Today

 

 

You cannot survive this.

 

It will hurt and you will die.  End of story.  Your own mom would beg you not to get involved. 

 

In bizarre and unsettling confirmation, a frightening mental image of himself curled into a fetal position, clawed hands reaching for salvation, appeared.  The corners of his eyes squinched and his lips curled into a moue of distaste.

 

The car rocked on its suspension.  Streaks of rubber,  a yard or more long, trailed away behind it. The result of the panic stop resembled a pair of exclamation points.

 

He didn't know when he'd gotten out of the car.  He also didn't know why he'd exited the vehicle.  He stood next to it, searching various pockets, praying he'd find the cell phone that he never brought on these early morning jaunts.  His head swiveled on a neck stiff with the tension of unimaginable horror, seeking...well, he wasn't aware enough to know what he sought. Eyes wide, his jaw slack, he stood next to the vehicle, shocked into temporary idiocy by the horrible view and the first pained and terrified wail of hopelessness - (Mommy!  Mommy, it hurts!). 

 

Jesus!  This sucks. 

 

He slapped at the onslaught of airborne particles that sought out the exposed skin of his face, the backs of his hands, the spreading bald spot at the crown of his head.  They swarmed, flaring and flashing, and where they found purchase, deposited sharp pin-prick stings and painful bites. 

 

The disturbing vision brought with it a cascade of physical reactions.  Clammy fear-sweat trickled from pores to etch chilly trails over his ribs. With a shudder, he rolled his shoulders, pinching them toward his spine to dislodge the curious itch-tickle that began there and rocketed down the entire length of his backbone. The glacial chill spread.  Savage depictions of evermore creepy imaginings trailed in its wake.  A watery feeling in his bowels accompanied the surge of adrenaline percolating into his bloodstream. The acrid, ammonia scent of his perspiration combined with the stench of his surroundings.  He gagged and forced down the rise of bile that scorched his throat.  Temples throbbed in lock-step with the galloping pace of his heartbeat.  The woeful pictures he conjured gave way to a fiercely insistent voice that urged him to

 

Run!  Run NOW.  GO!

 

 Bleak and malignant thoughts of cowardice grew in his mind and gripped it with a merciless chokehold. 

 

Anchored in place by indecision and thoughts of self-preservation, he was jolted by some thing inside of his head that railed against his inaction.

 

You big pussy.  Do something!

 

He felt impotent, powerless to counter the alien and malicious entity that had taken control and frozen him into catatonia.  He shared his mind with a demented but believable doppleganger that spewed a vile message.  It echoed and rebounded in an endless loop that always resolved to the gruesome core belief that he would die in great and certain pain.  Unaware that his head nodded in profound agreement with that disturbing logic, he stared in shock at the hellish scene that played out before his disbelieving eyes. Nourished by his well-developed insecurity, an invasive spawn of nervous tremors took hold.

 

... and he that believeth in Me shall never die.

 

His chattering teeth clacked to an abrupt halt.  That voice, he recognized.  He cocked an ear unconsciously in an effort to discern the source of this newest contribution.  It was unnecessary, though.  He had heard - could hear now - the comforting and resonant voice of Father William Vogt deliver that snippet of prayer.  Recollection of his service as an altar boy assisting the priest in an assortment of ceremonies crowded out the frightful tableau before him. 

 

It was replaced with a comforting blend of memories. A sweet and tangy scent of incense wafted out of the fuming brazier suspended from the hand of a young boy caught up in the solemn pageantry that was Sunday Mass. A flower-bedecked altar clad in snowy linen.  The dignified intonations of the Latin the priest prayed and the respectful responses of the gathered congregation.  Kaleidoscopic vignettes of sunlight reflected in myriad hues after piercing the artful mosaic of stained-glass windows, the life-sized crucifix behind the altar bearing the figure of the Son of God,  a golden Tabernacle and Chalice, the flickering twinkle of candles...

 

The reverie was torn to tatters by the heart-rending scream which begged God's - or anyone's - intervention.

 

He muttered a fervent and informal prayer of his own from a throat gone dry with terror. The raspy croak triggered a coughing fit aggravated by the unholy environment surrounding him. He knew that if he could look into a mirror a distorted caricature of his normally ordinary features would stare back. Desperate fear mutated his expression into that of an animal ensnared in some fiendish trap.  The whites of his eyes reflected scarlet and orange highlights that seemed to dance as his heartbeat soared. Those haunted eyes darted about in a maddening and fruitless search for someone who might help.  Rivulets of scalding tears flowed from them, soaking his cheeks and tracing serpentine paths until they dripped from his quivering chin.

