Ordinary Thoughts, Essays and Short Stories

Author: Virginia Boshears (Page 8 of 9)

Being Basil

Basil was often considered – and perhaps unfairly – to be an odd child.  Unusually quiet, she was a bit of a loner and nearly always had her nose stuck in a book.  Her name didn’t help matters, either.  It originated, not from an affinity for the actor Rathbone, but rather a particular fondness for the herb, and it had been thrust upon her by a domineering grandmother.  Basil’s father died before she was born – apparently a freakish accident involving an abandoned quarry, a pogo stick, a bet and a great deal of gin – and her mother was a nonconfrontational little creature with an inability to stand up for her convictions.  Had her mother been a bit more strong-willed, Basil might have answered to a more mainstream name like Kimberly or Nicole, thereby avoiding a plethora of unpleasant playground taunts.  She never cared much about the opinion of others, though, so her mother’s failure to insist on a more pleasing moniker was a moot point. 

This morning, as she lingered in the sunbeam shining across her bed, Basil thought about the day’s possibilities.  It was the first day of summer vacation and, at the moment, Granny hadn’t made any demands for her time.  That would come soon enough, but right now it felt luxurious to burrow into her pillow and watch the dust bits dancing in the sunlight. 

The sounds and smells of breakfast made it hard to stay in bed long, so Basil threw back her sheet, stretched her legs up and pointed her toes at the ceiling.  She scissor-crossed her ankles a couple of times and then flung her body sideways, rolling off the mattress and landing quietly on her feet.  She took off her nightgown, folded it and put it under her pillow.  After quickly making her bed, she ran a brush through her hair, pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, and strolled barefoot across the room to the door.  It was open a few inches as always – Granny didn’t allow anyone full privacy – and Basil paused as she reached for the knob.  The phone was ringing.  She leaned closer to the opening and listened. 

Before it had a chance to ring a third time, Basil heard her grandmother’s firm voice.  “Yes, who’s calling?”  After a few seconds of silence, there was a gasp followed by the clatter of something landing on the oak floor below.  Basil tiptoed out of her room – instinctively knowing where to step to avoid the creaky floorboards – and she leaned over the railing that ran the length of the upstairs hall above the foyer.  She watched her grandmother slowly bend down, pick the receiver up off the floor and place it back on the phone’s cradle.  Granny used the small hall table for support as she straightened up fully, ran her hands along either side of her head to smooth her hair and then walked back toward the kitchen. 

When the sounds of breakfast preparations recommenced, Basil padded down the steps and gave the phone a passing glance before making her way to the dining room.  Granny had the table set for three, as she always did, and Basil took her usual seat, facing the door to the kitchen.  She was barely settled in her chair when Granny came through the swinging door with a large tray in her hands.  After putting it down where there was no place setting, her grandmother took a large, covered bowl from the tray and placed it on the table.  She then set two covered plates next to the bowl and carried the empty tray back through the door to the kitchen.   

Basil silently counted the seconds – 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi, 5 Mississippi – and watched the door swing open again revealing Granny holding the same tray.  Only this time it held two glasses of juice, a glass of milk and a steaming cup of what Basil knew to be creamed coffee.  Granny never deviated from her routine.  She would ready the tray with the breakfast food and bring that out first, then it would take her exactly five seconds to walk briskly back into the kitchen, place the prepared drinks on the tray and set the door to swinging again as she made her way into the dining room for the second time.  The old woman may have seemed ancient, but she moved fast. 

Granny set a glass of juice and the glass of milk at Basil’s place setting.  She then set the other glass of juice and the cup of coffee by the place setting at the head of the table.  There were no beverages for the third place setting.  Basil pretended not to notice.  Clearly, her mother hadn’t come home last night.  It was something that happened often and always went without comment. 

After Granny situated herself in her chair, she placed her napkin in her lap.  She waited for Basil to do the same.  Once satisfied, she bowed her head and, with a side-glance to her right, she nodded sharply for her granddaughter to follow suit.  Basil closed her eyes and bent her head down until her nose touched the rim of her plate, causing her to stifle a giggle.  This time it was Granny who pretended not to notice. 

“Lord, bless this food for our nourishment and watch over this unabashedly irreverent child.  Amen.” 

Granny lifted the cover from the bowl and spooned a large helping of scrambled eggs onto Basil’s plate.  She uncovered the two plates which contained bacon and buttered toast and served two slices of each to Basil.  She repeated the process for herself and quietly began to eat.   

With the exception of the nudging glance before saying grace, Granny had not made eye contact with Basil.  This was also routine, along with eating their meals in silence.  But Basil broke the pattern this morning. 

“Granny, who was that on the phone?”  She carefully watched her grandmother’s face to see if her expression might give away what surely would be missing from her answer. 

Granny set her fork down next to her plate, looked Basil squarely in the eyes and said, “Curiosity killed the cat.”  She then retrieved her fork and went back to eating. 

About the only thing of interest that Basil saw in Granny’s response was that her mouth twitched, ever so slightly, before she looked up and spoke.  That, and her hand shook a bit as she raised the fork to her lips.  The meal continued on in silence. 

2 

As expected, once the breakfast dishes were cleared and the day was truly underway, Granny handed Basil a sheet of paper. 

“Get started now so you can be finished by lunch time.  I’ll be checking to see how you’re coming along.”  Granny’s tone was never overly harsh, nor did it contain any hint of affection.  She spoke with a matter-of-fact flatness that gave no indication of how she felt one way or another.  Basil turned the paper over in her hand and read the list. 

  1. Bring in the newspaper. 
  2. Dust the downstairs furniture. 
  3. Vacuum the downstairs carpets. 
  4. Sweep the front and back porches. 
  5. Take out the trash. 

Lunch would be served promptly at noon which gave her four hours to finish everything on the list.  Piece of cake.  The dusting took the most time, and the vacuum cleaner was heavy and hard to handle, but that was no problem.  Basil had been doing chores since she was old enough to hold whatever implement was needed to complete the task.  Now 12 years old, even the vacuuming was getting easier. 

After lunch, Granny would hand Basil a list very similar to the first one, but it would be for the upstairs.  Instead of the newspaper, she would need to bring in the mail and, instead of sweeping porches, she’d be cleaning bathrooms. 

This would be repeated every weekday during summer vacation.  Why her grandmother felt the need to give her new lists every day was beyond her.  Basil knew the chores by heart, but it was another routine that never changed, and she’d learned long ago to simply play along.  Granny didn’t allow others to work in her kitchen, though, so that was one area Basil didn’t have to think about.  She didn’t have to worry about outside chores, either.  Granny relied on Harlan Thomas, a local handyman, to do the yardwork and any other maintenance the old white farmhouse required.  Lucky for him, he was dependable and very good at his job.  Granny was exceptionally particular and not the least bit shy about pointing out inefficiencies in others. 

On Saturdays, Basil was allowed to do as she pleased and, although she did have to attend church every Sunday morning with Granny, her Sunday afternoons were free, too.  As she started on her morning list of chores on this sunny Monday, Basil made a mental note that freedom was only five days away, and her first order of business on Saturday would be to go to the library.  No amount of reading ever felt like enough to her.  There was only one place she’d rather be than searching those dusty old shelves for her next great escape, and that was a quiet corner where she could curl up and lose herself in a good book.  Smiling at the thought, she hummed quietly as she went out to get the paper. 

3 

Routine fell by the wayside just before noon.  The trash cans were behind the garage and, as Basil started back toward the house to return the empty wastebaskets, she saw a black and white sedan pulling into the drive.  She didn’t need to read the writing on the side or make out the person behind the wheel to know it was Sheriff Peterson.  While their little town did boast a sheriff, two deputies and a middle-aged frump who answered the station phone, Basil was well aware that no one but the sheriff was allowed to drive that car.  The deputies had to use their own vehicles which, to her, always seemed a little unfair. 

The sheriff got out of the car and motioned Basil over to where he was standing.  “Hello, there, young’un.  Nice day for chores, isn’t it?” 

Basil wasn’t accustomed to adults making small talk with her, so she simply nodded her head and squinted up at him to see what else he might have to say. 

“Not much of a talker, are you?”  He tilted his head and then nodded up at the house.  “Is your granny inside?” 

This time, Basil figured it might be wise to at least try to be polite.  “Yes, sir.  She’s probably in the kitchen.  I can go get her for you.” 

The sheriff shook his head and smiled.  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.  I’ll go on up and knock.  But I need you to do me a favor.  Can you do that?” 

Basil continued to squint up at him.  She wasn’t being intentionally rude, but he was a lot taller than she was and the sun was right over his head.  “Sure, I guess so.” 

“Great,” he said, as he bent down to her eye level.  “I need for you to find something to keep yourself busy outside while I go in and talk to your granny.  It’s grownup stuff and we can’t be interrupted.  Do you know what that word means?” 

“Interrupted?  Uh…yeah,” Basil replied, not even trying to hide her annoyance.  

