Read this on my main blog here
Along with the other students in the media ‘track’ at G-42, I recently took a trip to Holland with Dutch author, pastor, filmmaker and musician Herman Haan. Like I said in my last newsletter, we spent a week creating stories, making plans, practicing writing, visiting churches and hearing him teach. We spent one day writing a short story with Herman at his home. I thought I’d share…
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Horizons teeming with pastures and cows spotted and men few, the miles and miles and hundreds of miles of fences, the miles of rusted wire and chain-linked, miles of fallen wooden and stoned, moss-covered, overrun by nature, clasping to vines intentionally or not, and an assumption that they all existed from creation. I imagined a life’s work by an idly fading farmhand lost in a task never destined for fulfillment in a progress unintended to ever wane.
Fields and forests sprinting forever with fences in every nation to endure nature’s bitter sides. Some are already gone and the remaining will, too, be replaced with more fences and fencers. There are necessary tasks and those willing and dying for such tasks and there are tasks inessential and those all the more willing to give up a few hours a day or generations for, and there are those not awake long enough to find a difference.
Fields and forests sprinting forever with fences in every nation to endure nature’s bitter sides. Some are already gone and the remaining will, too, be replaced with more fences and fencers. There are necessary tasks and those willing and dying for such tasks and there are tasks inessential and those all the more willing to give up a few hours a day or generations for, and there are those not awake long enough to find a difference.
A Soap Bottle Assembly, perhaps not considered once in the history of man that needn’t consider it, provided full days for the old man. There are stickers on soap bottles and caps to be twisted on. There are machines that don’t do it that could do it, at least in his warehouse. The lighting came mostly from the sun in the upper windows of a simple warehouse and that hardly did the job but reflecting off the silver containers and walls and pipes and other silver things that make up a warehouse, it may not be enough light for an investment banker or a lawyer, but, for a soap bottle stickerer and cap screwer, it was.
He had started the process of losing his hair, though he hadn’t gained an extra body fat percent since his early thirties; the same faded blue coveralls with the zipper replaced and collar torn lasted through the decades and he was not financially close to retirement and he didn’t mind. It was the spirit of his age more than his actual age and it was eight a.m. until noon, then bologna, cheddar, mayonnaise, twelve-thirty until 5 p.m.
He had not considered his profession in many years and had no reason for it. He carried the appearance of the spirit of his work, so the desire by others to inquire into his profession was sparse. But on the rare circumstance that he was met with an awkward affair that necessitated such a question as ‘What line of work are you in’, had his answer of soap bottler been met with any response other than an affirming nod, whether a lukewarm comment or slight head drop or a bored gaze he may have considered his profession. But they were like him at least in the division of living so they did not and he did not think of it for many years.
He worked on his own mostly. It only takes one man to apply the sticker and the cap, and the manager, administrator and secretary in their offices, outside the warehouse. In there, lighting came from light bulbs.
But on certain months, soap orders became greater than the average and the boss would think it necessary to hire a part-time worker to assist the old man, usually a temp recently out of prison or a student from the college fifteen minutes south of there. That morning of the day when things were the same as the others, a young man walked into his warehouse. He was not unusual in appearance or situation, but attitude. Perhaps he was livelier than others before him, a light that the man had not seen in many years in others or himself. He was a familiar memory in a way that’s too distant to really be familiar.
But on certain months, soap orders became greater than the average and the boss would think it necessary to hire a part-time worker to assist the old man, usually a temp recently out of prison or a student from the college fifteen minutes south of there. That morning of the day when things were the same as the others, a young man walked into his warehouse. He was not unusual in appearance or situation, but attitude. Perhaps he was livelier than others before him, a light that the man had not seen in many years in others or himself. He was a familiar memory in a way that’s too distant to really be familiar.
At first these part-time workers were a nuisance to the old man, the shaking hands, the small talk, the questions about what brings him joy or the best angle to hold the bottle while applying the sticker. It no longer bothered him anymore, though he certainly didn’t welcome them. He put his hand out to the young man. It was met with a shake, more than he expected, and with words.
“Hi, name’s Adam,” the young man said, “Pleasure to meet you. Seems like you know what you’re doing in here, I look forward to learning from you.”
“Hi, name’s Adam,” the young man said, “Pleasure to meet you. Seems like you know what you’re doing in here, I look forward to learning from you.”
The old man showed him to apply the sticker to the bottle, and to screw the cap on. Adam set up next to him. Together they applied stickers and caps. “I’m studying music at university, though I don’t know what exactly I’ll do with it. Maybe I’ll teach, or maybe start a band, I’m just kinda going with what doors open up for me right now. I figured better than sit around waiting for school to start back again I could make a little money on the side. I think I could do this for a little while if the opportunity came, before taking music on full time of course. I don’t mind taking a break from school if a door opens. This is an easy enough job, hopefully I can handle applying some stickers,” and laughed. “Do you have any suggestions to work better?”
The old man remembered when he was an artist. He wrote with passion. He read first then studied it with notes and highlights then created a story from his imagination. There was depth, and wisdom, and passion. He thought he was talented at the university, just fifteen minutes from the warehouse. There was ferocity in his pen. After, as a young adult, he continued to create beauty. He worked part time to support himself and his wife, also gifted and vibrant, applying stickers to bottles and caps to them.
The old man remembered when he was an artist. He wrote with passion. He read first then studied it with notes and highlights then created a story from his imagination. There was depth, and wisdom, and passion. He thought he was talented at the university, just fifteen minutes from the warehouse. There was ferocity in his pen. After, as a young adult, he continued to create beauty. He worked part time to support himself and his wife, also gifted and vibrant, applying stickers to bottles and caps to them.
“Suggestions.” The old man thought and twisted a cap. “It’s easy. Apply a sticker and a cap and then again. Don’t think about it. Then do it again. Pretend you’re doing something else, something better than what you’re doing. Then, your day will be over.” Thwick. Whirr. It was noon. They sat down and the old man had bologna with cheddar and mayonnaise, Adam had ham, cheddar and mustard. They didn’t leave the warehouse. They sat in folding chairs, sandwiches in their laps, chips leaning on their legs. They chewed in silence only for a second.
Part 2 tomorrow
