When my oldest son was growing up, the wife and I endevoured to expose him to as much history and culture as we could manage, that being in short supply in East Texas. Our summer road trips centered around either Virginia or New England, where the history was always close at hand. In 1992, we spent a few days in Washington, DC doing the requisite touristy things. I remember visiting an exhibit hall somewhere, perhaps in the Smithsonian, and being fascinated by a booth promoting Russia, as the U.S.S.R. had finally crumbled only months earlier. I purchased a beautiful over-sized stamp depicting Alexander Nevsky in battle (this was a dozen years before he would be St. Alexander Nevsky to me.) The clerk wrapped it in purple tissue paper.
In my memory, I seem to recall keeping the little purple packet secure in my Bible. I could take it out and look at it if the sermon became tiresome. Only the person sitting next to me would know that I had my Bible opened for an ulterior purpose. Once my son had become an adult, I intended to frame it and give it to him as a gift.
As it turned out, however, my oldest son reached adulthood about the same time I lost track of the stamp. I went through all our Bibles one by one. If you are not from a Southern evangelical and/or fundamentalist background, you have no idea what that can entail. A hallmark of the evangelical Protestant project is novelty. And so, new versions of the Bible came along fairly regularly, describing in ever-plainer and more pedestrian language those truths that were not really misunderstood to begin with. We were not as bad as some, but between the three of us, there were quite a few Bibles in our house. For over twenty years, I have periodically scoured all of them, looking for my stamp, but to no avail. Most of the Bibles are now primarily with my wife’s books. I only have my Orthodox Study Bible here in the study, and that is enough, it seems. Who knows the location of the stamp. I will come back to that.
***
I recently finished reading Broken Images, a journal of the war years by John Guest (1949). An author friend of mine in Yorkshire had recommended it in an online review. As is my habit, I copy quotations from my readings into my journals. I finished reading this work fairly late on Sunday night, and decided to transfer the last few quotes the following morning. And so, I awoke Monday morning with purpose. My morning hot concoction in hand, I headed for the study, settled in with my journal and pen, ready to make the entries. The first quotation I wanted to capture was about five lines from an unattributed classical source. I remembered the first word and that it addressed death and mortality, as is common with classicisms. I seemed to recall that it was in the last quarter of the book. I flipped pages, but did not find it. I went through the entire book again, and still nothing. Finally, I went page by page through the entire work, and the quotation was not there.
I had apparently dreamed this, and unusually for me, the dream was so real that it took the witness of the pages themselves to convince me that I had not actually read it. I shared this experience by email with my friend who had recommended the book. These slightly off-kilter mysteries are the stock of his story-telling, so I knew he would appreciate it. He suggested that it meant something, but as always, exactly what it meant was just beyond our understanding. And I am happy to leave it at that.
***
A lively email conversation ensued between the two of us, and another friend, also in Yorkshire and also an author (as well as a publisher.) Our discussion of Guest’s journal led to comparisons to another writer I have recently read, Denton Welch. His journal, published about the same time as Guest’s, also covered the war years in England. This led to a discussion of Jocelyn Brooke, who edited Welch’s journal and wrote the introduction for the publication. The other friend inquired whether I had read Brooke’s works yet. I have not, but intend to do so.
I wanted to respond with something intelligent to say about Jocelyn Brooke. I recalled that his work was respected by Anthony Powell, an author I do know something about. I am a charter member of the Anthony Powell Society and have 56 books either by or about the author. I have the four volumes of his memoirs, as well as the three volumes of his published journal entries. I figured he would have something to say in one of them about Brooke.
I chose one at random, and in checking the index, found three entries for Brooke. But in flipping through the pages, a small packet of purple tissue paper fell out. Here was my long-lost stamp! What it was doing in this book, I do not know. And why I was led to the one book in the study that held it, is also a mystery. Like the quotation from my dream, something is meant by it, but I would err in saying exactly what. But the little mysteries of life are all around us, and occasionally we have a glimpse of the marvellous in the mundane.
My oldest son is coming home for a visit in August. I will frame the stamp and give it to him then—along with the story. I do not believe that he reads these scribblings so it will still be a surprise.
At my age I've found there is a fine line between serendipity and onset of dementia.... HAHA!
Love this story!