A Tale of Two Children

One of my favourite authors is Charles Dickens. Not only was he a master wordsmith, storyteller and possessor of a beautiful imagination, he loved people, especially those who were the castoffs of polite society. His introduction to a Tale of Two Cities is perfection.

“IT was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

A lot of our views have to do with our attitudes. I’m not sure how we develop our outlooks on life: perhaps they are due to the way we were raised, or to the friends we were lucky enough to have (or not have) or maybe our outlooks were determined at the moment of conception when two whirling pools of DNA began their dance of life in our mothers’ wombs.

Here is a story of two children, each with a different relationship with the universe. Which one are you?

A Tale of Two Children

Bertie and Nicola were twins, born to a happy mother and a doting father.  The family was not rich by any means but, with a little thrift and a good dose of common sense, they had what they needed.

Bertie was the firstborn by 22 minutes. He entered the world already peeved at his fate, wailing at his unfortunate choice of parents. Now you may say that babies cannot possible be so prescient. Alas, there is no way of proving or disproving this.

Nicola, on the other hand, slid blissfully out of the birth canal, a little uncomfortable as she made the age old transition from an aquatic life to one on dry land. Her lungs greedily gulped at the air, she whimpered briefly and fell into a trance of contentment as she found her mother’s breast.

By the time Bertie and Nicola were five years old, their personalities were set for life. Bertie, who  tenaciously held on to the grudge with which he was born, was and would remain a lifelong pessimist, more interested in acquiring things and miserly exercising the meaningless scraps of power of which he was so proud. He could not be more different from Nicola who found  pleasure in smallest droplets of water and who could see the beauty of tadpoles.

On Christmas morning of their fifth year, Bertie and Nicola both woke up in barely contained anticipation.  Their parents, awakened by the noise, cheerily wiped the sleep from their eyes and came downstairs a few minutes later. Bertie was already at the tree, clawing his way through the presents. He could not get them open fast enough. With barely a glance at his new skates, he was onto his next present, always looking for something he would never find.   “Where is Nicola?” asked his mother. “She’s outside” said his father, “playing in the pile of manure that Burrows Country Store delivered yesterday evening.”

“Nicola darling what are you doing?” inquired her mother gently.

“Mommy, can’t you see? With a pile of manure this big, there’s got to be a pony in here somewhere.”

Merry Christmas to all the Nicolas of the world. May the Berties find peace.