Good Times

We haven’t done morning conversations for a very long time. So that is what is on today’s agenda. Maybe you had to ‘be there’ – maybe not. But regardless this is what took place at today’s regular Mind Expansion Seminar.

[The kitchen television is on while Hub and I are having morning coffee. Neither is paying any attention to the kitchen TV. But when an ad comes on for a concert by ‘RealBigSea’ 'GreatBigSea', we both look and listen. Then we look at each other, smile, even chuckle a bit, and suddenly realize it is a Good Day.]

Not-so-silly Roberta: You know, Hub, that is one Band that will always be popular and well loved. And I don’t think it has as much to do with the music as how they look. Look at them – smiling, hopping happily while they sing—having a really Good Time.

Silly Hub: That is certainly true, Roberta. I know all about it. People are truly drawn to anyone having a good time. And I guess it’s time I let you know. That is why so many women are drawn to me.

Not-so-silly Roberta: How silly is that? You’re not having a good time. They should be able to see that. You are silly. Yes. But having a good time?? Not so much.

Silly Hub: I know I’m not having a good time. You know I’m not having a good time. But I am completely unable to convince others I’m not having a good time. No matter what I do, they all think and completely believe I’m having a Good Time. So you see, it isn’t my fault, the women mob me. They’re just drawn like everyone else to someone having a Good Time.

(And so, Roberta is left, as she often is after a Mind-Expansion Seminar, to ponder this new unexpected manifestation of meaning).

Blogging vs. Facebook

I have questions. Maybe you have answers.

So to resolve my questions, I want you to complete one of the following sentences in the comments section:

I prefer Facebook to Blogging because_________, or…
I prefer Blogging to Facebook because_________.

…or maybe you can tell me why you think other people prefer whichever of the two they prefer.

A Shitty Day

I am so sluggish, my mind it is mush
Incisiveness gone in a circular flush
So gather with me those of similar mind
Let’s toast the raw day in insipient wine.

The dreary of mind can mix with the day
No matter what horrors are thrown in the way
To those others, so happy, with contented appeal
On down days their spirits can quickly congeal.

They say they can rally in the magic of Earth
Me, I’m not so certain if that’s better or worse.
I liken that thinking to scamming and fraud
Those gay songs of sunshine, flora, and sod.

You may find restoration in the song of a bird?
I find more release in a finely-formed turd.

A Futile Warning

Hub warned me again today. About how old people start thinking weird, talking weird, acting weird, looking weird.

I laugh.

“What’s to fear?” I ask, “I’ve always been that way.”

_______

This wee note written in preparation for me next post.

Rivalries of Spring

WORD PROMPT: For everything there is a time and season.

Today, I'm just a teeny bit annoyed that no one ever discusses the evolution of Spring the way it really is. Can’t anyone get the story right about the line-ups, the waiting, the cancellations, and unexpected delays?

All those poets and bards and dizzy dreamers press on us the premeditation that seasons transition as quickly as Clark Kent in a phone booth. That with the arrival of the scheduled date, the authority of Winter is ousted that self-same morning and Spring fully inducted and sworn in before the dinner bell. ‘False! Falsehood,’ I cry. ‘It just ain’t so!’

Winter is not so easily defeated and other sovereignty established. The conversion is slow and shaky. Winter remains at the ready sojourning into April, May, and even June with a small group meant to threaten and intimidate with rowdy comrades who were previously in positions of authority —ice rain, snow, frost, fog, sleet, and blizzard winds.

And so, it takes ‘long-time’ for the snow to sluice away. And when bare patches of grass are finally revealed, here comes another big git of snow. So, truth is, though the solstice be past, Winter again reaches for the sparkling ice-crystal Scepter of its rule.

And no, you silly bards of rhyme without reason, trees don’t simply bud and grass green. There are birthing pains involved. There is the messy business of all that afterbirth. All that dirty mix of dead grass and crusty snow and dog poopies revealed. And the nastiness of icy ponds at the corner of the house where they have no right to be and where I skid and fall like a ton of bricks.

And the gravel road, now bare, jokingly mimics hard solid smooth pavement for a couple of weeks but when the perma-frost retreats, the bottom falls out and now it is a greasy, soggy, slushy bog that ‘clums’ to tires with the sure strength and adhesiveness of Velcro.

Sun flames are weak and far too frequently I hear those old Winter winds whistling at Spring in a non-complementary way between narrow gaps of stiff skeletal finger-branches. In a way that tweeds the sound into an awful shriek rather than a sweet come-hither call. Winter is such a villain with its everlasting games of animosity. It runs interference for way too long. Until the coming of Spring looks as hopeless as it does on this, yet another, gloomy snowy day.

It is difficult for me to remain convinced that what is supposed to happen will happen. That the shrieking wind will eventually be replaced by the soft cooing-rustle of infant leaves as they weakly push and kick aside swaddling wraps with the sounds akin to the opening of a tissue-wrapped gift.

The gift of Spring. With ‘Belated Wishes’.

Nevertheless, I hope it comes soon because if Summer and Spring come together, we’ll just have more prodding, pushing, shoving, and carrying on that will create weakness in the system. Enough weakness for Winter to storm in again some time in mid-May with a impressive snow storm and then in mid-summer with an unimpressive killer frost.

I CAN deal with Winter in its own time and season, but man I hate the way it sneaks around and crashes my Spring and Summer parties.

The God I Loved

At the age of five, I hoped I wasn’t too different from others. I hoped that others saw the world through similar eyes. The last thing I wanted to be was the only one of its kind. How forlorn that would be.

So I did a lot of questioning and prodding to find out if others thought like me. Biggest difference I found was that I was openly willing to tell others what I was thinking. But others were not. They guarded their thinking like some big, grand secret that they could not share. Still, for those secretive individuals, unwilling to share what they were thinking, I had something in my heart and head that could lead to discovery of the unspoken part of them – my intuition.