The sheriff laughed and ruffled Basil’s curly brown pixie before he headed to the porch.  When he got to the top step, he turned and hollered back at her, “Remember what I said.  You just stay outside.” 

4 

Basil counted to a hundred, then snuck up under the front room window and pulled herself up enough to peer inside.  Granny was sitting on the sofa with her head bent down while the sheriff sat next to her.  Basil couldn’t hear what he was saying but, from the looks of things, it wasn’t anything good.  She stayed low and tiptoed along the front of the house until she was out of their view, and then she walked over to the garage to wait.   

She waited a long time.  From the way the sun had shifted, she figured the sheriff had been in with Granny for almost an hour.  For most of that time, Basil sat in the shade with her back against the side of the garage, thinking about what kinds of books she wanted to check out on Saturday.  After a while, her butt got numb, so she pulled herself up and began pacing back and forth in the driveway.  At that point, instead of daydreaming about the library, she was trying her best to ignore the rumbling in her stomach.  Lunch was always at noon – even at school – and when a body got used to that, a delay like this was downright bothersome.   

She was considering going over to the outside spigot for a drink when she heard the squeak of the front screen door.  Granny was standing too far inside for Basil to see her, but she watched as the sheriff tipped his hat to her grandmother and then made his way off the porch.   

Losing any hint of deference to authority, Basil ran over and blocked the door to the sheriff’s car.  “You were in there a really long time.  What’s going on?” 

“Whoa, there, missy!  That’s no way to talk to me.”  The sheriff crossed his arms and stared down at her.  “Didn’t your granny ever teach you to respect your elders?” 

Thinking she might have gone too far, Basil stared at the ground and nodded.  “Yes, sir, she did.  I’m sorry.  It’s just that…” 

“I know,” he gently interrupted.  “It’s scary to have the police come to your house and not know why.”  Bending down, he looked her in the eye the way he had earlier.  “Like I said before, we had grownup things to talk about.  We’re done now, though, and I know your granny is waiting for you to come in so she can explain everything.  It’s her place to tell you, not mine.  Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah,” Basil said.  “I guess so.” 

“Good,” he smiled and stood back up.  “You go on inside now.” 

5 

Basil walked softly through the shadowed foyer and glanced into the front room.  Not finding Granny there, she went through the dining room and listened outside the door to the kitchen.  She heard the refrigerator door close, then a drawer being slid open and suddenly the clanking of some sort of utensil hitting the floor.  She pushed the door open and saw Granny leaning back against the counter with her face buried in her hands.  The carving knife was lying on the linoleum next to her feet.  Basil walked over and picked up the knife, pretending not to notice as her grandmother turned away and wiped her eyes. 

“Granny, I can make the sandwiches.  Why don’t you go sit at the table?”  Basil had never been allowed to do much in the kitchen, but she’d watched plenty of times when her grandmother – and sometimes even her mom – went about the business of sandwich assembling.  It didn’t look very complicated. 

Keeping her back to Basil, Granny nodded and said, “That would be nice.”   

Frowning, Basil watched her grandmother disappear into the dining room, and then she turned back to the task at hand.  The bread and leftover roast were already out, so she rinsed off the knife and set to work, carefully slicing off enough meat for two sandwiches and spreading mustard on the bread before putting it all together.  Placing the sandwiches on small plates and adding one cookie to each, she set the plates on the tray and carried it into the dining room.  Her grandmother was sitting in her usual place at the head of the table, simply staring out the window.  After setting one plate in front of Granny, and the other at her own place at the table, Basil returned to the kitchen and filled two glasses with lemonade.  Not trusting herself to balance those on the tray, she carried them back by hand.  Granny appeared not to notice as Basil set a glass down in front of her.   

Once in her own chair, Basil started to reach for her sandwich and stopped short, realizing Granny hadn’t said grace.  Several seconds passed before Basil cleared her throat and asked, “Aren’t you going to pray, Granny?” 

Granny slowly turned to face Basil and said, “No, child.  It won’t change anything.” 

Trying to force the lump in her throat back down into her stomach, Basil looked at her plate without seeing it.  Her appetite was a fading memory.  She didn’t know what was going on, but she knew it was bad.  And for the first time since she was a little kid imagining monsters in the dark, she was very, very scared. 

6 

It was an unseasonably hot day for this early in June, and Basil tugged at her dress collar as it clung to the back of her neck.  She so badly wanted to put on shorts and go outside, disappearing into the cool shade of the tree grove beyond the back yard.  She wanted to pretend all of these people weren’t milling around her house, shaking their heads and wiping their eyes.  She wanted her mother to come bouncing down the stairs like she had so many times before – giggling for no apparent reason and offering to take Basil to town for ice cream. 

But Basil’s mother would never bounce down those stairs again.  Not ever.  Five days earlier, the sheriff had made a visit to their home that spoiled everything.  A visit to confirm what he’d called about that same morning.  He brought news that was like a cancer to their very existence and now nothing would ever be the same.   

Dead.  Basil’s mother was dead.  She’d been out with one of the locals who was known to play fast and loose with the speed limit, and one small mistake sent them sailing off a sharp curve into Tannon’s Quarry.  The same quarry that took Basil’s drunken father all those years ago.  When the police arrived at the scene and struggled their way down to the huge rocks below, they found a smashed-up Corvette and, ironically, two completely sober bodies. 

Still a young, pretty woman who liked to go out and party, Basil’s mother did the best she knew how.  She was a constant disappointment to Granny but, when it came to Basil, she loved spending time with her daughter.  It wasn’t necessarily what you’d call quality time – Basil never really felt like her mother understood her or the things she was interested in – but it was always fun time.  Like going for ice cream on a whim, playing Crazy Eights on the back porch or racing down the long gravel drive to the mailbox.  Basil knew she was more mature than her mother in many ways, but that didn’t make her love her any less.  Now she guessed all she had left to love were the memories.  The thought of that just made her feel worse. 

Continuing to pull at her collar, Basil tried to be invisible by sitting in a shadowed corner of the living room.  She didn’t want all those people there, but they were there all the same, and she was powerless to do anything about it.  Most of them were friends of her grandmother’s, but there were a few who were closer to Basil’s mother’s age.  Some of Basil’s classmates were even there with their parents.  She didn’t have many true friends, but there were a couple of kids Basil sat with at lunch.  Millie Andrews was one of them, and Dustin Shutt was the other.  They were there now with their parents and heading her way.  Basil’s stomach was a knotted ball of barbed wire, but she sat up in her chair and tried to look normal.  Not because she cared one way or the other about what people thought of her, but she knew it was important not to embarrass her grandmother.  Granny was dealing with enough as it was, and the last thing she needed was to have to explain why her granddaughter was hiding in the corner like some scared animal. 

Millie was the first to speak.  “Hi, Basil.  Sorry your mom’s dead.”   

“Millicent!”  Her mother’s face reddened. “You apologize this instant!” 

Basil surprised herself by smiling.  “It’s okay, Mrs. Andrews.  She’s not wrong.  My mom is dead.” 

7 

Basil and Granny stood on the porch and watched as Harlen, the last mourner, drove away in his work truck.  The heat had let up a little and it wasn’t as humid as it had been earlier.   

“There’s a cool front moving in,” said Granny as she walked over and sat down in one of the porch rockers.  “Go up and change into more comfortable clothes, and then come back down to sit with me.  I know you’ve been feeling downright tortured having to wear that dress all day.” 

Basil didn’t move.  This was the closest to a friendly encounter she’d ever had with her grandmother.  It felt foreign, and more than a little awkward, but it was also sort of nice and she didn’t want to do anything to break the spell.  She looked at her grandmother – really looked at her for perhaps the very first time – and noticed how fragile she appeared.  Sitting there, still wearing her funeral garb, she wasn’t the stoic woman Basil was accustomed to.  She seemed frail and sad and maybe even a little lost. 

“Go on now, child.  And maybe you could bring out a couple of glasses of lemonade when you come back down.  I sure do think that would hit the spot.”  Her grandmother rocked slowly back and forth, a hint of a smile on her tired face. 

“Uh, yeah, sure…I can do that.”  Basil gave her grandmother one more glance before running inside. 

Upstairs in her room, Basil threw her dress into her hamper and put on some jeans and a fresh tee shirt.  Her mind was whirling.  She shoved her own sadness aside and thought deeply about what her mother’s death meant to her grandmother.  Basil always felt like her mom never quite lived up to Granny’s expectations.  But then, Basil never felt like she did, either.  She often wondered if there was anyone on the planet who could measure up in Granny’s eyes.  She hadn’t stopped to think about what her grandmother must be feeling right now, though.  To lose your only child – even if that child caused you many disappointments – why, that must be just awful.  Horrible, actually.  If Granny’s heart was hurting anywhere near as much as Basil’s, then it was a pain that was deep and dark and endless.   

