Ah! Shrinky Dinks… One must be of a certain vintage to remember those large, brightly colored plastic sheets which, when heated in the oven, shrank to small hard play objects. Google informed me they first were sold in Brookfield, WS in October, 1973. I used to love watching their magical transformation from a big nothing down to miniature objects. Events of the past several days have brought to mind how interconnected we all are, a shrinky dink world, and so ripe with serendipity.
Friday evening I was chatting with a neighbour over the fence. Pat had just returned from three weeks in the US, visiting their daughter in Columbus, OH. What a coincidence! I told her that’s where my grandma and aunt had lived, is just two hours north of where I grew up in Middletown, and one hour south of Ohio Wesleyan where my dad and I had gone to college. Then Pat added that she finished her journey in Nashville.
“Nashville? Samie, our daughter-in-law, and granddaughter just moved there! She is doing a fellowship in pediatric ophthalmology at Vanderbuilt.”
“Well, I was visiting our son-in-law’s mom, Tamie Wallace, who just moved there to work in the children’s hospital in the NICU!”
So a half a world away, our Samie will be operating on tiny patients, then transferring them to Tamie’s care. Both women are linked to a little street, in a little town, in SA. Shrinky dink.
Saturday afternoon was lovely, the first warm, sunny day in a week. While the hadidas buzzed the house, we enjoyed sitting on our patio, Skyping with son Nat and baby Clara, almost three now. Coming out the back door to join Doug, I heard Clara’s joyous squeals at seeing her Grandpa D’s face. Merrily chatting away, she immediately showed us her new baby carriage, a gift from Samie’s parents. Then she pointed to a big surprise. Against a wall was MY light blue doll crib that my daddy had made 60 years ago! I couldn’t believe my eyes! Immediately memories flooded up of the cosy, bright workroom in the basement where my sisters and I would “help” Daddy measure, saw, and nail together our toys. It always smelled of sawdust. I can still hear the scroll saw. How on earth…? It turns out that when my parents moved from Middletown, they sold this crib to our neighbour playmate, Cheryl Fassler. Cheryl became a doctor and settled in Nashville, where she is now head of Hand Surgery at Vanderbilt University. When Samie found out she had matched at Vanderbilt, we put Nat and Samie in touch with Cheryl; they have become good friends. Cheryl’s adopted Chinese daughter, Emily, is thirteen now, too grown-up to play with dolls. So Cheryl gave Clara the famous crib. It has re-joined the family! Yesterday at breakfast we hooted over a picture Nat had sent of Emily and Clara, two beautiful Asian girls, one big and one little, at the fair, petting a pig. Shrinky dink.
It seems every way I turn here, I bump up against the cultural practices of witchcraft and ancestor worship. The neighborhood just around the corner from us is primarily Indian, and many homes employ black gardeners and maids. I had become curious about small piles of burned multi-colored “stuff” littering the pavement in front of some driveways. So a few months back I approached two workers as they were leaving for the day. I greeted them and pointed to the charred remains at my feet. “I’m an American visitor and wonder if you could tell me what this is.” The two exchanged a meaningful look. One answered, “Oh, those are burned to bring the house good luck.” The other said something in Zulu. “What do they burn?” I asked. The first reiterated, “Yes, it is for good luck. You can have it made special, or buy bags ready- made.” My suspicions were confirmed. Definitely more witch doctor stuff…
This Monday afternoon I was walking as usual with our Jamaican neighbour, Wilhelmina. She and I make a strange sight – she is black, tall and thin, and I’m white, short and fat. Often Zulus will pass us and start talking to her; of course she has no clue what they are saying. We giggle, and I tell her she must learn how to say “I don’t speak Zulu” in Zulu. She and her husband also arrived in 2010 as missionaries serving three years in Maritzburg, but we only had found each other after six lonely months, a mere 15 houses apart. Can you say “shrinky dink”? She talks as much as I do, and we hit it off right away.
So, chatting non-stop, as we climbed another long hill, an Indian gentleman hailed us. He pointed to the stunning burgundy bougainvillea; we finally figured out he was asking if it would root from a snapped off branch. (Yes, in shrinky dink fashion SA has tons of the same plants we have at home!) Ala Charlton Heston, at his feet laid a long spiral animal horn. I had to ask! “ A shofar. I use it to chase away demons.”
Demons! Of course my ears perked up. Our Indian friend went on to say he is a prophet, a son of God, and uses the shofar for protection against evil. Then he launched into quoting Old Testament scripture passages about fearing the Lord because He can kill you twice, once physically, and then kill your soul and send you to eternal damnation in Hell. We listened, nodding in a PC kind of way. When he came up for air, I asked if he would demonstrate the shofar for us. He hesitated, then dramatically hoisting the ram’s horn, struck a pose just like Moses in the movies. Taking a mighty breath, he pursed his lips and belted out a deafening blast, sending the neighbourhood guard dogs into apoplexy. My ears were ringing. Wilhel quickly thanked him and grabbing my arm, propelled us up the hill before I lost it.
To get the pic for this blog, yesterday Wilhel and I, armed with camera, took the same route. Just at the top of the long hill, past the Italian prisoner of war chapel Doug wrote about some time ago, I noticed a white haired white guy clad in Lycra biking shorts, in great shape I might add, entering his gate with his bike. He looked safe. Here was our photographer! I ran up and quickly enlisted his assistance. When I explained about the little charred piles “for good luck” he chortled, “Good luck? HA HA! You told you that?” We all had a good laugh. “First of all, there is no such thing as good luck. It’s the grace of Jesus Christ the Almighty. Secondly, this stuff is witch craft.” He teaches Extreme Sports at Epworth, the prestigious Methodist school next to the seminary. Shrinky dink.
What a rich tapestry of interwoven relationships envelope us! There are fascinating characters everywhere, not just in Tampa before a presidential election. And to think we have all been put on this amazing, God-given shrinky dink world together!
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