Inn-By-The-Bye Stories - 19

By William Flewelling

As a preacher seeking a fresh way into the text I would be using for preaching, I began to develop an imaginary world populated primarily by wee folk. I found that they - my characters as I found them developing and evolving not only in my mind but also on the page - served me well as a consideration of how I sensed things happening in the scriptural text at hand. I now want to make these stories and the world they represent newly available, and so I bring them to book form, fifty at a time.

The cover drawing is done by Eve Sullivan, the author’s granddaughter.

The drawing is the artist’s conception of the entrance to the Fringe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728357263

William Flewelling

I am a retired minister from the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) living in central Illinois. Led by a request from Mildred Corwin of Manua OH when I arrived there in 1976, I long developed and led a series of bible studies there and in LaPorte IN and New Martinsville WV. These studies proved to be very feeding to me in my pastoral work and won a certain degree of following in my congregations. My first study was on 1 Peter, chosen because I knew almost nothing about the book. I now live quietly in retirement with my wife of 54 years, a pair of dogs and several cats.

Book preview

Contents

Foreword

CMI

CMII

CMIII

CMIV

CMV

CMVI

CMVII

CMVIII

CMIX

CMX

CMXI

CMXII

CMXIII

CMXIV

CMXV

CMXVI

CMXVII

CMXVIII

CMXIX

CMXX

CMXXI

CMXXII

CMXXIII

CMXXIV

CMXXV

CMXXVI

CMXXVII

CMXXVIII

CMXXIX

CMXXX

CMXXXI

CMXXXII

CMXXXIII

CMXXXIV

CMXXXV

CMXXXVI

CMXXXVII

CMXXXVIII

CMXXXIX

CMXL

CMXLI

CMXLII

CMXLIII

CMXLIV

CMXLV

CMXLVI

CMXLVII

CMXLVII

CMXLIX

CML

Appendix: Texts For Stories

About the Author

Also By This Author

Poetry

Time Grown Lively

From My Corner Seat

Enticing My Delight

The Arthur Poems

From Recurrent Yesterdays

In Silhouette

To Silent Disappearance

Teasing The Soul

Allowing The Heart To Contemplate

As Lace Along The Wood

To Trace Familiarity

The Matt Poems

Elaborating Life

The Buoyancy Of Unsuspected Joy

To Haunt The Clever Sheer Of Grace

The Christmas Poems

Life Is Employed

Adrift In Seas Of Strangeness

Composure In Constraint

The Ash Wind Sigh

Unplanned Obsolescence

Savored Once And Once Again

The Simple Curvature Of Words

Weave Tapestries Of Naught At All

Inn-by-the-Bye Stories

vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,

9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16

17, 18

Devotional

Some Reflective Prayers

Reflective Prayers: A Second Collection

A Third Collection Of Reflective Prayers

For Your Quiet Meditation

A Fourth Collection Of Reflective Prayers

Cantica Sacra

A Fifth Collection Of Reflective Prayers

A Sixth Collection Of Reflective Prayers

A Second For Your Quiet Meditation

A Second Cantica Sacra

Directions Of A Pastoral Lifetime

Part I: Pastoral Notes, Letters To Anna, Occasional Pamphlets

Part II: Psalm Meditations, Regula Vitae

Part III: Elders’ Studies

Part IV: Studies

Part V: The Song Of Songs: An Attraction

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies

Paul’s Letter To The Romans: A Bible Study

The Book Of Hebrews: A Bible Study

Letters Pauline And Pastoral: Bible Studies

The First Letter of Paul To The Corinthians: A Bible Study

The Gospel According To Luke 1:1 Through 9:50: A Bible Study

The Gospel According To Luke 9:51 Through 19:27: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Foreword

