Too 20th Century

Now you just can’t take someone as reclusive as I prefer to be, and have been for the last three years, and yank them away from familiar things and redeposit them in the fast lane without some thought, consideration, and re-orientation.

Now Christmas usually gives me a jolt. That’s when small discoveries and new discoveries are revealed to me that can be most puzzling.

The grandchildren come wrapped in tiny wires with little boxes with buttons and sometimes ear phones, maybe heart monitors, for all I know, and yatter at high speed in excited voices about the new gift. But despite all their garbled speech of excitement as they wave it in the air, I have no idea what it is, what it does, or what is so entrancing about it.

They rush past me at the stoop, head straight to my living room, seat themselves in a chair, plant the thing in their laps, and then go into a trancelike state. I can’t help but wonder if what comes up on the screen is nothing more than a hypnotizing silver ball on a string swinging back and forth and a low beep whispering in digitized voice, “You are getting sleepy, very sleepy….”

And there they stay in their trance-like state till dinner call. And when I ask, no one got a doll, no one got a truck, no one got a book, no one got a watercolor set, in fact no one got a thing that looks like anything from the 20th century.
___

I tell you this just so you realize how out-of-the-loop I really am. But I guess that is to be expected for someone who has avoided public places, shopping malls, and the whir of the city for several years now. It is enough for me to make the dreaded trip to town every two weeks. It is enough for me to stop on that dreaded trip at the one-person post office, the 2-clerk drugstore, and the 3-clerk grocery store.

But on New Year’s Eve, all that changed. Hub and I went to the city to stay with Youngest Daughter (YD) for a few days. Her house was quiet, warm, peaceful, like my own so I was grateful that for the first couple of days YD and Hub left me at home while they went on cruise about, gad about, shopping trips. But they are schemers and behind the façade of quiet submission to my desire to maintain the reclusiveness I am used to, they were scheming to get me out and about.
___

The sessions of re-orientation to get me back into the swing of modern life and the real world started New Year’s Eve with an introduction to the World of Wii. YD and I played Wii golf, tennis, bowling, and even jazzed for a while with Wii rock band with guitar strapped to my chest.

It was fun at the time, but when our performance wound up, it was a bit discomfiting for me. YD was loudly applauded for her singing, while I was rudely booed off stage. They said it had to do with my guitar playing – it most definitely did NOT!!

They’re a bunch of dummies. The notes I played are important and add depth and a sweet resonance to the music and I played them for that very reason. Though other band members skipped over them. I played Minor chords at mostly appropriate times. And Minor chords are not so 20th Century as the younger crowd may think!

In the Wii World, the Sporting Wii World, I paid little attention to the avatar gawkers watching our games. I was too involved in technique and accuracy to worry about those little people scurrying about me. They probably poked fun at me then as well (because I’m old and less than graceful of movement), but I was oblivious to their disdain.

Then we went to a Wii Village and hung out. I thought that would be nice. In my youth I always liked sitting in a food court in a busy mall and people-watching and that is more or less what we did.

Watching the avatar inhabitants, I noticed that they wore brightly colored clothes (rather out of vogue with fashion in the real world) but none wore lovely plaid or paisley. I noticed they did not cluster with close friends as real-life mall-crawlers do. I also noticed they walked about with determination, like persons of independent will, strong mind, and strong purpose. Clusters only happened by chance when walkways were overcrowded.

I smiled cause I could tell they were happy little villagers. Friendlier, in some oblique way, than people in real life. Though not clustered in gangs, or hand-holding couplets, they happily looked about them for reasons to approach and interact with others.

It was, for me, quite comfortable mingling there. More so than in real life in a crowded mall or airport. I had no underlying dark suspicions of them, or they of me. I fit in so easily. I had no fear of being followed, harassed, or having my open purse rummaged behind my back. It was a nice place to hang out. Really it was. And I had a comfortable feeling that here friendships could be easily formed.
___

The next day Hub and YD started a marathon of cruise about, gad about, shopping trips and sight-seeing tours. They took the puppies to the park, and came home from their frequent circuits full of gay laughter and adventure.

But then, oh yes, on the third day, having run out of excuses why I should, and could not go, I was compelled to leave the house. So that is when YD and Hub dragged me away for a dreaded shopping trip. I bumbled after them through parking lots and crowded aisles, (where did all these people come from?), with panicky fear that I might get lost. Of course neither would hold my hand – that would be too 20th Century!

Eventually we went to an incredible shop with every nature of kitchen appliance and furniture ever invented. Then as I followed close behind, YD paused by a large black recliner and told me to sit down and relax for a moment or two.

I leaned back in the comfy chair and as I began to unwind, something, or someone gripped both my legs firmly with a warm embrace. And then knuckles crawled up both sides of my spine in a rolling, circular movement.

When they reached the back of my neck, the knuckles unfolded and paddle-hands gave my shoulder blades and neck a patty-pat like those given in family hugs. They caressed the back of my neck at the sides slowly first, then rapidly, but still gently. They patted and circularly stroked my back some more.

Meanwhile my legs were compressed in spurts that put me in mind of a forward making a pass at me under the table skirts in a crowded bar. My feet were elevated gently and then lowered. I felt the warmth of the other body caressing me. No pinch of the thigh, but a gentle rub and firm nudge rather than pinch – and yes, it was located on the fleshy part of my upper, outer thigh.

After a few minutes, the chair released its grip on my legs and pulled away and I knew my lover had left. I wanted him to come back. I wanted to oil my body and sit naked in that chair. (Did I say that out loud?)

Now maybe another day when tempers are worn thin, I might not have reacted as I did. But today was a particularly good day. I was so enjoying the company of both YD and Hub once I realized they were not going to allow me to get lost. They were both so affable. In extreme good humor and so mindful of my comfort that when we exited the shop, I looked sideways at Hub and grinned.

I had no wish to purchase that chair. None at all. And I knew that back home no dogged and unsurpassable niggling yen would rear whispering without abatement, “I want and need that chair.” That isn’t going to happen because I have all the delights of that chair in easy reach – though so 20th Century it may be.

I have the comfort of such caresses without spending in excess of two grand to get a warm hug, a patty-pat and a wee nudge in the fleshy part of my thigh. The chair is good, but somehow it still lacks something in the ambiance, though I have to admit, what it lacks is not easily understood or described. And seems to me, without a strong sense of inner soul, and spiritual intuition, one could too easily supplant the delights of one with the other – and perhaps find warmth and human comfort as much in a chair as in a physical embrace.

But I think you now see what is happening here. Through all these experiences I am getting up to speed. Getting back in the loop of life outside of my own reclusive world of reading, blogging, and weaving in knit stitch, crochet stitch, and tatting stitch, threads of 20th Century nostalgia.

And so then we went to another shop. Here we looked at virtual gardening lamps and plant trays. One growing kit was half-price although there was only one left. We bought it. Hub and I brought it home. Seeded some tomatoes in the magic, dirtless, compounds of nutrition, stabilizer, water, heat, and light. I picked up the empty box to discard it and saw written on the box, "Dirt is so 20th Century”

So despite all that I have done, despite all that I have seen, despite the avatars that sought to draw me in, despite the chair that wanted to love and comfort me, sadly I choose to remain in the 20th Century. I happen to like plaids and paisley, minor chords, flesh to flesh patty-pats, and dirt. But I wouldn’t mind having a few avatar friends if they are as dear to me as my blogging friends are!

Still A Valentine's Hit!

The other day we made a trip even more dreaded, than the dreaded trip to town. We did the long haul. A trip to the city!

Now part of my dismay in making long car trips is the discomfort of sitting on the low seats in the car. My knees and legs cramp, my back aches, my hip complains, and then for days thereafter all these body parts sustain sympathy pains that lead to chronic discomfort for a long time.

But that’s not all. When we hit the road for a long haul, Hub drives at a ruthless speed while I grip the arm-rests in the car, and hang on for dear life. Complaining diplomatically or non-diplomatically is of no help. Hub sets in his mind an agenda of arrival and departure that he MUST meet, or beat (which is even so much better).

But I have discovered one thing. The only cure is distraction. If I can manage to distract him with a provocative story that baits his interest, he eases up on the gas feed.

So on the way to the big city, as we blew in and out of the small communities and towns along the way, I could not help but notice the overflow in shop windows of Valentine goods. Chocolates, flowers, lace hearts, bandit bears, satin negligees, etc. And in shop windows, and on sandwich-boards and bill-boards, bold-lettered reminders for Valentine suppers, dances, and suggestions for honoring the day.

Unable to find subject matter for a story that could grip Hub’s attention, I was close to tears with fear at the incredible speed that we were traveling on the open highway. When the car went into a skid on an icy corner, I felt such panic I was now grasping at straws.

At this point I lightly touched Hub’s arm and said, “Listen to me, Hub. I’m going to only say this once, and you best be paying attention.”

So now I’ve got his attention and quick, quick, I must say something that will distract him from the foot-feed. Then with no forethought, out of my mouth came this clumsy verse:

“You can forget my Birthday,
And I won’t give a twit
You can ignore me at Christmas,
I’ll not get in a snit,
Our Anniversaries - forgotten,
I don’t give a rip,
But Valentine’s Day
I NEED to know…
I’m (still) a HIT!”

That wee bit worked like a magic chant. Hub eased up on the gas immediately.

Suddenly we slowed to a reasonable speed and for once in my lifetime I didn’t have to tell a long story of excitement and daring equal to a Clint Eastwood Movie for him to continue down the road at a slower pace.

