Where Do 5 Years Go?
Everything since John Lennon’s death seems recent to me. He died 25 years ago today so five years is just a twinkle of an eye. I peeked at my “Daily Prioritized Task List” for December 2000. My life hasn’t changed much but there are differences. I only had one mortgage then. We hadn’t bought the house on Mill Creek. I had just begun sponsoring Leslie. Hard to believe I have been her sponsor for five years. I had 17 years then and thought I knew everything. Woody was still alive but he had just begun to suffer from incontinence. Correction: we had just begun to suffer from his incontinence. I don’t think it bothered the old dog a bit. Five years ago this week I took him to Dr. Wardell for the first time. He gave him some pills that helped a little. Luke was born in December 2000. He weighed just three pounds fourteen ounces. I visited Bob and Julie at Fairfax Hospital the day he was born. Bob was so excited I thought he was going to implode. I went with Julie to the neo-natal clinic to see Luke. He was so tiny. She was dying for a cigarette. Last Monday Luke went with John, Bob and Jeff to the BB&T Basketball Tournament at the MCI Center. Luke loves all sports but NASCAR is his favorite. I made the last payment on my green Camaro convertible in December 2000. Two years later I emerged safely from my mid-life crisis and traded it for a Jeep Liberty with heated leather seats and a moon roof. I still had the Sheet Metal Workers account five years ago and judging from the amount of time I spent meeting with their attorneys and risk managers I earned every dime I made on that account. John’s mother was alive. I mailed her a birthday card on December 26, 2000. On December 8, 2000, there is a note to “Call for Dishwasher Repair”. On the 7th my Spiritual Formation Group met at my house and I had made Zen Hash – a delicious combination of spinach, onions, zucchini, pine nut and rice. Whoever helped me load the dishwasher after dinner didn’t scrape the plates because the dishwasher repairman found the drain completely clogged with rice. I saw the Caps play the Bruins and the Lightning. I had hockey tickets then. They were one of the things I gave up when I got serious about my writing.
Just Right
You will recall that when we left our narrator on Friday, she was going to adopt a beagle named Snoopy.She went with Papa Bear and Arlo Bear to meet Snoopy at the Annandale Animal Hospital. “We’re here to meet Snoopy.” The Vet’s employees were perturbed because their lunch had been interrupted. Begrudgingly, Hazel (the least perturbed) brought out Snoopy so everyone could get acquainted.
It was not love at first sight. If Arlo could talk he would have said “Mama Bear, get me out of here. This beagle is crazy.”
Mama Bear would have agreed.
It was a sad trio that left Annandale Animal Hospital as Hazel led the wildly barking beagle back to his puppy jail. Especially Mama Bear.
Papa Bear agreed to make a stop at the Lost Dog and Cat Rescue Open House on the way home where they made their way through a plethora of beagles. “Did I miss the news about the beagle population explosion?” asked Mama Bear. She was about to give up when she spied a timid liver spotted Dalmatian. “Look, Papa Bear! She’s not too large, not too small…she’s just right!!” Darcy the Dalmatian had a very sad story. Her owner had gone to jail on November 2nd and Darcy had missed being put to sleep by just a few hours. Since November 2nd she had been living in an animal shelter. Most people want puppies. Darcy was three years old.
Papa Bear looked skeptical. He hadn’t seen what Mama Bear had seen. It wasn’t looking good. Sadly Mama Bear followed Papa Bear and Arlo Bear back to the parking lot where Papa Bear saw the sad, sad expression on Mama Bear’s face.
“Oh, alright! Go get her.”
That’s how Darcy came to live with her new family where she will live happily ever after.
Afraid of the Light
She approached the day marker warily. She didn’t like day markers, channel markers, buoys, blinking lights in the middle of vast bodies of water. Haunting foghorns. Lighthouses casting their shadow of light across seas made treacherous by the rocks on the shore. All of these innocent navigational aids fed her loneliness. Made her feel mortal. Reminded her that she was lost. That she had always been lost. Against her will she forced herself to look at the day marker. At the osprey roost nestled in its belly. The giant bird surveyed her for a moment and then flew away making a great loud show to distract her from the four baby osprey that peeped over the edge of the well-constructed nest. The mother osprey called to her “Come away. Follow me. Ignore by babies. Hear me cry now.” An osprey had never attacked her though she knew they were feisty enough to drive bald eagles from their territory. She had been attacked by mute swans several times when she had been incautious enough to bring her kayak too close to their babies. She always forgave the swans. She loved them blindly. They were not mute of course. When they flew their wings sang out whipping the air into a froth of sound. She was afraid of the light. Red right returning. She navigated by the mole on her right arm. It was surrounded by a constellation of freckles hatched by the sun she should fear but didn’t. Darkness had fallen quickly. The creek was shrouded. The banks lost in night. The watery way home illuminated by those eerie lights that made her flesh crawl. What forgotten event had birthed this unnatural fear of buoys? Had she once been an osprey trapped on a day marker watching her mother spar with an eagle? Had she been a fisherman who died clinging to a clanging buoy praying for a rescue that never came? Does some dire buoy related fate lie in her future? "Go toward the light. Go toward the light. It’s waiting for you."