 

Dear God, please!  I can't do this. Why me?  Can't YOU help?  

 

For just the briefest moment, a crazy thought took root and sprouted in the fertile soil of his imagination. 

 

I am.

 

That thought was flushed away, carried off by the roaring flood waves of anxiety born of panic.  A plaintive moan followed as he realized that no help, either Divine or mundane, was going to arrive in time to take this cup from his lips.   He trembled violently with tension fueled by adrenaline. Some childish corner of his mind worried that he might pee his pants. He attempted to restrain the flow with clamped legs and an unconscious tensing which did nothing to lessen the urge.

 

There was no event in his routine, predictable life that prepared him for this. Heroics were not his stock in trade.   He was a regular guy who paced through life with a practical passivity and knew with bone-deep certainty that he was not up to this astounding challenge. 

 

The lethal possibilities flashed, unbidden and unwelcome, across his mind's eye, diabolical cue cards of mayhem. In hysteria-driven cut scenes that might have been torn from the depths of a Hell that he hoped did not exist, he created an eerie slideshow of horrifying results.  Assaulted from every corner of his morbid subconscious, he faltered in the twin faces of cold dread and astonished dismay as the awful pictures of carnage were rendered in obscene and graphic detail.

 

A self-deprecating observation - You're stalling, you cowardly, faithless, thing. 

 

He felt damned.  Fists clenched, he roared his indignation and anger into passive heavens which spared him no notice.  In the background, a sound that resembled the static of a mistuned radio station grew by the second until it became the roar of a curse uttered by demons. Nearby, a dog barked in a frantic, staccato rhythm that his fevered mind translated as

 

Act!    Act! Act!

 

 ...condemnation of his self-preserving hesitance.  A horrid paralysis, confining as stone, rooted him where he stood. He wiped sweat from his stinging eyes, now aware of the dark and unnatural nimbus that blotted sunlight from the sky. He breathed with great, racking gasps heaved from lungs brutalized by the foreign atmosphere.

 

Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee…

 

He recited the little-used Act of Contrition he’d learned at his mother's knee with a reverence and fervor that had never come from him before this crushing moment.  He had been taught that this prayer could save his soul from the eternal torment that was the sole reward of sins unforgiven. It was a staple of Father Vogt's Last Rites, the cornerstone of the final ceremony dying parishioners experienced. He prayed hard. 

 

God?  I hope You weren't kidding.

 

With haste born of fear, both the physical sort for the injury he was certain to endure, and the psychological horror his grim imagination conveyed, he bull-rushed the demonic threat. A gutteral and aggression-filled growl spilled from lips drawn back in a rictus of determination. He peeled away his sport coat and tie, tossed them behind with unconscious negligence as he charged destiny.  He crossed his arms over his face in an effort to protect himself as long as possible.  With embarrassment so acute he cringed, he peed down one leg as he ran.  He did not stop, though.  With unshakeable certainty, he knew that to hesitate was to fail. 

 

Another of his mom’s bed-time prayers surfaced in the violent maelstrom of this terrible ordeal.

 

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

 

The horrified and ravaged scream drowned the distant wail of emergency vehicles. The hair on his arms and at the back of his neck stood.  It continued, rising in pitch and volume,  until the barking dog whimpered in pain and a frisson of arctic chill detonated inside of him. Hopeless shrieks of desperation, mixed with piteous and ragged prayers for deliverance, fortified his decision.

 

So be it, God.

 

The headlong momentum of his blitzkrieg exploded against the weakened door and he plunged into the burning building.

 

“I’m coming! Where are you? I’m coming!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What My Dog Taught Me Today

 You have to play.

 

Sure, sleep is important.  In fact, you ought to do a bunch of it.  You two-leggers don't sleep enough, if you ask me.  You're always so busy and even when you aren't dashing around, you don't just flop on your bellies and bask in the warm comfort of bright sunshine or snooze under the shady stillness of a pleasantly scented bush.  What's up with that?  Try it!  Go ahead and curl up on that throw rug in front of the fireplace, close your eyes and dream.  The four-footed amongst us do it all the time and we're ok.  (If you try to get comfy in those places where the cats lay, along the humped back of the sofa or on that southern facing windowsill that provides a view of the backyard, the sleeping thing might get a bit complicated, though.  Just saying.)

 

And then when you wake up you can go play! 

