Cults and the Closed Mind

            What do you make of the following?

    * Preacher Jim Bakker, arrested for embezzling his followers’ donations, claimed that he had been sincerely creating a devout community of the faithful, but a diabolical enemy had destroyed it: “Something so beautiful was being built, the devil got mad.” The very holiness of Bakker’s intentions, in this light, provoked his downfall.

     * Self-proclaimed messiah David Koresh had a similar excuse: when confronted with his misdeeds, he said that he was the perfect savior, but he had to partake of sinful human nature in order to be on earth at all.

    * Hobart E. Freeman preached faith healing even though he himself limped from childhood polio. This discrepancy was dismissed by his followers: “He has been healed,” said one member, “but God has just not chosen to manifest that healing yet.”

    *  Indian guru Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh taught love and compassion, but his religious community in  Oregon was violent and paranoid, equipped with watch towers and a 150-member police force armed with semi-automatic weapons. Followers told themselves these were intended by Rajneesh to make them aware of their aggressive impulses and show them what could happen if they didn’t follow his advice.

            In short, everything is a teaching, and the master is never wrong.

            To people with closed minds, it’s impossible to disprove their cherished theory – no evidence is good enough or ever will be, because they can cleverly turn any evidence around to prove their original belief. The closed mind means never having to say you’re wrong!

            This can be rather hilarious when someone has predicted the end of the world on a certain date. Next morning dawns…. what do the believers say NOW ?

            “Our clock was wrong.”

            “God was just testing us.”

            “God changed His mind because our group is so holy.”

The appropriately-named ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation) dates its existence to the day a cat got onto a baseball field just as a major league baseball game was being played. The cat was captured and randomly handed over to Coach Tony La Russa. That opened his eyes to the plight of homeless animals and the result is ARF, located in  Walnut Creek, California (about an hour east of San Francisco). ARF rescues cats and dogs from county shelters and finds homes for them. Sound easy? You should see the place – it’s the Lexus of animal help. The cats and dogs live in small rooms furnished with toys, furniture, brushes, and more. People are carefully matched with the animal whose personality fits the humans’ lifestyle. Many happy adoptions have occurred, and animals saved from death.

Because ARF doesn’t know the history of most of the animals, they assume they might have been feral (wild) or abused – who knows what? So volunteers are asked to visit the animals. After a little training in technique (I passed my cat-patting test with my first A+ since high school), the “socializers” enter each little room, sit down, and offer simple human kindness — brushing, playing, talking. Shy animals are left alone, but we’re allowed to stay in the room with them just to show we’re harmless. What to do while looking harmless….. Someone came up with the idea of the bedtime story, so now there are books in each room. The socializer can simply pick up a book and read aloud in a soothing tone. Now here’s the fun part: Each socializer/reader is asked to mark where he or she left off, so the next visiting socializer can start at that place. I know, I couldn’t believe that either.

Your community has homeless animals and shelters needing volunteers. Try it!

To preserve the glorious diversity of life on earth, humans will have to change almost everything we do – what we eat, what we drive, how many children we have, where we travel – everything. Fortunately, there’s an amazing outpouring of creativity from people all around the world. Here are a few ideas I’d like to see catch on:

            The green goodbye. Traditional embalming and burial are shockingly destructive. Powerful chemicals embalm the body, hundreds of pounds of wood, fabric, metal, and cement enclose it, and herbicides and pesticides are dumped all over the grassy cemetery. Here are some statistics I got from wikipedia.

Each year, 22,500 cemeteries across the  United States bury approximately:

30 million board feet of hardwood (caskets)

90,272 tons of steel (caskets)

14,000 tons of steel (vaults)

  2,700 tons of copper and bronze (caskets)

1,636,000 tons of reinforced concrete (vaults)

827,060 gallons of embalming fluid ( commonly includes formaldehyde) .

(Compiled from statistics by Casket and Funeral Association of America,                        Cremation Association of North America, Doric Inc., The Rainforest Action Network,               and Mary Woodsen,  Pre-Posthumous Society)

 How many hundreds of years will it take for land full of chemical-drenched bodies buried in caskets surrounded by cement containers to be restored? That’s anti-recycling with a vengeance! Cremation requires enormous amounts of energy to burn the remains. I don’t really want the last chapter of my body to contribute to killing the earth – do you? Happily, solutions are available.  There are actually green cemeteries. Even better is the no-funeral-at-all option. I plan to donate my body to a medical school or research facility – no chemical or fossil fuel abuse at all! There’s also Body Worlds, the traveling exhibit of real human bodies that have been dissected and displayed in astounding educational ways. Some people find the idea of this exhibit upsetting, but I’ve seen it and, like most visitors, come away with renewed admiration and respect for our magic biological bodies.