Basil had been suffering that pain all week.  She’d cried herself to sleep each night since they got the news.  Granny hadn’t given her the usual chore lists, but Basil did every task each day anyway.  She needed to keep busy because it was the only thing that helped to blunt that deep, dark, endless pain.  She caught her grandmother silently watching her at times, and she almost felt like she was being spied on, but now she thought it was probably something much less sinister.  Maybe Granny was just working through her own pain as best she could.  Once she considered that, Basil was ashamed that it never occurred to her before.  She slipped her tennis shoes on and hurried back downstairs. 

8 

Remnants of an orange sunset were barely visible above the trees and two empty glasses sat in sweat rings on the floorboards between the rockers.  Besides a “Thank you” and a “You’re welcome” when the lemonade was presented, neither Basil nor her grandmother said anything until now. 

“Basil,” Granny gazed down at her hands, now folded in her lap. “I owe you an apology.” 

Shifting in her seat, Basil looked at her grandmother.  “Why?  What for?” 

Granny sighed and looked back at her granddaughter.  “Child, I know I’ve never been very welcoming.  Not to you.  Not to anyone, for that matter.  It’s a part of my nature that I’ve always hated but never knew how to fix.  Your mother, God rest her soul…well, she took the brunt of it.  She walked a path I didn’t approve of, but she never deserved the way I treated her.  There are reasons for me being the way I am, but those aren’t for your ears.  At least not until you’re older.  It’s too late now for me to tell my sweet daughter how sorry I am, but I want you to know I’m going to try to do better.”  Shaking her head, she continued, “No, that’s not right.  I am going to do better.” 

“Uncomfortable” didn’t even come close to describing what Basil was feeling as she watched her grandmother wipe the tears away.  But she was pretty intuitive and had a good instinct about what she needed to do in that moment.  Granny was baring her soul and, more than anything, she wanted her grandmother to know it was safe to do so.   

Basil got up and knelt next to the other rocker.  Putting a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder, she said, “We can probably both do better, Granny.  I mean…I know I’m not perfect.”  Basil’s voice caught as she went on.  “I really miss mom and I know you do, too.  But we’ve still got each other.  I guess we’re really about all each other has now.  Maybe we can figure out a new normal for the two of us.” 

Touching Basil’s face, her grandmother smiled.  It was a warm, genuine smile that reached all the way to her tear-damp eyes.  “I like the sound of that, Basil.  I really do.  Any ideas on how to make that happen?” 

Basil looked out at the fireflies and took a deep breath before answering.  Turning back to her grandmother, she said, “Well, for starters, maybe we could ditch the chore lists.  I mean, Granny, I already know what needs to be done.  I’m not a little kid anymore.” 

Granny’s eyes grew wide, and she put a hand over her heart. “The…the lists?  You want me to do away with the lists?  Oh, child, what are you trying to do to me?”  Before Basil could take back what she’d said, her grandmother pulled her into a tight hug and began to laugh.  “I’m just joshing.  Of course, we can…as you say…ditch the chore lists!” 

Warm tears streamed down Basil’s cheeks as she hugged her grandmother back and, somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered why they had never done this before.  It was one of the sweetest feelings she’d ever known.  No matter what the future held, she wanted to make this moment last as long as she could.  Her mother may be gone, leaving behind a hurt that would never go away, but Granny was still very much here.   

And, as impossible as it would have seemed a week ago, this Granny was someone Basil couldn’t wait to get to know. 

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More Than a Plane Man

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Last month, I acknowledged Mother’s Day by posting an essay about my mom.  Now Father’s Day is approaching and, being one who must do everything as evenly as possible, I felt compelled to post something to commemorate my dad.

Dad was always a bit of an enigma – one could never be quite sure what was going in behind those blue eyes of his – but one thing was certain…he was a man of enviable talents.  They weren’t the outgoing types of talents you find inhabiting a gallery, stage or screen.  His were rather quiet, nose-to-the-grindstone kinds of talents that made him seem able to do almost anything you might need – or want – to have done.  He paid the bills by working as an electrical engineer, but he satisfied his desire for productivity by creating things.  In addition to being a freelance photographer and a homespun guitar player, he liked to build stuff.  Stuff like houses, boats, furniture and, the pièce de résistance…an airplane.  Not just some remote-control model – although he built those, too – but this was an honest-to-goodness, fly-way-up-high-in-the-sky, open cockpit biplane.  A Starduster Too, to be exact.  It took him over 17 years to complete it, working evenings and weekends, but when all was said and done, it was a pretty impressive specimen.  His accomplishment was even featured on one of Paul Harvey’s radio broadcasts. 

Building something like an airplane would never be on my To-Do list.  As much as I wish it were possible, there’s no way I could emulate any of my dad’s dexterous abilities.  The main characteristics I inherited from him were wrinkles and a snarky wit.

When I think about Dad, though, more comes to mind than how skilled he was.  What really sticks with me is how dramatically my opinion of him changed as I grew from a little kid to an adult.  If you’re the least bit interested in learning more, just click the button below to read Discovering Dad

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Discovering Dad

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As a product of the 50’s, I grew up in a household where the mother nurtured her offspring and the father brought home the bacon.  If I wanted to talk about friends, clothes or boys, I went to Mom.  If I wanted to negotiate curfews, chores or my allowance I went to…also Mom.  Then, of course, she would run whatever it was by Dad.  Mom was more than just the nurturer in our family.  She was the mediator as well. 

Although I don’t think it was intentional, my dad could come off as pretty darned intimidating.  A rather stoic man, he seemed encased by some invisible shell that made him untouchable.  That was my perception, anyway.  As a young girl, I had no clue how he felt about me.  Oh, I suppose that’s not entirely true.  He must have considered me an okay kid because he never beat me, locked me in a closet or made me pay rent.  But we certainly didn’t have what you’d call sit-down conversations.  We didn’t even chat.  The main interactions I can recall from childhood were the times I timidly lurked in Dad’s workshop while he worked on some project and listened to Chet Atkins. (When it came to Chet, Dad was a bit of a fanboy.) 

I’d stay out of the way, anticipating what I hoped would come, and it usually did.  Dad would put down his tools, grab his guitar and start picking along with Chet.  The fact that I was there never seemed to bother him, and I loved those little encounters.  I doubt my dad had any idea how tickled I was during those moments but, each time, I felt as if he and I shared some unspoken, albeit brief, connection.

More often than not, though, I observed Dad from afar…and with a touch of trepidation.  To put it simply, I never mistook my dad for Ward Cleaver.

The first indication I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did was when I was a young wife and mother.  My husband was in the service, and we were moving from Indiana to Rhode Island.  Right before we left, Mom and I embraced in the driveway and vowed to call and write as often as we could.  I then gave Dad a perfunctory hug before I got in the car.  I imagine we mumbled something to each other, but I really can’t be sure.  I settled into the passenger seat and, just as we started to back out of the drive, Dad took out his big white handkerchief and wiped off the headlights.  I began to sob.  My husband didn’t have a clue what caused the waterworks, but that gesture of Dad’s was as plain to me as a billboard on a highway.  It was his way of saying he loved me and wanted me to be safe.  Nearly a half-century has passed since that moment, yet I can see it – and feel it – as distinctly as if it were yesterday.

That little chink in Dad’s armor cast him in an entirely different light.  As the years passed, I finally found my voice with him and made the most fascinating discovery.  He truly was quite a guy.  I always knew he was intelligent, methodical and sometimes demanding.  But I found out he was also funny, compassionate and a joy to be around.  We’d talk and laugh and, quite often, just sit together in comfortable silence.  I grew to appreciate all the attributes that caused my mother to fall in love with him a lifetime before. 

When health problems rendered Mom disabled, Dad suddenly had to take over all of the domestic responsibilities.  That worried me because the household had been her bailiwick, not his.  He was in his seventies, having to learn it all, and I was afraid he’d be overwhelmed.  But not only did he manage to cook, clean, and pay the bills on time…he did so with apparent ease.  Mom even joked about what a great chef he was.  She swore he gave Emeril – a big deal on TV at the time – a run for his money.

The true test came when my mom was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer.  Dad was determined not to let her live out her final days in a nursing facility, and he took Mom home to die.  Home to the cabin he had built for her, nestled among the poplar trees she loved.  Hospice aides and family members pitched in to assist, but Dad was Mom’s primary care giver.  He was meticulous in his new role, and he wanted only the best for her.  He painstakingly doled out her medications, bathed her, diapered her, kept her company and simply loved her.  In so doing, he revealed a side to his character that I’m not sure even he knew existed.

Dad and I grew closer during the year leading up to my mom’s death.  I lived in another city but went to the cabin as often as I could to help him and my brother tend to Mom’s needs.  Though often weary and sometimes depressed, my dad didn’t complain.  Even so, the physical and emotional toll it took on him was a constant concern for me.  I feared that after Mom was gone, I’d lose him, too.

Shortly before my mom’s death, Dad started talking about some small trips he planned to take.  It was the first time he’d even mentioned life after Mom, and it was such a relief to know he wasn’t just going to give up and stop living. 