Persistence
Before he opened his mouth I knew I loved him – knew I would love him for a long time. Longer than I had loved the procession of men that had marched through my basement efficiency in the months between December and November. It was the early eighties. I was in my early thirties. My sobriety was still in it’s infancy – just eleven months old. John walked into the P Street meeting and stopped for a coffee before taking a seat in the circle. I nudged the woman who was sitting next to me and whispered, “I am going to marry him.”
When he got up to refill his cup my eyes followed him. He still hadn’t spoken. I liked his brown eyes. His full beard. Long hair. Flannel shirt. He was short. Not thin. Not fat.
“My name is John and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, John.”
“I just moved to Washington from New Jersey to go to law school. I brought everything I own in a 1979 Datsun that’s held together with bungee cords, but I know I’m doing the right thing.”
I decided to invite him to dinner but first I needed to have him vetted by my sponsor Paul. Women are not supposed to have male sponsors but Paul was Southern. Paul was a Poet. And Paul was the only person in AA that I had anything in common with. Besides Paul was loving me until I could love myself.
“Hi. Welcome to Washington. Would you like to have coffee with Paul and me at Martin’s?” I know now that John was such a coffee lover that he would have had coffee with Richard Nixon.
“Sure. I’d like that.”
Over coffee I noticed his New Jersey accent got more pronounced when he spoke passionately about things and he was passionate about everything. He used cream and sugar. Smoked Marlboro’s.
I kicked Paul and signaled surreptitiously that he could go. He left. Smiling a sad smile.
“Would you like to come over for dinner Wednesday night? There is a show on TV I have been looking forward to. The Day After. It's about nuclear war. It has Jason Robards in it. He’s in the program, you know.”
I was doing what I always did when I was nervous. I was talking too much. I sounded like an idiot. But he didn’t notice.
I made a peasant stew with tomatoes and sausages. Wore my prettiest dress. Made sure I had plenty of coffee. There was a moment of awkwardness when he noticed that the only piece of furniture in my efficiency was a four-poster bed. We ate on the bed. Later we made love on the bed. Slowly he moved his things into the efficiency. The Datsun was eventually towed away but John stayed.
When he got up to refill his cup my eyes followed him. He still hadn’t spoken. I liked his brown eyes. His full beard. Long hair. Flannel shirt. He was short. Not thin. Not fat.
“My name is John and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, John.”
“I just moved to Washington from New Jersey to go to law school. I brought everything I own in a 1979 Datsun that’s held together with bungee cords, but I know I’m doing the right thing.”
I decided to invite him to dinner but first I needed to have him vetted by my sponsor Paul. Women are not supposed to have male sponsors but Paul was Southern. Paul was a Poet. And Paul was the only person in AA that I had anything in common with. Besides Paul was loving me until I could love myself.
“Hi. Welcome to Washington. Would you like to have coffee with Paul and me at Martin’s?” I know now that John was such a coffee lover that he would have had coffee with Richard Nixon.
“Sure. I’d like that.”
Over coffee I noticed his New Jersey accent got more pronounced when he spoke passionately about things and he was passionate about everything. He used cream and sugar. Smoked Marlboro’s.
I kicked Paul and signaled surreptitiously that he could go. He left. Smiling a sad smile.
“Would you like to come over for dinner Wednesday night? There is a show on TV I have been looking forward to. The Day After. It's about nuclear war. It has Jason Robards in it. He’s in the program, you know.”
I was doing what I always did when I was nervous. I was talking too much. I sounded like an idiot. But he didn’t notice.
I made a peasant stew with tomatoes and sausages. Wore my prettiest dress. Made sure I had plenty of coffee. There was a moment of awkwardness when he noticed that the only piece of furniture in my efficiency was a four-poster bed. We ate on the bed. Later we made love on the bed. Slowly he moved his things into the efficiency. The Datsun was eventually towed away but John stayed.
Stingrays, Part 2
Steve studied the appetizer. He couldn’t identify it, but it looked inedible. “I give up. What the hell is that... stuff?”
Kathryn smirked. “Not much of a gourmet, are we? It’s calamari.”
Understanding dawned. “Squid.”
“Exactly. Now we’ll see whether I really do have you eating out of my hand.” Katie picked up one of the slippery critters, dipped it the accompanying marinara sauce, and raised it to his lips. “Open up.”
Crap! He hated calamari. He’d tried them in Italy, and in his opinion, they had the consistency and taste of rubber. “The things I do for you,” he grumbled.
“The things you won’t do for me,” she answered with an intimate smile.
He leaned toward her, opened his mouth and accepted her dubious offering, licking the sauce off her fingers as she withdrew them. Then he looked into her eyes. “The difference between me and the stingrays is, I won’t leave when you run out of squid.”
Kathryn smirked. “Not much of a gourmet, are we? It’s calamari.”
Understanding dawned. “Squid.”
“Exactly. Now we’ll see whether I really do have you eating out of my hand.” Katie picked up one of the slippery critters, dipped it the accompanying marinara sauce, and raised it to his lips. “Open up.”
Crap! He hated calamari. He’d tried them in Italy, and in his opinion, they had the consistency and taste of rubber. “The things I do for you,” he grumbled.
“The things you won’t do for me,” she answered with an intimate smile.
He leaned toward her, opened his mouth and accepted her dubious offering, licking the sauce off her fingers as she withdrew them. Then he looked into her eyes. “The difference between me and the stingrays is, I won’t leave when you run out of squid.”
