QANA Mhix kanal tal-ġebel, imma bħal speċi ta’ ħawt ftit usa’ mill-bramel tas-sienja, u timtela bl-ilma meta dawn iferrgħu l-ilma għal ġo fiha. Il-qana tkun magħquda mal-kanali tal-ġebel, li jwasslu l-ilma fejn iridu l-bdiewa. Hemm ukoll il-qana tal-bir, bħal ħofra ċatta ħdejn il-bir biex l-ilma tas-sieqja jinżel l-ewwel ġo fiha. Nota: Il-vokali ta’ din il-kelma huma qosra bħal f’qata’.
Sors: Anton F. Attard.
Charles B. Spiteri
L-akbar katina ta’ nies biex ifaqqgħu l-crackers tal-Milied kienet rekordjata fit-13 ta’ Diċembru tas-sena l-oħra f’Birmingham. Din l-attività tniżżlet fil-Guinness Book of Records wara li ħaddiema tal-uffiċċju, ħaddiema tar-ristorant, nies li kienu qed jixtru u oħrajn li kienu mexjin fit-triq, ingħaqdu fi Brindleyplace waqt ħin l-ikel biex b’total ta’ 749 ruħ li jfaqqgħu l-crackers waqqfu r-rekord għall-itwal katina ta’ nies.
Qabel, l-itwal rekord kien dak b’603 parteċipanti f’Tobacco Dock f’Londra. Dan ir-rekord twettaq ukoll fit-2 ta’ Novembru tas-sena li għaddiet.
RIKUŻA Terminu legali. Talba li ssir minn xi parti f’kawża, sew jekk kriminali u wkoll jew ċivili, biex il-ġudikant ma joqgħodx fil-kawża, u dan għal xi waħda mir-raġunijiet li jsemmi l-Kodiċi tal-Proċedura u/jew minħabba ksur ta’ xi dritt fundamentali u kostituzzjonali tal-individwu. Ir-rikuża hija intimament marbuta mal-bażi stess tal-amministrazzjoni tal-ġustizzja. It-terminu ġej mill-verb Taljan ricusare – jiġifieri rrifjuta jew waqqaf milli jsir xi proċediment; ma aċċettax li jkun inkarigat xi ħadd partikulari. Eż. Il-gvern irrikuża tnejn mill-imħallfin. Jew, ‘Il-President tal-Qrati rriġetta r-rekużazzjoni tiegħu.’
Ħajr: L-Imħallef Emeritu Philip Sciberras.
I was on flight KM 103 from London on its way to Malta. It was a comfortable three hour flight. White cotton-like clouds floated beneath us. The pilot had already announced that we were descending to our destination where the weather was sunny. I looked from the small window and saw the Maltese landscape coming nearer and nearer.
Then I opened my handbag and took out the black and white photograph, now yellow and wrinkled with the passing of the years, and held it tight in my hands. The photo showed a young man with a small girl perched on his shoulders. His full black hair was smoothed down and glossy with ‘Brylcream’. A wide grin was on his face. I remember very well when that photo was taken. It was on my eighth birthday at Golden Bay where the family used to go sunning and swimming in the hot summer months. How we laughed and enjoyed ourselves on that golden beach.
I turned the photo over. The words ‘Champion of Golden Bay’ were written in black ink. They were Mum’s words. She liked to put captions on the back of family photos. I smiled as I remembered how proud my father was of this photo and of Mum’s caption on its back. I loved this photo too and made it a point to take it with me when I left home. I remember that Mum had shouted to Dad to put me down but he laughed and held me even higher. That must have been sixteen years ago now. How time flies!
Mum had phoned me yesterday from home, informing me that Dad has had a relapse and was taken to hospital where he was diagnosed to be in a serious condition. He was losing his battle with big C. She had urged me to come back home without delay. I took the first flight home. He had been ill for some months now, but I never thought that it was that serious. However Dad was a fighter; he would not give up easily. “Please God let him live!” I murmured as I looked at our old, fading photo once again.