When the time came, Dad took over Mom’s final role…that of the family nurturer.  It didn’t particularly come naturally for him, and he never got in the habit of randomly calling to chat the way my mom did, but he was there to listen if needed and he always enjoyed getting together with family.  He even found Mom’s old address book – which was complete with dates for anniversaries and birthdays – and continued her practice of sending cards to commemorate those events.

Back then, losing Mom was the hardest thing I’d ever experienced.  Finding Dad was one of the best.  When he died over a decade later, the loss I felt was just as deep as it was when I had to say goodbye to my mom.  I was fortunate to have been encompassed by her love for 45 years, but I felt I’d had Dad for such a short time in comparison.  It wasn’t nearly long enough to make up for all the early years when I didn’t see him for who he really was. 

As fleeting as those last years with Dad were, we made good use of that time for as long as we could.  To me, Lee Root was an amazing man and, in the end, he wasn’t just my father.  He was my friend.

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Tambourine

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Flashback – 1965. 

My 4th grade class is preparing for music time.  As the teacher brings out the box of instruments, I silently pray, Please, oh, please…let me get the tambourine.

The teacher walks slowly to my desk and smiles.  Such a warm, sweet smile.  I smile back and feel certain that, this time, I’ll get it.  She reaches into the box and, quick as a wink, places a wooden block and a stick in front of me.  Before the disappointment fully registers, she’s off to the next desk.

I stare at the block.  I stare at the stick.  I stare at the block again.  Just as I gather my wits and start to raise my hand, I turn and see the teacher giving the treasured tambourine to a fellow student.  To make matters worse, it’s a student who’s gotten it many times before.  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pick up the block and stick and begin keeping time to the music, desperately hoping no one notices as I blink away the tears.

***

A faulty memory precludes me from recalling intricate details such as my classmates’ faces, how well I did in my studies, or even the teacher’s name – although I do think it might have been Mrs. Connor – but, what I will always remember about the 4th grade is how it felt to never, ever get the tambourine.

My 10-year-old imagination had given that inanimate object a great deal more power than was warranted.  But at the time, my heart believed the tambourine was the coolest instrument the teacher had to offer.  I’d fantasized about being the one chosen to play it during music time.  Shy and awkward and far from pretty, I had very little going for me in the popularity department.  Still, I convinced myself that, given the chance to play that tambourine, I’d blow everyone away by my rhythmic flair.  In reality, it was nothing but an outlandish girlhood dream.  And back then, I had a million of them.

As the years fell away, elementary school turned into middle school which turned into high school.  During that time, my self-saboteur psyche managed to accumulate a laundry list of perfectly justifiable reasons why I should feel lousy about my lot in life:

  • I wasn’t part of the “in” crowd.
  • I was nearly always the last one picked for team sports.
  • Dates were few and far between.
  • I never went to a prom.
  • My appearance was all skinny legs, frizzy hair and pale skin.
  • And, to top it off, I was a freckle-faced redhead.

During high school, I was asked to go steady by only one boy, and I wound up marrying him at the end of my junior year.  It was partly because I truly believed I was in love, but it was also because I feared it might be my only chance.  The angst of Janis Ian’s At Seventeen was never lost on me.

The marriage lasted nine years but, since we were practically still children ourselves, it was pretty much doomed from the start.  Ours wasn’t always a happy union and, during most of our time together, I felt invisible.  In the end, I realized the relationship was never going to change for the better, but it took a lot of uncharacteristic strength to finally call it quits. 

Strangely, I slowly began to thrive after the divorce.  It was a stressful, scary time and I floundered a lot, but I gradually learned the mechanics of being a single mom.  I managed to keep the bills paid, put dinner on the table and clothe my daughters – even when money that was supposed to come in didn’t.  After a great deal of soul searching, I finally got it through my head that the end of my marriage didn’t make me a failure.  It was simply a fragment of the fabric that made up my life.  A life, I might add, that I wouldn’t trade for anything. 

I’ve now been joyfully married nearly 37 years to a man who continues to be the yin to my yang.  We worked together to bring up my two wonderful daughters.  They married great guys who have never once treated me like a demon mother-in-law.  And we’ve been blessed with a boatload of grandkids and great-grandkids.  I have a diverse group of friends whom I treasure, and I’m fortunate enough to spend my days in a little woodland paradise that simply oozes tranquility. 

That gangly, not-so-attractive dreamer from my youth never imagined such a simple existence could be so rich.  She’d be particularly pleased about a special treasure I obtained over 20 years ago on my 45th birthday.  That year, in an effort to prove to me that I was indeed worthy, my oldest daughter gave me the gift I’d waited three and a half decades for.  I still remember my delight when I opened the bag and drew out a circular instrument edged with shiny metal discs.  The attached note read, “You are cool enough for a tambourine!”  Giving it a few good shakes, I felt a foreign level of excitement bubbling up inside me, and I began to laugh.

The silent pleas of one little 4th grade girl had finally been answered.

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Taking Stock

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As much as some of us might like to cover our eyes and pretend much of our past didn’t happen, it’s sort of unavoidable.  When you get to be a certain age – and that age is different for different people – you have a tendency to look back over your life and assess what you have, or haven’t, accomplished.  It might center around something tangible like your family, your career, your contribution to society or a combination of such.  It can also center around something more abstract, like how you view yourself as a person.

For me, I often tend to land on how out of place I felt – and still feel, at times – in certain social situations.  When I was a kid, the daydreamer in me would imagine myself as someone entirely different from who I was in reality.  In those little fantasies, I was popular and successful and – this is the biggie – really, really pretty.  Of course, life would then come along and give me a not-so-gentle nudge, and I’d revert back to my real self…which was none of the above.

The good news is, while I doubt that I’ll ever be 100% comfortable in my own skin, I’m not nearly as hard on myself as I was when I was younger.  Time has allowed me to embrace a certain level of acceptance.  And it’s not that I’m settling.  I’m simply acknowledging that I am, in fact, downright okay just the way I am.

That’s actually been one of my favorite things about getting older.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not always a bed of roses.  My joints ache, my skin sags and I’d love to lose some girth, but I’m a whole lot happier about who I am now than I was about who I thought I should be way back when.  I no longer dwell on feeling as though I’m less than.  It took me more than a few decades to get to this point, but I finally stopped wasting precious mental energy on wishing I was someone I’m not.

Along that same vein, the link below will take you to an essay titled Tambourine.  It highlights how the significance of one little thing affected how I felt about myself.  I sort of wonder how many of my peers will be reminded of their younger selves when they read it.  I mean, surely, I can’t be the only one who thought a special something could change my very existence. 

Or then again…maybe it really was just me.

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Stella

The waxy layer quickly melted off the wick, allowing a mild aroma to waft through the kitchen and into the front room while Mozart played softly in the background.  That was one of the great things about open concept living…fewer walls to block scents and sounds.

Stella dropped the lighter into one of her tote bags and pulled out a stack of brochures.  She placed them on the island and surveyed the kitchen.  Too much stuff sitting out on the counter, she thought.  Grabbing the toaster and blender, she stowed them inside a lower cabinet next to the mixing bowls.  She left the stand mixer, coffeemaker and utensil crock where they were, but something else was needed on the counter to create a feeling of warmth.  Stella unzipped her larger tote and pulled out a woven basket and a bag of rather convincing faux lemons and limes.  Dumping the pretend fruit into the basket, she set it on the counter near the sink and stepped back to take it all in.  Much better.

A quick visit to each of the other rooms in the house resulted in additional tweaks.  Toss pillows fluffed, towels refolded, slippers stowed in the closet and dirty clothes spirited out of sight inside the washer.  Once Stella was satisfied with the tidy reset, she went out to her car, opened the trunk and pulled out a lawn sign.  After inserting it firmly into the ground with a single thrust – Stella had wicked upper body strength – she went back inside to wait.

2

As the sun slipped behind the neighboring rooftops, Stella pulled her car into the garage.  Vacillating between whether to haul the tote bags into the house or leave them in the back seat, she chose the latter.  Order was important to her, and everything had its place, but it had been a very long day.  She was spent and wanted nothing more than to go inside and become one with the sofa.  The bags could wait.

Stella kicked off her shoes, poured herself a generous glass of wine and nestled into one end of the couch.  The open house had bustled with potential buyers and she intuitively knew multiple offers would be rolling in within the next 24 hours.  This was one of those times when she marveled at her good fortune because things hadn’t always been easy.  The man-child she married couldn’t handle fatherhood and flew the coop before their daughter’s first birthday, and being a single mom had been fraught with challenges.  But Carla was the light of her life and Stella’s ultimate goal was to make sure she never questioned her mother’s love…whether that meant the best bike on the block, pj dancing before lights out, or the perfect destination wedding. 