Home
Home had always been the little bungalow on South Woodlawn Avenue. She stood in her empty bedroom. It looked bigger without her bed and dresser – now loaded in the back of Uncle Bill’s truck. Her bed had a metal headboard with hundreds of tiny holes just the size of the tips of her five year old fingers. She and her daddy had played a game. He would place his hand behind the headboard and cover one of the holes with his finger. She would try to touch his finger on the other side before he could move it. She liked the sensation of touching her daddy’s fingers through the headboard. She missed her daddy. Her heart was empty without him. She walked from room to room. She walked into the closet of the room where her mama and daddy had slept. The closet was empty but she could still smell her daddy’s after shave lotion. She stayed there for a long time in the dark inhaling the last scent of her daddy.
Her mama had said they were all going home now. She was confused. This was home. Home was the green house with the gum ball trees in the front yard where she and her daddy and stretched out on army blanket and eaten bologna sandwiches. Now, she walked around the front yard picking up gumballs. She filled the pockets of her yellow dress. The one with the sash that her mama could never tie just right. She always ended up taking her next door to Mrs. Evans’ house. “Blair, will you tie this girl’s sash for me? I don’t know why it always looks cockeyed when I do it.”
She wondered who was going to tie her sash at the place where they were going…the place that would be their new home.
Her mama had said they were all going home now. She was confused. This was home. Home was the green house with the gum ball trees in the front yard where she and her daddy and stretched out on army blanket and eaten bologna sandwiches. Now, she walked around the front yard picking up gumballs. She filled the pockets of her yellow dress. The one with the sash that her mama could never tie just right. She always ended up taking her next door to Mrs. Evans’ house. “Blair, will you tie this girl’s sash for me? I don’t know why it always looks cockeyed when I do it.”
She wondered who was going to tie her sash at the place where they were going…the place that would be their new home.
Newlyweds
Steve came up behind Kathryn just as she was getting ready to pour herself a cup of coffee. He hugged her around the waist, then slipped a thumb under her waistband. “This skirt is getting awfully tight. You’ll be showing soon.”
“Right, soon I’ll be getting fat. You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”
“I admit it, I’m happy. Your stomach blowing up like a balloon is an advertisement that you slept with me. I melted the ice queen. I know it’s politically incorrect, but having people know that makes me feel proud.”
“I guess I’m politically incorrect too, because hearing you say that turns me on,” she admitted. She thought a few seconds, then added, “Of course, everything seems to turn me on these days. Must be these damned hormones.”
He rested his cheek against her hair. “I didn’t totally satisfy you this morning.”
“Sure you did,” she lied. She’d had an orgasm. What more did she want?
Ignoring her, he unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and slipped his hand inside her bra. She squirmed as he made contact with the nipple.
“Hard as a marble. I thought so. You’re not finished.”
“And you’re not helping by touching me that way.”
“I’m going to help. I can’t let you go to work all cranky and frustrated, and have people think I’m not doing my husbandly duty.” He slid his free hand under her skirt, bunching the skirt around her waist, then stuck his hand inside her pantyhose and panties. His finger swirled around in her juices. “You’re definitely not finished.”
“Stop it! I love you for caring, but we don’t have time.”
“Sure we do. Don’t worry, there won’t be any teasing this morning. I’ll get the job done quickly.”
His hand was already moving in just the right spot, at just the right pace, with just the right pressure. Damn him, he was right. Despite their short courtship, he knew her body so well. She was only a few milliseconds away from flying to pieces.
His whisper was warm in her ear. “Stop holding back, Katie. Be my good girl and give me a huge, giant climax.”
That did it. She shrieked and fell forward against the counter as waves of pleasure rolled through her. He turned her to face him and held her in his arms, murmuring, “Oh yes, Katie, yes.”
When she finally stopped shuddering, he took a step back and brushed her lips with a quick, soft kiss. “You needed that, Katie. I’ve got to teach you to stop depriving yourself.”
Her smile was lopsided. She buttoned her blouse. “I’m a mess.”
He touched her cheek. “No you’re not. You’re beautiful. This blush looks much better than the one you put on with makeup.”
“I’m going to be late for work.”
“Only by a few minutes. If anyone gives you a hard time, tell them the hot young stud you just married gave you two orgasms before breakfast.”
“Right, soon I’ll be getting fat. You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”
“I admit it, I’m happy. Your stomach blowing up like a balloon is an advertisement that you slept with me. I melted the ice queen. I know it’s politically incorrect, but having people know that makes me feel proud.”
“I guess I’m politically incorrect too, because hearing you say that turns me on,” she admitted. She thought a few seconds, then added, “Of course, everything seems to turn me on these days. Must be these damned hormones.”
He rested his cheek against her hair. “I didn’t totally satisfy you this morning.”
“Sure you did,” she lied. She’d had an orgasm. What more did she want?
Ignoring her, he unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and slipped his hand inside her bra. She squirmed as he made contact with the nipple.
“Hard as a marble. I thought so. You’re not finished.”
“And you’re not helping by touching me that way.”
“I’m going to help. I can’t let you go to work all cranky and frustrated, and have people think I’m not doing my husbandly duty.” He slid his free hand under her skirt, bunching the skirt around her waist, then stuck his hand inside her pantyhose and panties. His finger swirled around in her juices. “You’re definitely not finished.”
