Good Old Days without meetings

Let me tell you a story. The names of the characters may sound odd because the story is from Norway, one of the happiest countries in the world.

Thord Overass is the wealthiest and most influential member of the parish. He comes to the parish priest with a request to conduct a special baptism ceremony for his infant son. Special implies that it shouldn’t be a common ceremony with other infants of the parish. The parish priest agrees because Thord will pay for the ceremony. Money matters even in religion.

Sixteen years later, Thord approaches the priest once more with a similar request for the confirmation ceremony of his son. The priest again nods his consent because there is money in it. Let me add that the priest was not a greedy person. It’s just that money matters even for a priest.

Another eight years go and Thord approaches the priest once more, now for the wedding of his son. “Why, that is the richest girl in the parish,” the priest says when he hears the name of the bride. Thord says that the groom is his only child. “I want to do it handsomely.” Thord places three dollars on the priest’s table. The priest takes the money which is no small amount.

Well, three dollars and I’m saying ‘no small amount,’ you’re wondering, I know. What a silly story, you’re wondering more, I know. Now, let me tell you that I’m summarising a story written by a Nobel laureate. Bjornsterne Bjornsen was the third recipient of the Nobel for literature from the inception of the prize. He was born in 1832 and won the Nobel in 1903. Most of his stories were about peasants who he believed were the true representatives of his nation. More than a century later, today, we know how countries treat their farmers. Recall the yearlong struggle of farmers in Delhi recently. But, now, back to the story The Father.

The time has changed. I’m telling you a story from the good old days. This story was written in 1881, a time when life was quite simple though not easy. When was life easy anyway?

Well, the story didn’t end. Let me carry on.

A fortnight after the wedding of his son, Thord and his son had to cross the lake near their house out of necessity. They were in their boat when the thwart of the boat slipped and the son fell into the lake. The father, let me quote the original, “held the boat still, and stared at the spot where his son had gone down, as though he must surely come to the surface again. There rose some bubbles, then some more, and finally one large one that burst; and the lake lay there as smooth and bright as a mirror again.”

The people of the parish watched Thord searching for his son in the lake for three days restlessly. Finally he got the son’s dead body.

A year later, Thord visits the parish priest once again. With a large sum of money. Do “Something better” is all that he tells the priest. “I think your son has at last brought you a true blessing,” the priest says. Two big tears course slowly down Thord’s cheeks as he nods yes.

This post is part of a series I started a few days back [links below]. I was supposed to post my entry in the series yesterday. But a meeting I attended yesterday put me off so much that I couldn’t write anything when I reached home. I had a couple of drinks instead. The meeting was led by a priest who seems to think he knows everything and that his staff are all mental retards or something equivalent. He mocked us. I wanted to walk out many times. But I advised patience to myself.

I went to bed feeling sufficiently tipsy and wondered what my next post should be about. Then a number of priests rose in my consciousness, some real and more fictitious. Don Camillo was the best among them. But for some mysterious reason, this Norwegian story buoyed above Camillo. And here it is.

A century ago, the world was a much simpler place with no absurd meetings. “Do something better.” I want to join Thord. 

PS. This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon

Previous Posts in this series:

1. Heights of Evil

2. Pip Learns the Essential Lessons

3. Delusions and Ironies of Love