I was eager to be at the hospital and see Dad. I remembered how he always encouraged me to improve my position in life; he gave me confidence to overcome everyday problems; his words of wisdom still rang loudly in my ears – “Don’t judge a book by its cover”; “You cannot stop the future and you cannot rewind the past”; “the Lord works in mysterious ways”; “A stitch in time saves nine”; “take care of your pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves”; and so many others, all with a meaning and a lesson.
The plane had now landed in Malta. The sun, as predicted by the pilot on flight, was blazing. I alighted from the plane, passed through customs, found myself at the ‘Arrivals’ lounge, dragged my small luggage outside the terminal and hailed a taxi.
“Mater Dei hospital”, I directed the driver. He looked at me a second time. It’s not often that a flight passenger takes a taxi direct to the hospital. “I hope everything’s all right Miss” he said in an attempt to console me. “Yes, yes “, I replied looking blankly away from him. I was dropped at the entrance, hurried inside and asked for directions at the reception. “Follow the ‘Blue’ line, second floor.” They told me. I followed, as instructed, took the lift and again asked for the ward. “Second room on your right,” they told me. My feet felt as heavy as lead but I hurried on.
I saw him as I entered the ward. How frail he has become, I thought. Mum was by his side, holding his hands. I tiptoed in quietly. “Hi Dad, Hi Mum” I asked and went straight to embrace them both. I opened both my arms and held them close to me.
“Oh Jennifer, Jennifer!” exclaimed my Mum. “I was telling Dad that you were on your way”. She looked relieved to see me. I kissed Dad on both cheeks, held on to his hands and asked “How are you Dad?”
“I’m fine Princess”, he said. “They are fussing too much over me really, I’ll be out of this hospital in no time, you mark my words”. But he did not look fine to me. Propped up in his hospital bed, he looked a shadow of his former self. His pyjamas looked two sizes too big for him.
We sat there, the three of us, occasionally interrupted by the nurse who came in to give him an injection, adjust his bed equipment and to mark his note board, which hung by his bed. “It’s so nice to see you Princess”, he said to me as he looked at me with his loving eyes. “Listen Dad” I replied. “I came across an old holiday photo a few days ago. The one taken at Golden Bay where you’re balancing me on your shoulders, remember?” “Of course I remember” he said. “You were only eight years old and as light as a feather”.
“Dad, you’ll win this battle, I know. You and Mum and I will walk out of this hospital together arm in arm like we used to do years ago”, I said, convinced that he’d win and pull through in the end. His fingers tighten around mine. He smiles at me the way he always smiled at me and, suddenly, I have to struggle to keep back the tears. “I’m going to beat this thing, you know”, Dad whispers as I bend over to kiss his cheek. I doubted whether he really meant it or whether he wanted us to believe that there was some hope after all.
He looked so tired, so worn-out and so in pain, that I felt so sorry for him. I wanted, at that moment, to encourage him as he used to encourage me so often when I was younger. “I know you will”, I say with a certainty I felt in my heart. “Remember Dad, you are the Champion of Golden Bay. You will always fight like a champion!!”
Charles B. Spiteri
Mara ta’ 91 sena li kienet l-unika tarbija tal-familja tagħha, u li darba ħasbet ukoll li tidħol soru, issa tiftaħar li għandha 126 dixxendent.
Id-deċiżjoni aħħarija ta’ Peggy Koller li ma tidħolx f’kunvent wasslitha biex tiżżewweġ u saret omm ta’ 11-il tarbija.
Illum il-ġurnata, uliedha subien u bniet, il-proneputijiet (56) u l-proproneputijiet (59), kollha jgħidu li Peggy hi d-direttur soċjali tal-familja, li żżomm lil kulħadd infurmat b’kull ġrajja u ċelebrazzjoni tal-familja.
