Scruffrug Oranges

These pages are stories of Scruffrug. Scruffrug was born a rug. One day he up and flew. This story was written on 4/5/1988 and found in 2016.

There they are in Jutland, more properly Schleswig-Holstein. Elizabeth is holding ScruffRug all done up as a carpet bag. The family is all wearing white clothes. We focus on the orange marmalade-type preserves in their continental breakfast.

ScruffRug, naturally has no interest in eating. But he is extraordinarily sensitive. It is the oranges he knows. He can tune into them and feel back with them. Past the time of their jarring, heating and mixing with ingredients, fine slicing, washing, selection, and picking. On the orange tree, with the oranges is a lovely place to be. Some oranges are so ripe, they fall to the ground once in awhile. Still, there are many orange blossoms. Furry black and yellow bees climb around with golden pollen stuck to their legs. The shiny green leaves against the bright blue sky are the same as they would be anywhere. But it seems these oranges were grown in Lebanon.

ScruffRug realizes there is a kind of hologram of consciousness. He could go into the countryside, the wooden carts, horses, the olive like trees and the people. Every detail in the world has it's story. When rugging well, ScruffRug can concentrate on any detail and expand the story. He sees how when this family in Denmark eats the oranges, new stories are told. The Lebanon countryside is brought to Schleswig. And influences the stories going on.

The family will go to stay at a country inn in a very small town, which is really just a community of farmers and local craftspeople. This town is near their property which they need to oversee. I don't know how they get there, if they rent a car or take a bus or train or what. The spring growth and warmth is delightful. In the town park Elizabeth, Dorthe, and ScruffRug spy a rock that attracts them. The top is big and flat enough for a dozen persons to sit. Its gently undulating curves have been smoothed with many people climbing up and relaxing on top. Underneath, towards the ground the rougher parts look like faces, a little, in the shadows.

As Elizabeth reaches out to touch the rock, she feels a thrill of recognition. It is as if old memories, waiting to be remembered, like the electric potential of a battery, spark and trickle gaily into her. She remembers the whole story all at once in a way very new to her. How could one touch of a rock put her into such a fantastic state of mind? It was like a cloud of thought all reflected in one drop of dew, which she was looking into. And when she directed the attention of her companions, she found they could see it too.

Elizabeth felt that maybe one of her ancestors, maybe the little girl who had swum with the whale and who had been given the Plish vision, was the one. Maybe this little girl whose spirit name is Beluga was the one who concentrated this story in this rock. Her powerful feelings about pulling up roots and leaving caused her to wish to sum it all up. She did not want her story and history to be lost. What if the boat went down at sea? Would that be the end?

Elizabeth could feel now, how Beluga placed both hands on the rock and wished with all her heart for something. Could it be immortality? Or escape from just the nothing of dying? And the unknown insecurities of life. The rock played its part. Mellow and capable, no wonder its name is ...(embarrassment. I went to find the Danish dictionary to look up the name, which I had in mind. The word Kavende came into mind. By the time I had located the dictionary, the original word in English was gone from mind. And Kavende is not found in the Danish part of the dictionary. After rereading this text, the word "helper" appears, with no feeling that that was the original word. Amazing, it's almost the same word in Danish!. Hjaelper. Now looking in the Danish dictionary again, I see the word. It is spelled kvinde. It means woman in English.

Well, that's a great name for a great rock. Isn't it funny how we have the same word for rock--in the sense of a heavy immobile mineral, and rock--in the sense of move rhythmically?). Elizabeth and ScruffRug and Dorthe too, at this very time that I am writing the story, are enjoying the whole process, sitting comfortably on Kvinde the rock, who has been named for ages, but Caroling is just discovering in her search for the story for Elizabeth.

They almost laugh for joy of how silly it is in a way, when anyone can know anything if they just let it be. Has the story been lost? No, Kvinde knows and she will tell. The story is that Beluga willed her life story to Kvinde who sparked it to Elizabeth through Caroling's imagination. For a minute Elizabeth knows it but doubt returns, just like the clouds covering the sun. A quick chill of a cool breeze seems to waft away the spark. And there she is kind of dully wondering what to say. Then she knows what to do.

She unfolds ScruffRug onto Kvinde. She and Dorthe sit on him and play a childhood game. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man. They clap their hands together chanting the old childhood rhyme. Dorthe teaches Elizabeth the Danish way to do it (ask her). It may just be an educated guess, but I'd say this is what happened. ScruffRug absorbed the story. Later, all Elizabeth needs to do is ask, and ScruffRug will tell her all about her roots. How the Lebanon oranges met the Danish bread and butter and ... it's time for tea.

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