“Stop it! I love you for caring, but we don’t have time.”
“Sure we do. Don’t worry, there won’t be any teasing this morning. I’ll get the job done quickly.”
His hand was already moving in just the right spot, at just the right pace, with just the right pressure. Damn him, he was right. Despite their short courtship, he knew her body so well. She was only a few milliseconds away from flying to pieces.
His whisper was warm in her ear. “Stop holding back, Katie. Be my good girl and give me a huge, giant climax.”
That did it. She shrieked and fell forward against the counter as waves of pleasure rolled through her. He turned her to face him and held her in his arms, murmuring, “Oh yes, Katie, yes.”
When she finally stopped shuddering, he took a step back and brushed her lips with a quick, soft kiss. “You needed that, Katie. I’ve got to teach you to stop depriving yourself.”
Her smile was lopsided. She buttoned her blouse. “I’m a mess.”
He touched her cheek. “No you’re not. You’re beautiful. This blush looks much better than the one you put on with makeup.”
“I’m going to be late for work.”
“Only by a few minutes. If anyone gives you a hard time, tell them the hot young stud you just married gave you two orgasms before breakfast.”
Trespass
There was definitely a face at the window. And below the face a body gleaming in the moonlight. A naked body. A man's naked body. Cupcake growled. The man growled back at the trembling cocker spaniel. The naked, growling man dropped to his hands and knees and pressed his face against the glass door. Even in the darkness, she could see the blood streaming from the side of his mouth.
"I must be dreaming." She thought.
The man - if man it was - rose to his feet and resumed his banging on the door. He howled like a wounded animal. The door vibrated. Philomena prayed it would withstand the assault.
Suddenly he stopped. He brought his face very close to the glass and seemed to smile at Philomena. Then he pointed to the river, turned and walked away - beckoning her to follow. She tried the phone again. It was still dead.
Emeralds
He gives her emeralds. Jewels the color of her eyes, and with the same fire. Emeralds made into earrings and bracelets and necklaces and rings and pins. Enough emeralds, says his exasperated aide, to use up the production of an entire Brazilian mine. His favorite is the necklace, a slim gold chain with a giant emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds. He loves to see it hanging between her breasts when they make love. He wishes he could possess her body and soul, but she holds a part of herself aloof. The emeralds don’t make up for the one thing he can’t give her. His name.
(Free-written fron a guided meditation led by Nancy at a Kitchen Table meeting)
(Free-written fron a guided meditation led by Nancy at a Kitchen Table meeting)
Before I Became a Mermaid #2
For Rich*
Before I became a mermaid I could ride a bicycle
Then one day I grew that tail
Now my bike is rusting in the shed
Unused
With my old piano
My brownie scout uniform
And those old Beatle albums.
Don’t need those here in the creek
Floating under mama’s mimosa tree with the crabs and croakers
Breathing in brackish water
Breathing out memories
Missing the sweet sounds of my youth
*When my friend Rich read my first mermaid poem his immediate response was "You don't need legs to play a piano...but you need them to ride a bicycle."
How I became a Blunderite*
I didn’t intend to become a Blunderite. It just happened. One day I was normal. The next day I was sitting at the Blunderite table at the Birchmere listening to my husband belt out all the lyrics to Alice’s Restaurant while pounding on the table so fiercely that he spilled a drink on Don and Agnes (fellow Blunderites.) Regardless of how I got here, I enjoy being a part of a group that takes their music seriously and life lightheartedly. Today as John and I celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary (and begin making plans to celebrate our 20th in Rome) I can’t say it any better than Arlo did. (Happy Anniversary, Honey...and thanks for the roses!)
It's been years since we've been married
I know we paid some dues
Now ain't it something just to lie here together Just me and you
Outlasting the blues
***
* A person who has entered Blunderdom (Arlo's domain)
I Must Have Imagined
I must have imagined Embudo. Sitting on the deck of Aunt Gladys’ tidy stucco home with the citrus colored rattan furniture and the gleaming terrazzo floors, Embudo seemed far away. I watched the seemingly unlimited supply of water from her automatic sprinklers douse her perfectly manicured grass, spray her grapefruit trees, sprinkle her lime trees and decided I must have imagined carrying water from the Rio Grande for cooking and bathing and drinking. I must have imagined emptying our chamber pot in the arroyo. I opened her avocado colored refrigerator and gazed at shelves laden with yogurt and milk and cheese and Pepsi Colas and beer and iceberg lettuce and shrimp and sirloin steaks and I was sure I must have imagined going to sleep with an empty belly. I picked up her telephone just to hear the dial tone. I turned on her radio and listened to Cream and Vanilla Fudge and Mountain and knew I must have imagined reading by lantern light. I let her kiss me goodnight and tuck me in. I let her brush the tangles from my matted hair and paint my toenails pink. I let her make me feel like her little girl again and I was convinced I must have imagined the terror and the loneliness and the hopelessness of those silent nights when we huddled together in that cold cabin for warmth not affection and no words were spoken and I was sure no one could ever love me again.