Not many men have the same intuition a woman has. Women can intuitively read truth in the eyes, in barely audible sighs, and in body language (without having studied it). And when it comes to their offspring, Mother’s intuition has for all time amazed the Medical community enough that Doctors are finally learning to listen to it and trust it.

So be as secretive as you like. It matters not to me. I can still feel out the air around the occupants of a room and determine if that room is steeped in mistrust or anger, with nary a word being spoken. With my intuition, I can sense danger, when none is apparent. And my intuition consistently prods me from solid slumber to alert wakefulness when I hear nothing more than a soft rustle in another room.

I use my intuition in other ways as well. I use it to form quick first-time assessments of the nature and character of those I meet. As an important helper to decide whom I should trust and whom I should distrust. And yes, I use it to form assumptions. And when I say that, don’t even start in on me about how ‘assumptions’ are so bad, and how ‘ass-umptions’ make an ‘ass’ of us all. That’s total crap.

Whether you like it or not, we all drag around assumptions as surely as we are constantly trailed by our own shadow. We connect life experiences to our childhood environments, to our upbringing, and to our own unique life experiences and in that blend we form perspectives on everyone around us. These are the tools we use to form first impressions and from these impressions, we form moral judgments, and from these moral judgments, we decide whether we are open to affection or rejection.

So with that introduction to my thinking, I now want to frankly discuss with you my assessments of someone I met years ago. We were friends for a time, good friends, but in that first meeting I gazed at all things I normally gaze at to build that first profile. I liked what I saw. Serene eyes, adorned with crystal-clear windows of truth. A fine athletic build. Open friendliness and an unabashed way of speaking.

Once past those first introductions, our conversation flowed into a creative and stimulating discourse. We discussed sensitive things, practical things, and imaginary things. We discussed the human condition of both men and women. We discussed vital forces, agonizing tensions, vanity, and sincerity. We even discussed the misunderstandings women endure that normally remain veiled and unspoken in their relationships with men.

And in all this, every word from the lips of that man was wonderfully sweet. I was hypnotized by the smoothness of his voice, the parsing of his words, the wisdom of his lyrics, and the poetical magic of his wit. He knew all the tough stuff and all the sensitive stuff. And he showed no reluctance to discuss those things, that as a woman I find hurtful in such curious ways, that it is almost impossible to adequately articulate them.

He was so amazingly adept at bypassing my clumsy mix of words and drawing from them such a fine and clear interpretation. I laid out my torn heart and mind and soul and he reassembled it in a healing and orderly fashion. And in all that exchange, in all that affiliated thinking, even my weirdest perceptions were merged into a comforting understanding by a young man omnipotent in his wisdom – superior to all men in every way.

And how did I feel about him? I loved him immediately. I loved every line in his face, every hair on his head, every tone in his voice. I loved the girth of his shoulders, the serenity of his countenance, the spicy scent of his after-shave.

But the affection I felt that so ardently burned like a fire, discounted, with puzzling revulsion, any desire for bodily contact. There was something perplexing in the thought of his cheek pressed against mine though my soul was fired with soaring affection. Perhaps because it was difficult to see him as a mere mortal.

He was more like a deity, an ethereal form made flesh. Descended, through some kind of ‘assumption’ (different from those first assumptions we discussed) that unified God and man. All I can say is that in his presence, I was enveloped in an aura that filled my heart with awe, respect, reverence, and love.

So now what? Should I just let him go? How do you invite romantic overtures from a god? It’s shouldn’t be so difficult. It’s not as if I am not bold enough to know how to flirt. I can be right brazen and downright lewd in order to get what I want. But in the presence of this kind of purity, how sacrilegious would that be?

I must devise a plan of gracious capriciousness that will wholly surpass the most rigid of Puritan and principled thinking. But it is unknown to me, completely foreign to me, how to conduct this kind of seduction. I’m highly doubtful that diverted eyes, blushing cheeks, and silent and reverent prayer will work.

Let’s face it. Even absolute modesty and shallow indifference skids into the realm of hussy-flirtation in this highly uncommon situation. But obviously I cannot just let him go. This deity that is so sensitive and a kindred spirit like no other I have ever encountered and known. Whose presence is like a wondrous gift of warm tonic that is rich and soothing to every microbe of my emotional being. Nothing in paradise can surpass the dream of living a lifetime in his presence, in duality with his mind, buried in the sweet melody of his voice, and bathing daily in his quick wisdom.

So why is there this unexplainable chasm that separates us from sharing the awesome love and respect that I feel for him. I don’t exactly know how he feels about me, but I am secure that he cares about my simplest hurts. All I can see affirms that he is truly special; a prize, priceless, one of a kind. But still that inner intuition repeatedly flings up a wall of fear and distrust.

I guess what I need to accept without question is that the ways of gods are too profound and mysterious for mere mortals to understand. It is like trying to understand why the God of the Bible allows so much sickness, war, and tragic death. Or trying to understand why his son threw a childish temper tantrum and whipped money-changers in the temple.

Likewise I cannot understand the traitorous ways of this loving ‘god’, who so completely understood the feminine mysteries of my being, and shared such a parallel connection with my soul. Who surpassed all that I could ever dare to hope a man to be, yet who so quickly, without warning, left our sweet alliance to become the life-long partner of a man!

______

Here I will be quite blunt with you. Going back to my own assumptions, I risk being politically leprous by admitting that despite facts, exposure, and education, I still remain reluctant to accept without prejudice modern-day theories about sexual preference.

I do accept that some individuals have hormone imbalances (or a physical duality), that triggers that sort of thing. But my inner convictions tell me that the rest are simply bored with ‘standards’ that have become too mundane. And at the same time, these are transformations buoyed by allegorical and symbolic flags of social acceptance that wave in the breeze and invite them to a new, more exciting, citizenship.

I guess even gods can be seduced by that approach.

