The Bullfight

The upward angle of my memories reminds me of just how young we are when our brains begin to crinkle; when thoughts, feelings and memories start slipping down into the crooks and crannies; when our consciousness begins filling the crevices of our mind.

I couldn’t have been more than three or four, perhaps younger, as I looked up into Grandma Rowell’s eyes searching for a hint of weakness, a glimmer of hope that she would relent.
The old house was large, creaky and cold: fertile ground for a young mind in search of goblins; just the kinda place where a monster could slide under your bed unseen. I had heard one breathing in the night, that soft rasping sound that only a ghoul can make, and fear had gripped me. When the breathing slowed and became rhythmic I figured he was asleep, so I climbed down as a quietly as possible and softly padded my way down the hall to Grandma’s room where the lamplight was warm and inviting as it flowed out from beneath the door.

Grandma did not believe in indulging the whims of a child, but the look in my frightened eyes must have touched something within, for her features softened a bit, and she invited me to climb up into the bed with her for a spell.

There is nothing like a feather bed. For those who have never been cradled in the arms of a hundred geese, I have pity. For those who have, then you understand the consolation that simply laying back and allowing the softness to envelop you can bring. For you see while Grandma did not believe in indulging children, she did from time to time pamper herself, and this bed was her pride and joy. 

As I settled in and snuggled down, the familiar smell of wisteria came to my nostrils coupled with the ever present odor of moth balls resting alongside BenGay, added for pungency and zest. Here and ever after, singly or in combination, those odors send me back to that old house, that easy bed, my Grandma Rowell and a story.   

As I sidled up beside my Grandma she reached over and switched off the lamp. There was a streetlight somewhere nearby that cast the shadow of magnolia leaves on the wall. As my sleepy eyes watched the shadows dancing on the breeze, Grandma told me the story of the Bullfight for the first time.   

Grandma traveled to Mexico as a young girl, and returned with a wanderlust that you could hear in her voice and see in her eyes if you looked close enough, but no one ever did. She yearned to see the world, to visit exotic places and to live life to the fullest, but things happened. Marriage, three children and life and after a time all that remained of her longing was the story of this ancient Bullfight, but Lord have mercy could my Grandma tell a tale. She had a gift for it.

The details have drifted with time, but the images remain. As Grandma painted the story, in my young mind I could hear; I could smell; I could see the crowd working itself into a frenzy. Those pictures painted so long ago remain. As I write this I see the picadors tormenting the poor creature. Through a haze of dust I see the angry snorting bull, pawing; the matador proud with his red cape and his exaggerated machismo heaves and swells as the midday heat rises from the ring. Grandma would always pause when she spoke of the matador, and sigh. First love I suppose. His torn body carried from the field would finish her story. Fresh pain rising, Grandma teared up every time she told it.

A strange bedtime story for a frightened child to be sure, but it suited me fine. I awoke the next morning to the sound of rustling magnolia leaves just outside of Grandma’s bedroom window with a budding wanderlust newly handed down.      

To this day the sound of a distant freight train or the sight of a contrail laid out behind a passing 747 awakens a yearning within me to go.   

It is amazing and little frightening to realize just how powerful a memory, even one as early as this, can be. It is indeed a bit frightening, especially when you realize that today you are the one creating the memories of tomorrow.

The children are watching. They are listening. Make the memories count.
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Let them hear of Christ from your lips and see Christ in your life. Such memories will last forever.
 
In Christ,
Pastor Tony

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