Home  >> Stories  >> The Tale Spinner #2011-52

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IN THIS ISSUE

• Zvonko Springer describes a cyclone on the island of Mauritius
• Doris Dignard writes about a piece in last week´s issue
• Betty Audet reminds us that not everyone spends Christmas at home
• Pat Moore sends a story of a beloved tradition
• Don Henderson suggests suitable gifts for older women
• Verda Cook forwards food for thought at this season
• From Lew´s News comes a short Christmas poem
• Sites are recommended by Barbara Wear, Bruce Galway, Don Henderson, and Tom Williamson

Zvonko Springer and his wife are enjoying a sightseeing tour of the southern part of the island of Mauritius with their friend Jose on their

WORKING HOLIDAY

We had to skip visiting the quiet town of Maheburg on the south- eastern side of the island that had been the capital of Mauritius and a busy port during Dutch times. There one can see some old colonial buildings of French and British settlers too.

We left the south road at Souillac, turning north and back to Curepipe (pronounced ´Kœrpip´ in French). Drivers of carts loaded with sugar cane stopped on the road´s highest point to light their pipes - thus the name comes from ´cure pipe´. Before going to José´s house to have dinner, he turned into a small yard of his friend who had a special house that Ljiljana MUST SEE. In this house the friendly host cultivated orchids, and his collection of vanda orchids was just grand. Ljiljana almost flipped, seeing this abundance and variety of orchids, so José had a problem to get her out at all. It was dark already and we had to hurry to his house, where we dined on some local specialities like venison meat.

Darkness was full and the wind force increased so José called a taxi to take us back to our hotel "Trou aux Biches" far to the north. He wanted to stay with his wife, who was afraid of cyclones since her last pregnancy. The century´s strongest cyclone devastated the island, killing several people. José gave us candles and matches and two bottles of drinking water - one never knows what will happen, he said.

The cyclone Gervais hits our hotel (Click to enlarge)

The looming cyclone could get even worse as we went on our way to the hotel. The wind was getting stronger and the rain sputtered briefly, so visibility worsened for the taxi driver. The street lights were still on as we passed through various towns or settlements, where people were busy covering shop windows with plywood panels or boards. The driver drove cautiously, although there was hardly any traffic or people in the streets or on the road. Finally the driver happily announced that we had arrived at the hotel and asked permission to leave instantly, as he wanted to be home before it got worse.

The house where we had our room was not too far from the entrance, and we ran fast, but wind gusts pushed us off balance briefly. The whole night the wind blew in gusts that seemed to gain in force at times. The morning was dark, with low clouds hanging over the sea not far out at all.

We got up early for breakfast, rushing to the restaurant some 100m from our house when the rain stopped for a short while. The waiters were anxious and slower in their services, which were normally unhurried. They told to get into our room as soon as possible and to close the doors firmly. The restaurant´s front windows had been barricaded so the lights were on inside.

We got to our room just before 9:00 a.m., when all of a sudden a strong rain carried by a hurricane wind hit the house. We could see the churned-up sea as wind pushed the rain curtain out to it some 50m away. The weatherman informed us that some wind velocities might reach over 200km/h (125ml/h). I opened a small window looking towards the sea in the west just to equalize the wind pressure on the leeward side.

Some palm tree leaves crashed down and some debris trundled towards the sea. There was nothing for us to do except read, or write notes like me. At lunch time we ran out to the restaurant when we thought that the wind had lessened a bit, but Ljiljana had to hold on from one palm trunk to another not to be blown away. Somehow we reached the place and all we got was some cold and dry food. We filled two bottles with drinking water and moved to our room against the wind, which seemed to be fading at last. At about 3:00 p.m. the whole racket turned into an unusual silence that almost "harmed" our senses, used to the incredible noise of the hurricane wind. The silence became absolute. Suddenly it was so very quiet! Where had the howling wind of the cyclone named "Gervais" gone, we wondered.