Poached Eggs

Okay. I have to admit it. You had me there. When you pointed out those remarkable new men of the current generation that vacuum, dust, make beds and do laundry. You described them to me in glowing terms and I gazed from afar at these new men that displayed such dedicated servitude. And yes, I wanted one of them. Indeed I did.

Unfortunately, I have the older model. The one, that does men’s work, while I do women’s work. Oh yes, there’s been a bit of progress. Amazing, as it might sound, we did get to the point where he could make a meal, vacuum a room and turn on the dishwasher. It was a slow progression that had such promise, but that’s where it stalled, and I soon became bitter that he couldn’t do better.

If I contemplate what other men-of-the-new-wave have added to their agenda, it looks mighty attractive. Because obviously when a man takes on so many women’s tasks, that means less of those for the little woman. The math is simple. Subtraction from any given amount equals a lesser amount. Right?

No, not necessarily. There is a devious thing going on here that flaws the math. A tricky bit of undulation, like a rogue wave, that skews what appears to be simple addition and subtraction.

It’s hard to see how the math works. But what I do see in the outcome is while the subtraction of mundane tasks is going on, on one side of the equation, on the same side of the equation; there is a massive increase in the tasks of administration and management. If you will be patient, I will explain.

When my children were young, I concerned myself with grocery and clothing purchases, three squares a day, transport to extra-curriculum activities, laundry, an outside job, and housekeeping within reason. It seemed like a heavy load at the time. But was it?

At no time did I ever have to concern myself with vehicle maintenance, insurance, taxes, appliances, or yard maintenance. Or with broken windows, a leaky roof, septic tanks, or iced-up eaves troughs. Or with communication devices, computers, license plate renewals, sagging decks, or home equity. These things I’ve never given a thought to in all my years.

But now, when I see how stressed women are, despite partners that are ideals of the new-wave-man, I realize something is up. And I’ve finally figured out what it is. Though few realize it, in this new job-sharing plan, it is true that women end up doing a whole lot less of the mundane tasks, but at the same time they end up with a mammoth dump of a whole syndicate of new tasks that stretch into an endless continuum of stressful and judgmental decisions.

Now the first thing I need to realize if I want my man to take on some of my work, is how bloody taxing the training will be. And I have to recognize how long and drawn out the supervisory attention will need to be that follows. These may not be formidable tasks but I want them done right.

And then, when that is reasonably accomplished, what the hell? Soon after, I realize that I am CEO of a whole lot of stuff I hadn’t planned on. Because somehow like the magic porridge pot that boiled over until it was running in the streets, this is what happens.

With Hub and I on the same work committee, and with me in this supervisory role, I am forced to look at the bigger picture. Now I start to see inefficiencies in the global picture that (in my estimation) need upgrading or a better fix. Soon I’m thinking if tires are going to be rotated, the car should also have new brake shoes and bearings. And now I’m thinking that we should change insurance companies and transfer investments to another bank that pays more interest. And we should also probably check out other communication options and maybe think about moving from monthly utility payments to a locked in contract.

Meanwhile Hub is too buried in job-training to take the bull by the horns as he used to do. In fact, is it just my own warped mind, or is he more and more only responding like a robot to my commands? It seems so, when he gets up every morning and says to me, “What do you want me to do today, and how do you want me to do it?”

Still, I smile with delight at this power I now have over him. My character has blossomed. My ego is as inflated and shiny as a monster Zeppelin that is flying high. Me?—more important than I ever thought I’d be.

It’s pretty darned nice, this promotion to the role of overseer and planner for every solitary thing around here. And I can’t help but feel pretty darn smug because there’ll be no languishing in the big chair, no Lone Star Channel viewing for Hub, until this house is looking like a show home with all the rugs vacuumed, the hall-ceiling repainted, and the car washed as well.

But that’s where the change becomes insidious in ways I hadn’t expected. That’s when, suddenly there I am, in charge of everything, included a host of monstrous complexities I never encountered or considered before, rather than the simple organization and completion of the jobs I once did.

No longer is my life as easy as cleaning up a few dirty dishes in the sink. Now I am running in circles, stressed to the hilt about taxes, savings, interest, investments, the roof, the driveway, the shingles, the oil change in one car, the trade-in of another.

Hub used to take full responsibility for all the foregoing things listed and he accomplished them as invisibly as shoe-making elves in the middle of the night. Now they don’t get done until I list them, define them, and detail them. Because his agenda is suddenly totally dependent on my agenda.

And that is not so great cause now Hub is chronically underfoot. He’s in my way, always in my way—not tasking but instead waiting for me to assign his next move while my brain races in circles in a vain attempt to encompass all that is critical for the day, the month, the year.

I’m suddenly in a constant flux of frightful contemplation of what should be done next and how best to do it. It means making decisions every day with unknown outcomes that in the end I will be totally responsible for. He’s doing the work. Oh yes, he is. He’s not wearing that apron and head scarf without good reason. But I’m the one now holding the authority, setting the schedule, and owning responsibility for the ultimate outcome.

And so now, rather than that needed time to do my own thing (writing, blogging, knitting, self-reflection, and sewing), I have no time for anything. And when I do get a notion to cook a Sunday breakfast, I now have a critic peeking over my shoulder in MY kitchen telling me that is not how to prepare poached eggs!

It makes me remember with sad regret the days before that stupid conversion to the new man. When Hub sat like a sentinel at the table waiting for breakfast. And when it was served, he winked and smiled and said, “Roberta. There’s not a woman on the face of the earth that can poach an egg the way you can!”

Awww and Awe

Easter was such a special time with all my grandchildren here. All four of them. Left me feeling warm and happy. Left me feeling life is truly special. Left me saying “Aww” and feeling ‘awe’.