            You can also donate your organs, saving the lives or eyesight of numerous other people. Hmmmm, how can we make this help the earth? Answer: by donating organs with strings attached. It would work like this: you sign an organ donation card and tell the agency that serves as the intermediary that your organs may ONLY be given to someone who does one of the following:

            * Gives $10,000 to an environmental charity.

            * Gets a dozen friends together to collectively donate 500 hours to help the

                        earth or animals. There are plenty of organizations needing volunteers!

            * Makes some other creative contribution in exchange for the gift of life.

I wish someone (you?) would set up a foundation that did this. I’ll sign up right away.

            Ok, so these two could be seen as a bit gloomy. Other options are cheerier. You could teach your cat to use the toilet, saving hundreds of pounds of cat litter over its lifetime. Do this ONLY if your cat never goes outside – free-roaming animals can pick up toxoplasmosis from rodents they come into contact with. The oocysts (eggs) of this bacterium, once flushed down the toilet, can survive water treatment procedures. When the waste water reaches the oceans, otters can pick them up through the food chain. Why does this matter? Toxoplasmosis is deadly to sea otters. For the same reason, DON ’T flush cat litter down the toilet if your cat goes outside. 

            Like a lot of things, doing the right thing for the earth and for animals requires thinking through some complicated causal chains and weighing the tradeoffs.

            What can you think of to help the earth that hasn’t been invented yet?

Now that I’m not a therapist any more, I’m allowed to reveal my preferences. News flash: I like some English usages better than others. A few actual flagrant errors have become my pet peeves.

Apostrophe Abuse.

“The cat licked it’s paw.” #%*#! The word “it’s” means, “it is” or “it has.” The evil example just quoted actually means, “The cat licked it is paw.” I don’t think anyone ever intends to write that. By contrast, the word “its” means, “belonging to it,” as in, “The company issued its annual report.” There is no such construction as “its’” – a monstrosity which I have actually seen with my own eyes.

San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen used to have a running item in his column sharing the apostrophe abuses collected and sent in by his readers, whom he called “the ‘Postrophe Posse.” Alas, he has gone to that great compositing room in the sky and is no longer here to marshal defenders of the apostrophe. At present, those who wish to express their indignation over the mistreatment of this harmless, innocent mark may find solace in the Apostrophe Protection Society (http://www.apostrophe.fsnet.co.uk/ ), a group of stalwarts that originated in England .

Verb Vice

“I was laying there taking a nap.” Grrrr. The sentence should read, “I was lying there,” since the verb is intransitive (does not take an object). Languages change over time, and I grudgingly acknowledge that we’ve lost this battle. Even educated people make this mistake. I always wince inwardly when I hear it, though, since to me it sounds like fingernails on a blackboard, and probably always will.

Fluff

“That said” to sum up previous statements before going on to the next one. This apparently harmless locution is an example of wordiness. It means, “I just said what I just said.” No kidding.

Submit your own pet peeves! Email us here

The following uplifting sentiment is included to foil the notion that blog categories must be strictly obeyed.

Ben Franklin, who early in life was a printer and later

a renowned author (and many other things), wrote his own pious epitaph:

The body of

B. Franklin, Printer

(Like the Cover of an Old Book

Its Contents torn Out

And Stript of its Lettering and Gilding)

Lies Here, Food for Worms.

But the Work shall not be Lost;

For it will (as he Believ’d) Appear once More

In a New and More Elegant Edition

Revised and Corrected

By the Author.

If you’ve been told that you’re not a strong writer, you’re not alone. Education has declined in many places in the last few decades, and it is possible to receive a high school or even a college degree without learning how to write. Many students arrive at college or graduate school believing that they know how to write well, and are surprised that their instructors do not agree.

Some years ago, the APA Monitor, the official monthly publication of the American Psychological Association, published a long article about remedial programs in many colleges nationwide (Murray, 1997). Grade inflation, insufficient academic requirements in high school, and a wide variation in the quality of high school teaching were named as possible causes of the academic problems that many students face in college.

A. Bartlett Giamatti, president of Yale University , lamented that many Yale students “cannot handle English — cannot make a sentence or paragraph, cannot organize a paper, cannot follow through — well enough to do college work” (quoted in Paul, 1996, p. 28). If some Yalies can’t write, is it surprising that others are struggling?

Unfortunately, the problem is not always solved at the undergraduate level. Some colleges confer degrees on students whom they did not teach to write. If you are among these, it is not entirely your fault. However, it is your responsibility to improve your writing, making it correct, clear, and coherent, if you really want to succeed as a writer.