The Wanderer
I was sleeping deeply, but not well when I heard it. Something between a growl and a howl. I woke up. 4:25 AM. I must have been snoring because I was alone. When I snore John just quietly retreats to the guest room. He has learned from bitter experience not to awaken me. Something else was missing. Arlo. When I’d fallen asleep the big white dog was curled up between John and me. Thinking he might have followed John to the guest room. I checked. No Arlo. Just John – snoring away. (Later he will tell me he had insomnia – didn’t sleep a wink.) I search the rest of the house looking for Arlo. I check in all the usual hiding places. Bathtubs, puppy crate, under beds, behind the big chair in the living room, under my desk. I go back to the guest room to check again to see if he is there. He isn’t. Finally, close to panic, I shake John. “Honey, I can’t find Arlo.” He wakes up quickly. If he had to choose between losing me and losing that dog I would lose. He looks in all the places I have already looked…and behind the woodstove. Then he notices the patio door is open – just a few inches. “The door is open,” he moans. Panic creeps across his face. “Arlo, Arlo come here” I shout from the kitchen - accompanying the call with the customary two claps I always use to beckon him. A second later a big white head peeks through the open door. His expression says – “What’s the matter? Can’t a fellow take a little moonlight stroll?” He smells of fresh earth. I check him for injuries. He has apparently avoided the coyote and fox that have begun to frequent our suburban neighborhood. He has learned a new trick. How to open the patio door. He tries the (now locked) door at least a dozen times between his unscathed return at 4:45 am and our 7:00 am departure for work. I make a mental note to remember to keep the door locked and say a silent prayer of gratitude.
Before I Became a Mermaid...
Before I became a mermaid I could play the piano.
Then one day I grew that tail
Smooth and taut like the skin of a quince
It grew faster than my breasts that swelled overnight
Limes one day. Mangos the next.
I shimmied to the creek
Slid down the bank next to mama’s mimosa tree and
Buried myself in the water with the crabs and croakers
Swapping the sweetness of my piano
For the silence that stretched from here to yonder.
Then one day I grew that tail
Smooth and taut like the skin of a quince
It grew faster than my breasts that swelled overnight
Limes one day. Mangos the next.
I shimmied to the creek
Slid down the bank next to mama’s mimosa tree and
Buried myself in the water with the crabs and croakers
Swapping the sweetness of my piano
For the silence that stretched from here to yonder.
Bronze Plaques
Across from the Federal courthouse, and my house, the Department of Commerce, Patent & Trademark Office, has decreed its own stately pleasure dome. An army of construction workers, once the largest east of the Mississippi, transformed an open field into a vast complex - a central tower with a 14 story glass atrium, 4 outbuildings, and 2 humongous parking garages.
Outside of business hours, I find the formal garden at the heart of the complex deserted. I go to sit on a bench and notice a bronze plaque in front of it. I bend down to read. Does the plaque honor some departed Lord of Commerce for long and faithful service? No, it honors the bench:
Plainwell Bench
Designer/Inventor: Robert G. Chipman
U.S. Patent No.: D419,341
Date issued: January 25, 2000
Intrigued, I go in search of more plaques. I don't have to go far. Instead of a statue, the fountain in front of Mr. Chipman's bench has a:
Geodesic Dome
Designer/Inventor: Richard Buckminster Fuller
U.S. Patent No.: 2,682,235
Date issued: June 29, 1954
So Bucky's first name was Richard - who knew? Surely that patent can't still be valid. I seem to remember from my Intellectual Property course that a patent is only good for 18 years, with an 18 year renewal.
On the other side of the fountain, a young sappling is identified as:
Ulmus Americana
"Independence" Elm
Designer/Inventor: Eugene B. Smalley
U.S. Patent No.: PP6,227
Date issued: July 19, 1988
Two smaller plants are also singled out for notice:
Lavandula Agustifolia
"Blue Cushion"
Designer/Inventor: Joan L. Schofield
U.S. Patent No.: PP9,119
Date issued: April 25, 1995
Campanula Persicifolia
"Chettle Charm"
Designer/Inventor: Janet E. Bourke
U.S. Patent No.: PP9,815
Date issued: March 9, 1997
You can patent a plant? I guess I knew that, but I'd forgotten. I'm unsettled by the idea that you can own a living thing, but I can see an up side. Having memorialized these plants in bronze, surely the Lords of Commerce have taken on a duty of care. Surely now they will feel obligated to protect Ulmus Americana from Dutch Elm Disease; to see that Chettle Charm doesn't die of thirst.
This place has a lot more character than you'd expect from a government building. I'm glad I got to know my neighbor.
Outside of business hours, I find the formal garden at the heart of the complex deserted. I go to sit on a bench and notice a bronze plaque in front of it. I bend down to read. Does the plaque honor some departed Lord of Commerce for long and faithful service? No, it honors the bench:
Plainwell Bench
Designer/Inventor: Robert G. Chipman
U.S. Patent No.: D419,341
Date issued: January 25, 2000
Intrigued, I go in search of more plaques. I don't have to go far. Instead of a statue, the fountain in front of Mr. Chipman's bench has a:
Geodesic Dome
Designer/Inventor: Richard Buckminster Fuller
U.S. Patent No.: 2,682,235
Date issued: June 29, 1954
So Bucky's first name was Richard - who knew? Surely that patent can't still be valid. I seem to remember from my Intellectual Property course that a patent is only good for 18 years, with an 18 year renewal.