Bħalissa Koller tqatta’ kull tmiem il-ġimgħa tiġri għal xi gradwazzjoni, żwieġ, magħmudija jew ċerimonji oħra, biex żgur ħadd minn uliedha ma jgorr. Meta tiġi ġurnata li ma jkollha ebda appuntament, tagħmel ftit eżerċizzju fiżiku.
Hi u żewġha William iżżewġu fl-1942 u ħadmu bħala kummissjonanti f’Philadelphia. Kellhom il-Koller Funeral Home. Wara li William miet fl-2008, in-negozju tagħhom baqa’ jitmexxa minn tnejn minn uliedhom.
Charles B. Spiteri
Jingħad li dan it-tip ta’ kafè mibjugħ fil-ħanut Starbucks, hu l-aktar wieħed li jiswa flus. Fih 60 espresso shots u jiswa €41.20.
Is-Sexagintuple Vanilla Bean Mocha Frappuccino, li fih 128 uqija, kien ordnat fi Starbucks, Texas u aktarx li hu meqjus mill-kumpanija bħala li jżomm it-titlu tal-aktar xarba għolja li qatt kellhom għall-bejgħ.
Ix-xarba nxtrat minn klijent magħruf biss bħala Andrew, li qiegħed ir-ritratt tiegħu fuq Twitter, bit-tazza ġganteska bil-kafè u l-irċevuta li ħallas għalih.
Iżda minkejja li l-Frappuccino jiswa aktar minn €41.2, Andrew ma ħallas xejn għalih, peress li hu gold member, fil-programm ta’ lealtà lejn Starbucks.
Il-programm jippermetti lill-gold members jieħdu xarba bla ħlas ma’ kull 12 li jixtru, u dak li jieħdu jista’ jkun għoli kemm iridu.
Għalhekk seta’ jieħu kafè kbir kemm ried, u peress li kien jaf li ma kellhomx kikkra kbira biżżejjed, hu ħa miegħu wkoll it-tazza tiegħu fil-ħanut.
Din ix-xarba qabżet dik tas-sena l-oħra, li tqieset bħala rekord, fejn raġel xtara 48-shot Frappuccino, li sewa €34.43
It was the evening of the 10th of June of the year 2013. Just a week before my 77th birthday. I felt tired, maybe because of the heat of the day or because of the long walk I had just made along the new Dock No 1 waterfront. Or maybe it was my old age. Whatever it was, I felt weary and needed a rest. Immediately I entered home, I collapsed on the armchair. My heavy eyes soon closed and I was in the marvelous world of dreams …………….
…………….. I opened the gate of the garden, stepped slowly inside and found myself in a large open space which appeared to be a beehive of activity. On close scrutiny, I recognized it to be the large square outside old city gate in Valletta. The old three-arched gate stood behind me.
I moved forward. There were too many people moving about, some entering the City, others going out of it. The bus terminus was busy with the old different-coloured buses transferring people to and from the outlaying towns and villages. I noted that the people close to me wore old fashioned clothes and, despite it being summer, none of them wore T-shirts or the kind of clothes we usually wear at this time of the year. Most men wore light white straw hats or caps and the majority of women wore black drab clothes. What is this?
I also saw several horse-drawn ‘karrozzini’, all doing a roaring trade, filled up with people going towards Floriana and beyond. It was evident that these were not tourists but Maltese going about their daily business. On my right I saw a man in the corner selling newspapers. I went up to him and bought a copy of the ‘Times of Malta’. I scanned the front page briefly. There was news that the luxury ship ‘Queen Mary’ had made its maiden voyage and had arrived in New York on 1 June and that Italy had annexed Etiophia after its forces had occupied its capital Addis Ababa. I also noticed that the style of its presentation was different to the one I am used to. And, more strangely, the news stories were definitely not about the subjects I was reading about yesterday or the days before. Then, at the top right hand side of the paper, I saw the date – 10th June 1936! What is this?