Catching up on these stories and imagining my way again along the way they play with the texts behind them – I just typed and proofed story CMXLVI, for Palm Sunday 2001: the text was the Passion Story in Luke – and the nuance of feel that emerges sometimes surprises me, often pleasantly. This story, CMXLVI, was one of those pleasant surprises. I had typed the story and then checked the text, being curious. At first I was a bit puzzled by the association; but then, rereading the story in the process of checking for corrections (and hoping I found them all!), the nuance of the elegance of Mary sauntering, ambling down the path, going nowhere in particular on a Sun bathed afternoon, with an air of elegance about her: then a renewed feel for that text emerged and I appreciated the feel that once emerged from the engagement during the week before Holy Week in 2001. (I would likely have written the story the previous Monday, having translated my text – or, at least the poignant part of it that attracted my particular attention for preaching – the previous Friday)

Dealing with the stories with an eye toward the texts behind them, I rediscover how these stories served my interests so well and so long. After August of 2003, the basic rhythms of my dealing with the text and with preaching and the auxiliaries to preaching that I had developed for myself, largely through the 1980s, suffered basic displacement. I did not have the rhythm any more. I did manage for some time to keep much of this apparatus going but found in the Spring of 2006 that it was not holding any more. I stopped writing hymn texts (my Cantica Sacra) for some time; and I discovered that the stories also were disappearing from my inscape. I am now left to appreciate them in a different mode than they offered originally. I cannot go back; but I can and do enjoy them afresh in this way.

I hope you can and do, too.

William Flewelling

CMI

All day Margent had been frustrated. This was a day in which what he needed to do was all and always outside, out in the boulevards, out in the main plazas, out among the people. Some days are that way though, by nature Margent is not really comfortable in that role.

The people in the City on the Plain were forgiving of his shyness because of his kindness and his competence. Things went well, which they had not done under the all too public show Osburn had kept up for too long. People remembered well enough, and the stories of olden times never flattered Osburn (whose presence on the bluff overlooking the City remained a reminder of the situation before). Those stories kept Margent going in public service, as he saw it.

But today has been a day of rain. Not or constant rain, but of showers. About the time the clouds thinned, they would thicken and dump their load of rain again. It was a coolish rain when it fell, but a muggish day when it did not. Umbrellas, the necessity of the day, were also awkward. It was a matter of discomfort for Margent. On top of the formal and pubic matters that always felt so unproductive to him, there was the uncooperative and insolent weather.

Margent had given the requisite speeches in the requisite way. Someone always seemed to get an umbrella up for him at the proper time; he always thanked them while seeing the plaza full of wet people, his own people. He could not imagine that he had anything to say worth their getting all soaking wet, standing in cold rain and in the muggy spells between showers. They were all so crowded, as it used to be on patriotic days.

Now, the day all done, the speeches finished, the crowds dispersed and his steps were slipping from plaza to boulevard, on to major street, then minor street and lane and nearly an alleyway to the door leading to the long corridor leading to the door to his office. Each turn was more comfortable than the last to Margent. He took them as he was accustomed to taking those turns and those passages: alone.

The skies, though, were clearing as evening approached. The Sun lowered over the bluff and fell behind Osburn’s home of forced retirement. Shadows settled in beneath the now-blue and clearing sky. Margent glanced at it, thinking it pleasant now, but awfully tardy in its pleasantness, so far as his convenience was concerned.

By this time, he neared the door from the narrow lane he called home to his city administration, the shadows were deeper even though the sky remained a now-brilliant blue. Somehow, the fact that the Sun never shone on the pavement in this lane seemed to him appropriate. And he kept it that way. Opening his door, he saw an old neighborhood woman shuffling down the lane. In his quiet way, Margent spoke: ‘Good evening. This evening has certainly come out lovely after all our showers today’. She, more timid than he, nodded with a sheepish half-smile. He expected no more and stepped over the threshold into the plain faced building.

‘Sir!’ she said abruptly. Margent paused and turned to her with a gently expectant look on his face. He figured she had something to ask; perhaps he could be of some assistance. Or so he had in mind as he looked to here wrinkles and shaded face. ‘Sir … I … I, I was at the plaza this afternoon’.

