Not long ago, I read an article about an Albanian blood feud connected to their ancient code of honor known as the Kanun. The article mentioned a few salient features:
- A person’s besa is his word of honor, his sacred promise.
- In a blood feud, blood for blood means you’re probably going to bleed.
- Here’s an interesting one: women are a sack made to endure. I’m not sure if this is a testament to female fortitude, or an insult to their femininity. Or some weird Albanian affinity for sacks.
- If you ever get in a blood feud, as quickly as possible find a kulla to hide in. A kulla is a stone tower where you conceal yourself from the person trying to murder you, a handy alternative to the backyard treehouse.
The Glovun
On and on, it went. Reading about the code got me thinking. What if we Glovers had a code of honor? Let’s call it the Glovun. How would it work? We’d have to come up with our own special terms:
- Glesa: something I promise my wife I’ll do without actually listening to what she’s saying.
- Glardy: the habit of being late for all family events.
- Gulla: a place men hide to avoid chores.
I wanted to chisel the new code into stone tablets, hefty marble slabs that would last for years, and carve an ark to hold this familial covenant. Instead, I settled for the back of a napkin and a cardboard shoebox, formerly an ark for a very unconsecrated pair of sneakers.
I was off to a good start. It would be up to me to live by my new code.
You’ve Been Glesa’ed
As my mind wanders to thoughts of that night’s TV lineup – I have to catch up on “Daredevil,” but season three of “Mr. Robot” is now available for free on Prime – I sense the vibrations in the air indicating that sound waves are emanating from my wife’s mouth. They reach my ears and pass through me like the mass-less graviton. I catch the last sentence.
“So you’ll remember to take care of that, right?”
“Sure,” I say, a momentary glimpse of cognition in the haze, but then I’m back to daydreaming, doomed to never remember the event. The glesa was part of the Glovun. Three hours later, chore still undone, my wife appeared in the doorway of the den.
“I thought you were going to fold the laundry?” she said as she wide-eyed the mound of clean underwear heaved onto the couch.
“You’ve been glesa’ed!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m following the Glovun,” I said, “the ancient ancestral code of the Glovers.”
“Since when does your family have an ancestral code?”
“Since yesterday.”
She shook her head. “Just fold the laundry.”
Glardy Again
“I need a sweater,” I said and jumped from the car, “it’s a little chilly.”
“You had all morning to check the weather,” said my wife.
“One minute.”
My wife, knowing me as she did, said, “I’ll meet you out front.”
Fifteen minutes later, I jumped back into the car, which my wife had shut down ten minutes earlier. “What were you doing up there?” she asked.
How does one explain the rabbit hole I descend into, the trail from the car to the laptop to the fridge to the bathroom to the sink and finally to the closet to get my sweater? It takes as many convolutions as my cortex, as many sharp left and right turns as the folds of my brain. It’s a Sunday comic strip where my steps trace a dotted black line that goes up and down stairs and into all the rooms of the house, crisscrossing itself in multiple places.
I may have had trouble being on time in my past. I admit it’s been an issue, a vice, a personality flaw. Let’s just say it’s not my best trait. The best part of the Glovun though is that what was formerly a vice is now a virtue. What formerly was a random act of unintentional inconsideration is now a matter of personal fortitude and familial piety. What used to tick my wife off… well, still ticks my wife off. It’s immortalized in the Glovun: I’m not tardy. I’m glardy.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” I said.
“About time.”
Down in My Gulla
When my wife pulled in the driveway from the supermarket, I knew my afternoon of tranquility on the couch was about to end. I would have to get up, put on sneakers, walk to the car, grab an armful of groceries, haul them into the kitchen, and repeat.
It was time for me to retreat to my gulla. Yes, the gulla, the fortress where one generation of Glover men have retreated to erect an impenetrable wall against household chores. It’s my favorite spot in the house, the one place I can relax in peace and quiet, certain I won’t be disturbed. It has everything I need: a chair, a sink, a towel, some air freshener. Perfect.
My wife banged on the door. “I could use a hand out here.”
“In a minute.”
“A minute for you means a half hour.”
“I’m in my gulla.”
She stood outside, not a footstep leading away from the door. “You gave me your glesa you would help,” she said.
No! Not the Glovun! What choice did I have? “All right,” I said. Couldn’t a man even be the king of his gulla?
“And don’t be glardy.”
After, all, a man had to honor his glesa.
Codified
The Glovun is a powerful tool for good – in the hands of the right person. Me. How could my wife use it against me? Weren’t women a sack made to endure? To endure me, I suppose.
Anyone else have a personal code to live by?
Leave a Reply