As for me, my mind went from terror to relieved confidence in his driving as we continued our trip with him driving like a senior should drive – smoothly, cautiously, carefully – contemplating with fascination, no doubt, the provocation of what I had just said. Road noise diminished and all I could hear now was the slow grate of wheels turning in his head.

______

And what did Hub give his Valentine? A pair of lovely new hiking boots! Guess I’m still a HIT!

Of Liars and Loves

Liars, all of them. All of those strong-minded women who always proclaim they did the right thing. They married the right man and chose the right career. And that they chose every path in life through wise choice.

They smugly consider themselves as the pinnacle of wise choices and wise intelligence. They pretend even failures happened by choice. And although that much might be believable, they go way too far when they adamantly insist that they are never haunted, in their minds, by any ‘what ifs?’ over ex-loves.

They are dismayed that I would even ask them if they have regrets about any events in their lives. What a stupid question when every choice was made with such intelligence and forethought?

Well, they can deny it as adamantly as they like. But I don’t believe it, not for a minute.

I tell a different story. Yes, I have never regretted the life I’ve led, the husband I wed, but I have to tell you, if we’re going to be totally honest, I have engaged in ‘what ifs’. And those what-ifs have led to more than forty years of a haunting of my reality, my night-dreams, and my day-dreams. And what’s more, the haunting is the conjured up image of an ex-love and I hesitate to admit it, but it is true – an ongoing love.

He might have been my first love. I’m not certain now. It was so long ago. But, I tell you true, I have never before or since had such a crush. This man took up permanent residence in my soul the very first time I saw him and nothing could chase away his image from my dreams, mind, or imagination. Hub is a maniac driver, but so was he. Still no matter how fast he drove, he could not drive himself out of my mind or affection.

When Michael J. went from black to white, I could not help but ponder for a time if Hub could have a face-transplant to make him look like my lover-haunt.

I want to describe my dearest love but words fail me. All I can say is that each time I saw an image of him, I felt so warmed by the presence I perceived. The first explosion of affection was sparked by incredibly soft, oh so sensual lips.

Where are the words? I can’t find the words. Maybe there just aren’t any for this circumstance. It sounds so dumb and inadequate to say that his lips radiated a pull like a powerful magnet. No matter whether his lips were compressed with rage, hurt, or fear, it was impossible for those lips to successfully hide their strength and beauty and softness and warmth.

Eyes, blue eyes, with the same attributes as his lips. The same magnetism, and intensity. Tiny pools set within that handsome face, small and crystal blue, but so overwhelming to me that I was swept away in them as if by a monster flood. It was as if, between the sensuous lips and the blue eyes – as soft, meaningful, caring, and loving as those lips – that the sight of him set off a pressurized tension that tugged at every fiber of my flesh, bone, and soul, and every cell and follicle of my being.

And although that swagger when he walked, was a wee tiny bit less endearing than those eyes or lips, still it could not be ignored.

And although I love Hub dearly, although I’m appreciative, although he’s special, I still must confess that my reality, and my daydreams and nightdreams, are haunted by ‘Hud’, more often than Hub. And that, dear friends, was not a spelling error.

Those women I spoke of earlier in this rant, who so quickly say they have never made a regrettable choice would probably call these admissions immoral, uncharitable, sinful, deceitful, and a host of other malicious names. They would call my honesty vain pettiness and my admission of such pettiness, crude and sinful betrayal within the context of a monogamous relationship.

But what they need to understand, if they have the withal to understand it, is that Hub and I do not have what is termed an ‘open-relationship’ in today’s modern-speak lexicon. We have an ‘open relationship’ in the context of what those words originally meant. In our archaic configuration, an ‘open relationship’ means brutal honesty about all things.

So with that philosophy in place, Hub does not need to say, “I know in your past you have loved others, but do you still love someone more than me?”

He’s always known without asking. He knew when we were courting, he knew the day we got married, and he knew last week, last year, last month. He has always and forever known that I have loved someone more.

But for your edification, if he were to ask, I would be compelled to say with brutal honesty –

“Yes”. You know that. You know that I always have, and always will, love Paul more than you!”

______

Paul Newman passed away on Friday. I cannot help but weep. I am sad, but so is Hub. Hub is sad for me because he knows how much I’ll feel the loss for today and for all time…

The Stolen Smile - CONCLUSION

6. The Fullest Understanding of Destiny

One day, a lifetime later, after most of the stages of my life were past—a greater more enduring love, followed by marriage, children, and job retirement , I went to a busy restaurant for lunch.

And while sitting there alone in a far corner of the restaurant, I heard a hearty soul-tingling laugh. I looked and saw blue eyes, blond hair, and a smile. Hair and eyes—slightly paled, yet remotely familiar. But the smile? Still the same. And yeh, next to him, though so much older now, the thief that took him.

Another old friend from ages past was in the restaurant that day. He moved silently behind my chair and tapped me on the shoulder. Then he leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Do you know who that is?”

“Yes,” I said somewhat bewildered but understanding that he asked because he remembered how sweet we had once been in old, old history.

I looked furtively. Not wanting Gary to see me looking at him and he looked furtively, not wanting me to see him looking at me. But more importantly, I didn’t want the thief to see us looking at each other. It might give her some kind of sick joy that I would heartily disapprove of. She well knew years ago before she ever took him that he was mine.

Memories flooded back of Gary’s shiftless, homeless ways. Living in his truck. Wearing those dirty worn clothes. But even yet I found nothing disparaging in remembering that. But somehow he had lost all that appeal the way he looked today. Slick and polished and done up so mighty fine that I was doubtful, in some stupid unreasonable way, that he had ever even known the Gary I knew.

I felt emotionless. Obviously destiny had left more dots than dashes and given me complete healing for my pain.

The smile, of course, had never faltered. Somehow I knew it never would. The eyes that always twinkled with merriment still twinkled in that same old way. I heard the contagious joy in his laugh at something someone said over at his end of the room. I even found myself chuckling. And incredibly, I even felt the weak helplessness that physically hits after a hearty laugh, though I didn’t even know the joke.

But, except for that, I was emotionless. And despite the pain revealed in this story, I felt no regrets. How could I when with the wisdom of age, a flash of uncanny intuition made me realize the blessing of all that occurred? How sad life would have become if our relationship had not been rudely interrupted? How failed our hopes and dreams? It would have been such a waste and such a sad affair.

Because I am well aware that what I needed then, and still need now, was a giver of support and stabilization. Practical counsel, and a wise protector. And evidently, that was what Gary needed as well.

We were both flailing weaklings with no practicality. Embedded in nothing more than wisps of dreams and star-dust. More than anything else, we needed the strength of another to prop us up. And in that moment it was obvious to me how hopeless and foolhardy it would have been for us to attempt to be supportive of each other.

And so, if you don’t want to call it destiny, that’s fine with me. But some unseen force, more favorable than I could have imagined, sidetracked what might have been. And like God, when he surveyed the work of creation, I looked at all of it – the beginning, the middle, and the end, and “behold, it was very good.”(Gen. 1:31).

The first work of the creation of this old world provided generous life-provisions of plants, animals, light, and water. And within the mimicry of these natural blessings, I too was given generous life-provisions of family, love, sustenance, care, and all other needs.

And so, I am extravagantly pleased and excessively content. I have no complaints and neither should he. I have my strong and trusted caregiver and protector, and he seems to have his.

That’s how it should be, shouldn’t it?

___

I finished my sandwich and gathered up my coat and purse in order to leave the restaurant. I could feel the intense heat of eyes watching me and I promptly tripped over the table and scattered the contents of a half-filled coffee cup in my lap and in the scramble worsened the situation by adding to it my unfinished fries and a full glass of ice water.

But so what? Those kinds of things can happen any day of the year, any time, in any restaurant.

THE END

The Stolen Smile - 5.

5. The Theft Caper

In small towns trains chuffy in and out on the tracks, and though there be little employment, the rumor mill never stops grinding and the employees of that ‘institution’ are the most dedicated that you could ever hope to find. They work their craft from dawn to dusk, day in and day out at coffee shops, at grocery stores, at service stations and at street corners.

And now through the endless labor of the rumor mill, I very soon discovered something that rippled through fault lines and cracked everything in my world, wide open into chasm and chaos.

The nose that pointed at street lamps didn’t stick around long even though she had so easily secured a well-paid and enviable job. Gary was driving ‘her’ car one day and in less than three weeks the platinum sorcerer quit her job, moved to the city, rented a fine apartment, and took my sweet smiling Gary-boy with her. That’s what the laborers at the rumor mill told me.

In my bitterness I found myself thinking:

Maybe if he was seeking wealth, I wasn’t wealthy enough
Maybe if he was seeking virtue, I wasn’t virtuous enough
Maybe if he was seeking significance, I wasn’t significant enough
And maybe if he was seeking ‘succor’, I wasn’t ‘sucker’ enough.

I was helpless. All I could render from that news was that Gary had sold out. Made a bad deal. Bartered something much too valuable for comfortable winter accommodation, for a more nurtured stability, for escape from his father, for a truck payment, for a more settled existence, for restitution of all the sorrows that were masked, without healing, behind his happy smile.

But, all that aside, more heartbreaking than love gone awry is the realization that there is no way to fight back. With winter just around the corner and foreclosure so near at hand on Gary’s truck, the deck was stacked in the competitor’s favor.

Now I suppose you think if Gary were any kind of decent guy, he would have told me he wouldn’t be seeing me again. I’ve thought about that as well. But how silly is that for either of us to think that way? Of course he couldn’t tell me. I am a woman and I have the same instincts that other women have that go way beyond reason. The telling of it, with that everlasting smile on his face – God forbid.