‘O the rain was a nuisance. Someone put up an umbrella for me, but the crowd was … just wet’. ‘Not a problem for us, Sir. No problem at all. I … I, I wanted to say your speech … your speech …’: she fumbled for words and he was expecting something like ‘was boring’, or ‘was pitiful’. He was braced inside. Finally, the old woman, with emotion in her voice, continued: ‘your speech … it was, uh … uh, the most moving speech I have ever heard’. There was a tremolo in her voice.

Margent was totally surprised and at a loss. His breath caught short; he stammered himself … then, gathered himself, dropping his eyes and speaking softly. ‘… Why, … thank you. That is as kind a word as I have ever heard’. ‘You deserve it, sir: thank you. Thank you’.

Margent stood in his door, dumbfounded as she passed along and was soon out of sight, around the corner. Staring blankly down the building-shaded narrow lane, all cobblestone and coarse as it was, Margent slowly moistened his lips and then swallowed even though everything felt so dry. At last, blinking himself into a degree of clarity of mind, Margent turned to enter the hallway and pass on down to his own doorway, to where he could simply gather himself and, as it was getting late, arrange things for a fresh and productive start in the morning.

Walking, Margent reviewed what he had said in the speech at the plaza. It was not much, but a bland discussion of how well the people were doing in this, their own City on the Plain. He sort-of recalled saying he was honored to be of service to them. Maybe a bit of illustration about how he had been able to help out a bit, organizationally, just to ease things a bit for some of the people. not much; he never did much. Why was it such a fine speech for her? He pondered; it made no sense to him at all.

Reaching the door to his office, he found it ajar. He snorted slightly and muttered under his breath about how, in his hurry earlier this morning, he must have been sloppy and not closed the door properly. In many ways, it would not matter much. But then, there is also the concern of the City business, that a good deal of his goings is properly confidential in details even if public in broad outline. So, leaving the door ajar was not wise; Margent was perturbed with himself as he went on into the office. Dark as it ought to be, Margent relied on his familiarity with everything to go to light the lamp.

Striking the light, Margent was suddenly aware that he was not alone in his quiet office. Startled, he blanched; his mind spun in rapid effort to come into logical focus on just what to do next. Only gradually, though, did he muster enough of a composure over himself to begin to recognize the faces as those of the common folk of the City, of the neighborhood. ‘What are you doing here?’ he blurted out in confusion, feeling a dampness all over as the result of his rapid adrenaline rush. ‘Have a seat’ the kindly voice offered; he did.

‘Why are you here?’

‘We realized that you really do serve us so well, so gently, so freeingly. And we finally learned today that this is why this City has prospered since Osburn left. We brought some food to celebrate our thanks with you’.

Margent sat there and stared, disbelieving. Disbelieving as they offered him a plate mounded with celebration food. He said: ‘Thank you’.

20 April 2000

CMII

A day of busyness engaged Eliza. She woke in the morning, early … too early, really; thus, she had trouble getting herself going. That in itself was frustrating to her for she had already been all too aware of the mass of stuff she needed to get done and the pressure she felt to get it accomplished. But, once she dragged herself from bed and got started, Eliza eagerly, anxiously began her attentive labors.

First off, there was dressing and breakfast; these she managed with minimal attention. So long a she was fully clothed and had some food slipped into her stomach, she figured those daily necessities were sufficiently done and she was free to get on with the more important aspects of the day. For this was the day when the party she had suggested was scheduled. It seemed like she had had this on her mind for weeks on end. And now, the day itself arrived and it felt to her as if everything had been put off until this very day before it could be, would be, might be done. Her mental list was monumental. She had nearly forgotten the beginning and could not count to the end. So, she was beginning in a muddle.

Nonetheless, mustering her frazzled concentration, Eliza began where she was, in the place she was and with the needs she had at hand. Where else could she begin? Dressed and fed, she straightened herself and slowly drew a deep breath, trying her best to focus herself in the midst of a whirlwind inside. Closing her eyes, setting one hand on the edge of a counter for stability, she exhaled slowly and tried to make the swirl inside settle down. Instead, her list of things needing immediate attention yesterday were like scraps of paper trapped in odd eddies of wind migrating helter-skelter down odd pathways … bits dropping out at random, to be swept up again in another eddy before her hand could snatch it up and stuff it in a sack, somehow.