This part of my website is for writers who are interested in using several non-fiction styles. There are at least two non-fiction English languages in print: the scholarly, academic writing of researchers and experts, and the easy-going, colloquial prose of popular writers. It’s useful to be fluent in both. Suppose you’ve written a non-fiction best seller and want to prove your case to a reluctant community of scholars. If you’re Bilingual in English, you could present the same material in a way that they appreciate and are more likely to trust. Or suppose you’ve made a major scientific discovery and you want the world to know about it. The world will not read your dense factual logical treatise, but if you’re Bilingual In English, you might just produce a readable, friendly version of it that the masses gobble up by the thousands.

A best-seller about punctuation? Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynn Truss was a best-seller in 2003. A best-seller about physics? A Brief History of Time, by Stephen Hawking, has sold over 9 million copies.

Are you fantasizing yet?

What? You don’t know about The Stuffed Owl?  This is a marvelous collection of bits of bad poetry, first published in 1930 and reissued several times, most recently in 2003. Here you can read awful doggerel by great poets and corny attempts to be sublime by lesser versifiers. One reviewer of this edition wrote,

The Stuffed Owl is an absolute delight. I have loved the book for more than sixty years, since I first encountered it. Indeed, a number of years ago, I came upon the sublime idea of an anthology to be called The New Stuffed Owl. I gave up this mad notion when everyone pointed out to me that asking a living poet to allow herself or himself to be included in such a volume was pragmatically an invitation to murderous warfare. There are great poets like Wordsworth and Tennyson and others who are included in The Stuffed Owl. One loves them all the more for seeing that they crashed occasionally. Any reader who opens this book and starts reading will be immensely delighted.     – Harold Bloom

I have been collecting additions to The Stuffed Owl for many years, and will be sharing them with you any day now. If you can’t wait, and even if you can, rush out and buy this book. You’ll thank me.

Next to a child learning to play the violin or tabor,

The thing I hate most is English spoken by my average neighbor.

I cannot enough deplore the hideous clamor

Of English as she is spoke by the enemies of grammar.

If there’s one sort that throws me into fits,

It’s the people who cannot spell “its.”

They don’t know apostrophes right from wrong,

So they scatter them copiously where they don’t belong,

And hoard when they ought to bestow them,

As if fearing they soon might outgrow them.

Another person for whom I have no room

Is the one who says “who” but means “whom.”

The only one worse

Is the untutored heathen who utters the reverse.

These manglers can’t get their pronouns to agree,

Which I admit is harder than it used to be.

Now that we finally discern the whole race isn’t male,

“Will everyone pick up his pen” sends the offender to political jail.

Still, you’d think at least they’d remember their cases

As easily as they know their family’s faces.

Yet people say, “between she and I”

Who’d never say, “Him and me will give it a try.”

Even the educated are only semi-literate on a higher stratum,

Saying “data is” as if they’d forgotten one fact is a datum.

People who allow Latin endings to confuse them

Shouldn’t be permitted to say words that use them.

This would immediately extinguish the proud little fizz

Of those who blithely say, “A phenomena is.”

And if lawbreakers really flaunted the law I’d personally be thrilled,

Though the way some people talk you’d think they’re about to be killed.

I’d volunteer to be on the language police,

But, alas, there is no slammer

Big enough to cage up all the people who abuse grammar.

Even though it’s a crime,

Nobody does “their” time.

                Having inherited a bequest that made me the master of my time, I threw over my position as underpaid factotum in my uncle’s counting house and determined to travel the world. I was jaded and ill-tempered, and thought the change would do me good. I supplied myself with trunks, maps, Baedekers, and every light­weight comfort to be had, and set off to escape the oppressive bustle of nineteenth-century commerce.

My ship was a mid-size steamer of the White Line, and I found that most of the other passengers were old, ill, or bored. Their conversation revolved around the food and their amenities. I amused myself by admiring the cunning devices on the ship — the tube through which the captain could shout orders to stokers, the telegraph that sent signals to the land we were leaving behind, and other navigational instruments that made sailing a science.

On the fifth day at sea, while loitering in the ship’s library, I picked up a well thumbed periodical of the kind which intersperses uplifting sermons with diverting fiction. One tale began promis­ingly: “In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king….” Ah, just the tonic I needed. “He was a man of exuberant fancy, and of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts.”  This capricious king had a daughter, it seems, who conceived a passion for a commoner. Her enraged father determined to punish the young man. I had heard of such circumstances. The lady of my choice had without the slight­est hesitation yielded to family influence, and — but perhaps it does not become a gentleman to disclose another’s treachery. I distracted myself by relishing the predicament in the tale.