Obviously for a time, Gary saw my own unique endearing qualities. Granted, I had no car and no money and if there is anything to be said for platinum hair, I didn’t have that either. And because I was still living at home, I could not offer Gary a warm place to stay. But I had other things to give me appeal.

I don’t mean to be vain and please forgive me for saying this, but you have to admit there is beauty in quietness, agreeableness, and gentleness. I liked to think that then, and even now, these qualities make me lovable to those who seek such qualities.

But if Gary had told me it was over, as most people doubtless think would have been the honorable thing to do – with his smile still in place, what beauty I have would have been forever lost.

If given that opportunity, I would have sought my own advantage. I would have instantly become a foul-mouthed, scrapping, kicking, punching, eye-ball ripping, platinum-hair-pulling demon. No it is better Gary didn’t tell me cause with no other weapons to do battle, my claws would have come out and after that Charlotte and I would both have been hurtin’ bad. With her on one side of the sidewalk, picking up her teeth with two broken arms, and me on the other side looking grotesquely ugly.

Women are the gentler sex, and too few realize there is no redemption after a display of satanic ugliness of heart and spirit. Once unleashed, no amount of make-up, cosmetic alteration, restitution, or remorse, not even God, himself, can disguise the ugliness. Nothing can erase it, nothing can cover it, nothing can contain it. It continues to bleed through with odorous rot from that evil dwelling place within.

And that contemplation somehow brings me to another thought concerning destiny that is seemingly unrelated.

Destiny is not a random occurrence. Nor is it a thing of fancy. Destiny aptly provides each one of us with uniquely measured portions of what we need for a reasonable balanced existence. Portions that align with the span of each life and time.

A kind of Morse Code made up of stretches of quick dots and delayed dashes. The dashes are open-ended and must be filled with external things like mother-love, nurturing, security, and appreciation. The dots are destiny-given internal resources that give us the ability to laugh, love, weep, heal, and move on.

They should form equalizing patterns of pain and healing but I think while Gary’s eternal smile was hidden from my view under the hood of that ol’ truck, he used up too much of his portion of creative endeavor. And never allowed the counterbalance of discouragement or sorrow or healing to kick in.

So he ended up with way too much aching disappointment locked away in the faulty progression of things. And way too much of the still outstanding-need from his boyhood, for nurturing care. And if I am right, with this imbalance something had to change.

Of course all of this only adds to my confusion. Leaving me unsure if it was a thief or destiny that forced us apart.

Nevertheless, the truth is, I never saw Gary again in that lifetime.

...Relationship concluded, but amazingly the story is not…

NEXT POST: The Fullest Understanding of Destiny

The Stolen Smile - 4.

Just a note to let you know this writing is a work in progress. For that reason there is a change in this post's title.

4. Fall’s Chill

It was Saturday afternoon, in late fall, and with winter coming there was a sharp chill in the air. The usual traffic threaded the streets in the dark colors of a small conservative farming community. Utility farm trucks – grain trucks, cattle trucks – and the odd town car in the conservative colors of black, navy blue, middling brown, and, of course, in the mix were a the usual allotment of old beaters with rusted fenders and rattling doors.

But then, what’s this I see? Here comes a sleek new car down main street. And it’s not conservative blue but a stunning silvery-blue chromed up like a sparkling gem. Like sun, blue water, sea foam and oxygen all mixed together.

Immediately I thought of Gary. Wishing he was there with me to see it. He would love, love, love it. With all that polish and shine. The motor humming so softly. Stealth-like, almost soundless, except for the soft duet of motor sounds and wheels scrunching on pavement grit. And with wheel hubs flashing in the sun.

Man, it was an exquisite car. Gary would have gazed and smiled in utter delight and laughed till he had me laughing as well. I just knew it.

It was lovely. As delightful as Gary’s smile. I saw the car regularly over the next few weeks, but Gary was never there to share that sight with me. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen Gary for two or three weeks. In fact, not since that first day I had seen the new dream car in town.

Of course the only reasonable explanation for why I hadn’t seen Gary was that he must have finally found regular work for his truck. That was good. That was what he hoped for. What with regular truck break-downs and sporadic hauls, he kept smiling, but he told me he was falling behind in his payments.

I knew too, with winter approaching, that Gary would soon need to find a warm hole in someone’s basement to nest in for the winter that could parallel the economics of a roll of sausage and a loaf of bread. I also knew with equal certainty that no matter how dire his situation, he would not go home or move back in with his dad.

But I couldn’t help worrying about Gary. Last time I saw him, he had a terrible chest cold that worried me, and I was certain that temperatures between dusk and dawn posed a threat of pneumonia if he continued to sleep in his truck.

Doctors say colds are never caused by marrow-seeping cold. They insist they are only caused by viruses. And yeh, sure thing, if you live in a world of controlled heat that is undoubtedly true. But if you live in a gravel truck, colds ARE caused from the cold. No viruses—too cold for viruses—only the cold.

But despite Gary’s free-spirited thinking, he had a will to survive as strong as any others. Besides he still visited the old hag at the service station and as much distaste as I had for her, I knew she would not let Gary loose if he came to her with a hacking cough and a fever. She would do something to remedy that.

So I quickly dismissed fears of Gary being deathly ill and reasoned that however long it took before I would see Gary again, I could wait it out.

Meanwhile, each time I saw the silvery sleek car, I checked out the driver. She was a stranger in town. A woman in her early twenties named Charlotte.

Charlotte had an arrogant turned-up nose and straight blunt-cut platinum-blonde hair. I would have formed no pro or con opinions but I couldn’t help but feel disgust when I saw her driving that beaut of a car around town with craned neck and her pointy nose aimed at street lamps rather than the road in front of her. If she had any charm, which I was certain she didn’t, it was only what she extracted by default from the ownership of that car.

But we weren’t talking about her, we were talking about Gary and it was beginning to seem that Gary had disappeared right off the face of the earth. There were too many days tracking one after another that soon turned into weeks and still no word from Gary. And of course with the transient kind of life he led, either on the road, or holed up in his truck somewhere, it was quite impossible for me to seek him out.

There was nothing for it but to wait for him to contact me. Hopefully it would be soon. My heart was beginning to ache for his warm smile. And my soul beginning to yearn for the heady joy I always found in his company. Each day I rose with hope that I would see him, and each night when I went to sleep I was forced to transfer that hope to the morrow.

But then one afternoon, several weeks later, I saw Charlotte’s shiny silvery-blue car at the end of the block. I saw it lurch to a sudden squealing stop at the corner. And as it headed round the corner and up the street, I saw it skid into an uncontrolled temporary zig-zag as wheels spun and dust flew. By God, the woman must be stupid drunk.

I was so surprised. Particularly because every other time I had seen her driving about, it was always slowly with the greatest of caution and care.

And furthermore, if that was Charlotte in the driver’s seat, she certainly looked much taller today. Today she wasn’t craning her neck and pointing her nose at street lamps. But the sun was low on the horizon and in the naughty glare of dust and sun, it was hard for me to see who was in the driver’s seat.

The tinted windshield and lowered sun visor hid most of the driver’s face. I could only see the lower part of the jaw. But what I could see was two lips locked in a happy grin. My heart caught in my mouth.

It was Gary. Alone in the blue cruiser and in the driver’s seat. Did you hear what I said? Gary was in the driver’s seat!

A sharp pain like a striking bullet flashed in my chest. My heart exploded into a million, zillion little pieces. How could he? Why would he?

Fall's chill slammed the marrow in my bones.

NEXT POST: The Theft Caper
(Am I rambling too much or do I still have a reader or two?)

The Stolen Smile - 3.

3. Hiding the Pain

It’s not that easy to build a profile of Gary. I can only tell you the one thing he told me, the few things others told me, and the many things I now know by wallowing in this little bit of nostalgia.

Gary told me his name. But he did not tell me about Jane.

Other things I readily knew because they were so self-evident. He loved trucks, carburetors, grease, oil, speed, and drift. He drove fast and while I hung on for dear life he showed me how if he entered a turn in the road too fast, the trick was to keep the car pulling, gradually going even faster, so that it would hold the road.

Others who knew him told me things as well. They told me his mother died when he was seven or eight years old. When he was old enough for crystal memories. When he was old enough for the pain to persist without abatement.

They told me his father was a successful professional. Schooled and universitied to the hilt. And that, from his father there was always pressure for Gary to follow in the same pre-set pattern, and with the sudden death of his mother, that pressure only increased. But Gary hated school and walked out of there in the middle of grade nine or ten. That made him, in every respect, a monstrous disappointment to his father. After all, there is only one rigid interpretation of success in this world, and that is education. And so, because of this, their relationship was thin and fragile. There was no nurturing in it and separation from each other was more preferable for both of them, than togetherness.

Gary had few friends. The one very close friendship he had struck me as very odd. He was incredibly fond of an old woman working as a cook at the gas station restaurant. She was crippled and walked with a heavy limp. She was hard of face and short on temper. But when Gary walked in, she scurried to him as if he was the most important person in her life. If he was pale, she checked his temperature with her cheek. She examined his hands for scratches or cuts. If there were any, they were immediately bandaged. She looked him up and down, checking his weight. She inquired for an accounting of all that took place since she saw him last. And in that exchange she interjected words of concern and caution about keeping well and safe.

