Forgotten Thoughts

If you look inside that small wooden box with a cross on top, there on my bookshelf, you will find exactly what you think you might: a few shekels and a small black stone. No, as coins they don't amount to much, and the stone is quite plain, but as memories they have a bit more to offer. And it is from those memories of my boyhood pilgrimage to "The Holy Land" that I can still recall for you what Israel seemed to be all about for a 13 year old boy absorbed in a whirling cultural explosion.

One such memory requires me to mention persimmons; this may seem like a strange time to be introducing fruit. You might expect a quirky historical fact offered up as a sacrifice to the credibility Gods, but there are more important things than facts... like persimmons. There were persimmons everywhere in Israel and I ate all I could. I stuffed them in my pockets and ate them on camel rides, paying only a few shekels to be escorted around Jerusalem almost daily by a wide-smiled bearded man. He would let me feed his camel orange slices from my mouth, of which there is a picture: me smiling in my Kufi while a camel's huge wet lips slide down over my face. Yes, I was wearing a Kufi when I should have been wearing a Keffiyeh. Lesson Learned!

My sister explains the art of camel riding as a roller coaster that smells bad. The way they fold up their legs to sit, or unfold them to stand, or throw them around on uneven cobblestone streets where machine-gun-men stand guard is enough to scare the persimmons right out of you. We rode our camels through graveyards, where little stones were piled atop the graves in remembrance of the dead. My sister stacked rocks for those who didn't have any, believing this was good to do so they wouldn't be left out. I wanted to remember them too. Along with persimmon peels and my daily 10 shekel stipend, I placed a very small black stone in my pocket from someone who had many, hoping they wouldn't mind too much. It seemed their family would come by soon enough to replenish the memories I took with me.

These memories have all been kept safe within that box, memories held by a few shekels and a small black stone. I have some more coins, or shells, and other items around here somewhere... there next to the window plants, the notebooks from Italy? Or if you find you have a little more time someday, I’ll tell you funny story about roadkill. Not everyone has the same views on roadkill; however, Brazil and Louisiana are not as different as you think.