 

Of course, that will have to follow the delightful experience of a jaw-clicking yawn accompanied by that curious little squeak that canines make. (Although, I don't remember ever hearing you squeak, now that I think of it.)  It'll have to wait until you take the time to str-r-r-r-etch your muscles, too.  Those feel so good.  What?  You don't believe me?  Stick your front limbs way out there, now bow your back 'til your tummy brushes the floor and don't forget to keep your haunches high as you wag...oooops, forget that wag stuff.  Then do it all backwards.  Get all your limbs under you and arch your back like you want to touch the sky with it.  (It pains me to admit it, but cats have this humpback business down to a fare-thee-well.  Need proof?  When was the last time you saw a stretching dog Halloween decoration?  The Defense rests, Your Honor.)

 

Oh, and I almost forgot.  Before you earn some recreation time, you gotta have a brisk scratch or two.  Take the time to vigorously drag your nails over your belly or even behind the ears and maybe under your chin, just for good measure. Really go after it; put some elbow grease into those. You'll be glad you did.  This is one time you don't want feline advice, though.  Lick your paw and wipe saliva all over your face?  Ewwww.  And it just occurred to me that if you can get someone else to scratch and run their hands all over you, it will make your day.

 

You know what to do now, right?  Yep.  Let's play!  If you chase me, I'll love it. (And you could do with a bit of exercise.  Why do so many two-leggers jiggle, anyhow?)  We could play catch, too.  You toss the ball and I'll go fetch it.  I may even bring it back to you, you know.  (But not always; I really like to be chased.)  We can run and we can jump.  If you tug on my tail, I'll spin in circles 'til I'm dizzy trying to play-bite you.  I don't even mind chasing you.  Go on, take off, I dare you.  I'll nip at your heels and tug on your pants legs until both of our tongues are hanging out.  Did you know we can both have fun if you teach me tricks?  (Especially if you have a pocket full of treats.  Bacon, maybe?  Dogs loooove bacon. Bacon, bacon, bacon. Sorry, got carried away.  Blame those TV commercials.)  

 

Geesh.  I'm pooped.  Want to go take a nap?

 

Sigh.  Ok, no nap, yet.  How about a drink?  Lots and lots of fresh, cool water.  Yummm.  That's another thing you uprights don't do enough of.  Don't you know how important water is? 

 

Hey, I've got something else I've been meaning to mention to you.  Watch.  (With my tail wagging a comforting  Hail-Fellow-Well-Met swish from side to side, I approach the cat.  I stop a respectful distance away and crane my neck forward in as unthreatening a fashion as I can manage.  She freezes for a second, a little bashful or even nervous, maybe.  I just wag that tail and grin.  Pretty soon she comes closer and we do Eskimo kisses, touching noses together, before she relaxes completely, sits and starts that goofy saliva-face-wiping business, again.)

 

Did you see?  Just because something looks different or we don't share the same interests, doesn't mean we shouldn't try to get acquainted or be friendly.  So what if she's got fur that isn't like mine?  What difference does it make if her behaviors or the things she likes aren't the same as what I like or do?  She eats fish; I like bacon.  Who cares?  She wipes her face with slobber paws and I lick my...ummm, never mind, bad example.  My point, I guess, is that we really can all get along if we're able to show some tolerance for all those things that make each of us unique. 

 

You know, even if we get angry with one another, it doesn't have to be forever.  It doesn't mean that if I'm mad at you I'm going to be mad at every two-legger.  I know that when you growl at me we're going to be able to get past it.  And no matter what, I'm always going to love you.  Love and friendship can not only bridge the species gap, it can heal almost anything. Love costs us nothing but faith in one another.  It's what makes me wag my tail so hard that the fleas threaten to relocate, when you come home.  I live for the kindness and care you show me. It is magic.  Do you know why dogs always smile?  It causes happiness.  Guess what?  Your smile works the same way. 

 

Gimme a scratch behind the ears?  I'm going to go lay down and dream about the rabbit chase of the century.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Might Even Eat Today

 He shared his walk with Spring and a procession of energetic kids intently serious about getting to their next class. Mixed in with the studious were those embarked on rafts of beckoning adventure only possible now that parental scrutiny was a thing of the past. 

 

Spring, with bright scarlet collar adorning her caramel-colored coat and a smile that charmed everyone with whom she deigned to share it, strolled beside him.  Humming a melodic interpretation of George Harrison's 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' that he'd discovered just this morning on YouTube, he ambled along in the mild sunshine of a Mid-October afternoon. 

 

Their path led them down a brick-paved walkway that fronted a variety of businesses.  She sat at his feet while he browsed the displays of a couple of bookstores which vied for attention with gaudy printed assurances that any textbook needed was available, new or used. He spent a bit longer in front of the one that featured displays of clothing and other items bearing familiar logos. A number of bars, from which music and the muted conversations of lunch-time patrons spilled, stood with doors propped open to admit the fresh air and pleasant weather. A bank with an outdoor ATM being used by a customer, a bustling Starbucks, a store-front operation that hawked tutoring and exam preparation courses in bold white lettering a foot high held places along the way.

