more than one way of looking at things," the proprietor explained. "Instead of the sun, the Chinese calendar goes by the cycles of the moon. The Chinese lunar zodiac is inhabited by twelve animals, each with its own characteristics. Each year is given a name of one of those animals."
He handed me a place mat from an unoccupied table. It had pictures of all the different animals. In addition to a rabbit, there was a tiger, an ox, a rat, a boar, a dog, a rooster, a monkey, a sheep, a horse, a snake, and a dragon. Listed beside these animals were their special years and the effect they were supposed to have on those years.
The place mat explained that because the rabbit is such a gentle animal, the Year of the Rabbit would be one that is peaceful and prosperous. Of all the signs to be born under, the place mat said, the rabbit is the happiest. That's when I saw that not only was the new year the Year of the Rabbit, but the last Year of the Rabbit was the year that I was born.
"Now isn't that a coincidence," I said. "Wait until I tell Orwell!"
That night after polishing off the rice that was left in the square white cartons that pile up like autumn leaves after an Imperial Garden meal, I shot the breeze with my ailing little friend. His operation was scheduled for the following week and I didn't want him to worry.
"Why is it, Orwell," I mused, "that nearly every single day has some sort of special designation? Take this month, for instance. Already we've had Groundhog Day, Valentine's Day, Presidents' Day, Chinese New Year, Ash Wednesday, and so many anniversaries of important historical events that even my teachers can't keep them straight. It's like there's no room for something brand new to happen, such as Rabbit Surgery Day, for instance, because we're too busy commemorating all the stuff that has happened before!"
For the first time in recent days, Orwell seemed interested in what I had to say, so I continued.
"You know what I wish? I wish there were a month that had only regular days in it. No holidays. No anniversaries. Nothing requiring the purchase of a card or a gift or the singing of memorized songs. Just plain days where all anybody is expected to do is appreciate the day simply for itself. A month filled with perfectly ordinary days!"
Orwell switched his ears back and forth.
"That would be special!" I said.
A concert for Orwell
Orwell resumed publishing with these words:
BETWEEN RABBIT AND GIRL
LITTLE DIFFERENCE EXISTS.
As I got dressed for church, I "hmmmed" my customary quizzical response and bounced the thought to the back of my brain like a basketball ricocheting off a backboard.
My church is mostly shades of brown. Even so, the parts and pieces do not match. The walls are made of painted concrete blocks whose chestnut color subtly clashes with the cream brown tiles on the floor. All the woods are different, too. The beams and trusses come from evergreens, I think, while the cross is made of walnut. A member of the congregation who's a cabinetmaker crafted the pulpit and the lectern out of birch. The four long rows of wood-stained pews, purchased from another church, were once oak trees in a distant forest.
As churches go, this one is new, founded in that rabbity year when I was born, but the music that we sing goes back three or four hundred years and the words that we call Scripture go back thousands.
Many times when I sit in church I wish that I were someplace else. Playing basketball. Taking a walk. Working on a project at home. This Sunday, however, I found it restful to sit and think while the words and the music from the front of the room washed over me like waves making their offering to the beach.
What I was thinking about was the mystery of Orwell.
Why had he come? What was the source of his magic? What did he want me to do?
The answers seemed far beyond the reach of my detective skills.
And with his operation just around the corner, I was worried, too, about Orwell making it.
This
He handed me a place mat from an unoccupied table. It had pictures of all the different animals. In addition to a rabbit, there was a tiger, an ox, a rat, a boar, a dog, a rooster, a monkey, a sheep, a horse, a snake, and a dragon. Listed beside these animals were their special years and the effect they were supposed to have on those years.
The place mat explained that because the rabbit is such a gentle animal, the Year of the Rabbit would be one that is peaceful and prosperous. Of all the signs to be born under, the place mat said, the rabbit is the happiest. That's when I saw that not only was the new year the Year of the Rabbit, but the last Year of the Rabbit was the year that I was born.
"Now isn't that a coincidence," I said. "Wait until I tell Orwell!"
That night after polishing off the rice that was left in the square white cartons that pile up like autumn leaves after an Imperial Garden meal, I shot the breeze with my ailing little friend. His operation was scheduled for the following week and I didn't want him to worry.
"Why is it, Orwell," I mused, "that nearly every single day has some sort of special designation? Take this month, for instance. Already we've had Groundhog Day, Valentine's Day, Presidents' Day, Chinese New Year, Ash Wednesday, and so many anniversaries of important historical events that even my teachers can't keep them straight. It's like there's no room for something brand new to happen, such as Rabbit Surgery Day, for instance, because we're too busy commemorating all the stuff that has happened before!"
For the first time in recent days, Orwell seemed interested in what I had to say, so I continued.
"You know what I wish? I wish there were a month that had only regular days in it. No holidays. No anniversaries. Nothing requiring the purchase of a card or a gift or the singing of memorized songs. Just plain days where all anybody is expected to do is appreciate the day simply for itself. A month filled with perfectly ordinary days!"
Orwell switched his ears back and forth.
"That would be special!" I said.
A concert for Orwell
Orwell resumed publishing with these words:
BETWEEN RABBIT AND GIRL
LITTLE DIFFERENCE EXISTS.
As I got dressed for church, I "hmmmed" my customary quizzical response and bounced the thought to the back of my brain like a basketball ricocheting off a backboard.
My church is mostly shades of brown. Even so, the parts and pieces do not match. The walls are made of painted concrete blocks whose chestnut color subtly clashes with the cream brown tiles on the floor. All the woods are different, too. The beams and trusses come from evergreens, I think, while the cross is made of walnut. A member of the congregation who's a cabinetmaker crafted the pulpit and the lectern out of birch. The four long rows of wood-stained pews, purchased from another church, were once oak trees in a distant forest.
As churches go, this one is new, founded in that rabbity year when I was born, but the music that we sing goes back three or four hundred years and the words that we call Scripture go back thousands.
Many times when I sit in church I wish that I were someplace else. Playing basketball. Taking a walk. Working on a project at home. This Sunday, however, I found it restful to sit and think while the words and the music from the front of the room washed over me like waves making their offering to the beach.
What I was thinking about was the mystery of Orwell.
Why had he come? What was the source of his magic? What did he want me to do?
The answers seemed far beyond the reach of my detective skills.
And with his operation just around the corner, I was worried, too, about Orwell making it.
This
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