The sea surface was like a mirror in which the grey sky was reflected. We walked out and saw debris large and small strewn everywhere. Some palm trees had lost their crowns completely, while other trunks leaned towards the sea more than before. Hardly anybody came out to view the damage, and no service men from the hotel toured the buildings to check for breaks or any technical disruptions. It was so quiet - a stillness that hurt after all that tremendous noise and clatter.

We went to verify in the restaurant whether dinner would be served sometime after 6:00. The short walk astonished us by the force of nature causing such disaster to anything alive or to the habitat in general. In the restaurant we got a simple meal and some fruit for dessert. The waiter told to go back to our room and make sure that we closed tightly all windows and doors towards the sea side. He explained that we were in the eye of the cyclone, which was the reason for the total calmness. Nothing moved - no leaves stirred; no sound of any insect or bird or any other living creature. The stillness was overwhelming.

Night set in, and at about 8:00 o´clock, a room speaker informed us that they expected the cyclone to return between 9:00 and 9:30. Almost to the second of 9:00 o´clock, the wind started blowing, this time from the seaward side. I opened a window on the leeward side that was in the bathroom now. Then the rain surge hit the paned front of our room with such force that I thought the glass would break. Then something happened which seemed to me to be almost impossible: fine spray pressed through the wall and joints. We took off the bedding and carried the mattresses into the large bathroom, where we prepared our shakedowns for the night. We filled the bathtub with water for emergency use. Ljiljana brought the candles and bottles with drinking water that José had given us the day before.

The racket made by the wind was as if one were standing next to airplane jets. We could not hear ourselves speak; we had to shout to communicate. In the room we felt the fine water spray near the external wall. Its inner surface was wet, and water ran down to the floor, where it formed a pool of water. It was a good thing that we had moved all our belongings into the bathroom. Hopefully the pool would not run into the bathroom, but I considered how to make a kind of barrier to prevent any intrusion.

As there was nothing else to do, we settled on the makeshift beds, trying to get some sleep. Yet the awesome noise was such that we could doze off for only a short time until the next blast of wind woke us like a warning of an imminent disaster.

It went on and on, interminably.

Gradually, like waking from a bad dream, the clamour subsided at last. We crawled out from under our covers to see what had happened. In the dim morning light coming through the front window we could see a sea with waves moving quietly up the beach, their force obviously diminishing. Was it all over? It was morning, shortly after 4:00, but not light enough, so we tried switching on the light. Nothing happened, so by flashlight I saw the wet floor of the room with a large puddle spreading near the door. I returned to get a few hours of restful sleep.

When we woke up a few hours later, everything was quiet outside and shy sunshine played on the quiet sea. It was so quiet that we could not believe it, after listening to that tremendous noise for many hours. Was it finally over?

The devastation left at the golf course (Click to enlarge)

It was almost 8:00 in the morning when we opened the door and windows to the veranda. The sight was appalling: litter and debris everywhere, broken palm trees, their roots upturned, and stillness that almost hurt. We put the mattresses on the bed frames and Ljiljana used a bed sheet to wipe up the floor. There was no electricity or running water, so we used the water we had put in the bathtub the night before for a minimum personal wash.

Then we walked over to the restaurant to find out if we could get some breakfast. We had to watch for glass splinters or some short objects that might lie below the layer of litter. A waiter greeted us with a smile, happy to see us cheerful, and promised to bring us hot tea and something to eat. That was certainly a good start for the day.

To be continued.

NOTE: Zvonko sent a large number of pictures along with this series of articles. They are arranged in several albums here. These albums will be slow to download as they are very large files.

Album 1: Mauritius Island on Arrival

Album 2: Pictures when Cyclone Gervais hit Mauritius and some from better days

Album 3: End of holidays by the way of Reunion and Djibouti

CORRESPONDENCE

Doris Dignard writes: I loved Pat Moore´s account of Santa being a woman. After checking everything out, I´m inclined to think she just might be right.