My mind was in a whirl. As I looked around me I was thinking of what this might be. The only explanation I could find was that when I had opened the magic garden gate I must have been transported 77 years back in time. Amazing! I had read about ‘Star Gate’, the ‘Time Machine’, ‘black holes’ in space, time travelers and time warps. I was always intrigued by the scientist’s theory that if one were to travel at a speed exceeding that of light, then one would travel back or forward in time. Was this what had happened to me? Was the garden gate my ‘Star Gate?
At least I was at a place I knew well but at a time when my birth was one week away! I racked my brain to decide what to do in such strange circumstances. I recalled my mother saying that she and my father lived in Strada Buongiorno in Bormla during their early years of marriage. They would be the only people I know, even though they would not know me. Well, not yet! Not for another week at least! I decided to go and find them.
I took a green bus to Bormla. The city was familiar to me although very different from the Bormla I left only a few hours ago. Of course, this area around the dockyard was still in its pre-war state, of which I had only a bare recollection. I sought Strada Buongiorno, took the steps upward to No 15 and saw my parent’s house. I remember this house after it was reconstructed following its destruction by German bombs during the Second World War. What shall I do? What shall I say? These were the only people who could help me, maybe let me stay with them until I sort things out. But who shall I say I am? If I tell the truth they would certainly not believe me. And I would not blame them.
I used to have a very good rapport with my father. I would bare my soul to him, tell him the truth. I knew that he was well-read so maybe he could have come across some science–fiction article on time travelling. The problem was that I was 77 years old and he was just 29! My story would be hard to believe. I thought, however, that I could convince him of who I really was.
The door was open but the ‘ante-porta’ was closed. With trepidation I knocked and waited. Nobody answered. I knocked again a little harder. A young woman came and opened the ‘ante-porta’. She must be my mother! She looked at me, an old man, dressed somewhat different from normal. “What do you want?” she asked me in a gentle sort of way. Of course she did not recognize me. How could she? I did not exist yet! But I was sure that she was my mother. I recognized her from the old photos I have of her in my album. “Is Guzeppi in please? I am his friend and would like to speak to him.” I enquired.
She went inside and called my father who came immediately. “Hello”, he said, “who are you?” “Can we talk privately for moment please?” I pleaded hoping that he would not refuse me. I remember that my father was always a kind and gentle man, ready to help anybody who needed his assistance. Even many years after his death in 1961, people who realized that I was his son, would recall incidents when he had helped them in one way or another. They had spoken so highly of him that I felt so proud to be his son.
“Yes, yes, come in.” he said. We sat down on the armchairs in the sitting room. I remember that he himself had made all the furniture in the house. Although in actual fact I was his son, to anybody who could see us then, it looked more that I was his father or grandfather! “I have to recount a story which, I know, is so strange that it is hard for you to believe. But I pray that you believe me because I am saying the truth.” I said anxiously.
He looked at me, smiled as he often used to do, patted me on my knee and said. “I’m listening, I’m curious after what you have just said”, he replied. There, in the house I recall so well, I opened my heart to my father, telling him that, despite my aged appearance, I was actually his own son; that through some unexplained method of time-travelling I have been transported from the year 2013 to 1936; that in actual fact at that very moment in time I was not yet born!
My mother came into the room to see if we needed anything. A two-year old child, a boy, was with her. He must be my elder brother John I realized. I also noticed that she was pregnant. That must be me inside her, just another week before I am born and enter this world. Dad told her that it’s all right, we do not need anything and she left us again to be alone. “It’s so far- fetched, so unbelievable” he said. “But strange things happen and I believe your story”, he continued.
I was relieved at last. My father had accepted me as his son. He believed me. But, he said, that it would be best if we do not tell this strange story to my mother. For one thing, it would be difficult for her to believe the story. And for another thing, it would be a shock for her which would not be advisable in her present state of very-advanced pregnancy.
Dad accepted to accommodate me with the family for the time being. I was delighted and relieved. After a week, when Mum was ready to give birth, the midwife was called. I sat with my father and brother downstairs in the outer room while the midwife was assisting my mother to give birth. My father looked at me and smiled. It is a strange feeling. My father, still in his prime of life and I am an old man.