Stella worked hard to get her realtor’s license and, with a lot of late nights and determination, she managed to carve out a nice, comfortable life for daughter and herself.  When Carla made Stella a grandmother, it was hard to imagine life getting any sweeter.  Little Emily was a miniature version of Carla, and they gave Stella more joy than any human deserved. 

Of course, when Stella found herself cheerfully basking in her own happiness, her mind would often conjure up her father…a man she hadn’t spoken to in over two decades.  Dredging up the past was the one act of self-sabotage that no amount of introspection could conquer.  Stella learned long ago that it was useless to try to distract herself, so she reluctantly allowed her thoughts to wander back in time.

3

The youngest of two children, Stella grew up a bit spoiled.  Not necessarily in a bad way but, after a string of miscarriages, her mother was ecstatic when Stella entered the world and she absolutely doted on her.  She gave plenty of attention to Stella’s brother, too, but he was several years older and spent most of his time playing sports and hanging out with his friends.  As far as Stella’s father went, the car dealership he owned always took top priority.  When it came to spending time with the family or attending any sort of school functions, Cyrus Buckingham was generally a no-show.  That never really bothered Stella when she was growing up, though, because her real bond was with her mom.  She was happiest when they were together…just the two of them.

When Stella was a freshman in high school, her brother quit college and joined in the Army.  Stella remembered how upset their mother was over the prospect of her only son putting himself in danger as a soldier, but he seemed to thrive in the military.  While the letters he sent home were few and far between, when he did write he sounded optimistic about his future…excited even.  He said he was actually looking forward to returning to college after his enlistment ended. 

That never happened.  Shortly after Stella graduated high school, her parents were notified that her brother’s entire squad had been decimated during an air strike.  It seemed as though the world as they knew it came to an abrupt halt that day.  When Stella and her parents returned home from the funeral, her mother retreated to her bedroom and refused to communicate with anyone for weeks.  Ultimately, she was admitted to the psychiatric unit at the local hospital and, three days later, a nurse found her dead in her bathroom.  She’d ripped her hospital gown into long strips, braided them together and hung herself from the shower head. 

At age 18, Stella suddenly found herself motherless, brotherless and, for all intents and purposes, fatherless.  Her dad had never been one for conversation but, after this double tragedy, he threw himself even further into his work and Stella rarely saw him.  Whenever they were together, she tried to get him to interact with her, but he wouldn’t engage with anything more than one or two-word answers.  They became nothing more than strangers living in the same house so, after about a year, Stella took her small inheritance and moved to a studio apartment across town.  She made sure her father knew how to contact her, but he never called. 

Over the next few years, Stella attempted to stay in touch.  On the rare occasions when her father actually agreed to meet up, his discomfort was palpable.  He was all the family she had left, but he might as well have died with the rest of them because, even when he was there, he wasn’t really there.  Eventually, he stopped accepting her invitations altogether.  He missed her wedding and, when she called him after Carla was born, he congratulated her but never came to see the baby.  For a while, Stella continued to do whatever she could to bridge the gap between the two of them, particularly after her marriage ended.  She pleaded with him not to shut her out, but nothing she said seemed to make any difference.  Stella never stopped hurting over the loss of her mother and brother, and the continuous rejection by her father became too much to bear.  His apparent lack of interest broke her heart and her last conversation with him, one-sided as it was, ended in an eruption of all the pain and resentment she’d been harboring.  Before she could stop herself, she was screaming at him, spewing horrible things she didn’t truly mean because she wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting her.  It wasn’t her proudest moment. 

Stella later regretted all those things she’d said, but she never apologized.  She never reached out to her father again at all.  In an effort to protect herself, she cut all ties and directed her energy toward creating a life without him.  Stella gradually found contentment, and she kept her hurt and disappointment about her father closed up in a little box in the back of her mind.  Only occasionally did she find herself lifting the lid to peer inside…like today.

4

The old grandfather clock in the corner began to chime.  Stella rubbed her hands over her face and let out a heavy sigh.  She hated that residual sense of melancholy that always accompanied those trips down memory lane.  Her wine glass was empty and, with the exception of those ten tubular tolls, the house was quiet.  Stella got up and went into the kitchen to rinse her glass.  Just as she was putting it in the dishwasher, her phone rang.

Stella hesitated to answer because she rarely got calls this late and didn’t recognize the number, but the chance that it might have something to do with Carla or Emily made her pick up.  “Hello?”

“Stella?”  The male voice on the other end sounded old and weary.

“Yes,” she said.  “Who’s calling?”

“This is Daniel Peterson.  You may not remember me.”

Stella’s brain went into file retrieval mode and she quickly realized the name was familiar.  “Mr. Peterson?  From the old neighborhood?”

“Yes, that’s right.  It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice perking up a little.

She hadn’t thought about Daniel Peterson in ages and couldn’t fathom why he’d be calling.  Unless, of course, it had something to do with her father.  That was an unnerving thought and she said, “It’s nice to hear from you, Mr. Peterson, but it’s pretty late.  What’s going on?”

After a slight pause, he said, “It’s about Cy…your dad, I mean.  He’s in the hospital.”

Stella took a deep breath and held it a moment before quietly letting it out.  “What happened?”

“Heart attack.  We were taking a walk like we do every Sunday afternoon and he just collapsed.  Up to that point, he seemed fine, but he was admitted several hours ago and is still unconscious.  Since I’m not kin, they aren’t telling me much.”

The room began to close in on Stella and she started to sweat.  Somewhere in her mind, she realized she should say something.  She just couldn’t seem to form any words.

“Stella?”  Mr. Peterson sounded a bit alarmed.  “Are you still there?”

Stella leaned against the kitchen counter to steady herself.  “Yes, sorry.  You just caught me by surprise.”  Without even thinking, she added, “I’m on my way.”

5

The pale man in the bed looked so very small.  He lay motionless, wires running from under his gown to a monitor by the head of the bed.  Stella moved from the doorway to the side of the bed and gently touched the back of his hand.  The soft, wrinkled skin was dotted with little age spots and blue, crooked veins.

“Dad?”

No response.

“Dad, it’s me.  Stella.”  Still no response.  Feeling that old familiar stinging behind her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling as she tried not to cry.  She felt she barely knew this man and was surprised by the rush of emotion.

“Stella?”

She flinched and turned around to see an elderly man standing just outside the door.  Glancing back at her father, Stella stepped away from the bed and left the room.

“Mr. Peterson, right?”  She held her hand out.

Daniel shook it and said, “Guess I’ve changed a little since you saw me last.  How old were you then?  Twenty or so?”

“That sounds about right,” Stella smiled and followed Daniel to the small waiting room down the hall.

“How about a cup of coffee?” Daniel asked as he gestured to one of the brown vinyl chairs.

Stella shook her head as she sat down.  “Thanks, but I’m jumpy enough as it is.  Seeing Dad like that…so vulnerable…I don’t even know how to process it.”

Daniel took the chair across from her and leaned forward.  “Listen, I know you and Cy haven’t been in touch lately, but…”

“Lately?”  Stella interrupted with an uneasy laugh.  “You can say it, Mr. Peterson.  My father and I have been estranged for more years than I care to think about.”

Daniel’s face reddened a bit.  “I’m really sorry, Stella.  I don’t want to cause any more bad feelings than there already are.  I just felt you have a right to know your dad is sick.”

Stella regarded this man who had been her father’s friend for as long as she could remember.  He was alert, but the dark circles under his eyes and the rasp of his voice told her he was bone tired.  She didn’t know if that was from all the events of the day, or life in general, but she was grateful that he’d reached out to her. 

“Mr. Peterson, you have nothing to apologize for, and I’m very glad you called.  Dad and I have our issues – no doubt about it – but, right now, that’s not important.  The important thing is for him to recover.”  Stella reached over and laid her hand on top of Daniel’s.  “Have you been here ever since they brought him in?”

Daniel nodded and smiled.  “He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s my best friend.  I wasn’t about to just up and leave him here by himself.”

They sat in silence for a few moments and then Stella said, “Thank you for sticking around, but you really ought to go home and get some rest.  I’ll check in at the nurse’s station to see what they can tell me, and then I’ll just kick back in Dad’s room for the night.  Assuming they’ll let me, that is.”

Daniel didn’t move to get up.  “Before I go, there’s something you need to know…about your dad.”  He proceeded to tell Stella about all the times Cyrus had secretly checked in on her and her family over the past couple of decades.  He told her how her dad would sit on a park bench day after day in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his granddaughter and great-granddaughter when Carla took Emily to playground.  He told Stella her father even did that way back when she used to take young Carla to the park.  When she asked how it was possible she never noticed him there, Daniel explained just how good Cyrus was at not drawing attention to himself.  He didn’t want to be acknowledged.  He just wanted to be nearby.  Daniel even broke his friend’s confidence by telling her that Cyrus didn’t blame her for shutting him out of her life.  He understood why she did it, and he accepted full blame.

After saying their goodbyes, Stella stood at the waiting room door and returned Daniel’s wave as he stepped onto the elevator.  She stayed where she was, completely lost in thought, long after the doors slid closed.