The ‘Aww’ comes when I hold and look at my new grandson. Born at 28 weeks. Scared all of us half to death. But he came out wailing like babies are supposed to. And now he is six pounds and two months old, loves to show off how he can hold his own bottle and so cute, cuddly, and sweet. Amazingly he never cries as long as everyone responds to the ‘look’—that would be the tribal look that every one of our tribe members are so capable of when things are unsatisfactory.

Knitted brows, scrunched up forehead, eyes reflecting a composite of disgust and disappointment. He gives the ‘look’ then waits patiently for clean pants, a warm bottle, or a change of position. Then if nothing happens, he fusses and fumes, and moves his little hands to his face and squeezes his brows to intensify the look. Reluctant to cry when the look is generally sufficient.



And then there is my older grandson. What a character he is. He values friendships that are honest and just. So when his pre-school teacher told him about Jesus being God’s son and dying on the cross at Easter and rising again, in grandson’s practical mind, that was too much. I think he took it to be a joke but didn’t tell me so.

What he did tell me is that Jesus is God’s son. This was the part that he was able to relate to. The father and son connection. (Silly adults. Don’t realize that a five-year-old has no context for stories about death and resurrection and something called ‘sin’. That they can only interpret that part of a story that they have a context for.)

So after being told the Easter story, Grandson wrote a letter to Jesus and insisted his mom mail it to God, so they, meaning he and Jesus, could become friends. The letter said, “Dear Jesus. I like you very much. Can we be friends?”

Grandson wants to form a friendship so that he can eventually invite Jesus and his father over to our place. That’s how it works. And then when that happens, God and Grandpa can pull him and his new friend, Jesus, on the sled behind the quad and see which one goes faster. Grandpa can’t go as fast as Grandson would like cause Grandma complains.

God is a father, like his own father, and God has a son, just like him. As a father, however, God is very old so he is probably more like Grandpa than Grandson’s own father.

Everyone thinks God is bigger and better than his Grandpa, but Grandson spurns that suggestion. One needs to find out. How fast will God drive the quad with no one daring to complain about how fast he goes? It’s gonna be pretty hard for him to beat flying across the deep snow instead of sliding on it like happens when Grandpa gets in behind the house where Grandma cannot see them.

But I digress. What I really want to tell you more so than this trivia is how excited I am about Grandson’s yen to write stories. He told me he knew some magic. And the magic he explained to me is that he knows all his letters. And with those letters, he told me, he can make ALL words.

And with words, he told me, he can write sentences that say anything he wants to say.

“Did you know,” he asks, with his eyes so big and excited, “that I can do that if you help me spell the words? That’s all you need to do and I can explain anything, tell you anything.”

He runs to get a paper and pencil. “Now you help me,” he says, “and I will write a story.”

He writes me a funny little story about sleigh-riding with Grandpa. About him falling off the sleigh, his sister falling off the sleigh, and Grandpa falling off the quad. That last part was not true, but it was necessary to prevent anyone in the story looking more than, or less than, another.

And then in our conversation of rather simple words, I am stunned to hear him say something about ‘flexible’ as if it was a word he uses every day.

I didn’t realize it, at the time, but I guess Grandpa explained to him that the tow rope behind the quad had to be fixed rather than ‘flexible’ to avoid the sleigh from dog-tracking or slipping under the quad or side-ways into an icy snow-bank.

So just to be silly, I say to him, “ ‘Flexible’ is a pretty big word. Makes me think of another big word. The word is ‘inexplicable’. Do you know what that means?”

“What?” he asks, with head tipped and eyes intent on my face.

“It means,” I said, “something that cannot be explained. That words cannot be found to tell it.”

I had no idea the little storyteller-wordsmith would be so crushed by this bit of information. He gave me the tribal look of disappointment.

“I don’t like that word,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. Me? I can tell anything unless it is a secret. Like for your birthday or for Christmas. There is a way to tell everything. You just have to use the right words.”

And so, I say ‘Aww’ when I look at my new Grandbaby and feel an equal sense of awe at the elder Grandson’s incredible wisdom.

_________

Later, I heard Grandson tell his Mom. “Know what, Mom? If something is ‘inexplicable’, you can’t explain it. That’s what that word means. You can’t, but I can!”

Political Ignorance

I live with my unique tribe and countrymen in a remote corner of tropical Confrica on the island of Menisia under an autocratic, tyrannical dictatorship. Though you have probably never heard of this place hidden away in the North Anticic, we have existed here since time began. This is our country. And like other tribes within their native land, we are true patriots and passionate lovers of country.

And then you come as a shiny-faced American visionary with your magic kit of split salt, talismen, toad’s eyes, cell phones, blackberries, quad-cores, collapsible electronic voting booths, bringing your glowing message of the blessed saving grace of “democratic government” supplemented by DVD’s and tutorial-extracts from “CNN’s Ballot Bowl ‘08”.

I cannot imagine how distracted and confused I would become while you attempt to explain to me the convolutions involved in the last Presidential race and convolutions involved in the present Dem-primary race.

Obviously it will take more than split salt or toad’s eyes to explain to me the interplay of electronic voting, absentee voting, exit and entry polls, counts, recounts, chads – attached or semi detached, calendars, timing, candidates – standing, seated, or are they saying seeded? In addition, you would need to explain the impressive role of super delegates, financial sponsorship. and caucuses (shouldn’t that be caucii?).

And you would need to explain to me why the confusion in the primaries goes on for months. And why a Presidential election in the midst of all your modern technology and advanced wisdom has to be a long drawn out affair that cannot be settled without calling in legal counsel to validate what voting should be counted, what voting ignored, and what voting has a decided effect.

It would frighten me, truly it would. To risk Menisia’s, and Confrica’s, present security in such mass confusion. To start the unending story of the formation of ‘another’ democracy after observing iindicators (if one looks closely) of civil unrest, weakened leadership, and fractured alliances that make it mpossible for citizens to decide with any amount of certainty, which candidate is motivated by love of power, and which is motivated by love of country. How can such a rippling underlying aggression within, efficiently block unexpected aggression from without?

