Fox Hunting

Bad day yesterday with some rib and back pains. The pain reminds me of the hugs I received from a Spanish nun after I went fox hunting when I was a member of a convent in the UK. Every week, we would have a community meeting after a silent breakfast (always hard for me since I am chatty in the morning). Mostly, these meetings were about updates in the convent, or announcements like "Ev los' me jumper in the woods". The rules for the chapter meetings were that we could speak honestly and open. I loved the community and the nuns dearly, but we did sometimes have surreal disagreements. At one meeting the Spanish nun accused "Geoffrey" of killing her "chickadees" -several of her chicks were found dead outside of her pen. Now, at the convent there was "Geoffrey" the gardener, and "Geoffrey" the cat (owned by a priest) - this caused a lot of confusion at the meeting...

Spanish Nun: Geoffrey killeda my chicks!
Priest (owner of the cat): Certainly not.
Another nun: Geoffrey was out all day on the tractor!
Priest: My cat does not drive tractors. I was with Geoffrey all day.
Me: What? Geoffrey goes back to Flempton at 4...and...rides a bike...wears tweed...
Priest: I meant Geoffrey the cat. My cat.
Mother Superior: It was not Geoffrey. Or Geoffrey. I observed a fox.in the West Garden. David, it needs to be dispatched.
Me: You mean you want me to write it a letter?
Mother Superior: No.There is an Enfield in the cellar.
Me: What the hell, oops, sorry everybody...what the heck is an Enfield?
Mother Superior: Simply the finest rifle ever produced in England.
Nun: Yes! Simple bolt mechanism! Cracking!
Old Jesuit Priest: What about the Bren? I cradled that one in my hammock when I served in India. Quite powerful.
Me: Huh?
Mother Superior: The Bren is Czech, not British. We don't need the machine gun.

Me: What the f**k?, I mean what the fudge? Sorry everyone. So...do you want me to kill Geoffrey the gardener, Geoffrey the cat, the fox, or what? I've never handled a gun before and...

Mother Superior: The fox will suffice for now.

Old Jesuit (sucking on his pipe): Right Davy. You are a Yank. Cowboys and all that. Yankee Doodle Davy.

Priest: Righto. Good meeting and bless the Lord. Happy hunting Davy!

I left, found the Enfield in the cellar, found the ammunition. I feared that the ammo would be so ancient it would blow up in my face, but the nuns actually kept a recent stock. I went out to the West Garden, opened a gate. In five minutes I saw the fox - the cutest thing in the world. I shot five rounds into a ditch and the fox left. We seemed to have an understanding - the fox, or Geoffrey, or Geoffrey, never bothered the chickens again. The Spanish nun was so grateful that to this day I still have back pains from her hugs.

The Old Man

I met many eccentrics in the UK. Britain seems to breed them. There was an old man who would often frequent the convent. I'll have a lot more about him. He would come there for peace and relaxation. I've forgotten his name, and I am certain he is long passed (I met him when he was 80). He was extraordinary, and had many tales. He came from London, worked in a Dutch shipping firm in Egypt, and knew 15 languages. He married a German woman before the war (he was fluent in German). His wife was extricated back to Germany and he was drafted and sent to Greece since he knew Greek. Then he fled to Crete after that was invaded. Finally, he was captured and sent to a POW camp in Germany just 5 miles from away from his wife. His father-in-law visited once - the Kommodant told him, "You can see him once. But this never happened. Think of this favor after the war and bring him whatever you want." He later made a crystal radio in the camp out of used gum wrappers, and it is now in the British Museum. He was then liberated. I wouldn't have known any of this until we were watching TV together. "Call him J̌uḡašvili! His name was NOT Stalin!" after we watched a documentary. Then, I started to ask questions...