And then, if her boss wasn’t around, she fed him. Generous portions of the best she could find in the restaurant kitchen. Steak, pies, fried chicken, seafood, nothing was too good for Gary. They had an understanding. If the boss was in they had a brief chat and Gary left. If the boss was out, it was old homeweek for Gary. And usually when he left there was extra soup or pie to go. And before he left she always gave him a tender hug with patty-pats on his shoulders and a warm kiss on the forehead.

Rather than seeing this relationship, as something that fulfilled needs Gary had never expressed, I just thought it all very silly. His friend never took very kindly to me, but I can’t say I was overly congenial towards her. When she spoke to me, her voice was always sharp and sassy. I only heard gentleness in it when she spoke to Gary. I thought her an evil old grouch. Two visits were enough for me and I told Gary that if that was where he planned to go, to go alone.

And so later, so much later, only the wisdom that comes from my own life experiences lead me to the realization that Gary’s childhood was an embodiment of pain and loss that he had no escape from. And because he was motherless, he was in sore need of the kindness that came from that old woman. But still, at the time, none of it made the least sense to me. Not with Gary’s permanent happy face and prevalent philosophy that mastery of life is about never revealing the pain.

While the rest of us groom ourselves in our finest clothes and allow ourselves the freedom of expressing disdain, to Gary, it mattered little what he wore as long as he kept all his personal pain sequestered within. And he was an expert at hiding it. Deserving of letters behind his name for the expert he was in this discipline to the fullest degree.

But behind those twinkling eyes and that broad smile there remained concealed, the injuries of motherlessness, and the pain of all the failures he was reminded of so often by his father. And if Jane had caused pain, that too was hidden. That big ol’ smile just went on and on.

____

Shortly after I met Gary, he bought an old beat-up truck. He stuck his head under the hood and there it stayed for a month or more. Working non-stop to get it into shape. Now he seldom went home. He slept in his truck. Lived in his truck, dining off a roll of sausage and a loaf of bread stashed under the seat. And when the gnawing hunger got too great, he was off to the old hag’s kitchen.

But with the acquisition of that truck, the smile got bigger than ever. I sat on the fender of that truck many long days and found incredible joy in his funny jokes and unbounded enthusiasm.

But yet again, I must remind you that I was too self-centered (as young people are prone to be), to take much interest in Gary’s work, or details of his existence. Nevertheless, and I am guessing now, when the old truck was finally ready to roll, I expect he got a few hauls that left him enough money to squeak a payment and replenish his truck pantry. His clothes remained grease-stained and plenty worn. Occasionally, in private, he’d drown all those sorrows I was so unaware of in a bottle.

But I never knew about those sorrows and never saw the bottle. In all the time I knew him I never saw, or met, the sorrowful boy within even though I spent so much time with him. All I ever saw was a funny boy with a beaming smile, an incredible laugh, and an easy manner that always set me to laughing as well.

It is not quite possible for me to convey to you, the enchantment of the company of someone who is chronically joyful. Whose presence is always uplifting and pleasant. You may shake your head and say that is not possible. But it is and it was.

But though the smile never faltered, some other things did. And I will tell you about that in my next rant...


NEXT POST: The Theft Caper Fall's Chill

The Stolen Smile - 2.

...and so, the story continues...

2. Dreams and Stardust

A year or two quickly passed. Jane moved away but somehow that didn’t much matter.

Then one summer day I went with my family to a Public Camping Resort on the shore of a distant lake. The campground was full too overflowing, but there was no one there that I knew, so I spent most of the morning people watching. And people are funny you know.

I still remember how silly it seemed to me that one campsite was so engaged in arranging a privacy nest that they busied themselves like ants fortifying and closing off their firepit and table area. Too busy doing that to scruff their bare feet in the sand, or to breath in campfire smells or moist air off the water. Obviously they were not there to soak up the scent of pine or the open view of nature.

You probably know the one’s I mean. The one’s that string up tarps and build faux-blinds clothespinned and clipped together in order to gain seclusion and privacy from the view of others. Holiday trailers and tents are good but still more privacy is needed. I laughed as I sat in our ‘own yard’ and observed how all eyes at every other site were glued on that campsite. And how those few trailing down to the lake and back slowed and looked so intently.

All of us, including me, waiting for the auspicious moment when a breeze would separate those carefully arranged canvas flaps to reveal what was so necessary to hide. Whatever it was, it must be more intriguing than what the Queen carries in that purse she always brings to even the most intimate of occasions in her smallest ‘sitting room’ and tucks, and strokes, and pets, and positions it beside her, with greater care and affection than she gives her corgi dogs.

Guess I’m not like that or maybe I wouldn’t be telling you this story. The parallel here being that I’m letting you see in my purse (but don’t be taking my crown polish), and I’m not worrying about the crack in the faux blinds.
____

Campgrounds give the appearance of being a fellowship but they are really not. And although only a very few are excessively intent on privacy, the rest of us seek it as well. We want the invisible walls of our area to safely keep out the neighbors, and we want the neighbors to mind their own business in tactful ways. On this particular day, the water was too cold for swimming, too slimy as well, the fish were not biting, and so as the day began to drag on, there seemed little amusement to be had. Most of us just huddled in our separate groups as if tethered to tables and firepits. Too many of us gazing about, tapping fingers on tables, or poking fires with a stick, and wondering what to do next.

But then, down the trail came a youth dragging a sack of ball-playing equipment toward a seldom-used ball diamond, heavy with long grass. And people followed him as if he was a Pied Piper proceeding through a small town. I love playing ball and fell into line with the others.

We gathered at the diamond, and in that group of strangers made self-introductions without awkwardness. There was urgency in forming an easy community so the game could get started. Introductions were made more swiftly and efficiently then if they had been planned and scheduled.

One of the young fellows who introduced himself was very tall with the bluest eyes I had every seen. His blond hair framed his forehead like a silvery-gold crown. His jeans were old, tattered, grease and oil stained. And so was his shirt. But how could anyone notice with his ready laugh. His twinkling blue eyes, his glad nature, and his broad permanent smile.

His name was Gary.

And so the game began. We had such great fun. We played ball until twilight. Until there was no chance of being able to catch or hit the ball without night vision. And then, when we finally wrapped it up, Gary offered to drive me home and I said “yes”.

After that day, Gary and I were best friends. ‘A number’, is what they called it. And for the rest of that summer I laughed more than I have every laughed and smiled more than I have ever smiled.

This is how life is supposed to be in the midst of all the exuberance of youth. Dreams and stardust. And that’s what it was. I hoped the fun would never end. But it was temporary, and before I tell you more, I need to tell you more about Gary.

NEXT POST: Hiding the Pain

The Stolen Smile - 1.

Prologue
Life is so short and there are stories yet to be told. Stories, in the writing, that seem of no great worth, but nevertheless intriguing because they sketch human behavior in ways never anticipated.

Things happen that aren’t supposed to happen. Even the best of times are threatened by the instability of fault lines hidden somewhere that can shatter crystal, crack solid ground, and shake up security so that what once was, no longer is. Such is the situation in this story.

And so I tell it to show how deception can happen without a deceiver, and theft can happen without a thief.

I. THE NECKLACE AND THE PORTRAIT

It all started when girlfriend, Jane, and I were at Summer Camp. One afternoon we were sprawled on Jane's bunk having a merry chat when a Camp Counselor came to the dorm and announced that Jane was wanted at the grounds gate.

Now it may not be important to the story, but I must tell you about Jane. She could have easily doubled for Sophia Loren. She had large dark eyes, lovely tawny glowing skin, a tiny pinched waist, and massive hair that she back-combed and twirled till it was in an impossible state of casual muss and flattering beauty. She had a lovely figure, a very straight back, and she walked with delightful prancing steps.

So on this particular day, when the message came that she was wanted at the gate, Jane gave that massive head of hair another scramble with her slim fingers and pranced with her special grace of movement out the door.

I was curious who might be at the gate but I could only think that it was relatives come to bring Jane a message from home. I knew her Mother had been very ill and that the message could be dire, so I waited patiently where I was. Thinking that whatever the message was, it was likely to be a private matter. But when Jane was gone for such a long time, I finally went to investigate.

She was not at the gate but two younger children in the vicinity told me that a tall girl with too much hair had driven away with a ‘cute’ guy with blue eyes and blond hair.

Who? What? How could this happen? This is most mysterious. All Jane’s tribe are tawny skinned like her. With dark eyes and dark hair, so who could it be? Mysterious, too much — because obviously, if there was a fellow in Jane’s life, she would have told me. I knew that because Jane and I share every thought, happening, and minute of our lives, and she never told me about any blond fellow.

Considerable time passed. In fact I was back in the bunkhouse washing up for the evening meal when Jane finally came dancing in the door. Looking so pert in her snug sweater and blue jeans. But she had on something else that she was not wearing when she left. Around her neck was a glistening gold chain, and from that striking chain hung an even more striking green stone set in gold filigree.

I gasped at the beauty of Jane’s necklace as she twirled about the room in a frenzy of joy. Her emerald flickering and tossing around flashes of light.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

As I said before, Jane and I were best friends. Our friendship was a strict synergy of two impoverished teenage girls. A friendship of two rooted in the same fruitless and insignificance that found meaning and import by clinging to each other. The whole context of our existence was in shared simplicity and sameness. And mutually it was well understood that we only get to look from afar at the finer things life has to offer. Neither, wishing for or expecting, dazzling gems like the one that now adored Jane’s breast.

In response to my question, Jane said simply but with too much gaiety, “Gary gave it to me.”

