Sedona is never far from Lausen

Prayers are always answered in a mystical, mysterious way. Lost alleys in the
valley of life are only apparent. On the arrival of springs, clear, azure blue skies
would grace the dales.

Presently, a White car was gliding along the All US American Road ‘Red Rock
Scenic Byway’. The Highway led to the little town of Sedona and its bucolic winds.
Nature presented magical views of Red Rocks and a chain of mountains around
the place. The flavor of hues invited any searching eyes. Rising high above such
magical views, the Chapel of Holy Cross was one of the most awe-inspiring land
mark icons of that little town.

Mr. Lawrence Bragg was on a trail. He was not more than 35. He was now
travelling all along from Switzerland on a singular mission. His countenance bore
an expectant mental frame of meeting Patterson after an eclipse of several years.

He had no idea of Patrick Patterson’s present moorings. It was a letter from Rev.
James which turned the tables. Brag set off. Crossing the North Atlantic, he
arrived from Lausen and met Father James at Durham and gathered the details.
To the showcase of red rock mountain buttes of Sedona, he was now travelling for
a historic meeting. Life would confluence life.

Mr. Bragg tried to recall Patterson. Beyond certain childhood recollections,

Patterson remained rather oblivious. Through the veil of the past, the frame of
Patterson amounted to only a pencil sketch of faint and broken lines. Certainly, as
a boy of eight or nine, Bragg remembered the presence of a bespectacled man
often visiting the Durham Chapel Boulevard. He presented to be a well bred man.
Sitting under the shades of a big oak tree that grew in the courtyard of the chapel,
Patterson could be seen engaging in a light conversation with the Rector of the
chapel, Rev. Father Victor James.
The boys would be playing on the courtyard of the chapel. Bragg would often be
seen sitting under a cedar tree and watch the proceedings going around. He
preferred listening to the melodies of nature. The winds of Chapel Hill Violins
brought in the scent of seasons. The sinking Sun over the meadows of BlueCross
Blue Shield was a pastoral scene.

He preferred silence to the din of the world. The teachers of Hillside Park School
saw in him a blossoming talent at that tender age. During his evening rounds to
the chapel, Mr. Patterson’s glances would often fall on this lonesome boy,
truncated from the general spin of the world.

As weeks went by, between the little Bragg and Patterson, there grew bondage.
During the rounds to the Chapel, Patterson always stole time to be with him. He
would enquire about his studies. He would walk around the place with him and
talk about people and places, nature and seasons, in a tone that was suggestive of
talking to a matured man. Little Bragg would attentively listen. Patterson never
diluted his levels.

To Patterson, little Bragg was not little Bragg but his favorite “Macaroni”. It
conveyed no particular meaning other than a lovable address.

Along with other boys, Macaroni stayed in the orphanage run by the chapel. Like
all other inmates who reached such workhouses, he too had a big tale to tell the
world written by an oblivious past. All that Rev. James could now remember was
that Macaroni was seen crying on the footsteps of the chapel on a rainy day,
about eight years ago. The kid was in tottering stage. He was trembling in the
cold wind. His little eyes were searching for his mother.

And where was she? Nobody actually knew. Only the cutting wind and the fallen
leaves of the Boulevard knew the truth. Rev. James got a letter from the kid’s
pocket and his heart nearly lept out of his ribs in anxiety but the high tides soon
subsided. The letter practically revealed nothing. It only pleaded Rev. James to
take care of the kid and be brought up well. The letter also conveyed a story of a
broken relationship and an attempt of suicide with the kid. After all, the poor
mother hadn’t the heart.

Rev. James had read such letters on several occasions in the past – broken family
relationships, diseases, penury, love affairs, elopement, suicides – all such
complexities of life had brought children to the doors of the workhouse. Often
times, the church bells had rung at unusual hours. So, the latest tale was not
more than a paper boat in the ocean of life.

Rev. James advertised about this missing boy but to no avail as usual. The world
has its own hide and seeks games. Chances of meeting tempered winds are less
possible in quelling currents.

Thus, under the wings of Rev. James, little Bragg began to gain grounds. The
workhouse became his very home and the Boulevard, the playground of his life.

Rev. James, Patterson and a young couple Florian and Audrey from Switzerland –
Bragg received lease of life from all of them.

Patterson’s native haunts were Sedona. He belonged to the winds of the Village of
Oak Creek. He was a well bred man who served the US Postal Department in
different capacities at various towns. His ancestors still retained the credit of
being part of that historic Pony Express mail delivery system of US which formed
one of the longest and hazardous routes among the dense prairies and the rocky
lines of Nebraska to Sacramento. Those were the 1860s.

It was during his tenure at Durham that he had come in contact with Rev. James
and Macaroni. Philanthropy enriched Patterson’s life. Wherever he lived, he did
leave an indelible mark by way of services.
So, Patterson naturally got along with the activities of the chapel. Those visits
glued bondage between him and little Macaroni.
Patterson had a son by name Collins. He was a smart boy who fared well both in
studies and music. The boy had multifarious talents. Naturally, he was very much
part of the annual Verde Valley Music Festival conducted in every October. The
festival happened to be a fund raiser for Native American Scholarships at the
school.