(Someone should tell ‘The General” that maybe it isn’t the slow progress of the war in Iraq as much as the confusion that has virtually halted their move to democracy. Surely he can comprehend that understanding needs to proceed implementation).

But for now, let’s set that aside and move on to candidate agendas. These, too, seem to miss the point.

Candidates offer vague policies that can be interpreted a thousand ways but yet they camouflage them in a way that seems to focus on weighty and significant concerns. But when the vote is ultimately decided, these same policies eerily slip into some kind of stupid private matters that have to do with obesity, smoking, physical exercise, political correctness, sexual preferences, abortion, safe driving, green trees, and animal tracks.

So what, I must ask, is the attraction in a political persuasion that creates such bedlam and chaos? How do you do this thing called ‘democracy’? And why? When within dictatorial rule, things are so simple? When one dictator dies or is ousted, the next steps into place in two seconds flat. Before I can even plunge my tongue into my cheek.

It makes me proud to say that in my country of Menisia, the agenda of the leader is rigid and focused. His mandate is simple. It is to ensure that we are all of one mind and spirit. To ensure that no one can destabilize the government. And to ensure that no outsiders dare run roughshod over our citizens.

I tell you true, you could not hope to convert me. Nor would it be possible for you to convince me to renounce dictator rule despite all your sincerity and conviction. Obviously it would be so much better to live in untold freedom, rather than beneath heavy-handed dictatorial rule, but you are not ready to show us how. Go back to the drawing board and when you have the thing properly worked out without argument and convolution (i.e. a sensible approach); please come back and we will discuss it.

In the meantime, there may be cruelty, even oppression, for the citizens of Menisia in our present existence, but it is adequately counterbalanced by the peaceful nature of our ignorance.

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 Free, No Obligation Diet...that Works

Tonight, yet again, I watched a documentary on obesity and an endless parade of diets from cabbage soup to low-carb and everything in-between. Of course, like most shows of this nature, there was no real solid conclusion. The only theme that rang clearly was the millions of dollars that are made by the slime-balls that scam the public with so many diets that don’t work, or if they do work, are only temporary.

And so, I’m going to share with you a risk-free diet that works without expensive supplements or fat and calorie counts and ratios. And I’m quite willing to share it for free.

It is the “Scarce Diet”, not to be confused with the Scarsdale or any other modern diet. Obesity was not a plague in this country during the 50’s and 60’s because we were all on a strict diet without the misery of realizing it. Eleven kids in our family and all skinny as a rake.

Now, if you are interested, this is how the “Scarce Diet” works. It is based quite simply on a seasonal rhythm.

Spring meals - Primarily salads. Young lettuce, radishes, spinach, early peas, sweeter-tasting parsnips that stayed in the ground over winter. Fiddleheads and young rhubarb. Fish for a time if one of us happened by the creek when the fish were running.

Summer meals – Primarily fresh vegetables. Plenty of eggs, but very little meat. Occasionally for clan gatherings or a birthday, a young fryer-chicken. Strawberries and raspberries

Fall meals – Primarily late garden crops such as turnips, potatoes, squash, cabbage. Blueberries, cranberries, and crabapples. Still very little meat except for a few old stewing hens.

Winter meals – Primarily tubers – potatoes, turnips, parsnips, carrots. And at long last, finally some red meat in the form of moose or deer. More fish as well because now it can remain frozen and will not spoil. No salads, just cucumber or green-tomato relish preserves. And a bit of wine from the cellar in the form of fermented fruit preserves that never sealed.

The food groups I’ve mentioned are important. But more important is the meal time schedule. Breakfast is at seven, lunch is at noon, supper at six o'clock.

In between, no snacks though all are free to exact nibblers if any can be found. Berries, spruce sap gum, rose hips from the woods, or a raw carrot, turnip, or potato from the bin. At bedtime, for the models of good behavior, a cup of cocoa or tea.

Junk foods: A candy sucker, bubble gum, an ice cream cone, or a licorice stick twice monthly on shopping days. Cotton candy at the Fair. Hard ribbon candy and Jap oranges at Christmas time.

You know, I have a niggling conviction that obesity is not so closely linked to what we eat as it is to how often we eat it. If one religiously sticks to the time schedule of the Scarce Diet, I think there would be little harm in eating fried chicken, fast food hamburgers, or French fries.

The problem is we are usually booting around downtown when we order up fast food and then suddenly we are topping that meal up with a sundae, and chocolate bars, and a pop, because everywhere we turn that is what is in our face. And then when we are stuffed to capacity, we buy more to stash at home for the sake of convenience and choice.

This diet will work, but it may have other merits. I sometimes wonder if the plague of chronic bowel disease that seems so rapidly on an increase could be arrested by all of us slipping back into rigid eating times and foods that fit our seasonal rhythm.

Maybe, just maybe, that is what our physical bodies are clocked to deal with and programmed to expect.

My 'Funny' Little Valentine

I was in Grade 5 when I found it on my desk with other valentines. It was a small card flagged with immoderate blowzy, ruddy, fevered red that was both startling and sweet. And framing that warm glowing fire was a ripple of delicate white lace secured by tiny pastel violets.

The beauty of it, the lace, the color-stir of red and white formed into emotions of a strange and mystifying blend.

The arrow looks like nothing more than an icon. But I am deceived. It sails right off the paper and pierces my soul with a sharp agonizing sting and then forces my body to drink from the angular tip. A tip envenomed with a potion that caused heart palpitations at a critically dangerous romp.

Already, that is enough, but now add to that the bewitching charm of a chant of minuscule rhyme. Condensed into a faulty iambic pentameter of twiddling words and a silly pun. Silly enough to make me laugh. Lyrical enough to raise goose-bumps. And then, when I least expect it, coming to a halt with the catchy spine-tingling freeze of a sweet musical strain.