The young man’s fate would be decided in the king’s arena. In the presence of the king, the princess, and the people, he would stand and be made to choose one of two doors. Behind one was a ferocious tiger, starved and ready to spring. If he opened the other door, he would find a fair lady, to whom he would be instantly married amid unrestrained festivities. Only a few of the king’s servants knew which fate lay behind which door.

The clever and resourceful princess used her wits, and her not inconsiderable power, to discover the secret of the doors. Knowing her lover would give her a last beseeching glance as he stood in the arena, she readied herself to give him a signal. Which door would she indicate? I paused, weighing what I knew of her. She was of a firm and independent character — flouting her tyrannical father’s will by falling in love with a commoner made that evident. She had a scheming mind, and the power to bend others to her purposes. Of course she would choose the tiger. How could such a woman endure to be supplanted by another? She must surely prefer that her lover be lost than to think of him in the arms of the lovely maiden who waited behind the other door.

I sipped a brandy and watched the sunset, thinking of the one who had so callously wounded me. The galling truth was, I cared about her still. As I gazed at the horizon, treasured memories passed before my eyes, and I felt an unbidden sensation of goodwill. I decided that the princess would signal her lover to find the lady. Love cannot be so embittered as to destroy its object, whatever the provocation. Love endures — perhaps too long. Was I not on my travels, hoping that time would soften the memory of love disappointed?

Curious to know how the story ended, I read the conclusion. “The question of her decision,” the author wrote, “is not one to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set up myself as the one person able to answer it. So I leave it with all of you: which came out of the opened door — the lady or the tiger?”

I was exasperated, then amused, by the author’s audacity. Instead of giving a satisfying closure to his conundrum, he had left the mystery ticking like a bomb in the reader’s mind. Doubtless he enjoyed frustrating the reader who liked his explanations complete.

In the following weeks I saw  Tangier, Tunis, Malta, and Cairo. Each city afforded brief moments of diversion, and then my despondency returned. In Cairo I was so listless I returned to my hotel and paced from one lounge to another. There was no library, save a few books in German and Greek leaning disconsolately next to the parasol stand.  All I could find in English were steamer time­tables and descriptions of the city I had already investigated. Restlessly I wandered through the cafe. An inebriated patron was staring in fuddled delight at the nearly empty glass before him. Next to him lay an unregarded periodical which had just arrived in the day’s mail. Quietly, to evade any attempt he might make to engage me in conversation, I seated myself nearby and surreptitiously abstracted it. It was opened to a story titled, “The Discourager of Hesitancy,” and subtitled, “A Continuation of The Lady or the Tiger.” Aha! What luck! Here was the answer to the riddle. Perhaps it would lift my spirits.

Not long after the incident in the arena (the story began), a deputation of five dignified men arrived from a neighboring kingdom to wait on the semi-barbaric king, and were met by the king’s vizier. They had heard of the trial to be faced by the young man, but had not learned of the outcome. Would the king be so kind as to apprise them? Which came out of the opened door, the lady or the tiger?

The vizier smiled and said, “Before you present your request to the king, let me tell you of another incident that came to pass not long ago. A young man of noble birth, hearing of the great beauty of the ladies of our court, asked the king for permission to wed one of them. The strange prince’s presumption roused the king’s fury, but he mastered his anger and ordered that preparations be made for a wedding on the morrow. As the king strode from the audience chamber, the prince asked in perplexity, ‘When am I to see the ladies, that I may choose my bride?’ But there was no answer.

“The following morning a wedding ceremony was held. The prince was astonished to find he would not choose his bride at all. As he stood in confusion, suddenly a silken scarf was wound around his face, so that he was unable to see. All the prince knew of his bride was the gentle, small hand he held as they exchanged vows. The mystery of this practice the prince could not fathom.  Soon the long scarf was unwound from his head, and he looked eagerly around. But no lady was at his side.

“‘Where is my wife?’ he asked.

“‘She is here,’ said the king, and led him into an adjoining chamber. There the prince saw forty ladies, all dressed in rich attire, and each more beautiful than the last. The king said loftily, ‘There is your bride! Approach, and lead her forth! But,’ he added ominously, ‘if you attempt to take the wrong lady from my court, you shall be executed instantly. Now, do not hesitate. Step up and take your bride.’

“The bewildered prince walked up and down the line of ladies. Just then one of the fairest gently smiled as he passed her. Another, just as beautiful, slightly frowned. The prince jubilantly declared to himself, ‘My bride is one of these two.’ It was no small thing to have reduced from forty to two his chances of instant death. But which of the two was his bride? He cudgeled his brain. Would not any woman smile when she saw her bridegroom coming toward her? It must be she. The prince reached out his hand to claim the one who had smiled, but then he hesitated. ‘Perhaps the other is my bride. Would not any woman frown when she saw her husband approaching, yet fail to claim her? Would she not knit her lovely brows?’