On the other side of the fountain, a young sappling is identified as:
Ulmus Americana
"Independence" Elm
Designer/Inventor: Eugene B. Smalley
U.S. Patent No.: PP6,227
Date issued: July 19, 1988
Two smaller plants are also singled out for notice:
Lavandula Agustifolia
"Blue Cushion"
Designer/Inventor: Joan L. Schofield
U.S. Patent No.: PP9,119
Date issued: April 25, 1995
Campanula Persicifolia
"Chettle Charm"
Designer/Inventor: Janet E. Bourke
U.S. Patent No.: PP9,815
Date issued: March 9, 1997
You can patent a plant? I guess I knew that, but I'd forgotten. I'm unsettled by the idea that you can own a living thing, but I can see an up side. Having memorialized these plants in bronze, surely the Lords of Commerce have taken on a duty of care. Surely now they will feel obligated to protect Ulmus Americana from Dutch Elm Disease; to see that Chettle Charm doesn't die of thirst.
This place has a lot more character than you'd expect from a government building. I'm glad I got to know my neighbor.
Sharks
Sharks are mysterious and ancient creatures and very frightening – especially at midnight on a deserted beach. That’s what John said when he woke me up to describe the evening’s adventures. “It was 7 feet long. Over 200 pounds.” That’s what he said. “We were a mile up the beach. It pulled us that far. I wish I’d had a camera. No one is going to believe me.” By breakfast the shark had grown to 8 feet. Failing to comprehend the ardor that my husband felt for shark fishing, I spent our three days on Assateague Island beach walking, reading, napping, writing and meditating on ocean sounds. This is what I decided. (1) As noted above, I don’t care for shark fishing. (2) There is too much sand on the beach. (3) Samoyeds are too large to share a berth with while camping – especially sand covered Samoyeds (See #2). (4) It is not a good idea to leave burgers on the counter when you leave the sand covered Samoyed for two minutes to run outside to check on shark-fishing husband. (5) Make sure you check to make sure the camper is fully provisioned before setting off for the camping trip. Husband had removed spatula and pot for boiling water. (6) There is no place like home.
Request for help
In the following excerpt from Daughters of Pungo Creek I refer to "tenant farming" a subject I don't know much about. Do any of you have any knowledge of this phenomenon that you can share with me? Any suggestions/insights would be appreciated.
Roswell spent twenty-nine days in Belhaven Hospital. The doctors tried to save his crushed leg, but it was beyond repair. When he returned home he had to be carried up the back steps.
“I’m just so grateful to have you home, son. When I think of what might have happened…but the Good Lord spared you.”
“I would have been a damn sight happier if he had spared my left leg too.”
Irene didn’t scold her son. She was too happy to have him home. She was actually relieved that the accident hadn’t taken away his vinegar. She knew he would need every bit of his pluck in the days to come. Her son had lost his leg, but not his backbone.
Roswell wasted no time on self-pity, but immediately began working on ways to save the farm. Finally he settled on a solution. He would find tenant farmers to work the land.
He drove them hard to produce. He became a familiar sight. Hopping about the farm on this crutches- pushing them to work harder, driving them on. The farm begins to prosper. Roswell was a bastard, but he was a good businessman. A year after the accident the farm was thriving.
One early spring evening, Irene and the girls were putting supper on the table when Roswell walked in the door. He was in an unusually good mood.
They ate in silence for a while then Roswell spoke. “I talked to Willie Modlin. He and his family are going to be moving into the tenant house behind the old pack shed. He’s going to be working that piece of land between the creek and Smith’s place for me. Mama, I told him we could loan him a milk cow and few chickens in exchange for his wife giving you a hand. Those daughters of yours sure ain’t much help.” He laughed again.
“Roswell, are you sure it’s a good idea to take on more tenant farmers right now? You’re spreading yourself thin, son.”
“It ain’t like I can tend the fields myself now, is it Ma?” He gestured toward his wooden leg. “These poor bastards do all the work. I just collect the money.” He laughed again. Irene hadn’t seen her son so jovial in a long time.
As soon as he finished his supper, Roswell went out on the back porch to smoke his pipe. “You girls clean up. I need to lie down for a bit.”
“Are you alright Mama?”
“Yes, Pearl. I’m just feeling a little tired this evening.”
“I wasn’t going to say this around Mama, but I think I know why our brother is so perky.”
“What are you talking about, Frankie Mae?” Pearl had noticed that Roswell’s disposition had improved but she thought it was just that the farm was going better.
“I think he’s sniffing after Willie’s daughter Madeline. That would certainly explain why he’s moving the family practically under our roof. And he didn’t give the others a cow, did he?"
Roswell spent twenty-nine days in Belhaven Hospital. The doctors tried to save his crushed leg, but it was beyond repair. When he returned home he had to be carried up the back steps.
“I’m just so grateful to have you home, son. When I think of what might have happened…but the Good Lord spared you.”
“I would have been a damn sight happier if he had spared my left leg too.”
Irene didn’t scold her son. She was too happy to have him home. She was actually relieved that the accident hadn’t taken away his vinegar. She knew he would need every bit of his pluck in the days to come. Her son had lost his leg, but not his backbone.
Roswell wasted no time on self-pity, but immediately began working on ways to save the farm. Finally he settled on a solution. He would find tenant farmers to work the land.
He drove them hard to produce. He became a familiar sight. Hopping about the farm on this crutches- pushing them to work harder, driving them on. The farm begins to prosper. Roswell was a bastard, but he was a good businessman. A year after the accident the farm was thriving.
