God's Retirement
God has retired to Niagara on the Lake.
He lives in any one of the bed and breakfasts here, as petal-plentiful as the roses, peonies and lilacs, in any of the distinctive historic building among the peonies, the roses, the lilacs, all of which mount a cloud of summer scent to please him. Of course, one would have to go through all of the 300 or more bed and breakfasts to find him, an easy proposition only for those who could afford to and those who can afford to already have a view of the Lake Ontario waterfront from their majestic porches. They are not about to leave their own homes looking for God. They have it on their own word that all is right with the world because God is in his heaven, and that is exactly the assurance God needs to keep his cover as a permanent, reclusive resident of Niagara on the Lake.
Not that he need worry. It is said that 75% of the population of Niagara on the Lake are retired folk, or folk who have come here to retire and while away the time contesting for the most dutiful of lawns, declamatory of rose bushes, and dairy-and berryfull of boards. The region has, it is said in its very Museum, put its eggs in one basket, dispensing with the chattle of cattle and instead stressing its vinyards and orchards which fruit amply, tendered to by the gentle lake clime. The hotels/ bed and breakfasts and farms share an understanding of the needs of a tourist and provide for each other, so that griddle is always sizzling, and the strawberries ripe for garnish. Sure, winters can be harsh and the harvest in question, but the region is blessed, blessed with temperate weather enough that its wines are receiving renown, and the peaches, it is said, are the best in the world.
When God is not reading a book, he walks among the peach trees, gladdened by the flutter of the wind that sets the leaves in motion, the sun he had set in motion so long ago he forgot who did it. He waves to a passing car, walks over to its passengers who want to buy a basket of peaches from him, smiles, nods, walks away and sits right back in his wrought iron chair to watch the petals fall from yet another bush and enrich the ground he has claimed as his home.
For now, of course. For though God has given up on monitoring the affairs of the world, he does not wish to grow flabby and idle and he circulates among the hospitable establishments, making up his mind himself about the state of the poached egg, and the texture of the omelette and the doneness of the steak. It pleases him that so many of the people he sees, retirees like himself, watch TV dismissively, preferring the view from the porch and having made up their own minds about the state of the world simply from the visitors who arrive each summer, credit cards flashing as brightly as their cars, white smiles broadening in faces toasted by the happy sun.
This is the world as he imagined it once, when he was younger and took his own injunctions much more seriously. Dont eat the apple, pshaw. When he first arrived in town, he winced every time he reached for an apple himself, remembering the stubborn willfulness of his past commands. He is no longer that God, and he is relieved that he has outgrown himself as an apple tree outgrows its flushed blush and matures into that very fruit. Even now, he does not want to be reminded, so he dotes on the peach because it does not belong in this land no more than he does, yet it is there, the best peach in the world, grazing the sun. And this little town, population 13,000 is where he finally settled in for the long wait.
So to keep his mind nimble, every week or so, God makes slow, deliberate rounds of the beds and breakfasts and runs his own tally of the best peach pies, peach and apple pies, peach tartes in the area, rewarding the most skilled peach growers and artisans with what is left of his blessing, so that the fruit remains as sunny as his disposition, now that he has let go, let go of the West Bank, of Mesopotamia, of the promises of a Covenant he made too long ago too hastily, and everything since.
Most of the time, God is happy enough to eat a peach, glance at the sky, especially when, as it often happens, it is cloudless and crisp, and he waves at the planes passing by, delighted to be at a distance from their roar. And then he goes back to the parlor for tea or a sip of peach wine from Josephs Winery down the road which he takes on the porch of whatever establishment he happens to be enjoying. When he is not happy with his wine, he will read a book, from back to front and gaze out at passerbys, people he no longer feels responsible for.
When everyone is asleep, he slips out to make the rounds of the picket fences, whitening into the dusk. Flowers and fruit come and go, but picket fences remain steadfast and proper.
He lives in any one of the bed and breakfasts here, as petal-plentiful as the roses, peonies and lilacs, in any of the distinctive historic building among the peonies, the roses, the lilacs, all of which mount a cloud of summer scent to please him. Of course, one would have to go through all of the 300 or more bed and breakfasts to find him, an easy proposition only for those who could afford to and those who can afford to already have a view of the Lake Ontario waterfront from their majestic porches. They are not about to leave their own homes looking for God. They have it on their own word that all is right with the world because God is in his heaven, and that is exactly the assurance God needs to keep his cover as a permanent, reclusive resident of Niagara on the Lake.
Not that he need worry. It is said that 75% of the population of Niagara on the Lake are retired folk, or folk who have come here to retire and while away the time contesting for the most dutiful of lawns, declamatory of rose bushes, and dairy-and berryfull of boards. The region has, it is said in its very Museum, put its eggs in one basket, dispensing with the chattle of cattle and instead stressing its vinyards and orchards which fruit amply, tendered to by the gentle lake clime. The hotels/ bed and breakfasts and farms share an understanding of the needs of a tourist and provide for each other, so that griddle is always sizzling, and the strawberries ripe for garnish. Sure, winters can be harsh and the harvest in question, but the region is blessed, blessed with temperate weather enough that its wines are receiving renown, and the peaches, it is said, are the best in the world.
When God is not reading a book, he walks among the peach trees, gladdened by the flutter of the wind that sets the leaves in motion, the sun he had set in motion so long ago he forgot who did it. He waves to a passing car, walks over to its passengers who want to buy a basket of peaches from him, smiles, nods, walks away and sits right back in his wrought iron chair to watch the petals fall from yet another bush and enrich the ground he has claimed as his home.
For now, of course. For though God has given up on monitoring the affairs of the world, he does not wish to grow flabby and idle and he circulates among the hospitable establishments, making up his mind himself about the state of the poached egg, and the texture of the omelette and the doneness of the steak. It pleases him that so many of the people he sees, retirees like himself, watch TV dismissively, preferring the view from the porch and having made up their own minds about the state of the world simply from the visitors who arrive each summer, credit cards flashing as brightly as their cars, white smiles broadening in faces toasted by the happy sun.
This is the world as he imagined it once, when he was younger and took his own injunctions much more seriously. Dont eat the apple, pshaw. When he first arrived in town, he winced every time he reached for an apple himself, remembering the stubborn willfulness of his past commands. He is no longer that God, and he is relieved that he has outgrown himself as an apple tree outgrows its flushed blush and matures into that very fruit. Even now, he does not want to be reminded, so he dotes on the peach because it does not belong in this land no more than he does, yet it is there, the best peach in the world, grazing the sun. And this little town, population 13,000 is where he finally settled in for the long wait.
So to keep his mind nimble, every week or so, God makes slow, deliberate rounds of the beds and breakfasts and runs his own tally of the best peach pies, peach and apple pies, peach tartes in the area, rewarding the most skilled peach growers and artisans with what is left of his blessing, so that the fruit remains as sunny as his disposition, now that he has let go, let go of the West Bank, of Mesopotamia, of the promises of a Covenant he made too long ago too hastily, and everything since.
Most of the time, God is happy enough to eat a peach, glance at the sky, especially when, as it often happens, it is cloudless and crisp, and he waves at the planes passing by, delighted to be at a distance from their roar. And then he goes back to the parlor for tea or a sip of peach wine from Josephs Winery down the road which he takes on the porch of whatever establishment he happens to be enjoying. When he is not happy with his wine, he will read a book, from back to front and gaze out at passerbys, people he no longer feels responsible for.
When everyone is asleep, he slips out to make the rounds of the picket fences, whitening into the dusk. Flowers and fruit come and go, but picket fences remain steadfast and proper.
posted by EvaB at 6:16 PM
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