Frank Alexander -The Blog

Mrs. Marchewka

frankalexander — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 16:35:18 +0000

Her back is bent, her shoulders almost literally touch the ground, and when I watch the frail old woman walking across the small, indistinct trail, I feel it’s only a matter of time before she will collapse under the weight of the hessian bag she carries. she doesn’t look right or left when she reaches the railroad track -she just keeps going imperturbably, step by step, as if she’s completely unaware of the danger and the risk she takes.

Seventy-five, she is. The weathered, wrinkled face, the arthritic fingers, the thin legs -everything about her is old, except for her eyes. They shine like those of a seven year old.

Seventy-five years old, she is, and sixty-five of those she has lived here. Her parents fled Warsaw just before the Germans invaded the country. Her father left for the city just once more -and she never saw him again. She recalls the horror stories about the Krauts, the horrific crimes they did, and until her death her mother insisted that it was them who had killed her husband.

But Mrs. Marchewka is still hesitant to blame them. For the only German she ever met, was a young soldier who patrolled her village, who slipped her real chocolate every now and then, and who taught her his language. She has never forgotten any of it -even now the words come without hesitation, as if she speaks German on a daily basis.

How different the reality when, after the war was over, her mother made her promise that she would never, ever speak a word of that foul language again. Sixty years he more or less kept that promise, but it was never a heartfelt one. Her knowledge of German made her different from the other children and at night, when she was curled up and hiding underneath her blanket, she quietly repeated all the conversations the soldier and she had had. She feels relieved that we can converse in a language we both understand but, just to be safe, she will later beg her mother -God bless her soul- for forgiveness anyway.

Six children she raised, as well her husband (she says with a twinkle in her eye), and she knows of fifteen grandchildren. She doesn’t know how many grand-grandchildren she may have -her family fell apart and are now living all across the country. She never see anyone anymore, save her youngest son, but he is useless. He doesn’t have children; in fact, he never even married.

No, she doesn’t mind being alone. She has her farm, the chickens, the goats, her dog. She has her walk to the village, which she can’t and wouldn’t do without. The walk there takes twice as long as the walk back, despite the fact she never carries anything when she goes to the village.

But she moves slowly, because she is looking at the flowers, she is watching the bees and the flies on their wayward journeys, and she smells the wind and all the scents it carries from all over the land. No, she never felt like leaving her trusted home to find the places that give the wind its scent. She feeds off the stories other people tell her.

We reach her croft, and a shabby mongrel welcomes us boisterously, while the chickens, undisturbed, continue to pick grains from the yard. Mrs. Marchewka asks me to wait a moment while she puts the bag in her barn. On her return, her back is still bent and her shoulders still almost touch the ground. Mockery shines in her eyes when she asks me just what I expected? Did I really think that sixty-five years of carrying heavy bags on her back wouldn’t come at a price?

She hands me a slice of dark brown bread. Good food, she urges me. Better than all that modern, ready made stuff. She doesn’t even want the dog to have that.

We part with a smile and a strong handshake, and I go back the way we came. As I chew myself silly on the dark bread, I become aware of the footsteps that lie underneath my shoes. Footsteps, first those of a child’s, then a young woman’s, a wife’s, a mother’s and, finally, a grandmother’s -the footsteps of a remarkable -and a remarkably strong- woman.

And that small, bare trodden trail has, all of a sudden, been given a completely new meaning.

Ted and Ginger

frankalexander — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 19:53:32 +0000

In case you are wondering why this blog isn’t updated regularly (which you probably aren’t)…

it’s because I’m helping a bulldog to write his own..

Average

frankalexander — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 10:17:44 +0000

‘Statistics,’ my old teacher used to start the year with a faint, all-knowing smile, ‘is a bullshit science. Whatever you want to believe, you’ll always find some stats to back you up.’

I was thinking about that when I was on the phone the other day. I had to be. The organization I was calling had rejected my online credit card payment. According to their somewhat customer unfriendly pop-up screen this was all my fault, but it was nothing a call to their Customer Care Line couldn’t solve.

I believe it was somewhere in the 1980’s, when recession hit us real hard, that companies began to discover bad production ethics and premium numbers. Make crap merchandise, in other words, and charge your customers ridiculous rates when they call to complain. It was the guarantee to stay in business in an otherwise very bad business climate.

Since consumers are stupid (and even more so than the average human being), they fell for it. Instead of just not buying the crap, the public embraced the whole package as the public always does: moaning, but not taking any action or responsibility. Complaining, after all, is what keeps us alive. We wouldn’t know what to do with our time if we couldn’t express our discontent 24 hours a day. We’d be bored to the core. Which, come to think of it, would be a good enough excuse for most people to start complaining about that. Ah, well.

It was the time when idealists emerged, claiming that the consumer had the right to be protected. It was the time for Consumer Watchdogs -the type of invasive organization that exists solely because nobody else can be bothered to be bothered about anything. It was the time for rules and regulations to be introduced and, because it was all firmly rooted in politics, it took about twenty years to force some kind of a turnaround.

So these days, if you are forced into calling a premium number, the law tells you that you shouldn’t have to wait for more than a minute or two.

‘Welcome to the organization that refused to take your payment. All our agents are busy at the moment. Please hold the line. We will be with you as soon as possible. Dreadful music. Our average waiting time is one minute.’

And again. And again. And again. And again. And….

I was using the company’s phone, so I didn’t really mind watching the phone bill go up and up and up for the full twenty-five minutes; envying the other people who, statistically, were not experiencing this wait, and were therefore balancing the average.
When I finally got to talk to an (or maybe I should say ‘the’?) agent, though, she explained quite skillfully that being a 24/7 help desk meant, that the average waiting time is measured over a period of at least a month. This then includes each and every night when nobody calls, but still wouldn’t have to wait at all if they actually did.