Thus, at a tender age, his fragrance was wafting beyond the bounds of the Oak
Creek. He was really a blossoming bud on the Oak Creek valley. Collins was left
under the care of his grandparents for one sole reason - his health could not really
fair under other climatic conditions. However, he joined his parents during
vacations and on one such occasion……..

Let me draw a deep breath at this juncture.

Let me continue the tale in my naive language.

Heart disease disturbed Macaroni’s life for long. Heart transplantation was the
only solution. The world was aware of Macaroni’s deteriorating condition. Money
and medical support were no problem but to get a living heart was the real
hurdle. Who would come forward? Body organs are unlike grocery items. While
man draws blood of his fellow men, he forgets that life is dearer than all the
idiosyncrasies of the world.

Doctors were on the hunt. Progressive deterioration finally led Macaroni to the
confines of hospital. It seemed to be a losing battle. Prayers touched the limits of
the skies. Rev. James and Patterson were much tossed and swayed.

Parallel to this tragedy, Patterson witnessed another personal tragedy. Little

Collins suffered from pneumonia for a few days. He was admitted. Sometimes, an
ordinary fever may seem to be very innocent but death may be lurking within it’s
the precincts. Before it was dawn, the dusk arrived and drew the curtains over
the short life of little Collins.
Patterson was naturally shattered. His prayers did not give conclusive answers.
Somewhere, the equations showed a mismatch.

Yet, he could defy the surging winds. In whispering tones he conveyed the
doctors:

“You may try my son’s heart on little Bragg. His life is also akin for me.
I give my consent. Paradise Lost in one sense can be Paradise Regained in another
sense. I fully comprehend”.

The doctors were now on a momentous trail. Patterson’s prayers were finally
answered in a mystical, mysterious way. The tone of his heart set the standard.
Though his prayers could not save his son’s life, they saved another precious life.
Macaroni was soon backing in life.

After that, Patterson soon moved out of Durham for other places in the priorities
of life. Though he occasionally felt the ruminations of those Boulevard winds
upon his chest, he was at intangibility to revisit those springs.

On his retirement, he returned to his native winds. He led a peaceful life with the
memories of the past.

Now, Bragg needed parental care. On seeing an advertisement, a generous couple

from Switzerland approached Rev. James. Little Bragg knew that he would soon
be leaving his meadows. Sitting on the steps of the chapel, he solemnly wept.
James uncle patted him and said:

“My darling, weep not. This is only a summer vacation for you. You will be back. I
will be waiting for you under these oak shades”.

Thus, holding the arms of Florian and Audrey, little Bragg voyaged into the
expanse of life.
It happened about 25 years ago. He remembered his Durham days and the face
of Patterson but he was not aware of the truth that Collins was living through him.
One day he received a letter from Rev. James.

“Dear Bragg, I want to see you in my failing health. An important mission is

waiting for you. The river will be meeting the ocean. Do come. Uncle James”.

Bragg was left to bewilderment. He felt a deep stir. In no time he set out for
Durham.

Uncle James received him in joyful tears. Old winds fanned their memories. The
past sang an ode of common mirth.

The truth was revealed. Bragg listened to the whole account of Rev. James in
awe-stricken silence.

“Now, you can see the significance of this trip. You owe your life to Uncle
Patterson. Now that the truth is revealed, I can die peacefully. You may go and
meet him without fail. He is living in Sedona”.

So, Bragg set out to meet his benefactor. Naturally he was feeling guilty but was
helpless. Who did reveal to him of the truth earlier?

The car finally halted before a wicket painted green. The wooden fencing that ran
around kept within its bounds a small farm house and the view suggested Bragg of
a classical rural landscape painting.

An old man appeared at the door. He looked at the incomer with inquiring
glances but was at his wits end to recognize his old Macaroni of the Durham
chapel.
The puzzle was finally solved and both of them were in heavens. Springs sprang
forth. Across the passage of time, the olden Boulevard winds brought to them the
mellower tones of life.

“Darling, I have really gotten back my lost treasure. We must celebrate this
occasion. Open the doors; let the wind chimes be sounded!”

Macaroni stayed there for a week enjoying the fountains of life. In a lighter
moment, he asked:

“Uncle Patterson, why can’t you join me for the rest of your life or at least be with
me for several months? You are getting old and a change could be imminent”.

Patterson smiled through the corner of his eyes.

“Macaroni, you are indeed a lovable boy. This Oak Creek wind is enough for me.
These vales are my living forces. It is only a natural thought to have my grave
stone laid in familiar winds. I can perfectly absorb you. I am contented. See,
separation is counted by the level of disownment and isolation and not by
distances. When we are no more in different hemispheres, where is the feeling of
estrangement anymore? I am not a philosopher but, life has its own voices”.

Patting Bragg, Patterson further endorsed:

“Sedona is never far from Lausen”.

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