed her, taking off my beat up felt hat, “I was wondering if I could have a room. And -” I forestalled her saying no, “can I use the pump out back? I’m just a mite dirty.” Her agreement was written all over her face. She hesitated for just a moment, then told me the price. We traded money for key, and I wrote my name down in the ledger.

I tramped up the stairs and found my room, down at the end of the narrow hall. The room was nice, better than what I’d expected from an inn so far from Helena or Missoula. It had a window with glass panes, a bed with a good mattress and quilt, a solid shelf with bowl and pitcher on it, nails to hang clothes on, and a sturdy chair by the window. The building itself had just barely lost the new lumber smell.

After I’d looked around and set my coat down, I brought the tin bowl out to the pump and filled it up. Back in my room, I did a bang up job of getting clean. Dumping the dirty water out the window, I took a deep breath. It felt good to have the dirt off. It been awhile since I last washed. First, there’d been the last desperate days of the war between the states. I’d fought til it was done, and when the rifles were lay down at Appomattox, I lay mine down with relief. But living at peace had me pacing up and down with restlessness. I set my feet to moving and I found myself out west, and being chased mighty fast out of Missoula over some fistfight. I come north over the mountains and stumbled across a little mining town just getting its feet under it. According to the girl at the desk, its name was Garnet. Well, I set myself down to a good meal, and later fell asleep all comfortable in a real bed.

I woke up in the dark hours just before dawn. At first I didn’t know why’d I’d woken up, but I knew there was a good reason, so I just lay still and listened. In a few moments, I heard the reason. Angry men’s speech and a woman’s outraged voice were filtering up the stairs. When a shot cracked, I swept up my pistol and slipped into my jeans and moccasins. I slipped down the back stairs, and peered into the kitchen. Nobody there. Inching into the kitchen, I stood where I could see through the door. I stood in shadow, and doubted anyone could see me there. I saw the tense back of Mrs. Wells and the face of an angry man, and heard the voice of another man. They were trying to intimidate her into giving them all her money. She was tough; they were getting nowhere. By the shot I’d heard fired, I figured it was going to get ugly soon. I slipped round the back of the hotel and into the shadows between the inn and the general store to see where the shot’d been fired from.

The street was quiet, but not because no one was there. People were wide awake and aware, sure enough. Nobody had been shot. Yet. One of the robbers, carrying a big rifle, had fired it into the air as a warning. The townspeople were taking the warning alright. This was a small, tidy town, unused to gunfights and violence, and tense silence filled the street. I stood in the shadows trying to figure what I should do. I could run – and keep running – and get clean out of here, up into Canada, or further west, to the sea. But I remember the courageous figure of Mrs. Wells defending her livelihood, and the young woman at the desk. These townspeople were likely to end up dead or getting the short end of the stick, at least. I decided to stick around.

Just then, I heard footsteps behind me. I stiffened and cocked the hammer on the gun, turning around slowly. The dim shape before me whispered,

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m the doc. I was scouting around to see how many bad hombres there are holding up Mrs. Wells. You know how many are inside?”

I nodded. “Two, and a third on the porch.”

“There are a few down the street, and one up towards the feed store. They’re kind of keeping an eye on things, make sure nobody don’t try to stop their pardners.”

“We the only ones who’re up to this?” I paused as the robber on the porch shifted and walked closer to our side of the building. When he moved away Doc answered. “No, there’s rich miner across the street and down a little ways who has a good eye and cool head; he’s got a Sharps .50. I was just over there; he’s got the guy on the porch pinned.”

“We’ll have to move fast.” I whispered, and he nodded in agreement, stalking back into the shadows. Me, I figured on taking out the two inside who were giving Mrs. Wells such a hassle. I crept back into the kitchen and peered through the door. There was no hide nor hair of them in the dining room, but a sweep of light fell out of the office door. I tred quietly over the boards, getting to the office without alerting the two robbers. They were busy emptying the safe. I glanced around and saw Mrs. Wells crumpled in a corner, knocked clean out, and I hoped, not dead. I guess she started resisting them too much, and they had hit her pretty hard to silence her.

I don’t know exactly why I done it, but I did. Maybe it was the sight of Mrs. Wells treated so roughly. Anyway, I stepped into the light, up to the door, and said,

“Well, fellows, looks like you didn’t reckon on being troubled any.”

One of them, a sallow looking man, fired as he turned, winging the door frame just to the left of my shoulder. I shot him at the same time as the second man fired, nailing me full in the chest. I staggered against the door frame and squeezed the trigger, killing him. I sagged to the floor, panting. Dimly, I heard the brash report of the Sharps, and I figured the miner got his man.

I was sitting on the floor trying to catch my breath when the Doc came in. Seeing me still breathing, he went to check on Mrs. Wells. He came back satisfied.

“She’s okay. She’ll have a bad headache, but other than that, she’ll be fine.” He peered at me closely, but I could barely see his face. Everything seemed to be fading. “We got everybody?” I managed to get out.

“Yeah.” Doc affirmed. “Garnet’s safe.”

“Good.” I mumbled and coughed. Everything was sliding way. But I trusted the Doc – if any one could pull me through, it’d be him. Even unconscious, my body wouldn’t give up without a fight. That’s one thing the other side learned during the War – I was one tough man to get rid of.

