The Parable of Remembering Home

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, Wimbledon, that most traditional of sporting events, just ended a 77-year-old tradition of British male players failing.  Is Wimbledon less traditional now?”

Josh spoke thus:

A husband and a wife were at the dinner table,.

“Do you know what I miss from our homeland?” the husband asked the wife.

“Could you miss sunny days?” the wife asked, “Day upon day of sunshine?  Could you miss warm southerly breezes?  Could you miss a faint aroma of jasmine and cinnamon pervading the garden air?”

“I do not miss sunny days,” the husband said, “I do not miss day upon day of sunshine.  I do not miss warm southerly breezes.  I do not miss a faint aroma of jasmine and cinnamon pervading the garden air.”

“Could you miss the distant peel of vesper bells?” the wife asked, “Could you miss the harmony of lazy doves in the branches of fruit trees?  Could you miss practicing choirs of children preparing for the feasts of the saints?”

“I do not miss the distant peel of vesper bells,” the husband said, “I do not miss the harmony of lazy doves in the branches of fruit trees.  I do not miss practicing choirs of children preparing for the feasts of the saints.”

“Could you miss dancing girls and dancing boys?” the wife asked, “Could you miss the coyness of maypole dances, covert snatching of glances, snatching of hands, snatching of kisses?”

“I do not miss dancing girls and dancing boys,” the husband said, “I do not miss the coyness of maypole dances, covert snatching of glances, snatching of hands, snatching of kisses.”

“Could you miss, then,” the wife asked, “Golden wheat crowned with the skylark’s call?  Could you miss the ripened chestnut, green of cover, warm brown of seed?  Could you miss the barley roasting, the hops fermenting, the cider pressing?”

“I do not miss golden wheat crowned with the skylark’s call,” the husband said, “I do not miss the ripened chestnut, green of cover, warm brown of seed.  I do not miss the barley roasting, the hops fermenting, the cider pressing.

“Our homeland was not a land of sunny days, of warm southerly breezes, of jasmine and cinnamon.  Our homeland was not a land of distant vesper bells, of lazy doves, of choirs.  Our homeland was not a land of maypole dancing, of golden wheat, of chestnuts, barley and cider.

“Our homeland was an industrial slum.  Our homeland was rainy.  Our homeland rang of metal clashing against metal.  The streets of our homeland echoed with the weeping of hungry children.  Our homeland reeked of rotting food and rotting water and rotting life.”

“I remember our homeland well,” the wife said, “I remember why we left.  So what is it you miss from our homeland?”

The husband replied, “Nothing.”