“The king’s executioner brandished his scimitar, admiring its keenness with pleased deliberation. He was in truth called ‘the discourager of hesitancy,’ ardent in his duty to put a stop to prolonged vacillation. There was but a moment to decide. The king proclaimed, ‘If in ten seconds you do not take the lady we have given you, she who has just been made your bride shall be your widow.’ The prince could not hesitate an instant. He stepped forward and chose. The bells rang, the people cheered, and the lady smiled. He had taken his lawful bride.

“Now, then,” said the vizier to the deputation, “when you can decide among yourselves which lady the prince chose, the one who smiled or the one who frowned, then I will tell you which came out of the opened door, the lady or the tiger.”

The wretch!  I hurled the magazine across the room. The first time he made sport of his readers was well enough, but only a scoundrel would tantalize them a second time. I heaped objurgations upon his head, not sparing the editor, the journal’s founder, and my sottish neighbor. This worthy stirred slightly, as if regretting he had not been alert enough to behold the earliest stage of the magazine’s flight. I resolved to confine my attentions to people of flesh and blood.

In Alexandria I made the acquaintance of the American colony, which consisted of government officials, superannuated game hunters, retired soldiers, and their families. At an embassy reception held to celebrate Independence Day, the young people were debating animatedly.

“The one who smiled!” declared a young woman. “Of course she was amused. What a simpleton, not to know his own bride! How she was looking forward to teasing him upon the subject later in the day!”

So! The story had reached this shore as well, and caused as much commotion as the author could have wished.

“No, no, the one who frowned,” another rejoined. “She now was seeing him for the first time. Perhaps she was displeased with what she saw.”

“No, that’s not why she frowned,” said a third. “She was thinking, ‘Can you not detect my scent, the special perfume that was my signal to you?’”

“Perfume?” cried the second. “Signal? Rubbish! She was angry he was taking so long to recognize her.”

“But how was he to know her?” put a third, logically enough.

“That’s the very difficulty,” complained one. “And the rogue refused to tell us!”

“I know he wouldn’t,” said another sadly. “I begged him so prettily. ‘Oh, Mr. Stockton,’ I said, ‘Do please tell us which it was.’”

Oh, so the detestable author had been here, doubtless enjoying the effects of his mischief. If I encountered him, I would certainly not play up to him as these ninnies had. I am not to be played upon like a pipe. No, I would turn the tables, worming out of him the secret of his tales. Shamelessly I eavesdropped on the next words.

“Now he’s gone on to Isfahan,” said one with a sigh, “and we shall never find out.” Well, Isfahan was a fine destination; it was in fact on my program. Isfahan is not on the typical traveler’s itinerary — even though its mosques and ruins are among the rarest, its people did not welcome outsiders, and this discouraged all but the most intrepid, or the most indifferent to life. For myself, I had hired a stout guide and felt no fear. Besides, against the advice of all my friends, I had brought Rex, who made an admirable traveling companion. He demanded no conversation, fell in with my moods, and was easily pleased. He loved to sit at the bow of the ship, his nose into the wind. He was exquisitely trained and had excellent manners. He befriended all the English people on board. At ports of call when I wished to visit a native bazaar I never lacked for volunteers to watch him. He would gaze at me mournfully when I went over the gangplank, but I always brought him back a treat –  camel flesh, or mongoose, or implements made of the skins of beasts he had never smelled before. No Irish setter ever had such an education! Faithful Rex was my greatest pleasure, a perfect companion.

Finally I left the coast and made preparations to travel overland to Isfahan. Inexplicably, stout porters were in short supply. I finally discovered they were busy at the quay unloading an unconscionable quantity of baggage from a ship with Greek letters on its prow. Moodily I strolled over and looked at the luggage tags. To my surprise, they all carried the same name, one Frank Stockton. Frank Stockton! The author himself. I had caught him up.

We met. I was crafty. Not indicating that I had any suspicion who he might be, I praised his tusks and spices and carpets and other impedimenta. We exchanged recipes for averting fleabite. In return he admired Rex, and this softened me somewhat. For his part, Rex was in ecstasy. So many trunks to sniff, so many bizarre aromas.

Stockton was a man of middle height, with bushy hair, a forthright gaze, and a plentiful supply of traveler’s tales. He was generous with his belongings, and looked on the world as his playground and on everything that happened as an adventure. In spite of myself, I found him companionable. He was as independent as I, and in a world oppressed by convention, that is no small virtue.