Fullness of understanding should come quickly, but it doesn’t. It waves and falters. Building like a gentle wind before a storm into a gathering stir. Gently blowing here, mercilessly blasting there. And amidst all this toss, I check, and double check and check again. Yes, there it is. In labored graphite pencil…his name…his sweet seal…approving the message.

This is an insidious hypnotism. That’s what it is. I am under some kind of intoxicating spell. With much difficulty, I attempt to mask emotions beyond my control enough to keep a cool professional-looking Grade-5-exterior. But maintaining dignity without strength is so hard to do. I am as weak as a kitten. I want to laugh. I want to cry. And so, with lips pressed together in a tight grip, and eyes ahead, I run to the bathroom, hide my face in the wall, and do both.

It was not the arrow or the fire or the lace or the violets or even the rhyme that converted me with one bold, staggering blow from realist to a hopeless romantic. It was the scrawl of that penciled signature.

Love, love, love. I am surrounded with love, embedded with love, enveloped with love, cradled with love, skipping with love, and emotionally scarred for life by the significance of one small Valentine.

Loving 'The New'

Today I reached a new and unanticipated milestone in my life. Similar to the Age of Enlightenment, but this I call “The Age of Indulgence”.

I must have reached it because this behavior is so foreign to me. I have always had such an overwhelming appreciation for anything new that it always came out of the box the minute I bought it and was immediately put to use.

For so many years I donned my new boots, coat, or dress in the store and had them wrap up the old one I came in wearing. I haven’t done that for quite some time. But only because somewhere along the way it became perceived badly by clerks. And about the same time society developed a sneering attitude toward ‘those that buy something and immediately put it on their backs.’ So I catered to that nonsense even though it certainly dampened my original excitement about ‘the new’.

But my personal preference never altered. It was only outside pressure that made me disguise my thinking and furtively sneak my new things home where I promptly ripped them out of the wrappings and draped them on my body to luxuriate in for most of the afternoon. So, to me, it never counted as a change in my values, only a change in the perception of others. Though protocol may have changed, I remained wildly happy about new things.

Admittedly Christmas mornings are sometimes a bit hectic with me in my new clothes, protected by an apron, frying breakfast in my new frying pan, painting a picture with my new paints, transferring the contents of the old purse to the new one. Pressing my new scarf and gloves into use, and my slippers, and cozy robe. And then making an extra dish from my new cookbook in my new crockpot, opening and nibbling at my chocolates, and reading a couple chapters in my new book.

And then, before bedtime, finding time to luxuriate in the gleam of new scented candles while immersed in a foam of new bath products. And rising from that bath to slather myself in new body lotions, polish, and dusts before retiring to bed nestled in my new afghan. The day is spent in happy endeavor to fit everything into a hectic schedule of immediate use. But I have to do that, cause I really love new things.

But, something has changed in the realm of my thinking. A transition has happened. Yesterday Hub and I bought a new shop vacuum. A lovely thing. A needful thing. With the old one being as old as it was – probably 15 years or more, I should have been in a frenzy to put the new one into ‘trial’ use, if nothing else.

But somehow the box got kicked aside and left overnight without being opened. There was a reduced buzz of anticipation and excitement in opening the new and putting it into action. It stayed there in that stapled and taped box overnight before it was opened. I didn’t even peek at the shape or color until the next day. I didn’t plug it in, try it out, or listen to it hum.

So I can only conclude that I have at last reached the Age of Indulgence. A place in time where ‘the new’ is too easily come by to be thoroughly appreciated. Too easily secured. A revolution of my very nature that I find as unsettling as letting something precious slip away. It is a change in value and attitude that equally surprises and perplexes me. I never really expected this to happen – not until I had known the luxury of trotting the globe, an exotic cruise in a monster ship, or some other self-indulgent extravagance.

But even without lavish intemperance, a transition has happened that leaves a sense of loss. I feel it in my bones and in the last 24 hours, my actions have proved the happening of it. A loss more difficult to bear than I ever expected. I think when one loses their excitement and interest in the wonders of ‘the new’, regardless of what it may be, that is a deprivation as hardening, and disappointing, as the loss of youth and the loss of innocence.

But still I am not so disenchanted as I might otherwise be. I still appreciate, in my old frenzy of excitement about ‘the new’ – a new day, a new landscape, a new sky, a new snow, the freshness of new rain. And new puppies, friends, and babies.

And, slightly, but not so much, the sleek look and incredible suctioning power of the new vac.

The Fire, The Man, and The Knife

I don’t remember the original old log house. The one that caught fire when sparks from the chimney ignited the tarpaper roof.

I don’t remember a neighbor rapping at the door that bitter-cold winter morning while bellowing, “Your house in on fire! Your house is on fire! And I don’t remember that, when Mother answered the door, he repeated that phrase one last time then immediately climbed back on his sled, whipped his team smartly, and drove away.

I also don’t remember happily setting out tea things for my doll, while my mother was mixing bread. And in response to the shocking announcement at the door, I don’t remember my elder sister roughly shoving my brother and I into jackets, wrapping us in a blanket, and literally firing both of us into a snow bank out in the yard.

I don’t remember, my brother and I rapidly disengaging the tangled blanket and scurrying back into the burning house. Still, they later said, that is what we did.

I don’t remember the second time we were cast into the snow bank either. This time my sister and Mother knotted scarves of some sort around our feet and left us floundering there in the cold while they ran back to the house.

I don’t remember the boom and huge flare of fire that burst through the ceiling when the heat of the initial flames exploded the jerry cans of coal oil hung in the attic for convenience and to prevent thievery of that precious commodity.

I don’t remember any of this either – my Mother screaming “My new washing machine! Help me get the washing machine!” as she pushed, pulled, and dragged it on the rough board floors to the door. But the washing machine got stuck in the doorway and held fast. And that ended selvage. It was now too late, the fire too intense, to risk any attempt to extract anything more.