Now before I tell you how I reacted to Jane’s response and sudden rise in posterity with that necklace, I must first relate to you my own limited experience with “boy friends” and gifts.

Only a few months before the situation of the emerald necklace, I met a fellow, Matthew, at a friend’s house. There was no sparks, and I had no interest in him but I made an effort to be sociable and polite. And somehow out of that effort, came a long conversation between Matthew and I. About nothing more than paintings and abstract art. But somehow, from that abstraction, came an invitation for me to go to the movies with him.

I knew I shouldn’t go, but I loved that feel-good flush when I could announce to my friends, “Can’t go for a pop with you tonight. I have a date. We’re going to the movies.”

And then later, even more feel-good endorphins, when my friends show up at the movie theater to see if what I said was true, and it is.

So Matthew and I went to the movies and a week later he again invited me to the movies. Again I went, but this time, after the movie, when Matthew delivered me to my door, he passed me a lovely gift-wrapped package that I quickly opened with much excitement and anticipation while Matthew cautioned me to careful. “It’s fragile,” he said.

That anticipation was soon ended. I wished I hadn’t been so careful. Inside was a small teddy bear and an overly large framed photo of Matthew.

I was rather taken aback. Quite honestly, I was shocked. Rather than say anything untoward, I told him quite insincerely (though the tiny bear was cute), how beautiful his gifts were and took them home. But when I got home, and contemplated what was going on, I decided that obviously he was reading something into our friendship that absolutely wasn’t there. So a few days later, I called him and told him I needed to talk to him.

Now if there was any chance of me becoming romantically interested in Matthew, (which there wasn’t), it was certainly out the window when he gave me that picture of himself, with a gilded frame, looking way too elegant in a three-piece suit. I guess to some it would have been a nice picture, maybe to his parents, but it wasn’t to me. The picture set off a clanging echo in my head of someone with way to much ego to be a caring and authentic friend. So when Matthew came to my place in response to my phone call, I met him on the step with a brown paper bag. In that bag was the portrait and the teddy bear.

“Matthew,” I said, “I want to give these things back to you.” And then, trying to be firm yet dignified, I said, “My place is very small. I really don’t have a nice place to display them. So I would like you to take them back.”

Well nothing prepared me for what happened next. Matthew, a six-foot tall Hulk-Hogan, folded right there and began to silently weep and then softly sniffle and then actually sob.

‘Oh for cryin’ out loud. Now what do I do?’

Despite my astonishment and bewilderment I had a determination, and I must not let it be derailed. Not knowing what else to do, I pushed the bag back at him with a rather vicious shove. “Don’t drop it,” I said, “it might break!” Then I quickly ran back inside and shut the door.

Behind the curtain I watched him leave. I felt sad, bad, and yes, rather awed at what had just taken place as I secretly watched him shuffle to his car, mopping his face with his sleeve. Was I to blame for such a mix of misery and affliction or was this all a simple misunderstanding?

I suppose I was to blame for agreeing to go to the movies in the first place. But surely it was right of me to attempt to correct that error by doing the honorable thing and returning his gifts. Maybe it wasn’t even an error on my part. Maybe the error was his.

The stupidity of giving me a picture of himself. That made ‘the return’ a whole lot more personal than I wanted it to be. It’s not possible to explain why one doesn’t want a picture. How hard can it be to break up a casual friendship? It’s easy. That is, as long as there are no bloody pictures involved. The old phrases that work well for other things don’t work for photos. i.e. – I’m allergic to stuffed animals, neck scarves, and jewelry…and like, glass and photo paper?

There just isn’t a charitable way to return a photo without causing pain to those types that are bent on giving you one. You either give it back or tear it up. And even common vulgarity cannot deliver the wrenching blow that those acts deliver. But enough already, about Hulk Hogan and his tears. It’s bloody time to get back to Jane’s necklace.


So now, in response to my question of who gave it to her, she said, matter-of-factly, “Gary did.”

“And who is Gary?” I asked, wanting to yell and stomp my feet with frustration. I’m standing here with my closest friend, who has suddenly split, without notice or conscience, the weld that had for most of our young lives lent strength to both of us. And who neglected to share with me, despite our special alliance, any whispered details about a young man, obviously pertinent to her life, that she was involved with. And who didn’t think enough of me to introduce me to him while he was there. And now flaunting that necklace.

That is a lot of betrayals all packed in together. I suppose there isn’t much point in telling you I’m not normally aggressive, but in that moment I wanted to slap her silly.

She went on, “Gary is just a guy. Nobody special. But he’s crazy about me. He totally worships and adores me. Problem is—and that would be his problem, not mine—is that I don’t feel the same about him,” she added, as her bottom lip curled with visible contempt.

I suddenly felt as if I was having this conversation with a stranger that I had just met. Could such evil rawness be coming from my friend, Jane? I could hardly believe she could be so blatantly insensitive to a young man’s devotion and no doubt, naïve vulnerability. And, although at the time, I made no conscious connection in my mind between her situation and the unraveling of my friendship with Matthew, I suddenly felt a compassionate and aching sensitivity that focused on Gary. Even though I had never seen him, met him, or known him.

____

I guess even the mutual understanding, of seemingly kindred spirits, cannot alter the fact that young women are competitive with each other. Unfortunately, I had nothing I could compete with except the old stand-by of my own self-righteousness. So I curled my own bottom lip with a sneer while breathing a silent supplication that I was certain would make me feel so much better than her with her gleaming golden chain.

“Lord, let me find love. Let me be happy. But never let it be Jane’s way.”

It was truly unfortunate, but amidst Jane’s gladness, and my sadness, our close friendship was irredeemably altered that day. The trusting openness we shared left in tattered shreds.

And soon after that the Jane and Gary thing ended as well. It was not Jane who told me. The news came on some other incoming wind. So I didn’t know why or how it happened. I could only assume her deceitfulness tripped her up and eventually Gary caught on.


When circumstances make it quite impossible to compete with other’s successes, human nature offers us comfort and a counter-balancing defense though self-righteousness. Self-righteousness provides an internalization of soul-talk that whispers stroking words of adoration heavily punctuated with slanderous things about the competition.

And so now, I and my self-righteousness, jointly decided we are indeed pleased and fairly certain, that when the Jane and Gary thing ended, it was not Jane that made the cut.

…the saga continues…
NEXT POST: Dreams and Stardust

A Refurbished Relationship - Conclusion

HUB RETURNS

When Hub finally came home he looked humbled (maybe, if my guess is correct, even a little frightened). He gave me a little stuffed animal with a sheepish grin. Obviously the little boy within was wounded and shocked by my tirade, but the ego of the old man, was absolutely flattered. Surprised, astonished, and very much pleased by the positive validation that he remains after so many, many years, so ultra-important to an old woman.

.....

FINAL THOUGHTS

In all this there is convolution. The most complex convolutions link faith and fear. And my convolution is this.

It is certainly true that cell-phones make us feel in control and radically alleviate concern when we are separated from each other. But at the same time, that positive effect may have a negative side. With every new confidence we lose the sweet softness that once precluded it.

Do you remember how often on the beach we used to go over to our children and touch their arms, forehead, hair, and give their hat a tug and speak to them with gentle concern about staying in the sun too long? That’s what we used to do – a whole lot of touching a whole lot of stroking. But with Sun-block lotions, we now sit on the beach and ignore the children at play, without concern.

Likewise, with nursery monitors, as parents there is no longer the need to stroke, touch, and check on babies with the comforting tap of footsteps in the hall, a touch on the face, and the comforting smell of our presence in the room.

A cell-phone gives us a similar confidence. Quick-time electronic access insidiously closes down the emotions that used to fire synapses in the brain of loneliness and concern that in turn fired warm and fuzzy neurological impulses.

So is it possible that cell-phones give a confidence that permit us to inadvertently disregard how touched we are by relationships and how cherished they are? I never realized before today that a simple gizmo, (ie. cell phone) could so deeply affect, and toughen up, otherwise tender thoughts.

We now have the power of omnipotence that can manifest all things. With cell-phones, there remains no need to cling to the traditional mind transmissions of past generations. In the pre-cell era, rather than voice-mail, we used internal supplication in situations of isolation and fear.

Fear, like the concern in my story, forced us to find something within ourselves that propped up faith. A surprising thing, since we swore we were ‘without faith’. But suddenly here comes faith rushing in. Encompassing any and all unseen forces of heaven and earth to stand guard and protect cherished ones.

With no other way to cope we used to pull aside ‘the atheist’ within and demand he do his part in the effort to remedy our fears by pretending we had faith until faith was realized. So with that thought, is it at all reasonable to conclude that cell-phones have contributed in an inauspicious way to the death of God and spiritualism?

I really don’t know, but one thing I definitely do know. I can’t tell Hub this story.

It would only further enhance his status around here and goodness knows he’s had enough stroking with the passion of my tirade and tears. Any more this week and he will NEVER take his cell phone with him again as long as we both shall live. The little boy might have been quite frightened, but the old man was way too flattered.

And where does Old Dog fit in? She was the tool of unseen forces to give new appreciation and meaning to an existence that was getting a little too old hat, and a little too mundane, bordering, it would seem to me, on that level of familiarity that can, without obvious symptoms, breed injurious contempt.

It strikes me that if Hub had his cell phone, this day would have differed from no other. There would have been no worry or turmoil and our relationship would not have got the soul searching and deep-polishing it got today. But without that ready electronic access, we both got a shake-up. A nasty bit to go through for me, but edifying to my heart, soul, and relationship.

....