One early spring evening, Irene and the girls were putting supper on the table when Roswell walked in the door. He was in an unusually good mood.
They ate in silence for a while then Roswell spoke. “I talked to Willie Modlin. He and his family are going to be moving into the tenant house behind the old pack shed. He’s going to be working that piece of land between the creek and Smith’s place for me. Mama, I told him we could loan him a milk cow and few chickens in exchange for his wife giving you a hand. Those daughters of yours sure ain’t much help.” He laughed again.
“Roswell, are you sure it’s a good idea to take on more tenant farmers right now? You’re spreading yourself thin, son.”
“It ain’t like I can tend the fields myself now, is it Ma?” He gestured toward his wooden leg. “These poor bastards do all the work. I just collect the money.” He laughed again. Irene hadn’t seen her son so jovial in a long time.
As soon as he finished his supper, Roswell went out on the back porch to smoke his pipe. “You girls clean up. I need to lie down for a bit.”
“Are you alright Mama?”
“Yes, Pearl. I’m just feeling a little tired this evening.”
“I wasn’t going to say this around Mama, but I think I know why our brother is so perky.”
“What are you talking about, Frankie Mae?” Pearl had noticed that Roswell’s disposition had improved but she thought it was just that the farm was going better.
“I think he’s sniffing after Willie’s daughter Madeline. That would certainly explain why he’s moving the family practically under our roof. And he didn’t give the others a cow, did he?"
Poppy
His name is carved in bronze for all eternity to read. Along with Ruth’s name. The dates they were born. The dates they died. I never met Ruth. What did he get from this life? Three children. One is my friend. The others are strangers - even to each other. What did he want? If I learned all I know of his wants from his eulogies, this is what I would know: He built the foundation of his porch with bricks he had salvaged from rubble of the Player’s Disco fire. He was a frugal man. He rebuilt the porch three times on the same salvaged foundation. He reused the nails. He taught his grandson how to straighten the nails. Each time he rebuilt the porch, he painted the floor gray and the ceiling robin’s egg blue. He liked to fish. He gave books to the children in the neighborhood every Christmas. Last Christmas he bought 29 books. Fearing a shortage, he began hoarding oil in the sixties. There are over a thousand cans of oil in his basement. He also converted his furnace to burn coal – just in case. He never needed to use the coal burner. He left behind a ton on unburned coal. He loved to garden. His niece brought a vase of blossoms from his trees to the graveside. There were lilacs, crabapples and azaleas. He lived on Orchard Street. When he bought the house in 1946 there was an orchard. Now there are only the trees in his yard and soon they will be gone too. He got up at 5:00 AM. Cooked his own breakfast. Shined his shoes – every day. He had the shiniest shoes at at the Atomic Energy Commission. He was a member of the Optimists. He was never late for a meeting, but he never ran for office. He was 92. I think my friend loved her father best. All the others left. My friend and I watched as they covered her father's casket with the protective shell. It didn’t fit properly. My friend said, “If Poppy were here, he would have that done in no time.” I hugged her and said, even though I didn’t believe it at the moment, “Your Poppy is here." We stayed by the graveside as they lowered him into the ground. We sprinkled his blossoms over the protective shell. We waited while they threw dirt on top of the blossoms. Then we left. We went to Starbucks. “Starbucks isn’t just coffee” my friend said. “It is comfort.” Then my friend dropped me off at the chapel so I could get my car. I went home alone. A few hours later I was sitting on my back deck enjoying my own blossoms and thinking about dying when Arlo started barking. I hadn’t heard my friend’s car, but Arlo had. He was happy to see her. She joined us on the deck. She didn’t have to explain why she had come. We sat there for a long time not talking much. Not needing to talk much.
Stingrays
“Listen up, mates,” the divemaster said in his yummy Australian accent. “Rumor has it some of you were over-served last night, so we’ll do an easy second dive. We’re going to Stingray City.”
Kathryn turned away from Steve and headed for the weight bin. She’d need extra lead for the shallow dive on the sandbar where the Southern Stingrays came to be fed squid. Then she listened as Derek explained the ins and outs of diving Stingray City. How to accept squid from the divemasters. How to feed it to the stingrays, which didn’t bite. How to avoid the squid-stealing yellow snappers, which did.
Once in the water, Kathryn settled on the bottom, accepted a handful of squid from Irina, and hid it in a clenched fist. Soon a four foot stingray approached her, detecting the squid by smell. She moved her fist, making the creature dance through the water, before opening her hand so it could eat. Its soft underbelly, where the mouth was, felt velvety smooth. She watched it flap its wings and swim away, then grabbed another clump of squid to repeat the process. Around her, other divers were busy at the same game.
After forty-five minutes of play, they’d run out of squid, the stingrays had taken off for the deeper water, and the divers were back on the boat headed for the hotel dock. Kathryn saw to her gear, then found a seat in the stern of the boat, in the sun. She leaned back and shut her eyes, but opened them again at the sound of Steve’s voice. “That was cool.”
“Very cool.” His enthusiasm was endearing. Kathryn smiled at him and found herself blurting out, “They remind me of you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”
“They’re big and beautiful and gentle.”
His smile turned soft. He picked up her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed her palm. “And you have them eating out of your hand.”