By then flames were licking long tongues of fire through the drafty doorway and around the washing machine and the door struts. There was nothing for it. Mother and the three older girls backed away from the flames to a safe distance in the yard and while the fire completely devoured all that we had, they threw hopeless arms around each other and wept.

Looking at what they managed to save, it was precious little. A few wooden chairs, a dish pan with an assortment of dirty dishes, a few blankets, a sewing machine, and some winter clothing hastily donned at the outset.

And with Father and the older boys away at a distant logging camp, there was nothing more they could do but hitch up the old horse and go to The Man’s home for shelter. The same Man who quickly announced the fire and then as quickly abandoned us without lending a hand.

____

Mother was heartbroken but being humble, which she always and forever was, she found no great cutting pain in asking for lodging at The Man’s house, despite the extreme unkindness and utter rejection shown to her in a time of need.

Thankfully, The Man’s wife was everything her husband was not. Friendly, jolly, sympathetic, and caring. She welcomed our mother and her five children with open arms and a flood of tears for our predicament. She herded us all into her warm kitchen with reassurances in broken English that we would stay. Eat there, sleep there, as long as we needed to in order to get back on our feet. And what do I remember about that? Only that she was kind.

I am the youngest in the family, and my brother, a year older. Four and five at the time, maybe even three and four – I don’t remember. But I do remember how thoroughly frightened I was of The Man, who always sat removed from the table and removed from the clutch of despairing souls in his kitchen. He clung to the edges and far corner of the room.

He sat in the corner in a rounded slouch on a chair with his hat pulled well down over a face of darkness with furtive eyes. Eyes that peered through narrow slits at invisible things at a great distance. Well past any occupants or activity in the room. And at dinner time while the rest of us ate at the table and chatted easily with his wife, he ate in his corner, curled over a plate held in his lap that his wife prepared for him.

After dinner, during a brief moment of silence, The Man spoke for the first time. I remember seeing his head turn towards us and then he spoke.

“Come here, you two, I want to show you something.” My brother and I dared not disregard the cold commanding voice. We clung to each other in shivering fear as we looked to each other for courage.

What need to fear? We knew we had been so quiet, so out-of-anyone’s-way, so well-behaved. Sitting in the quietness of a real and present dread of the presence pressed against a wall in the far corner of the kitchen. We had sat with quiet diligence on kitchen chairs for hours together, trying not to fidget. Twisting our legs and hands together to quiet them while examining flowers on the wallpaper and searching for the likeness of angels, or wings, or a cross—in light rays on the floor, tea leaves in cups, the frost on the windows, that would show a sign that our Mother’s protective God that walked among us every minute of every day was here to rescue us from the horrid presence of The Man.

We now stood facing him, clinging together. Distant but not as safely distanced as we wanted to be.

“Closer, come closer, my dears,” said the expressionless face and so we crept in hesitant steps a bit closer. Still with one hand he beckoned us nearer while looking past us and now we were almost touching his knees. That’s when he slowly pressed a tightly-closed down-turned fist on his leg and pushed it towards us. “Guess what I have here?” he said. “Can you guess?”

Maybe it was a game. Maybe we had just misunderstood his ominous appearance and actions and way of speaking. Maybe it was all a gross misjudgment. It was beginning to sound like a game and games are usually fun. Thinking that it might be a game, my brother and I mustered a weak smile as we both said in unison, “I don’t know.”

He flipped his hand over with a startling jerk and opened his palm. “Have a look then. Do you know what this is?” he said.

I remember how we stared in stricken terror, as he revealed a pocket knife and expertly snapped it open with one hand. We were rooted to the floor with surprise and fear. Unable to run, unable to scream.

“It is my knife,” he said. “It’s very sharp.”

I clearly remember how he slashed the blade through the air in a menacing move. And now he said, snatching at one of my feet. “I’m going to cut off all your toes.”

I remember how in one wild screaming bound my brother and I landed in our Mother’s lap together and how we twined ourselves frantically around her neck. And as we breathed together in gasping, shuddering sobs, I remember the evil chuckle that came from the far corner of the room.

I don’t remember the fire. I don’t remember the flames. I don’t remember my Mother’s wail about her new washing machine or the sudden cold shock of being tossed into a snow bank.

But I do remember, and will always remember – The Man and the knife.

________

In my lifetime I’ve met a lot of people of different sorts. I know there are those that know how to engage themselves in children’s hearts in open trusting ways like The Man’s wife. But I’ve also met a lot of people that don’t know how to make friends with a young child though they desperately want to.

And so, as I rummage though these different personalities, with their various perspectives, and I end up wondering if perhaps The Man wanted to be our friend but just didn’t know how to do it.

That is possible. Life has given me enough wisdom that I could make that concession. But how can I find an explanation for why he would have alerted us to the danger the day of the fire and then promptly drove away.

Could his inability to look at others and his inability to socialize be a sign of such a shy and timorous nature, that his own fear sent him scurrying. Is that a possibility?
As hard as it is to understand would that kind of fear make a person do that?

Emulsifying Emotions

I want to tell you about the day my Mother was darning socks and I heard her singing a song I hadn’t heard before. I was drawn to it by a bittersweet haunt between melody and lyrics that made joy and sadness spasm as if uncomfortably sharing a common thread.

I listened while she sang it and then we discussed it. And this is what my Mother said.

She said it was a very old song (written in 1823), well known and often sung. She told me that it was a song of longing that soldiers hummed, to seek comfort, in dark, damp trenches, while thinking of dear parents or a young sweetheart.

It wasn’t necessary for her to tell me it was a song that blended memories – polishing the past and shining up the now. I could see evidence of that when she spoke to me with dewdrops in her eyes, yet contentment in her voice.

A song about the sweetest ease of mind, despite all our longings for something better. Magical words that made three generations melded together in one tiny place, tumbling over each other, more compelling than any roomy apartment. And though the expression of the song is to restore old memories, it erases unpleasant ones like waking up with hair and blankets frozen to the wall and walking to school – uphill both ways.