Of these things I am certain because after yesterday’s vexations, this morning dawned new and different. I looked at Hub across the table. Asked him how he slept. He told me the coffee was so good. He poured me a fresh cup. And we lingered over coffee with happy smiles. I ruffled his hair. He rubbed my shoulders. We laughed at nothing. And we engaged with refreshed delight in each other’s chatter and presence.

A Refurbished Relationship - (Part III)

WHAT WAS OLD DOG THINKING?

Now normally I am calm and rational. I have no patience with the immaturity of drama queen’s and those that over-react at every little circumstance. But I have just had a roller-coaster ride that has left me exhausted and completely depleted.

Before Hub can spit out anything beyond, “I’m visiting…”, I am in tears and off on a tangent. And what I have to say is exceedingly angry and out-of-character as well. As out of character, as Old Dog choosing to stay home.

“Hub, I am so f---ing annoyed with you.’ I scream into the phone. ‘Do you know how worried I have been?” I slam down the phone before Hub can respond.

Immediately the phone is ringing again. It is Hub calling back of course, but I am too disturbed to answer it. Six jangling rings – then silence.

Now I find myself contemplating my day. I can’t stay angry. Not when I’m so flooded with relief that Hub is okay. Not when I am so achingly grateful to God, fate, destiny, and all the other forces of heaven and earth that the bad omens that earlier were niggling my mind were nothing more than my own wild imaginings.

For certain, Hub is in shock. I never talk to him that way. I don’t slam down phones in his ear. I don’t refuse to answer his calls. But I am glad I did. I think now he will finally remember to take his phone. But is that so good?

I’m not sure it is. If he had had his phone with him today, I would not have had these hours of crystal and emotionally-charged enlightenment of how much he means to me in every way.

NEXT POST: is the conclusion -- "Hub Returns" and "Final Thoughts"

A Refurbished Relationship (Part II)

DISTURBING THOUGHTS

Last post I told you how Old Dog made the unprecedented decision to stay home when Hub went to town. And now Hub is gone and hours overdue. I’m relieved when I cannot find his cell-phone. That can only mean he has it with him.
And so, to continue…

I call Hub’s cell. It rings shrilly in the room with a delayed softer echo in my ear. I jump with a start. The phone is not with Hub. It is next to me in the bookcase. I mutter to a distraught mind. ‘Oh, yea. That’s what cell phones are for. To decorate bookcases!’

Seconds build into minutes, minutes into hours, and still Hub does not phone or come home. The tension builds. I want to phone Youngest Daughter to see if Hub is there, but if he isn’t she will be more anxious than I already am and I don’t even want to think how much doo-doo I’ll be in for letting Hub away without his phone.

It wouldn’t come to this but Hub is older, he is diabetic. He has high blood pressure. He is sometimes plagued by headaches and blurring vision. And he drives like an idiot. Drifting, spinning, and regularly detouring into snow-blocked fields when he spies coyote or deer. This is the kind of nonsense he engages in to entertain the puppies when they go on driving excursions. No four-wheel-drive either. Just the silliness and risky behavior of a small boy resident in an old man.

Now add to that the fact that Hub generally calls me when he is gone longer than he expects to be. From his cell if he has it, from a land phone if he doesn’t. But without that call, his actions today are as out-of-character as Old Dog’s decision to stay home.

And so now I wonder, ‘Did Old Dog choose to stay home cause some kind of doggy-intuition told her it was not a good day to go driving with Hub?’

There are other friends I want to phone to see if they have seen Hub but doing so will spread unfair concern. And such efforts will only increase mine. I think of calling the police, but I already know they only get excited when someone is missing for a week or two. I am left to face the fact that there is no solution. I am isolated and completely helpless. I could take the pick-up and go look for him, but where do I start?

I sit in the big chair dogged with worry. I try to distract myself with some knitting. And then more sensitive thoughts creep into my harried mind. Thoughts of how important Hub is now and has always been to me. How hopeless all would be without him. How needful his place in my life. I want to cry but I mustn’t. And then, finally, the damn phone rings.

It is Hub.

....(continued)

NEXT POST: What was Old Dog Thinking?

A Refurbished Relationship (Part I)

THE OMEN

Thirty years of ever increasing familiarity, implicit trust, comfortable ease, and oft times, duplicity of thought. That’s what life has become. There is little reason, anymore, to mind the relationship. No practical reason to take it out, examine it, polish it, or disassemble it.

As usual, we sit in silence lingering over coffee. Hub reads the paper. I rattle the keys on my laptop. I should perhaps ask, “Did you sleep well?” but the answer will be nothing striking. Maybe ‘yes’, maybe ‘no’, but it is all of too little consequence to pursue. So there is little verbal exchange.

After breakfast, Hub readies himself to take a quick trip into town. Two puppies hastily run to the car but Old Dog is not among them. I find her napping in the livingroom.

Old Dog is a bit deaf so I bend close and speak loudly words she readily understands. “Go”, “town”, “ride”, and “car”. Old Dog raises her furry little head, looks at me with disinterest, and returns to a sprawled position with her head resting on her paws. I urge her to ‘go’ with repeated appeals but it is obvious that Old Dog chooses to remain at home today. I feel her nose. I am puzzled when I find her nose is cold and wet and she shows no visible signs of distress.

In fact, I am more disturbed by Old Dog’s decision to stay home than I care to admit. She has never made this choice before. Even on occasional days when she looked ill and I found her nose papery-dry and warm to the touch. And so, for the first time in my life, I stand on the front step and announce to Hub, who is waiting in the car, that Old Dog is not coming. Hub blinks in astonishment. As shocked by this communication as I am.

And so Hub leaves and Old Dog stays. I watch from the door already knowing the routine. With the fresh snow, the temptation is too great. Hub spins the car in circles in the driveway. He ‘drifts’ (as the twin’s call it) burning circles of flying snow, and skidding out of the driveway on two wheels. It is disturbing but it can’t be helped. You can take the old man out of the kid but you can’t take the kid out of the old man.

Hub’s car rumbles by the window and I now expect Old Dog to come to the kitchen to let me know that it was all a dreadful mistake. That she was just joking and I should have known, and Hub should have known, that she really didn’t expect to be left. When she remains unmoving, I begin to think this unprecedented choice too far out of character to be dismissed. It is not something I can calmly dismiss as circumstance. It must be something more. Maybe an omen, handed down by the gods of fate and destiny, with critical and ominous meaning, that I need to take note of.

The thought is there but I push it aside so I can concentrate on other things. I already know that without other errands, Hub will be back within the hour.

But he isn’t. Time drags on. Two o’clock. Three o’clock. I pace the floor and finally start looking for his cell phone. I can’t find it. Good, he’s taken it. I’ll just call him to see why he is delayed.

(...to be continued)

NEXT POST: 2. Disturbing Thoughts

Pets and Peeves

Relationships are supposed to be simple. You love someone, they love you, and so a bond is formed. Other loves shouldn’t run interference. Yet I’ve read more than one story of a cat or dog-loving individual who marries someone who despises the “filthy beasts” and shuns them with utter contempt.

Occasionally daily exposure to the other’s pet ends up magically cultivating a similar appreciation. But in other homes, things get nasty. The dynamics of the relationship clash. And human nature, being what it is, the pet is doted on more to make up for the other’s disdain which only magnifies the situation. And so soon the whole relationship is shabbily frayed.

But what could that possibly have to do with me? I didn’t bring any pets into this relationship. And the pets we have now were discussed and agreed upon. All I brought to this relationship were a few personal possessions, a meager number of books, a Scrabble game and several boxes of hand-written journals. Still Hub looked askance at those boxes and that Scrabble game with the same kind of skepticism bordering on abhorrence that I’ve seen reflected in the face of those who shun felines and canines.

I do think Hub resented my passion for Scrabble. But at the same time, after much pleading on my part, he eventually agreed to scrap Crib in favor of Scrabble. But he did complain – he complained that he was a poor speller and that he was not a Scrabble player. Still complaining, he took his chair at the table in front of the Scrabble board. We played and I beat him mercilessly the first two games. That’s when it occurred to me that maybe if I didn’t back off, he would stop playing.

But when Scrabble is such an enjoyable challenge as it has always been to me, it was difficult to ease up. And just when I was contemplating how to put such a plan into effect, I found it was not good to let down my guard. Because now with extra cajoling on my part, we played a third game and Hub handily won. And he won the fourth and fifth and sixth game as well.

And that is when our Scrabble playing abruptly came to an end. He said to me. “I don’t like this game. I have never liked this game. But since you insisted, I decided to play. But now that I consistently win, there is no reason to continue playing, is there?”

I’m a bit slow on the take-up sometimes. I didn’t realize until some years later what his strategy had been. I assumed that intellectually in word games, I was superior and therefore it was simply a bad stroke of luck. Bad letters. Too many I’s, too many U’s and not enough counters like X and J.

But Hub had a strategy. He concluded after the first two games that striving for a high-value word was not working, so he switched to defensive play. So now he would not build an obvious 7-letter word if it would set me up. Instead he plugged in two-letter words in places that would stalemate the game even though in doing so he was scoring no more than five points. And incredibly, it worked.

So that’s what happened with Scrabble, but I also loved to cuddle in bed with my words. Loved reading in bed. But here I fell into another snare. I, for one, cannot sleep with a light in my room. Never have. And I cannot sleep with someone next to me fidgeting or rustling paper. Regardless of all this, I read in bed for a short time after we were married, and Hub never complained, but I was bloody aware that if he ever adopted the habit, I would be livid. Lights on, glaring in my eyes, pages rustling when all I want is to go to sleep. It would drive me nuts. So I quit that as well.