In spite of this rousing anxiety, Eliza did begin. She did get a sense of a rude beginning … but a beginning, nonetheless. Simply taking a first step on this project, moving to the front door and checking the weather, helped. She opened; it was a bit cool, a little grey. But it is still early, she told herself. It is hard to see the sky now that the trees are progressing in leafing-out over head. As the Sun was behind the Hills, of course it was not very bright yet. Nodding in her serious confinement of her concerns, Eliza decided she felt better and turned back to her house. The door closed, and she began to immerse herself in those myriad arrangement to be made there.

Eliza was quite aware that this party was to happen on the Commons. For that reason alone, she knew full well (and had all along) that doing too much up here in the Hills, half way up the Way Down would be folly. On the other hand, however, the fact is she lives here, in the Hills, half way up the Way Down. And, living here, this was, had been, is and will be the convenient place to get things arranged. Here was her space. Here she had available much of what she needed in order to get what she needed to do done. So here, at home, in the Hills and half way up the Way Down, Eliza had accumulated much of her preparation. Only now, as it was becoming somewhat organized, did Eliza realist that the time was now that this stuff needed to arrive at the Commons, by the Inn-by-the-Bye. And the transportation was hers. Hers alone.

Blanching slightly at this untimely recognition of the overlooked difficulty that confronter her, Eliza sighed, moistened her lips and created for herself a hopefully-not-too-exaggerated load, one she could shoulder, balance, bear and bring, intact, to the Inn-by-the-Bye promptly. (Eliza did realize that it would be necessary to keep down the number of trips needed without overloading herself and dropping too much along the way. Indeed, anything dropped would be, in her mind, too much.)

Unwieldy as the arrangement seemed, Eliza carefully negotiated her way out the door, which she managed to get closed behind her, and out to begin the descent of the Way Down. Tottering a bit, she began her trek, the first one. Tottering, she struggled with an awkward load which soon felt heavy, jostled its way out of good balance, became increasingly awkward and, indeed, a real driving force in her going down the Way Down with everything in tow.

Eliza found anxiety escalating. her mouth became exceedingly dry. Her brow beaded in cold sweat. Her race was with balance; down, down, down the Way Down she hastened, figuring she may have been rather over-optimistic in this whole endeavor. That is, not only this load (but certainly this load) but even the whole project.

Reaching the end of the Way Down, Eliza was grateful that everything was still in her grasp … ever more tenuous, heavier and more tiring than she expected, and awkward. It was a frustratingly irregular load. She was fearful about managing the whole as she stopped her descent and found some way to turn to the left. The path she was meeting is not wide and the long grass on the Fields is Spring-lush, long and dense, shoulder high on her … hardly the sort of place into which she wanted to find herself plunging on ahead! This she had not pre-planned, either.

Turning quickly was not an option; neither was not turning quickly. So, Eliza figured she had to try. And try she did; succeed, she did not. She did bend her trajectory, though not much, nor that of all her load. For the loosened baggage around her loosened more. Eliza could not quite keep it under control. When her bend in trajectory proved insufficient to keep her out of the long grass, she simply crashed. The grass braked her efficiently, but not her load, which almost entirely scattered, tumbled, fell pell-mell in a spray into the Spring-fresh and luscious green-moist grass, shoulder high on the now-collapsing Eliza.

Eliza was about to cry; this was more than she was quite capable of bearing. She was certain of that. Her load was scattered awkwardly. And so was she, a lump in the long grass that cushioned and snared her alike. And, if that were not enough, clear of the trees, she found it raining. Not drizzle but outright downpour. She did cry, but the rain masked it all … except the pouting lips and the reddened eyes and the splotchy cheeks.

Shortly after this demise of Eliza’s party plans, Carymba came by, as drenched by this day’s sudden deluge as was Eliza. ‘Soaked as we are, let’s go