6

Early the next morning, Stella awoke feeling stiff from sleeping in the chair next to her father’s bed.  She rubbed her eyes and looked over at him, listening to his soft breathing as he slept.  He was still so…still

Stella stood up, arched her back until she heard a pop, and began to pace around the room.  Remnants of a dream punched through her thoughts and she knitted the fragments together in her mind.  She dreamed she was 8 or 9 and had just won 2nd place in the art competition at the 4-H Fair.  Her entry was a watercolor of a grinning frog sitting on a purple lily pad.  In the dream, the fairground morphed into her father’s office at the dealership, and she saw her painting hanging on the wall behind his desk.  Her dad was in his chair, smiling and pointing at the picture, clearly proud of her accomplishment.  The more Stella pondered the dream, the more certain she was that it wasn’t a dream at all.  It was a true memory.  One she had tucked away and replaced with mental reenactments of all the times her father had disappointed her.  Who knew how many other good memories might be hiding back there?  She absently wiped a tear from her cheek as she started out of the room and nearly bumped into Daniel when he walked up with a cup of coffee in each hand.

“Mr. Peterson!”  Stella stopped short.  “Sorry.  I almost ran you down.  What brings you back here so early?”

“Please, call me Daniel.”  He grinned, looking a hundred times better than he had the night before.  “When you get to be my age, sleep abandons you a lot earlier than you’d like.”  Daniel offered Stella one of the cups and nodded his head toward Cyrus’s room.  “So, how’s he doing today?”

“There doesn’t seem to be any change.  I was just getting ready to find the doctor to see what the prognosis is.  Thanks for this,” she said as she accepted the cup of coffee and breathed in the aroma.  Stella tried to meet Daniel’s smile, but couldn’t quite manage it.

Stepping around her, Daniel started through the door to her father’s room.  “I’ll sit with him while you look for the doctor.  Might even talk to him.  Listening to me ramble on might be just enough to wake the old fart.  If for nothing else than to tell me to shut the hell up.”

This time Stella did smile.  She liked this man.

7

After a brief consultation with Cyrus’s doctor, Stella returned and found Daniel waving his arms around while regaling her father with some story from their younger days.  She coughed lightly and Daniel turned around and laughed.  “You caught me!”

“I did at that.  That must have been some tale you were telling.”  She walked around the bed and sat in the other chair.  “I appreciate you staying with him while I was gone.”

Daniel regarded her father and said, “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”  Looking back at her, he asked, “Were you able to talk to the doc?”

Stella nodded.  “I was.  He’ll be in shortly but wanted to assure me that it isn’t all that uncommon for a patient not to wake up right away after a heart attack.  And, fortunately, the episode itself wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.  He said if Dad hadn’t made it to the hospital when he did, it might have been fatal.”  Stella shook her head and sighed.  “Daniel, you may have saved my dad’s life.  I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”

“Aw, shoot, Stella.  He’d have done the same for me.”  Daniel sniffed and looked back at his friend.  Just as he was about to say something else, he heard a groan.

Stella was up in an instant.  “Dad?  Dad, can you hear me?”  She leaned over the bed and took hold of one of Cyrus’s hands.  “You don’t need to talk, just nod if you hear me.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Cyrus nodded.  One eye opened, then the other and, as he seemed to focus on the figure in front of him, his eyes grew wide.  “Stella,” he whispered.

“Shhh…you need to save your strength.”  Looking at Daniel she asked, “Would you mind finding the doctor and letting him know Dad’s awake?”

Without a word, Daniel was up and out the door.  Stella looked back at her father and saw that he was still staring at her.

“Is it…is it really you?”  His voice was low and shaky, but his words were clear.

Stella swallowed the lump in her throat and simply nodded.  Having her father awake and talking brought forth so many emotions, she didn’t trust herself to speak.  But she smiled.  A big, genuine smile just for him.  That was something she couldn’t recall ever doing before.  And then something happened that caused her heart to burst into a thousand happy pieces. 

He smiled back.

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And Then What Happened?

After I posted Clutching What Little Remains a couple of months ago, a few of you expressed a desire to learn more about the story.  That got me thinking that I wouldn’t mind finding out more myself, so I thought perhaps a follow-up was in order.  That’s easier said than done, though.  I’m not one of those writers who can sit down to a blinking cursor and strategically create a whole new world on a blank screen.  I’m the type who timidly stares at the blinking cursor in the hopes that someone in my head will speak up and let me transcribe what they tell me.

If you remember Cyrus from that first story, you might also recall him mentioning his daughter, Stella.  When I began contemplating the new tale, she’s the one who got my attention, so I simply let her talk to my brain while I played secretary.  

If you missed the first story – or just need to skim it again to refresh your memory – you can find it here.

The new story is available by clicking the link below and is ingeniously titled Stella.  Nothing like being succinct, to the point and ridiculously obvious.  Maybe this will bring a little satisfaction or maybe it will result in even more questions.  Either way, it’s waiting for you.

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Not Just Another Day in May

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It’s May Day!  Trees are budding, flowers are starting to bloom and somewhere people are dancing around a maypole.  I’m not one of those people, though.  About the only dancing I do is when I inadvertently walk through a spider web.  And that’s really more of a flail than a dance.  Which reminds me…it’s time to call the exterminator to schedule our spring spray.

But I digress.  Besides all that fun stuff mentioned above, the month of May brings another annual event that bears mentioning.  Mother’s Day is right around the corner.  It used to be a day I absolutely dreaded.  After my mom passed away, that holiday became a heart-wrenching reminder of what I’d lost.  The annual onslaught of Mother’s Day ads and events was agonizing and I did everything I could to avoid participation.

After several years of self-indulgent wallowing, I finally sat myself down for a come to Jesus talk and realized how unfair I’d been to my own daughters.  While I was trying to protect myself from heartache, I was creating an unnecessary feeling of loss for them.  I mean, I was still here, alive and kicking, yet I wasn’t letting them acknowledge me on that special day.  They did their best to understand and give me space, but that didn’t mean they weren’t hurt by it.

Once I stopped making it all about me and truly looked at it from their perspective, I was able to set my sadness aside.  I know how important it is to remember that Mother’s Day isn’t just for the mom.  It’s also for the people in her life who love her and want to celebrate that bond. 

Having lost its hurtful hold on me, Mother’s Day is back to being an enjoyable day of sharing the love between mother and child.  Of course, even though it’s a special day, it could be any day.  Love doesn’t need a calendar date to be celebrated.

Since I’ve got mothers on the brain, I decided to share an essay about the impact my own mom had on me…pretty much from the moment I met her.  To check it out, just click the button below.

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Channeling Mom

Good Morning to you

Good morning to you

We’re all in our places

With bright smiling faces

And this is the way

To start a new day

Good Morning!

Every time Mom stood in my bedroom doorway and chirped that daybreak ditty, all I wanted to do was bury my head deeper under the covers.  I couldn’t fathom what gave her the idea that smiling like a lunatic was any way to start a new day, and I detested the idea that a new day had to start before noon.  Being a morning person was so not in my nature, but that didn’t stop my mom.  Her habit of musically violating my senses in those early hours began as far back as I can remember and continued until I was living on my own.

On school days, I’d roll out of bed with my eyes still closed and somehow find my way to the bathroom.  No amount of face scrubbing could convince me I was in a happy place.  I’d stare into the mirror looking for some sign of life and then fumble around for my hairbrush.  After doing what I could to tame my frizzy mane, I’d pad back to my room and pull clothes off hangers or out of drawers or out from under the bed…yeah, I was that kid…and I’d force myself to get dressed. 

Mom would be on her second cup of coffee by the time I stumbled into the kitchen to get my cereal.  Seeing her there always brightened my mood.  As much as I hated mornings, those few minutes with her before I left for school made the ordeal a little less dreadful. 

Our exchanges were routine.  She’d give me my lunch money and ask if I had my homework, I’d give her a sleepy smile and nod, and then she’d hug me and tell me to have a good day.  Sometimes it even worked.

As a latchkey kid, I always called Mom at work as soon as I got home from school.  One particular day when I was 13, I remember dialing the phone and anxiously waiting for her to answer.

Me: “Guess what!”
Mom: “What?”
Me: “I started!”
Mom: “Started what?”
Me: “My period!”
Mom: “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you!”

That’s one of those memories that still has me shaking my head.  Somehow, Mom had managed to brainwash me to believe that crossing that biological threshold was worth celebrating.  I don’t recall any distinct discussions regarding the whole “becoming a woman” thing, but I do remember that phone conversation.  Whatever she had said to gear me up for the inevitable, she obviously convinced me it would be a magical time in my life.  The next few decades proved she was totally full of beans on that one, but that was Mom…ever the optimist.

She considered herself a simple woman and, in many respects, she was.  That was part of her charm.  Mom was:

Practical – “When in doubt, do without.”