Oh, damn. Why had she started this? Kathryn shifted gears. “And they have very impressive tails.”
He let go of her hand. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Go on the afternoon dive, have dinner, and... make an early night of it.”
She just stopped herself from saying, ‘go to bed early.’ That would have sounded like an invitation.
Who was she kidding? That would have been an invitation.
“Have dinner with me,” he said.
She thought of his breakfast invitation. “Room service?”
A flush rose on his cheeks. “No, not room service. I want to take you someplace nice. Or are you ashamed to be seen with me?”
“Of course not. But I like you better with less clothing than would be acceptable in a restaurant.”
His body stiffened. “Whatever.” He jerked around and walked away from her.
Kathryn turned away from Steve and headed for the weight bin. She’d need extra lead for the shallow dive on the sandbar where the Southern Stingrays came to be fed squid. Then she listened as Derek explained the ins and outs of diving Stingray City. How to accept squid from the divemasters. How to feed it to the stingrays, which didn’t bite. How to avoid the squid-stealing yellow snappers, which did.
Once in the water, Kathryn settled on the bottom, accepted a handful of squid from Irina, and hid it in a clenched fist. Soon a four foot stingray approached her, detecting the squid by smell. She moved her fist, making the creature dance through the water, before opening her hand so it could eat. Its soft underbelly, where the mouth was, felt velvety smooth. She watched it flap its wings and swim away, then grabbed another clump of squid to repeat the process. Around her, other divers were busy at the same game.
After forty-five minutes of play, they’d run out of squid, the stingrays had taken off for the deeper water, and the divers were back on the boat headed for the hotel dock. Kathryn saw to her gear, then found a seat in the stern of the boat, in the sun. She leaned back and shut her eyes, but opened them again at the sound of Steve’s voice. “That was cool.”
“Very cool.” His enthusiasm was endearing. Kathryn smiled at him and found herself blurting out, “They remind me of you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”
“They’re big and beautiful and gentle.”
His smile turned soft. He picked up her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed her palm. “And you have them eating out of your hand.”
Oh, damn. Why had she started this? Kathryn shifted gears. “And they have very impressive tails.”
He let go of her hand. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Go on the afternoon dive, have dinner, and... make an early night of it.”
She just stopped herself from saying, ‘go to bed early.’ That would have sounded like an invitation.
Who was she kidding? That would have been an invitation.
“Have dinner with me,” he said.
She thought of his breakfast invitation. “Room service?”
A flush rose on his cheeks. “No, not room service. I want to take you someplace nice. Or are you ashamed to be seen with me?”
“Of course not. But I like you better with less clothing than would be acceptable in a restaurant.”
His body stiffened. “Whatever.” He jerked around and walked away from her.
Wet Clothes
Mama piled the wet clothes in the wicker basket and yelled for me to get my lazy tail out from in front of that damned television and hang them out on the clothesline. “I wish the last television ever made was in the middle of hell swamp” I heard her mutter as I pushed open the back door and felt the cold wind hit me. I balanced the heavy basket of wet clothes against my belly as I crabbed-stepped down the back steps. The diapers I had hung out earlier were frozen stiff as a board. I moved the clothespin bag to an empty line and reached into the basket for the first piece of wet clothes. My chapped, red hand found one of daddy’s ragged undershirts. The wind tried to rip the shirt from my fingers as I pinned it to the line. I worked slowly. When I finished the only thing that waited for me inside the house was a blank TV screen and an angry mama. I never knew what set her off these days, but she could get madder than a scalded hen at the drop of a hat.
“Stop dawdling and take those diapers off the line.”
“They’re frozen!”
“Bring them in and put them by the stove.”
With some difficulty I managed to unpin the frozen diapers and maneuvered them into the house where I deposited them on the worn rug in front of the woodstove.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll have another load wrung out and ready for you to hand in a minute.” She disappeared to the front porch where her old wringer washing machine was doing the shimmy under the weight of another load of wash. The Maytag was an improvement. Until Uncle Roswell hooked up the old machine, mama had boiled our clothes in a cauldron over a fire in the side yard and scrubbed them on a washing board. Her hands were red and raw. I looked at my own cold-chapped hands and went into the bedroom I shared with my sister to hunt for the Juergen’s lotion. I was rubbing onto my hands when mama came in with another basket of wet clothes. “If you’re done pampering yourself, Mrs. Rockefeller, these clothes are ready to hang out to dry.”
“Stop dawdling and take those diapers off the line.”
“They’re frozen!”
“Bring them in and put them by the stove.”
With some difficulty I managed to unpin the frozen diapers and maneuvered them into the house where I deposited them on the worn rug in front of the woodstove.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll have another load wrung out and ready for you to hand in a minute.” She disappeared to the front porch where her old wringer washing machine was doing the shimmy under the weight of another load of wash. The Maytag was an improvement. Until Uncle Roswell hooked up the old machine, mama had boiled our clothes in a cauldron over a fire in the side yard and scrubbed them on a washing board. Her hands were red and raw. I looked at my own cold-chapped hands and went into the bedroom I shared with my sister to hunt for the Juergen’s lotion. I was rubbing onto my hands when mama came in with another basket of wet clothes. “If you’re done pampering yourself, Mrs. Rockefeller, these clothes are ready to hang out to dry.”
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