ED. NOTE: My thanks to all who wrote to commiserate with me while I wrestled with my cold/flu/whatever last week, and hoped that I would soon recover. I am almost back to normal, though somewhat behind with many things that should have been done. However, here is your Spinner, and whatever else does not get done can wait until next year....

Betty Audet thinks it is time for us to remember

CHRISTMAS AT ROCK-AWAY REST

´Twas the night before Christmas at Rock-Away Rest,
And all of us seniors were looking our best.
Our glasses, how sparkly, our wrinkles, how merry;
Our punchbowl held prune juice plus three drops of sherry.

A bedsock was taped to each walker, in hope
That Santa would bring us soft candy and soap.
We surely were lucky to be there with friends,
Secure in this residence and in our Depends.

Our grandkids had sent us some Christmasy crafts,
Like angels in snowsuits and penguins on rafts.
The dental assistant had borrowed our teeth,
And from them she´d crafted a holiday wreath.

The bed pans, so shiny, all stood in a row,
Reflecting our candle´s magnificent glow.
Our supper so festive - the joy wouldn´t stop -
Was creamy warm oatmeal with sprinkles on top.

Our salad was Jell-O, so jiggly and great,
Then puree of fruitcake was spooned on each plate.
The social director then had us play games,
Like "Where Are You Living?" and "What Are Your Names?"

Old Grandfather Looper was feeling his oats,
Proclaiming that reindeer were nothing but goats.
Our resident wand´rer was tied to her chair,
In hopes that at bedtime she still would be there.

Security lights on the new-fallen snow
Made outdoors seem noon to the old folks below.
Then out on the porch there arose quite a clatter
(But we are so deaf that it just didn´t matter).

A strange little fellow flew in through the door,
Then tripped on the sill and fell flat on the floor.
´Twas just our director, all togged out in red.
He jiggled and chuckled and patted each head.

We knew from the way that he strutted and jived
Our social- security checks had arrived.
We sang - how we sang - in our monotone croak,
Till the clock tinkled out its soft eight-p.m. stroke.

And soon we were snuggling deep in our beds.
While nurses distributed nocturnal meds.
And so ends our Christmas at Rock-Away Rest.
Before long you´ll be with us. We wish you the best!

Pat Moore writes: This is a very special story that I received quite a few years ago, and ever since I have placed a white envelope on the very little tree that I now have since the family grew and left home, in honour of my parents. The white envelope contains an anonymous gift to a charity that meant something special to them:

A SIMPLE WHITE ENVELOPE

It´s just a small white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past years.

It all began because my husband hated Christmas - oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it - the overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma - the gifts given in desperation because you couldn´t think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties, and so forth. I searched for something special just for him. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church.

These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler´s ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.

Well, our team ended up walloping them. We took every weight class, but as each of the other team lost, the boy got up from the mat and swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn´t acknowledge defeat and showing that he was proud to be there in the competition.

My husband, sitting beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." He loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball, and lacrosse.

That´s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought a big assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.

On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling all about the wrestling headgear I had bought, and that this was his gift from me.

His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition - one year sending a group of mentally-handicapped youngsters to a hockey game; another year a cheque to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas.

It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.

The story doesn´t end there. You see, we lost my husband last year due to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up, but Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning it was joined by three more.

Each of our children, unknown to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further, with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation, watching as their fathers take down the envelope.

My husband´s spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.

Don Henderson forwards this poem that might well have come from the editor herself, if she´d though of it:

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO MY WOMEN FRIENDS

If I were ol´ Santa, you know what I´d do?
I´d dump silly gifts that are given to you
And deliver some things just inside your front door -
Things you have lost, but treasured before.

I´d give you back all your maidenly vigour,
And to go along with it, a neat tiny figure.
Then restore the old colour that once graced your hair
Before rinses and bleaches took residence there.