Words to me are such a delight, but this delight was not shared by Hub. He is eternally frustrated by Politicians, Experts, and Newsmen that smudge the clarity of language with so many words. So I knew better than to allow all those extraneous and wildly imaginative adverbs and adjectives of mine to tumble about, shedding hair on the furniture and piddling behind the couch. Nevertheless, I cautiously continued word-play with my word-pets when left to my own devices.

Lucky for me, it is easier to keep word-pets in seclusion than animal-pets. I kept my words in my head. And then while shopping, baking, or when Hub was away, I took them out and arranged them and rearranged them. We cuddled and kissed. I stroked and examined them all the while looking for relationships, incongruities, contrasts, rhyme, reason and succinct expression.

So with that kind of caution and with so little exposure to my gaggle of words, Hub remained comfortable in his own philosophy that words are tools that have a purely functional purpose like an ax or a hammer. But for that practicality, I am pleased, in an “artful” way.

What an emotional tangle this relationship would be of jealousy, envy, and opposition if he loved my words as I do and wanted to sort and play and kiss and edit them in ways outside of my dominion and approval. That would be worse than interference in my kitchen.

And furthermore, if I had a Shakespearean-Chaucer-type mate, he would rip up this rant and tell me “If you’re going to write, write something worthwhile.”

Instead, when I read what I’ve written his feedback is as practical as the man.

“Good. But you need to shorten it up.”

The Big Lie - Part II

A Mother-Load of Lies

So as I told you in my intro, Hub only knew me as this congenial, laughable, light-hearted, devoted girl. But that was for the first year or two. And I never thought for a minute that any of that which I presented was devious or a lie. But it was.

The truth came out later. The truth that at three o’clock in the afternoon, I like shuffling around looking the same as when I first rolled out of bed – in faded housecoat, with medusa hair, and mismatched socks. That I want my own way or I pout. That I even throw things (not any more, but I did for a time). That I can be hateful and mean and completely unreasonable.

And as for pressing jeans, ironing shirts, polishing shoes? I don’t think so. Won’t be happening around here. Not routinely, anyway.

So you see what I gave Hub to believe about me so long ago was an absolute lie! This marriage, that I was so smugly convinced was based on honesty, really started out with a mother-load of lies.

____

Now you know and I know what they all say. “You can’t deal with a liar” and “you can’t build a relationship on a lie.” And that is true except in this case there was a bit of a twist.

While I was lying to him he was also lying to me. What he led me to believe about his exceptional patience and long-suffering demeanor was as much of a stretch as my stint at the ironing board, my good humor, and my fixation with flawless grooming.

And another thought. I think we all readily assume that whoever authored the lyrics of that little chant… “Liar, liar. Pants on fire,” was simply writing a nonsense rhyme for juveniles. But perhaps that isn’t true. Turns out the phrase is a shrewd description (and discernment) of the dynamics of the lies that I told.

So now, with an expectation of doing better, I feel compelled to tell you how red-faced ashamed I am. I’m ashamed of all my lies and devious acts. And if I were to offer an excuse it would be this. ‘Lovers, through no fault of their own are inadvertently cast into a highly emotional state that cannot separate right from wrong.’ But that won’t do either because, for liars, there are NO excuses.

So I must live with my shame, confess my shame, apologize for my shame and promise never to do it again. I’m willing to do all that, but in the end there is an evil piece in my soul that I cannot purge. What is lurking there in a dark corner is a desperate marauder that longs for the good old days when Hub and I lived each new and glorious day with such wickedness and complete disregard for truth.

__________

So in conclusion, there you have it. And even though I’ve apologized and humbled myself to the level of a ground crawler, I still can’t find a way to feel the teeniest, tiniest bit of remorse.

The Big Lie - Part I

The Posture of Truth

I have always prided myself on being honest, so finding out so late in life what a liar I am is downright upsetting.

I certainly can’t blame my dishonesty on my upbringing. My Dad was so honest that it was sometimes to his detriment. I remember how his face beamed with relief, and release, the day he shook hands with his neighborhood financier because the loan for the house was finally paid off.

But upon reviewing the figures, he realized the mistake. And in a flash, those twinkling eyes clouded over. And so I watched him get into his truck and drive to the lender’s place to expose the error. The loan was not fully repaid as originally concluded. At the time I was only a child but I couldn’t help thinking what a stupid thing for my father to do.

But as I grew older, deeper in my soul, I had to admire such moral perfection. And I longed to be like that.

I determined to match that standard and ultimately thought I had. Didn’t I take the boss aside one day when my supervisor was harshly disciplined for a careless mistake? Didn’t I boldly inform him that I was equally responsible and should also be punished? That it was my mistake initially? That my supervisor was only guilty of signing off my error without noticing?

The boss listened to my ‘wholesome’ confession then just shook his head and said, “Roberta, I have never known an employee quite like you.”

I took it as a complement. And then he told me it was up to him, rather than me, to determine who should be disciplined and he wanted no more discussion about it. Of course, I now suspect that at the time I had an ulterior motive – mind expansion for a boss that consistently hid all his screw-ups in the hope that they would never be discovered.

But I am talking about my own determinations here and more specifically I am talking about the day I had to face the realization that without knowing it, or realizing it, or understanding it, I lied and lied and lied some more.

You see when I met Hub, I deceitfully hid the real me. I only allowed him to see that part of me that I felt he would find attractive. A girl, light at heart, flexible about plans, highly attentive to his needs. A girl that smiled through pain and laughed through disappointment. A girl always carefully groomed. In those days I even accepted criticism as a positive thing – a way for me to know how I could readjust to be more pleasing.

I creased Hub’s jeans and polished his shoes. I pressed his shirts with sweat dripping from my brow I slaved over the ironing board while thinking to myself…“What delight in doing this special thing for someone I love”.

And I suppose right now, my dear reader, you are beginning to feel skeptical. Well, don’t. These are the things I did!

(to be continued…) Part II – A Mother-Load of Lies.

And Toothpaste Matters?

Oh, aren’t we in such a state over countries that would copy the packaging of our toothpaste and then import it here with unsafe ingredients? And so distressed about designer purses, gizmos, and food stuffs from outside sources that look like, but are not, authentically what they claim to be. This kind of wicked mimicry is such a mortal sin that we scream for politicians to do something and now we’re reading labels judiciously and looking real hard for spelling mistakes or manufacturing sources to see if we have the real thing? What’s with that? Why are we surprised? Seems like, we’re all in this together?

Let’s start with the small stuff. Dry chicken soup or bouillon cubes. Did that stuff ever see a chicken? My mother used to say, “They grind up chemicals into a powder, then wave a chicken over it, chanting ‘chicken, chicken, who’s got the chicken?’ and with that magic act, it becomes authentically something derived from chicken. Can that be denied, when Marcel who works at the manufacturing plant is asked “what do you do?”

And she readily replies, “Each and every day, I bring in THE chicken –through the front door and out the back.”

And beans and bacon in the can? What is that speck of white on top? That’s not bacon. That is simply a scrap of some gluttonous discarded thing. And some sludge bottom-feeder fish is dressed out prettily in firm white strips with pink highlights and sold as crab meat. And does a fast-food hamburger taste like a real hamburger? Not.

But no one can deny that this is what we want. Don’t we clamor for faux fur, faux leather, and faux meat? And fake breasts, fake eyelashes, and fake lips.

Returning to the food fakery, I think the whole mimicry thing is exploding beyond reason when even vegetable protein is fraudulently disguised, and this disguise so welcomed. Manipulated in sacrilegious ways to mimic hot dogs, hamburgers, sausages, etc? What’s with that? If you don’t like it, don’t want to eat it, shun it, then why yell with delight over this kind of mimicry?

But it goes deeper than that? Our leaders make speeches all the time that pose as their own heartfelt passions and convictions, but who wrote them? Not them. So no wonder when their words come back to haunt them, they insist, “I didn’t say that.”

Which in truth, they didn’t. It was just a mimicked utterance from the lips of another with an understanding so diverse from their own, that they don’t even get it.

And certainly, when it comes to one of the best and most basic gratuities of our existence -- I’m talking sex now, since it’s also part of the fraud – sure, the righteous-minded rant against paper, film, and video displays of sexual matters. But I don’t hear anyone yelling, “Fraud!” because the mimicry is such a bad copy that manifests brutality and cruelty rather than what should rightfully manifest the delicacy of lace and the sweetest of heart-felt emotions.

A few are calling out “exploitation of women” but even that is not the case. Whether “exploit” is used as a noun, meaning “a masterpiece or work of genius” or a verb meaning ‘to take clever advantage of a situation’, this kind of stuff is far more fraudulent mimicry than exploitation could ever be.

Shakespeare and Chaucer were close, in the hot zone, when it comes to the authenticity of sex and the integral connection with true romance. I guess the biggest reason I shudder at sex-education of children is because I assume, and quite safely I expect, there is no real attempt to convey the real essence and meaning of the act. No Shakespeare or Chaucer element. Which means the instruction is similar to explaining the workings of a windmill without taking into account the force and necessity of the wind.

But in my heart, hope springs eternal. And with that hope, if, and when, sexually-explicit materials find the path to genuine authenticity, I am positive-certain that with that new cultural mindset, “Gone With The Wind” will have another round of even greater popularity than previously. We might even end up re-examining remakes of the romantic liaisons of Captain Kirk of "Star Trek". And children in Sex-Ed classes will weep with wonder at a story not yet told, rather than react with hysterical laughter at details fraudulently disguised as nothing more than fascinating physical maneuverings.