Then we heard a baby crying and the midwife telling father that he has another baby boy. My father and I looked at each other. I got up, shook hands with him and said, “I have just been born, there cannot be two of me at the same time, now I have to leave and find the gate which will take me back to 2013.” Dad and I had tears in our eyes as we hugged each other. “Take care son” he said “take care!” Then he darted upstairs to my mother’s room where my birth had just taken place.
………………………….. Then I woke up from my sleep, rubbed my eyes with my back hand and looked around me. I was back to where I had started before the adventure into the past where I had met my father, mother and brother. And where I just nearly met myself!
LABRÈ Skont l-għajdut tal-folklor Malti, San Benedittu Ġużeppi Labrè kien żar Malta u Għawdex. Skont it-tradizzjoni, matul din il-miġja l-qaddis kien żar is-Santwarju tal-Kunċizzjoni ta’ Bormla u dak tal-Mellieħa, u kien jitlob fuq it-taraġ ta’ San Ġakbu, fi Triq il-Merkanti. F’Għawdex żar il-Kunċizzjoni tal-Qala, il-Matriċi ta’ Santa Marija (illum il-Katidral), is-Santwarju tal-Grazzja u l-Kapuċċini, u kien ukoll jitlob fuq iz-zuntier ta’ San Ġorġ, ir-Rabat. Fl-istess belt hemm kappella fi Triq Fortunato Mizzi, qrib fejn kien hemm il-Kamra tal-Lampa, li jgħidu li kien jorqod fiha. Hawn illum hemm statwa ta’ dan il-qaddis. Sors: Anton F. Attard. Ara aktar fil-ktieb Bejn Kliem u Storja.
PENTIMENT Il-figura fantażma li tidher f’ċerti pitturi. Fil-pittura ta’ Santa Katerina, li hemm esebita fil-Mużew tal-Arti, il-Belt, il-pentiment li jidher hu marbut ma’ suġġett ta’ tema totalment differenti, li tittratta x’aktarx il-martirju ta’ San Pawl. Jidher għalhekk li l-istess tila li ntużat biex ikun impinġi dan il-qaddis reġgħet intużat biex issir ix-xena tal-martirju ta’ Santa Katerina ta’ Lixandra. Għaldaqstant dan mhux pentiment, għaliex biex ikun pentiment dan irid ikun ċaqliq tad-disinn tas-suġġett impinġi, hekk kif l-artist iħoss li għandu jbiddel il-pożizzjoni tal-figuri jew parti minnhom fuq it-tila. Eżempju ta’ pentiment fil-veru sens tal-kelma jidher fix-xogħol ta’ Guido Reni li hemm fl-istess mużew. Hawn jidher ċar li l-pittur ċaqlaq id-driegħ u l-minkeb ta’ Kristu. Mit-Taljan pentimento – bil-Malti dispjaċir (u għaldaqstant korrezzjoni).
LUĊERTU/LAĊERTU Muskolu li jinżel mal-koxxa ta’ wara tal-barri jew baqra meta dan jinqatel u jitqatta’ għall-ikel. Biċċa laħam li tinqata’ għat-tisjir min-naħa tal-wirk (il-ġenb warrani) tal-istess annimal. Bħala laħam din mhix l-ifjen parti biex tittiekel, anzi hi kkunsidrata bħala ta’ kwalità inferjuri, għax meta tissajjar din tibqa’ pjuttost xierfa biex tikolha. Minkejja dan, bosta jordnawha bil-ħsieb li jitfgħuha fil-borma ħalli tagħti togħma ’l-brodu, u hekk, xħin iddub bit-togħlija, tittiekel f’biċċiet żgħar. Il-luċertu jista’ jissajjar ukoll f’dixx fil-forn b’ħafna meraq. Mit-Taljan lacerto. Bl-Ingliż salmon cut of silverside jew rump roast.