I was content. Mrs. Wells still had her inn, and Doc was by my side. I sighed and gave into the welling darkness.

Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing scare you,
Whatever happens,
God never changes;
Patience
Reaches all things;
Whoever has God
Lacks nothing:
God alone is sufficient.
~~My translation

Now, since you’ve read that word three times, say it out loud. Go ahead, do it. You can even glance around to see if there’s anybody listening.

I like cadged because it sounds cool. And goes well with a British accent(you know you want to try it! You already muttered it three times, once more won’t hurt).

But what does it mean? Synonym of cadged: Mooched. And distantly related: Swiped and Snitched. Like, “I cadged a lift from a friend.”

Or I’ve cadged your attention for this blog post . . .

Some people find solace in friends, or drink, or the Bible. I found solace in solitude. And my horse. My father had bought him for me, in an effort to apologize to me. No amount of payment would make my heart forgive him, if he didn’t change his ways. And he didn’t.

I was determined to hate the little horse, but when I saw him I could not hate him. His brown eyes peered at me, and he reached out his pink nose to snuffle my pockets. Before I knew it, my hands were stroking his ears and neck. My father, seeing my satisfaction and thinking that that was ‘apology accepted’ went back into the house towards his bottle and my mother. I didn’t even hear him go.

My life was work. Up before light, cooking the family meals; cleaning up afterward, doing the laundry, another meal, another chore. It stretched endlessly in front of me. I’m not that old – when I was young there were lights and refrigerators and running water and electric ovens. My father was a skilled man at his trade. We could have lived in luxury and comfort. But we did not. My father preferred drink to work and satisfying his own desires to looking after his family. When I cooked food it was over a wood stove. I had to stand on a stool to stir the soup; stirring til my small arms ached. When I got water it was hauled bucket by bucket from the nearby river. When I did laundry it was by scraping our worn shirts and pants over a rough washboard, the water and soap wrinkling my child’s hands and tearing the skin. And yet, I did not suffer the worst of it. I was treated with neglect; my sister and mother got too much attention from my father. I didn’t quite know the details of it til I was older but I never was under my father’s hand in the way they were.

Perhaps I escaped that abuse by ducking out of my chores whenever I could. I would sneak out of our tumbledown house and disappear into the hundreds of acres surrounding it. I would seek out my little horse – I had named him Consolation. A large word for me to know, but I had seen it in the dictionary at school, and sounding it out in my mouth, had known what was my consolation: that little paint. He never made me slave to fit his desires. He was gentle to me. He listened to my tears and eased my soul by being near to me. I could be an innocent, fearless child in his presence.

I can not count the hours I spent, brushing his mane and tale with my own sturdy hair brush. In the spring I made daisy chains to drape around his patient neck. In the summer and fall I rode him for miles, barebacked. We learned how to communicate seamlessly with each other. In the winter we huddled together in the ramshackle barn and I read to him, as many books as I could get my hands on. Consolation was the bright spot in my dim, dreary, terrifying childhood.

The day came when I was old enough to leave my father’s household. I did, marrying a young man I had met the month before. I took with me my few personal belongings and Consolation. I had married to escape, but it wasn’t that much of an escape. The man I married was prone to drink, and I started to drink with him. Looking back, I do see two good things: the first was that my husband was a good worker. Where my father lay in his room all day, my husband worked his fingers to the bone in the mines. He never called in sick, and was never late. He rose in time through the ranks, becoming a supervisor of a big company. The other good thing was Consolation. He was getting older, but still was the best friend I had. He still listened to me and knew my voice. When I had children, he was happy to let them ride on his back as I had done.

The bitter day came when Consolation breathed his last and I had to bury him. We, my children and I, laid him to rest in a field like the ones he and I used to roam. My heart was heavy for many days. For what seemed like an endless time afterward, I would turn to his stall(for I had other horses by now) during the feeding hour only to see that he was gone. I wept for him. And yet.

And yet I was not left comfortless. Because of my children, I ended up going to a little church, in the town where we lived. It wasn’t a big deal, and the people there weren’t perfect saints. But I heard about the Consolation for Man in those splintery old pews. I heard that He understood broken lives and bitterness. He was the Gentle Man, the Hard Worker, the Listener, the Comforter. One day, I turned from my faded existence and put my life into His hands. Since then, my husband has come to the Son of Man. My children, also. The Christ is our redeemer because He has taken shattered lives – my sisters, mine, my marriage – and has made them into something glorious. He has taken us out of the depth of despair into His life.

I think that pony was a gift from Him, in the midst of my sad childhood and young adult life. And when my pony died, He Himself came to me: my Consolation.

Nostalgia makes something that was uncomfortable in your past seem all glorious and amazing.

Like when I never felt my feet on a three day winter hiking trip, but now I look back at the occasion with affection.

Or when your grandfather gets this dreamy look in his eyes and says, “Yes honey, we had to walk two whole miles to school, in the snow, in cracked leather boots.”

Other times nostalgia paints irritating times in a golden hue and generally makes them seem a bit better.

All in all, I’d say, RESIST the Nostalgia!!!! It distorts your memories! If you don’t watch out, you’ll be trudging along in the six feet of mountain snow again! Or eating bugs. Or whatever else that tricksie word has led you to believe was enjoyable.