Countrymen who meet far from home often make unspoken alliances, and it seemed natural that we should unite our parties for the overland journey to Isfahan.

A most unexpected event occurred the day before our departure. We were walking through the bazaar, laying in a last few necessaries, when Rex yelped and began pawing at a bundle of rags that lay neglected in a corner. A wail issued from the bundle. It can only be a living creature, I thought. It was, in fact, a baby. We gazed at it, perplexed. No one nearby seemed to belong to it. The crowd melted away; then a few souls inched back to observe our reaction. Our guide, finding we were not on his heels, returned. Seeing our transfixed dismay, he shook his head. “It was adultery,” he said shrugging. “The child will be left to die, or become a slave. It is the will of Allah.” To my surprise Stockton picked it up. He was not indignant or heroic; he made no outraged exclamation. He simply tucked his cigar farther into one corner of his mouth and carried the child — awkwardly, I must admit — at arm’s length. Was it Yankee heroism, or meddling, or merely defying their customs?

“It was either that or leave it behind,” he murmured as we strode along. Just then a small cry came from the wizened face. Stockton started. “Confound it. What shall we feed the creature?” He clearly felt his duty had been done, so it was left to me to call the porter and gesticulate until some milk had been found. This complication added to our baggage and the general uproar that went with us.

As we traveled through the arid, ancient expanse east of the Mediterranean, I pondered my plan to extract from Stockton the answers to his riddles. I knew that the direct approach would fail; he loved nothing better than to enjoy others’ discomfiture. Should I inquire carelessly about how his editor had influenced him, or recount an imaginary wager with a half dozen of my friends? These and other devices revolved in my imagination. But this scheme had to wait, as we had much else to occupy us. We heard about frightfully barbaric brigands in the eastern regions, who caused such terror that the natives rarely left their cities unless driven by some urgent necessity. This puzzled me somewhat. We had seen ourselves that human life was little valued in these parts; did the outlaws impale their victims, or eat them alive, to cause such shudders of horror among a hardened and fatalistic people? But we had pistols and a hunting rifle, so with the bravado of the Anglo-Saxon adventurer we pressed on, and triumphantly added to our recollections the sights of Damascus and Baghdad.

After leaving that fabled city many days behind us, we camped at a curve in the Tigris River, the better to admire the high cliffs opposite and to delve among shards of pottery left by long-vanished civilizations. One morning I awoke to eerie quiet. It took me a moment to place the cause of my unease. There were no familiar sounds of a camp arising — fires being stoked, pots banged, animals scolded. Anxiously I peered out of my tent and called for our guide, for the herdsman, the translator, the head porter. There was no answer. In astonishment I crawled out and found that our entire retinue had vanished. A few bags remained of our once-impressive supply train. Only our interpreter remained; perhaps the others did not trust him enough to include him in their designs. I awoke Stockton and we appraised our situation. He was, as usual, nonchalant. The crew had been terrorized, no doubt, by some superstitious whisper about djinns or magicians. Our rich supply train completed the temptation. Travel to these wilds always entailed such inconveniences. We would manage with the few bags and pack animals they had left us. He would survey our gear, and at the next town we would resupply and find new guides. Stockton seemed almost to relish the challenge, and set about devising new arrangements. The brutes had left behind the baby, of course.

I went outside. The cliffs were breathtaking, soon blotting all consternation from my mind. No doubt Stockton was right. Local help was notoriously unreliable; one simply improvised with gusto and gave thanks for being away from civilization. I wandered along, picking up several curious bits of pottery and a promising old tooth. Turning back, I had a creeping premoni­tion. The silence was even deeper than before. Suddenly, a hundred yards from our encampment a knife was thrust at my throat, my right arm was twisted violently behind me, and I was frog­marched along toward our tent. With horror I realized I had been attacked by the much-feared bandits. Could I warn Stockton? As I opened my mouth to cry out, I saw it was too late. The tent door I had left down was wide open and our animals were gone. Stockton’s cigar was on the ground. He was tied in his camp chair, glaring at his captors. Our interpreter, trussed like a turkey, was white with fear — evidently he knew the abominations practiced by this band. As my captor dragged me in, Rex growled and caught at his wrist. The man aimed his gun. “No!” I shrieked and threw myself between them. I breathed more easily when Rex obeyed my signal and lay down, though he watched suspiciously and made almost soundless rumblings in his throat.