I´d bring back the shape with which you were gifted,
So things now suspended need not be uplifted.
I´d draw in your tummy and smooth down your back
Till you´d be a dream in those tight-fitting slacks.

I´d remove all your wrinkles and leave only one chin,
So you wouldn´t spend hours rubbing grease on your skin.
You´d never have flashes or queer dizzy spells,
And you wouldn´t hear noises like ringing of bells.

No sore aching feet and no corns on your toes,
No searching for spectacles when they´re right on your nose.
Not a shot would you take in your arm, hip or fanny,
From a doctor who thinks you´re a nervous old granny.

You´d never have a headache, so no pills would you take.
And no heating pad needed since your muscles won´t ache.
Yes, if I were Santa, you´d never look stupid,
You´d be a cute little chick with the romance of a cupid.

I´d give a lift to your heart when those wolves start to whistle,
And the joys of your heart would be light as a thistle.
But alas! I´m not Santa. I´m simply just me,
The maturest of matrons you ever did see.

I wish I could tell you all the symptoms I´ve got,
But I´m due at my doctor´s for an estrogen shot.
Even though we´ve grown older, this wish is sincere,
Merry Christmas to you and a Happy New Year.

Verda Cook forwards this piece from an unknown author:

FOOD FOR THOUGHT AT CHRISTMAS

1 Corinthians 13 - Christmas Version

If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows, strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls, but do not show love to my family, I´m just another decorator.

If I slave away in the kitchen, baking dozens of Christmas cookies, preparing gourmet meals and arranging a beautifully-adorned table at mealtime, but do not show love to my family, I´m just another cook.

If I work at the soup kitchen, carol in the nursing home, and give all that I have to charity, but do not show love to my family, it profits me nothing.

If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels and crocheted snowflakes, attend a myriad of holiday parties and sing in the choir´s cantata but do not focus on Christ, I have missed the point.

Love stops the cooking to hug a child. Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the husband. Love is kind, though harried and tired. Love doesn´t envy another´s house that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.

Love doesn´t yell at the kids to get out of the way, but is thankful they are there to be in the way. Love doesn´t give only to those who are able to give in return but rejoices in giving to those who can´t.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails. Video games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost, golf clubs will rust. But giving the gift of love will endure.

And from Lew´s News, here is a short

CHRISTMAS POEM

If you see a fat man who´s jolly and cute,
Wearing a beard and a red flannel suit,
And if he´s chuckling and laughing away
While flying around in a miniature sleigh,
With eight tiny reindeer to pull him along
Let´s face it, friends - your eggnog´s too strong.

SUGGESTED SITES

Barbara Wear sends this link to a cute Christmas card that the grandchildren will really enjoy:

Bruce Galway wishes all advertisements could be this clever. HEMA is a Netherlands department store. This company has a sense of humour and a great computer programmer who has too much time on his hands. Don´t click on any of the items in the picture; just wait a couple of seconds and watch what happens:

Don Henderson suggests this site for a truly exuberant video of kids at play:

Tom Williamson sends this link to a video that the crew of HMS Ocean made when they knew they would be home in time for Christmas:

Back in the 1930s, during the depression, an anonymous benefactor in Canton, OH, gave away $750 - $5.00 at a time - to people who had been hit hard by the depression. That was the equivalent of $100 today. Samuel Stone was the benefactor, and his grandson recently was given a suitcase filled with letters from the people asking for the money and thank you letters. The grandson, Ted Gup, has now written a book about this called "A Secret Gift: How One Man´s Kindness - and a Trove of Letters - Revealed the Hidden History of the Great Depression". Read the introduction on this site, and then watch the video:

After re-purposing CAPTCHA so each human-typed response helps digitize books, Luis von Ahn wondered how else to use small contributions by many on the Internet for greater good. At TEDxCMU, he shares how his ambitious new project, Duolingo, will help millions learn a new language while translating the Web quickly and accurately - all for free:

To check out the features of the "freedictionary", which changes daily, go to