Makes me wonder why toothpaste even matters.

The Evolution of Political Correctness - Part II

Don’t Be Too Forward

If you are a woman and if you captured your significant other in the 60’s, 70’s or 80’s, than I have to ask you a few questions. Did he chase you or did you chase him? Did you reveal what was in your heart before he revealed what was in his? Did you call him when he didn’t call you? Did you ask any of these questions – “Will I see you again?” “Can I have your phone number?” “When can I call you?” Or did you introduce any of these topics into conversation --- Going steady? Exchanging class rings? Next date? Marriage? Wedding garments, rings, rituals?

If you did, excuse me, but weren’t you just a little bit ‘too forward’? Did no one ever educate you in the Not-too-Forward-Political-Correctness (NTFPC) policy for young women?

In the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s – the NTFPC policy was in effect and rule number one was – men are in charge. They must be the ones to ask to see you again, ask for your phone number or broach the big question. Young ladies immediately lost all dignity and appeal by being brazen enough to reveal the intent of their hearts before he revealed the intent of his. And furthermore, most guys left nothing but a roiling trail of dust when assertive girls ignored the policy.

As a young women I had sound instruction in the policy. I understood the policy. But no one can be on duty 24 - 7, so sometimes when I was off-duty I did ‘sport fishing’. It was a nice break because when I was off-duty I could ignore the NTFPC policy and say anything I wanted to say, bring up any topic I wanted to, and tell some bewildered fellow to pick me up at 2:00 the next day. And then I could lay down the rules whether we were going to a dance, dinner, or shopping. Having broken the rules of the NTFPC policy, I pretty much expected I would never see him again, but so what – he was just one of those temporary catches that didn’t matter anyway.

But other times, I was doing serious fishing with only one thought paramount – to hold and to keep. And so, if that was the case I never ever said, “Do you want my phone number or where can I reach you?” I never said, no matter how lovesick, “Will you phone me?” I determined not to reveal the intent of my heart until he revealed the intent of his. Too ever-present was my real fear of a quick exit and a roiling trail of dust….

And that might have been all well and good but there was a spin-off from observing the rules of the NTFPC philosophy. I also, just realized the other day, that when in that catch and hold pattern, I never showed much appreciation either. I never said things I should have said. “I really had a lovely time. Thank you for asking me to come.” I never said, “I really enjoyed my evening,” or “will I see you again?” But that is the problem with Politically Correct Policies – they certainly put a damper on spontaneity. So you may well ask, if I never revealed what was in my heart, how did I catch Hub?

It is all quite amazing considering the impact of the NTFPC policy. I couldn’t be so ‘forward’ as to suggest to Hub that I was interested in marriage though that was my hidden hope. Everything I wanted to say, felt compelled to say, was so politically incorrect. Far “too forward”. So finally, at my wit’s end, I tried to diplomatically skirt the issue by suggesting that we go to the Marriage Licensing Office (MLO) for the purpose of self-education. It couldn’t hurt for us to know what getting married entails. It couldn’t hurt for us to know if, perchance, someday we might want to marry “ “ “someone” ” ” what was involved – if there was a waiting period, if blood tests were required, how much it cost, etc.

But the day we went to the MLO, the office was so busy, there was no time for explanations or questions. Before we knew what was happening, a clerk pushed us into a line-up and then with utmost swiftness and efficiency we were questioned, spun into a small chamber for blood tests, and out the door with a Marriage License in hand.

I brought it home, stuck it in a drawer, and there it stayed. But one day, while Hub was looking in the drawer for something else, the License resurfaced. He checked it out and that’s when he realized it had a fast-approaching Expiry Date. Had we discussed the matter? Of course not, cause it was up to him to bring the subject up.

And I never asked, which was how it was supposed to be. I never pressed, which was how it was supposed to be. But Hub, meanwhile, must have been frustrated at my reserved coolness about marriage and so he looked at the license and proposed in a rather oblique way with this stern ultimatum.

“If I’m not good enough to marry, I’m not good enough to be here, and if I’m not good enough to be here, I am walking out this door right now and you will never see me again!”

When he said that I panicked. And of course, I happily agreed to marry him.

_______


When my kids were growing up, these were such busy years that everything remains a blur. But despite that I remained convinced that I passed on to them all the solid values of my upbringing including the NTFPC policy. But apparently not. Last week I had this discussion with one of my daughters and at the conclusion she looked at me in stunned silence, then laughed and laughed. “Oh Mom,” she said, “that is the funniest thing I ever heard. Will you be really dismayed if I tell you within those confines, I was much too forward.”

What Old Women Dream

What do old women dream? Have you oft wondered? Could you even guess? Is it about intimacy, fantasy, old lovers, or new ones? Vacations, cruises, wealth? That would be nice, but more often than not, there is no honeyed nectar or gratification in old women’s dreams even though in dreams they are young, vivacious goddesses with sweet lips, fluid movements, satin skin, dainty feet, and silky hair.

I know you don’t know and I could say, ‘guess again’, but the guessing game is so annoying, that I will simply tell you without dallying what old women dream.

I’m an old woman and I had a dream. Hub bought me a silly software program for my computer. Droll, boring. When it came up on the screen it was about knitting. A long overwhelming program of how to make cables, twists, uncommon stitches with up to four balls of thread, 3 stitch-holders, and 16 needles all at one time.

Now I am a novice knitter, occasionally able to foil my way through an intermediate project. Of course I have my own little tricks. If I miss a stitch, I make one and if I have too many, I knit two together. Those kind of minor errors are not sufficient reason for me to unravel 40 rows that I so diligently worked to complete. But the level of expertise in this software program made my head ache and all I wanted to do was eject that CD and smash it into smithereens.

But you know how dreams are. They can slam you into a place where you so do not want to be and hold you there kicking and screaming, but they will not let you go. You can’t run and you can’t hide in a dream. Legs water, presence like a flashing neon light. So there I was, cursing Hub, stuck in this software program that was every bit as annoying as a program that offers integration into Ultimate fighting or Smack-Down boxing. Yuk.

But in the midst of the many needles clicking and clacking in the foreground, and a droning annoying instructional voice in the background, I spotted a tiny icon in the lower right hand corner of the screen. That’s when I discovered that if I clicked on that tiny icon, it gave me a pop-up with choices like knit, purl, yarn forward, skip stitch, decrease, cast on, etc.etc.

And what’s more, then I discovered that Hub had my computer connected to a small and simple adapter with hooks and a ball of yarn. And guess what? When I clicked ‘cast on’, the computer said, ‘how many stitches?’ And when I selected 120 – it cast on 120 stitches, and now all I had to do is select the stitch abbreviations and man were we knitting. Fast as Hub’s computer train. No errors, no dropped stitches, no raveling, no runs. Clickety-click. Clickety-clack. Whoo-Hoo!

But when things get that good, there is always a hitch. Hub said, “Let me try,” and I did. The rest of the night I spent watching Hub churn out a scarf, a vest, a sweater, a dog jacket, and when I woke up I was really annoyed. There are days that it is exceeding difficult for me to ignore Hub’s weird sense of humor, and other annoying idiosyncrasies without him invading an old woman’s dreams disguised as a handsome lithe Greek God in order to….Knit!

Trashed Love

Every one of us has an obsessive-compulsive disorder. The need for romantic love. But it's not our fault. After all, every bit of television and literature we are daily exposed to, insidiously weaves into its plot, connotations about the sweetness of sexual love and the cataclysm of life without it. And Researchers are busy, busy, busy, uncovering all the biological and hormonal stuff that cause us to yearn and yen for sexual completion. To make us understand why we must have it.

But I don’t see anyone doing the work to find out the biological and hormonal stuff that makes two friends the very best of friends. Or what part of the brain lights up or what role endorphins play in the warm ecstasy ignited when we see that special friend we grew up with, and shared all our pains and sorrows with, coming up the walk. I’m not talking about the bland emotional charge of ‘fondness’ here, I’m talking about a highly-emotionally-charged-feeling of complete adoration. (I don’t even see anyone investigating the unique affection we have for grandchildren or that special niece or even our own offspring).

No one is pursuing this kind of stuff. To understand why it happens or doesn’t happen. My fear is that maybe, just maybe, we have forgotten it exists. You know, the sweet-adoring-platonic-friendship-love of two of the same gender. (See all the hyphenated words. These are characteristics of a phenomenon so out of the mainstream that there are no simple nouns to adequately name it).

Do the purveyors of all that sexual wisdom invading our schools fully know and have the ability to understand the non-sexual love of true comrades, good buddies, kindred spirits, two school-girl friends, or two school-boy friends bound together by heart and soul? Or do they, in their inability to understand how emotionally deep-seated such affection can be, simply guide our young people into punctuating that kind of relationship with a ‘question mark’ about gender preference? Is there that kind of bias going on here?

So where, amongst the self-help books/magazines are the articles on understanding the sensory stimuli and brain-synapses of pheromones that lead us into deep life-long loving friendships outside of romance? Where is the literature to help us understand the brain and body chemistry that makes the love of comrades, buddies, and kindred spirits, so unique and special? Where is the offer of understanding for future generations?

What have we done with this unique, one-of-a-kind love? Is it possible, like global warming, that we have so contaminated it with toxins, that friendship-love is extinct? And like our environment, we just don’t have a hope of ever returning it to its rightful place?