Take A Holiday

 There is an old film whose title I invariably associate with Death Takes A Holiday. That one is great, made in 1934 starring Frederic March as Death who comes down to Earth to find out more about us humans. And ends up falling in love. It was loosely remade some sixty years later with Brad Pitt descending as Death, aka Joe Black. Both of these are fine entertainments, and I suggest them if you have the time, but the one for which I always have to look up the title is On Borrowed Time.  

That's the one that made such an impression on me way back when that it haunts me to this day. The story is taken from a Greek fable. An old man takes in his orphan grandson, and works to keep him safe by any means necessary. Having a magic apple tree in the back yard comes in handy when Death comes calling, because grandpa tricks death up into the tree, from which he cannot get down. And from that moment, no one dies. All the while that gramps tries to figure out next steps in the custody of his grandson, nobody dies. 

A victory, right? But as days pass, it becomes clear that no one dying isn't the holiday that we all might have guessed. The old, the sick, the injured, all languish in various states of decay without actually passing on. Death, as we all know from our reading, is a necessary part of life. So much so that many zealous folks will tell you that it's "part of God's plan." Which snaps us back into present day events and poses the question, "Was it part of God's plan to strike down innocent shoppers at a King Soopers?" Did God's Plan include the millions of souls taken by COVID-19? What about the dozens of protesters cut down by soldiers in Myanmar? On Borrowed Time lets us imagine what it would be like to get a break. Just a day or two. 

Nobody dies. 

Let us catch our breath. 

Death will find a way out of the tree eventually. The threshing machine will be plugged back in. But oh, for those glorious few hours when we don't have to flinch when we see someone's name trending on Twitter, or wince in anticipation of the evening's news. When the phone rings, we'll hear good news. What they refer to in boxing as a standing eight count. Let us catch our collective breath. Then clearer heads will take over and we will all realize that even if there isn't a plan per se, there is a rhythm. It's just that lately that incessant drumbeat has drowned out so much of the melody of life. I, for one, would like to hear the bell when it tolls for me. I don't want it to get lost in the cacophonous clanging of all those other poor souls.