And there was something in our discussion about it being a song that pulled prodigals back to God and away from wasteful living. And how it tendered warm love of one’s youth, grandparents now gone, and her own feeble mother at a distance too great for her to hope to visit her.

It emulsified emotions and magically blended, through complete simplicity, enough good memories with the bad to make all of life, from birth to death, the sweetest concoction.

It was a surprising discussion and I still remember the conclusion.

“I guess it’s a song that mends unholy hearts the way I mend hole-ee socks,” my Mother said, with wet eyes and a smile.

______________
Do you know what the song was? Try and guess and if you can’t, you’ll find a bit of it in the comments section. If you understand contentment, you won’t be surprised.

Global Warming vs Societal Decay

As a follow-up to my last post, in truth, I really don't know all the merits of the fix-it theories for Global Warming --- assuming it is a fact.

I haven’t read the Al Gore fact sheets or watched the movie. As a rant-writer, I make the assumption, and perhaps unfairly, that everything Al Gore may say, is a plagiarized work, with all of it extracted from other’s work and investigations.

Seems to me he too graciously accepted the Peace Prize for “his” work, when the work was no doubt far-removed from any personal research or documentation on his part. Maybe I’m misunderstanding something here but isn’t it odd that through a direct factory-buy, one can suddenly become the ‘originator’ of another’s writ?

Still I often ponder, going off topic a bit here, why no one is working on a theory to explain, in a similar manner, the chaotic thinking of modern society.

Seems if we could get to the cause of that, straighten it out a bit, get some wisdom and common sense in the air, society, as a whole, could develop the kind of sensitivity that we have towards preservation of our environment. A sensitivity that would make so much of society better at parenting, sustaining relationships, being responsible, practicing wisdom, conciliating rather than warring with other nations, and ultimately as an extension of clear and responsible thinking, tidying up our trash.

Though I can’t fault Mr. Gore for the best of intentions, if he doesn’t get this connect, I’m not certain his connect is truly authentic. Unless, of course, our societal break-down is solely due to melting ice and the ever expanding hole in the ozone layer.

Another possibility may be that our present condition is the outcome of some other atmospheric, climatic, or circumstantial phenomena, not yet countered or realized.

In truth, I have to wonder when there is so much child and animal abuse and violence in the news, where are the tabulations and schematics for explanatory theories for the causes and cures for all that? Where is the campaign leader to sensitize us to those realizations? Is it not an equal, if not greater concern – the concern of who we are and what we will become if action is not taken now?

But, of course, that's me coming out of left field again. And I’ll be the first to concede I am no authority on anything much.

Perhaps if I felt comfortable with snagging others thoughts, and passing them off as my own, I’d have some enviable solutions and an even more enviable theory. But there is a part of me that will not allow me to do that. Recycling is good, but not so good in that context.

And so now I give you my final admission. I’m too much of a dreamer of an earth-based Utopia, where children are cherished, animals are loved, nature reverenced, and relationships stabilized by selfless-commitment to embed myself in the symptoms of Global-Warming that are not necessarily the crux of the matter.

_________

P.S. Feel free to debate these notions. The originality of your thoughts are safe with me.

Colder than Cold

Photo source: Reader’s Digest/Feb 08

How could I not share this picture, when it so how Hub and I are feeling at the moment?

Right now I would pack all my aerosol cans out on the deck and spray all the contents if I thought it would help.
I would idle every vehicle in the yard till the tank runs dry, if I could get any of them started.
I would cook on a coal and wood brushfire, if I could clear away enough snow,
without freezing my butt, to get that fire going.
I would burn tires and plastic cups.
I would dig up all arable land and pour concrete on it. Build monster buildings and hot-tar all the roofs.
I’d trade in my old car for a B-train.
I would fly from east to west every day in the biggest sonar jet to campaign for any fool if they would just ask.
I would recycle nothing.


You have your gods, and I have mine
But when it comes to Global Warming….
I’m not a Believer, I’m not an Agnostic,
I'm an Atheist.

And I’ll be drowning in my own sweat before I return to past convictions.

________

P.S. I don't know how cold it got last night. My digital thermometer cratered at -42 C. and it refuses to be revived.

Light

It warms the earth, gives breath to plants, and sustains human life. Even fitful flickers of light hold fascination and appeal. We are hypnotized, it would seem, by sunlight, starlight, candles, campfires, sparks, and flares.

The tiniest flicker of light has its own brilliance. The blacker the black the greater the radiant circle of its light. The colder the cold, the more force given to the dimmest of indicators. When there is nothing but a pit of darkness, even a shadowy and doubtful burn that flickers and seems to give life to dead skin, can be more comforting than no light at all.

But the true power of light is its speed. With its ear-splitting and ear-rending cry (thankfully too high-pitched for human ears), it scurries all four-headed beasts and three-legged monsters that hide in clothes closets or under beds. And with equal effectiveness, it peals through space and gives such a sudden and unexpected shock to dark events of antiquity that they turn inside-out into a current continuum of time.

We resist separation from light in life, and in death our wish for it is frantic. The death-launch provides certainty of a life well-lived, when the final address is a beacon of light. All is well if we see nothing more than a pinpoint of light, as long as it has holding power. We will go to the light. There is safety and redemption in it.

So what is this magic that it do?

Penetrating all layers of body fusion and erasing ethereal convictions that there are beasts under the bed.

Highlighting and magnifying the spirit of the oil in a painting, the water in the lake, the forest in the woods, the music in the chambers, the clouds on the horizon, the color in my hair, and the convictions in my soul?
________

Today the sky is gray. There is no luminosity in anything within or without. I sit in shadows. My only salvation is a tiny beacon of light that beckons me to come to it.

I am thankful the coffee is ready and grateful the indicator-light is on.