They didn’t tie me, apparently in a hurry to complete their disreputable work, and contented themselves with brandishing a wicked array of weapons ancient and modern. Trying to breathe and gather my wits, I looked at the brigands. There were six of them. Our interpreter whispered, “There are six others outside the camp.” He had gathered something else from their conversation. The desperadoes had fled here from under the very noses of the army sent to capture them, and were recruiting their resources in readiness to retreat into the hills for the winter.

“They must have food,” our interpreter whispered urgently. They were starving, it was clear from their gaunt cheeks and loose clothing. Terrifying they might be to others, but they lived under a fear as great as any they caused. Every man was against them, and nowhere could they call home. I had never realized that the desperate are always fleeing something, too. In the distance we could hear the gun signals of the army.

“Give them our stores,” said Stockton curtly. Good. That would satisfy them, and they would flee their approaching captors. I prayed fervently that they would spare us. One villain who held a knife on the interpreter looked merciless. He would not hesitate to eat us, I was sure. Another robber drove his evil-looking knife into the bale containing most of our remaining supplies, spilling its contents on the tent floor. My heart sank. Even a child could see that there was not enough food for a dozen men for a winter. The villain gathered it up anyway and carried it outside, calling to his comrades.

Our guide blurted out a syllable or two, his eyes turned toward the dog. Rex! The man was betraying us, handing over my faithful friend to satisfy these outlaws. I was speechless with horror and rage. Some of the most brutal in the crew began eyeing Rex with unseemly enthusiasm. I could almost hear them calculating how many meals he would make. Just then the baby wailed and waved its arms, and their attention was drawn to the little figure.

The police guns were closer. Had the bandits gained enough from their raid on us? If they did not leave in­stantly, they would be taken prisoner. If we did not make a move instantly, they would slay us all.

So which did I give them, the setter or the baby?

The Quandary

They were not foolish children. Matt and Julie were sophisticated adults, educated and mature, who had lived a lot and could talk about what they had seen. Eight years they had lived together, and last month got engaged. The only thing not mature was their embarrassment — the silent blush, the abashed sidelong glance — when telling their friends that ceremony and promise meant something to them. In these times and in their circle, ceremony and vows were a sign of indecorum, since promises were only the calcified forebodings of the fearful and the small of soul.

Having defiantly placed the bud of the future in their garden, they experienced unexpected effects. Now when Julie went to work, she saw the secretaries through the eyes of a married woman. They seemed different than before, connected to the great chain of being in a way she had never noticed. Since she could also identify with the traviatas of history, this new link was a secret puzzlement. But this mildly curious buzz presaged a quandary. It made her think of children.

They had tried to put this matter to rest. Julie had never wanted children, and Matt had never quite given them up. He was from a large, happy family. In his home, people supported each other’s dreams, and knew what the others liked and what they wanted for their birthdays. You could walk in the door and see one kid doing homework at the dining table, another practicing the piano, a third making a project out of construction paper and colored sparkles. They went on vacations together that were still talked about at family reunions. Matt wanted that again — the home, the surrounding of seasons and built-in friends… only this time he would get to play the father. He would be wise, since to a five-year-old anyone who can find his way home from the store is wise. He would be forbearing, since he would love them so much that any little pecca­dillo would dwindle to a speck, instantly dissolved in a big bear hug and a laugh. He would be the permanent Santa, who could change their universe by bringing home a longed-for toy. He would be the one who came in through the door to be met by small hurtling bodies that shrieked “Daddy!”, the one who would drop his briefcase and play horsey on the floor.

Matt set his dream aside, though, for Julie. She came from a pinched household of cool correctness, of no overt cruelty, but no love, either. She grew up pale and quiet, not knowing how to fly. She still didn’t quite understand how Matt had been drawn to her. Years of fear and withdrawal melted in his presence, and she would love him till she died for bringing her into the sun. A child would spoil it all. Matt would always be at work, and tired when he got home, and worried about paying the bills. Time would disappear in a blizzard of errands, decisions, and disputes. The thousand pinpricks she’d heard about from friends made her shudder   — squabbles over money, and what school district to choose, and whose turn it was to take the kids to the dentist. These would erode the sacred space the two of them had built. Worse yet, she knew she’d love and adore the baby, she would contribute to the thousand pinpricks by taking the baby’s side and scolding Matt for not wrapping it warmly enough against the cold, she’d lose herself in the hearth and then he would drift away and be the distant, resentful wage-earner and she would forget the magic bedroom moments and not care because she’d be fretting over the nanny   — oh, wait, the nanny meant Julie would still be working and he wouldn’t be the only resentful wage-earner, they both would, at the mercy of immature neighborhood teenage babysitters when the nanny went back to Germany.

These horrible pictures ran like dismal subtitles behind her eyes, just as the warm picnics and baseball pictures ran for him. But they loved each other, so they kept the thoughts to themselves, and pretended the years weren’t going by and there was no such thing as a Decision to be made.