Dependable – “Of course I can make your dress by tomorrow morning.”

Caring – “I’ll be playing piano at the mission this evening.”

Encouraging – “I think your poems are wonderful!” (They weren’t.)

And loving – “I don’t know what I’d ever do without you.” 

That being said, Mom could also be a bit of nut.  It wasn’t uncommon for me to walk into a room and find her dancing around, either to the music on the radio or the music in her head.  When I was a young teen, we made up a nonsensical song called “Idgy Boo” which we’d sing ad nauseam on car trips.  And after wildly teasing her hair in preparation for the flawless French roll it would be once she was finished, she’d waggle her head around proclaiming to be the wreck of the Hesperus.  As a kid, I had no idea that was a real thing, but I got the gist.  The Hesperus was a mess and so was she…but only briefly.  Before I knew it, every hair would be in place and she’d be on her way.

All of that was a lifetime ago, and I suppose Mom’s passing made me the family matriarch.  I don’t much like the sound of that because the title comes with a boatload of responsibility.  If I’ve learned nothing else in my time on this earth, I’ve learned that what they say is true…adulting is hard.  It starts being hard right after you realize you’re no longer a kid, and it stays being hard until you take your last breath.  Or at least I assume the latter is the case.  Since I haven’t yet completed the final stretch, it’s pretty much pure conjecture.

Whenever I find myself pondering my existence, my thoughts turn to Mom.  I now live in the cabin she and Dad called home, and the porch swing I dally in is the same one she enjoyed for so many years.  I relish the memories of the two of us swinging in it together.  We’d sway back and forth and gaze into the woods while sharing whatever happened to be on our minds at the time.  Even all these years after her death, she still feels very close…especially when I’m in that swing.

I remember a visit to the cabin over thirty years ago when I was standing in the yard talking to Mom and, for no apparent reason, I whipped around and ran up the porch steps.  Not to be shown up, my then 65-year-old mother bounded up after me.  I turned just in time to see her clip the top step with her toe, and I watched in horror as she went sprawling across the floor in front of me.  But before I had the chance to ask if she were hurt, she started laughing.  Guffawing, actually.  Sitting there, holding her scraped knee, she rejoiced in her own lack of gracefulness.  With tears streaming down her cheeks – both of us laughing at that point – she let me help her up and we went on to have a wonderful day, feeling blessed just to be together.  Mom simply knew how to enjoy life.

At the time, I was surprised that my senior citizen mother would even attempt to defy her years that way.  But now that I’m past the age she was then, I totally get it.  While my joints may declare otherwise, I really don’t feel old at all.  And I’ve come to realize that, way back then, neither did Mom.

When I entered retirement a couple of years ago, I couldn’t help but wonder how I’d find fulfillment as Sadie, Sadie, Retired Lady.  It’s not that I ever did anything particularly noteworthy during my work life, but what I did for a living was certainly a major part of my identity.  I was anxious to see what was in store for this last phase of my life. 

I still am.  Anxious to see, that is.  For whatever reason, I haven’t done much of consequence since my last day of official employment.  Back when I used to think about retirement, I definitely had some specific plans but, so far, I haven’t thrown a whole lot of energy into making much happen.  It seems that what I wanted then isn’t necessarily what I want now, so I’m still trying to figure out my new purpose.  I guess that will all come in time. 

Or maybe it won’t.  Maybe I’ve been putting too much pressure on myself to accomplish something significant.  Maybe the real goal for this chapter should be to embrace it as unabashedly as Mom did thirty odd years ago.  I strongly suspect the reason she’s on my mind so much lately is that she never stopped being my role model.  I simply want to enjoy my life the way she enjoyed hers – filled with a spirit of love, gratitude and humor.  Fortunately, that’s something I believe I actually can accomplish.  With a devoted family, an abundance of blessings, and a knack for not taking myself too seriously, it’s a bit of a no-brainer.  I’d say the odds are definitely in my favor.  I mean, how could they not be?  I had a remarkably good teacher.

Care to Share?

The Silver Pin

Jacob leaned his forehead against the cool glass as he peered through the display window.  Tomorrow was Anna’s birthday and his pocket held exactly seven dollars and thirty-four cents.  Realizing there was no point wasting his time at Waldmann’s Jeweler’s, he wiped the smeared glass with his sleeve and turned to walk away.

“See something that interests you?”  The grinning proprietor popped his balding head out the front door.

Jacob jumped a little, and then shook his head.  “Oh…no, thanks.  Just daydreaming.”

“Ah, I know that look.  Something in my window has caught your eye.  Which piece?  Tell me.” Mr. Waldmann stepped outside to stand beside Jacob.

Pointing to a silver, dove-shaped pin in the back of the case, Jacob shuffled his feet and said, “My wife has admired that for ages.”

“Good eye, your wife.  That’s an estate piece.  A real bargain for two hundred dollars.” Mr. Waldmann’s grin exposed flawless false teeth.

“Don’t suppose you’d take seven,” groaned Jacob.

“So, it’s like that, is it?”  Mr. Waldmann’s expression didn’t falter.  “Tell me, you and your wife, how long together?”

Jacob couldn’t help but smile.  “Almost eight years.  She’s an extraordinary woman.”

“And for this extraordinary woman you offer less than one dollar a year?” Mr. Waldmann shook his head, but he smiled warmly and motioned to Jacob.  “Come.  Inside.  We will find a way to make your extraordinary wife a very happy lady.”

With nowhere else to go, Jacob shrugged and followed Mr. Waldmann into the shop.  The old varnished floor creaked with every footstep and, although the ambient lighting was dim, each individual display case was brightly lit, creating a silent symphony of shimmer and shine.  Glancing around at the jewelry and fine porcelain, Jacob was sure of one thing.  There wasn’t a single item he could afford.  No doubt about it.

Mr. Waldmann spirited the pin from its resting place and brought it over to the counter.  “Look how it sparkles under the lamplight.  The carvings look just like diamonds, don’t you think?”

“It’s beautiful.  But, Mr. Waldmann,” Jacob tilted his head and met the old man’s gaze.  “I have seven dollars.”

“You also have the pain in your eyes of a man who has been dealt a few bad hands in this life,” Mr. Waldmann said as he laid the pin on a velvet pad.  “What is your business?”

“I’m a carpenter.  But, with the economy as it’s been, there just hasn’t been much work lately.  Anna, that’s my wife, she even had to go back to waiting tables.” Jacob’s jaw clenched as he spoke.

“Times are hard to be sure.  My business is certainly not what it used to be.  You see this counter?”  Mr. Waldmann ran his crooked fingers along the wood trim.  “See how it has splintered along the side?  I cannot even afford this simple repair.”

Jacob’s expert hand stroked the wood.  It was a beautiful, smooth mahogany.  A simple repair, indeed.  He looked at Mr. Waldmann and decided he liked this man.  “Sir, I’ve nothing else going on right now.  If you want, I could have this fixed in a couple of hours.”

“Yes?  And how much to fix my wounded cabinet?” asked the old man.

Not wanting to create a hardship for the shop owner, Jacob did a quick mental calculation and said, “If you could see your way to pay twenty dollars, that would help me a lot.”

“Well!”  Mr. Waldmann clapped his hands together.  “What smart businessman could turn down such a fair offer?”

“My tools are in the truck, so I can do it right now.  That will give me time to go to the boutique next door and maybe find a little something for my wife’s birthday.” Jacob glanced back at the counter, his shadowed eyes reflecting the light as it glinted off the silver pin.

“Excellent!” said Mr. Waldmann, seemingly ignoring Jacob’s pained expression.  “As you can see, there are no customers to have to work around.  I will just stay out of your way.”  The old man walked over to his desk, sat down, and said no more.

***

As Jacob applied the last bit of varnish to the cabinet, Mr. Waldmann leaned on the opposite end.  “Looks good.  You got a real gift there.”

“Thanks,” Jacob said as he wiped his brow.  “Everything I know about woodworking, I learned from my dad.  He taught me there’s nothing better than the feeling of raw timber taking shape under your bare hands.  Well, almost nothing…” Jacob’s voice trailed off as he fingered his wedding band.

“Like the light in your wife’s eyes when you come through the door at the close of the day, yes?” Mr. Waldmann said as he came around to Jacob’s end of the counter.

Jacob sighed.  “Yes.  That’s really the best feeling I’ve ever known.”

Mr. Waldmann laid a hand on Jacob’s shoulder.  “I know something of that fine feeling myself.  My Clara, she made my heart sing.  May she rest in peace.”

Jacob’s eyes followed Mr. Waldmann’s gaze to a picture behind the counter.  “Is that her?”

“Yes.  My beautiful Clara.  Our life together was a good one.  Even during the leanest of times, all we needed to be happy was each other.  I miss her.” A solitary tear stole down Mr. Waldmann’s cheek, but his smile remained.  “Lucky for me, I am an old man.  Soon I will be joining her and nothing will ever separate us again.”