‘Now, can I help you?’

As a test I told her that I had to get my details, and pretended to walk away. After ten seconds of silence, followed by one warning, she cut the line.

I’m quite sure the company’s books will show a an average waiting time well within the legal requirements. I’m also quite sure that somewhere in their balance sheets, there will be mention of a ‘healthy profit’ on the exploitation of the Customer Care Line.

And I’m totally sure that, from beyond the grave, my old teacher will still smile his faint, all-knowing smile.

Jennifer Aniston won’t return to TV

frankalexander — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 16:12:08 +0000

Well. At least it’s a start…

Renewable Energy

frankalexander — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 20:42:39 +0000

-Good afternoon.

-And you. Having a wander?

-Just walking the dog. And myself.

-I see. He seems to have found something over there.

-Yes. Probably a vole. She’ll be digging for a while. What is it you’re doing here?

-Recording. Taking samples, to see which fertilizer works best on these trees.

-I see. Industrial purposes?

-Not yet. Basically just research. We’ve got 15,000 of these trees per hectare. These were put in two years ago.

-So they’ve grown quite well, then. How many do you have to sample?

-Oh, quite a few. We’ve used all sorts of fertilizer.

-I understand. And the tree cutting over there? More samples?

-No, that’s just cutting. For a renewable energy project. Your dog is eating something, by the way.

-Yes, she’s good at that. She looks after herself quite well. So how does it work then?

-I beg your pardon?

-That renewable energy project? How does that work?

-Oh, that. Quite simple, really. We chip ‘em, and we burn them.

-The trees, you mean?

-Yep. The fire heats the boiler, and we have hot water.

-And?

-And nothing. That’s it.

-That’s it?

-Yes. As I said. It’s quite simple.

-But…

-Yes?

-What’s so renewable about that? It’s not like you recycle or reuse anything!

-But we do! These trees grow fast, as you observed so well. So we’re just using the same trees over and over again.

-You didn’t by any chance receive a government grant for this project, did you?

-As a matter of fact, we did.

-Yes, I thought so. Ah, here’s Barney. Time to move on. Good day.

-And you.

Don’t Speak

frankalexander — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 21:48:25 +0000

Glynn is an eighty-year-old Kiwi, and a retired violinist.

He has played with all the big names, and his CV includes tours with The London Symphonic Orchestra, and sessions with both The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.

Every now and then he and his wife take the plane to Scotland. They travel around the old country for a couple of weeks, Glynn does a few lectures, and then they head back to New-Zealand.

He is a quiet man -although he assures me that he hasn’t always been as laid back as he is these days; he’s sure it’s ‘an age thing’.

I meet him and his wife in a pub, and the only reason they are there, is the traditional folk band that’s on tonight.

Although he was born and raised in New-Zealand, Glynn knows his roots. ‘Loch Lomond’, ‘Danny Boy’, ‘The Birks of Aberfeldy’ -Glynn knows them all and softly sings along with every song the band plays.
These songs, he tells me, are part of his upbringing when there was no television or Internet, and families spent the night playing board games and singing traditional folk tunes.

That times change is best illustrated by the guy who sits at the next table. Born from Australian parents, he grew up in the Highlands of Scotland -yet the only folk tune he recognizes is ‘Whiskey in the jar’ -which he thinks is a Metallica original. This folk band, he tells us time and time again, sucks big time.

Glynn doesn’t stir, and when the band take a short break he kindly asks our neighbour what kind of music he does like. The man shrugs, and eventually says: ‘Nothing you would know, old man. I don’t suppose you ever heard of ‘No Doubt’.’

A strange glow comes into Glynn’s eyes, but the guy doesn’t notice it. He’s in his own world now, and continues:

‘They did this song, you know. ‘Don’t speak’, it’s called. One of the best songs I’ve ever heard. But you don’t want the album version. You want the single version. Because of the violin, you see. That makes it the most beautiful song ever. No doubt about that.’

Before Glynn responds, I know what he is going to say. How it came to pass is something he will tell me later on, when he can mix it in with many other beautiful stories and memories.

But for now he sticks to the main story: ‘That violin, you know -that violin is me.’

And even though the band has started again, rendering a ‘Wild Rover’ that lives up to its reputation, Glynn sings a perfect ‘Don’t speak’ under his breath.

The guy watches him for a few seconds, downs his pint in one gulp, and turns his head away -stunned, beat, stupefied and obviously jealous.

Glynn looks at him, and then bends towards me. In his gentle way he asks me:

‘Do you think it would be wise to tell him that Gwen kissed me after we finished recording?’

I am about to make a remark, but just in time I see that glow in his eyes return.

Don’t speak. I know what you’re thinking.

We raise our glasses, propose a toast without words, and return our attention towards the folk band.

Christmas wishing lists

frankalexander — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 20:56:57 +0000

It’s quite funny, actually.

How we’ve managed to build a cultural phenomenon on hundreds of thousands of ‘must have’ items

-which are, in fact, exactly the opposite.

Digital Television

frankalexander — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 13:22:36 +0000

Why?

My eyes are analogue.

Cyclists are a bandit tribe who blithely ignore the usual laws of the road

frankalexander — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 16:25:51 +0000

Says Eleanor Mills.

Not mine, he doesn’t.

But apart from that, somebody actually mentions ‘The Cyclist’ in the comments. Which is more than ever happened it it’s ten year run in The Netherlands.

Too bad, though, the guy’s not a Facebook fan…yet. I would like to thank him…

The meaning of life uncovered -finally

frankalexander — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 12:10:54 +0000

Yep. This really must be what life’s all about:

Rear gear and saunas.