The engagement changed it all. Because they dared to want more — the ritual, the promise — they were reminded of wanting. And he wanted children. He was a perfect gentleman, never saying it aloud. But in restaurants she could see his eyes following the toddlers at the next table. He struck up conversations with children in grocery lines, and once when he’d had to wait for her at the gynecologist’s office she came out to find him telling a story to the energetic preschooler of an exhausted pregnant patient.

A woman who loves, cares about her partner’s dream. This was the man who kissed away her fears, who rubbed her back (and her front), who made the universe home.  How could she deny him his fondest desire? Lying in bed with him on Christmas Eve, she knew he was wishing that in the next room there were a giddy four-year-old hugging himself ecstatically and waiting for dawn.

Maybe he could have his dream, in a way. Since there are already people needing love, she asked, why not give it to them? So they did. It helped for a while. He enjoyed teaching the boy scouts how to read maps, and setting up car washes at the junior high school to raise money for the marching band. They became the favorite babysitters for their friends’ children, and kept a stash of toys in their closet, to loan or give away. But the more he tasted it, the more she ached for him. He pretended fear and amazement for the costumed tykes who rang the bell on Hallowe’en, and then he smiled and closed the door.

Matt made the sacrifice willingly. He knew about her horror of quarrels when sides are taken and people freeze in sullen camps of spite.  He sensed her relief when they came home from a large gathering and had the house to themselves, where she could sit in the bay window looking at the stars, with a pen and paper at her side. He loved to see her laugh, brushing the hair from her eyes and telling their friends about the poems she had finished and the book she was writing. He could feel her melt when she slipped into his arms at night, and her fond gaze when they were alone. How could you not yearn to please the one who joyed at your very existence, whose eyes lit up when you came into the room, who cried in your arms and smiled a crystal cathedral of radiance when you comforted her griefs?

They never quarreled. They fought fair and made up with delicious ramping passion. They shared responsibility for birth control, and marched for reproductive rights, since they agreed all babies should be wanted, and no mother should be forced.

As the time for the wedding approached, friends began to ask, “Does this mean you’re going to start a family?” “When are you going to have kids?” Matt’s mother was wistful. Julie’s co-workers slyly teased, and made it an occasion to practice their own fantasies. (Her sister knew better than to ask). Julie was kind and diplomatic, but he could see her flinch each time the question was posed. How tactless they were! He felt resentful and protective, and parried the question himself as often as he could.

It was to be a quiet wedding, with only close family and friends. Julie detested display, and said, “Rehearsals and show business are only for people who aren’t sure they want to be married.” Under the gibe, he read her message that she didn’t have to play princess for a day. She just wanted him, forever, no matter what.

No matter what. He began to think. The child issue had never really been put to rest. They were 32, facing years of wrestling with birth control and renewed questions from friends. What better wedding gift could he give than to prove that he had relinquished, once and for all, the dream that nagged at her peace? And it would be easier for him, too. From the far side of decision, once fatherhood was out of his reach, he could embrace the life they had made, pour all his energy into it, love the neighbors’ kids without that little twinge of regret. A knife of certainty would put an end to this costly dream.

He went to the clinic where they had marched, and made certain arrangements. On the appointed day, his best friend accompanied him, brought him home, and silently, according to instructions, left. After settling in to rest, Matt was calm. Maybe now the strange mood that had possessed her in recent weeks would lift, and she would hear his news with delighted relief. Leaning back against the pile of pillows, he painted the moment in many colors, savoring extravagant variations that dissolved the ache in his body. Suddenly, with a start, he realized she was late. Where could she be? Just then the car pulled in, and he heard the door open, and her footsteps coming up the steps.

Julie entered and put down her parcels. Seeing the bandages and medicines, she gave a gasp of fright. “Why, what is it?” she cried, and ran to him. She picked up a pill bottle and read the label. “For pain?” she said. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m not supposed to go to work for four days,” he said evenly. “But then I can start walking, and in two weeks we can do it again.” She stared at the brochure on the nightstand as if it were written in a foreign language. “Aftercare for vasectomy patients.”

There was a silence. No delighted relief. She stared at the paper and at his face. Finally, she said, “Oh, Matt, I didn’t know how to tell you. Two weeks ago …. I found out… I wasn’t just being late this time. The sponge must have failed. I thought and thought. I couldn’t bear to tell you. It’s your own baby, too, you know.” She took a breath. “Honey, if you want this child, then so do I.”

No, they weren’t foolish children. Each treasured the other’s dream, and laid their own down for it. They are the magi.