Jacob smiled at Mr. Waldmann.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Ah, for what are you thanking me?”

“You reminded me how lucky I am to have a wife who’s content to share a simple life with me.  I can always buy her a nicer present once business picks up.  It won’t be that beautiful pin, but I’ll come up with something.  For now, I’ll make do with a little gift from next door.”

As Jacob gathered up his tools, Mr. Waldmann pressed a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill into his hand.  “You did a fine job here.  I will be sure to tell my customers about the wonderful carpenter who repaired my cabinet.  Maybe some more work will come your way.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Waldmann.  I’ve got to say, I feel a lot more hopeful now than I did a few hours ago.”

The two men walked to the door and shook hands before Jacob stepped out into the early evening air.  Mr. Waldmann watched him enter the neighboring boutique, then hurried back to his desk.  He dialed the phone and, after a few seconds said, “Elena?  Otto Waldmann.  I need a favor.”

***

Jacob walked over to a display of accessories and began sifting through an assortment of delicate scarves.

“Sir, I have to step out for just a moment, but Lily here will assist you.” The boutique owner gently nudged the frail teen towards Jacob.  “I won’t be long.”

Blushing, the girl took a hesitant step forward.  “Um, uh…is there something special you want to see?”  Clearly nervous, she cleared her throat and said, “It’s my first day, so I don’t know where everything is, but I’ll do my best.”

“Well, Lily…it is Lily, right?”

“Uh, yeah, it is,” she said, turning a deeper crimson.

“These scarves are really nice.  I just can’t decide which one my wife would like best.  What do you think?” Jacob held up two lengths of filmy fabric.  One was pastel blue with faint swirls of white and silver threads running through it.  The other was a deep shade of plum with gold diagonal stripes.

Lily shyly pointed to the blue scarf.  “That one makes me think of a clear summer sky.  The purple one is just so dark.” She noticed the owner returning from the back room and hastened to add, “But they’re both very pretty.”

Jacob laughed.  He felt lighter than he had in a long time.  “I agree with you, Lily.  The blue is perfect.  It’ll be a nice compliment to my wife’s beautiful blue eyes.  How much is it?”

Lily looked behind the display of scarves and said, “These are all priced at $30.”

Jacob’s face fell, but before he could say anything, the owner said, “Oh, Lily, I forgot to mark down that blue one.  It’s half-price.”

“I’ll take it!” Jacob didn’t even bother hiding his relief.

Lily led the way to the cash register, and the owner stepped forward.  “I’ll take this in the back and wrap it while Lily rings up your purchase.  Am I correct in assuming this is a gift?”

Jacob nodded.  “Yes, tomorrow’s my wife’s birthday.”

“You’ve made a fine choice.  Your wife will be very pleased.” She disappeared into the back room, and Lily began ringing up the sale.

“Will that be cash or charge?”

“Cash.”  Jacob handed over the worn bill that Mr. Waldmann had given him.

The boutique owner soon returned holding a tidy package with a silk ribbon tied around it.  She handed it to Jacob as he dropped his change into his pocket.  “Thank you,” he said. “That looks really pretty.  My wife will like the wrapping almost as much as what’s inside.”

The owner smiled and nodded toward the package.  “That’s very nice of you to say, but I have a feeling your wife will be overjoyed with what’s inside.”

***

Anna woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.  She yawned, stretched her arms out in front of her and turned to see that Jacob’s side of the bed was empty.  She grabbed her robe and pulled it around her as she padded barefoot into the tiny kitchen.

“Happy birthday, Your Highness.” Jacob gave an exaggerated bow and pulled a chair away from the table.  “Please be seated, and I will serve your first course.”

Anna laughed.  “My, aren’t we formal today?  And…first course? There’s hardly anything in the cupboard.  This can’t possibly be more than a bowl of oatmeal.”

“You are mistaken, my lady,” Jacob said as he placed a cup of coffee and a bowl of fresh fruit in front of her.

“What a surprise!  This looks wonderful, but where’s yours?”

“I already ate,” he said and sat down across from her.  “You need to eat up, though.  I have a surprise for you, but you don’t get it until after breakfast.”

Anna simply shook her head and smiled.  After a meal of fruit, scrambled eggs and pancakes, she leaned back in her chair and sighed.  “I don’t remember the last time I felt this royal.  Thank you, Jacob.  This was so nice.”

“Oh, it’s not over yet,” he said as he reached under the table and brought up the wrapped gift.  “Happy birthday, honey.”

Unable to hide her astonishment, Anna said, “Jacob!  You shouldn’t have bought me anything.  This breakfast was more than enough.”

Putting his finger to her lips, Jacob said, “Just hush and open it.  It’s not a lot, but I do think you’ll like it.”

Anna’s fingers trembled as they traveled lightly over the package.  She untied the ribbon, then carefully unfolded the paper and laid it aside.  Lifting the lid from the box, she pulled off the tissue and gasped.  “Oh, no!  What have you done?”  Tears filling her eyes, she pleadingly looked up at Jacob.  “You have to return this.  It’s too much.  It’s beautiful and, oh, I do love it…but it’s just too much.” Gazing back down at her gift, she began to cry softly.

Shocked by her reaction, Jacob rushed over and put his arm around her shaking shoulders.  “Anna, honey, it’s just a scarf.  It really wasn’t all that expensive, and I earned some unexpected money yesterday from…”

He stopped short and stared into the box.  The lovely blue scarf was folded neatly within and, nestled on top, was the pin.  The two-hundred-dollar silver dove pin.  Sunlight streamed in through the window and bathed the pin’s etchings, making them sparkle…just like diamonds.

“Jacob, I know you want me to be happy, but we just can’t afford this.  Please, you have to get your money back.” Anna’s tear-streaked face was ashen as Jacob shook his head.

“I can’t get my money back,” he said, not taking his eyes off the pin.  “I didn’t buy it.  I don’t have any idea how it got there.”

“Stop teasing me,” she said, offering a weak smile.  “You’ve really got to take it back.”

“Anna, I swear to you, I did not buy that pin.  I wanted to.  You have no idea how much.  No one deserves this more than you, but I couldn’t buy it.  I just didn’t have the money.” Running a hand through his hair, Jacob fought his own tears as he struggled to understand how this happened.  It was obviously a mistake, and he had no choice but to take the pin back to Waldmann’s shop.  But seeing it here, in his precious wife’s hands, made it so hard.  She did deserve it.  And if he weren’t such a poor provider, it would be hers.

Before he could say anything else, there was a knock on the door.  Anna wiped her cheek and asked, “Are you expecting someone?”

“No, nobody.”  Jacob straightened up and started toward the hall.  “I’ll be right back.”

When he returned a few moments later, his face was pale, and his hand shook as he handed a note to his wife.  She ran her eyes over the scrawled handwriting.

“My Dear Carpenter Friend, Jacob.

I am hoping this will reach you after you have presented your lovely wife with her birthday gift.  I did not tell you this, but I have seen her many times, gazing into my shop window.  I always knew which piece it was that drew her eye.  I have had several opportunities to sell it, but could never bring myself to do so.  You see, before my joints betrayed me, I was a silversmith, and that beautiful pin was a gift I crafted for my beloved Clara.  I gave it to her on our first anniversary, and she wore it proudly every day for over fifty years.  Before she died, she made me promise to give it to someone worthy.  Someone who would wear it with the same love that she did.  Someone who could look beyond its outward beauty and see the devotion with which it was created. 

I never found that someone…until yesterday.  You, my friend, are myself as a young man.  Struggling every day to do the very best for the one person who makes your heart sing.  Your eyes spoke to me of hardships that I, too, have known.  While you were here, my sweet Clara whispered to me, ‘This is the one.’  And I never second-guess my Clara.

I ask but one thing.  That your wonderful wife wear this pin often.  It needs the sunlight to show its beauty.  And, perhaps from time to time, you will take a moment to remember an old man’s love for his own special angel.

May your days and years be filled with the magic of each other’s devotion.

Your friend,

Otto Waldmann

P.S.  Some old friends visited me last evening and noticed your handiwork.  They were quite impressed and will be in touch with you soon.  They are in need of a fine carpenter such as yourself.  I wish you much luck.”

 

Anna let the letter drift down to the table as she picked up the silver pin.  Walking over to Jacob, she said, “I don’t understand.  What handiwork is he talking about?”

“Nothing much.  I just did a simple repair to his display counter.  But, Anna, something special happened while I was there.  I don’t know how to explain it, other than to say he opened my eyes to the riches in my own life.  He reminded me that the only thing of any real importance is our love for each other.”  Jacob glanced over at the letter.  “If we can be as happy together for as many years as Mr. Waldmann and his Clara were, then we’ll know we’ve been truly blessed.”

Jacob took the pin from Anna and gently placed it on the lapel of her robe.  Drawing her close, he kissed her hair and whispered, “I love you, Anna, and he put it better than I ever could.  You really do make my heart sing.”

Care to Share?
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