 

And there were restaurants. 

 

The early Fall air was redolent with a cornucopia of enticing scents. His mouth watered as he took them in. The tang of herbs and spices wafted from pizza joints.  Any number of sandwich shops released the tantalizing aroma of frying onions and peppers, fragrant whiffs of broiling burgers and sauerkraut-dressed Reubens. Outlets which boasted vegetarian fare leaked the astringent smells of vinegar and citrus into the environment that he and Spring traveled.  As he followed the dog's meandering path he catalogued each smell that he recognized and tried to associate it with a country or region.  That exercise made the ordeal a little easier to swallow. 

 

She, of course,  was in Seventh Heaven.  Her tail wagged with unfailing vigor as she bent low and followed the boggling trails of scent.  She snuffled and sniffed with carefree abandon, lost in contented wonder and joyful discovery.  An occasional sneeze exploded from her as she encountered an irritant.  Spring would look up at him then, with her shining chocolate eyes, lolling tongue and exuberant smile, as if to say, "Whew!  Where'd that come from?"   Nose back to the grindstone, she tugged at the leash as she explored the clustered combinations of smells at doorways, paused to investigate the ground around trash receptacles. When her olfactory odyssey was interrupted by a two-legged distraction, she'd stop for a second to shine an enchanting grin at them, bend to sniff at pant cuff or shoe sole and continue on. 

 

He reined her in when she discovered the remains of someone's lunch discarded near a bench.  "No!"  He snapped his fingers and reinforced the command with one sharp tug on the leash. 

 

Spring abandoned her find, came to heel and licked his hand.  "That's my good girl."  He lavished praise and vigorously scratched her shoulder.  "What a clever dog!  Goood girl."  She closed her eyes and raised her muzzle, swished her tail and almost quivered with delight.  Not since she was quite young had the 'stick' part of obediance training been needed.  She was bright and loving and 'carrot' was very effective.

 

"Mush, Springy.  Let's scoot, mutt," he said as he placed her on his right, held the lead in his left hand and took up the slack with the other.  Spring associated this with training behavior and took her place at the heel position, her left shoulder almost brushing his right knee as they resumed their walk. 

 

She didn't pay any attention to the glance he gave the partial sandwich he'd distracted her from.  Her attention was caught by the rumbling growl of his stomach, though.  She looked up at him with confused brown eyes.  Spring knew the liquid-sounding gurgle spawned by hunger.  She knew the aching discomfort of an empty belly and the weakness it created when prolonged. She knew she would eat when they got home.  It was a routine that never varied or failed since she first denned with this companion.

 

The dog did not know that he was starving.

 

"It's ok, pretty girl.  C'mon."  Man and best friend veered toward home. 

 

*****

 

He scrolled through the headlines and story blurbs on Yahoo while lying in bed.  The dog slept on the Oriental patterned rug at the foot.  Occasional woofs and whimpers came from her while the sleeping hound's paws twitched as she chased a canine dream.  Fur the identical shade of peanut butter clashed with the ruby, black and gold of the rug.  He watched her as she dreamt and his smile didn't fade until his empty stomach balked.

 

Alright, alright, alright.  I get it. 

 

He perched on the side of the bed while he put shoes on.  Spring woke and came to him.  He laughed at her, the brisk wave of her tail seemed to power the dog the way a plane's propellers dragged it into the sky.  A brief vision of her flitting around the room, like that elephant in the books he'd read as a child, imprinted on his imagination.  He fended her off with a quick series of scratches that made her curl into a 'C' shape and chuff doggie laughter.  He threw on a shirt and grabbed the other things he needed, put the laptop to sleep and quietly led his dog through the house.  As soon as she realized they were headed toward 'out' she trotted ahead to take up station at the door that opened onto the fenced yard.

 

"Be back in a bit, puppy girl," he told her.  Then, in a sterner voice, he admonished her, "And keep your noisy yap shut.  The neighbors are trying to sleep.  Now, mush."  He scratched her ear then gave her a gentle boot on the backside.  She scampered into the darkness.

 

He left the house by the front door, careful not to make noise enough to wake his landlord and roommate.  Logan was a blessing bestowed by God or a whim of capricious Fate or maybe just a slightly tarnished jewel of humanity. 

 

He moved into Logan's house shortly after securing a job at the university. They got along well. When that job had suddenly vanished, his landlord hadn't batted an eyelash.  Neither did he make mention of any sort when some of his food went missing.

 

He stopped to look at the dog standing inside the fence. 

 

"You hush, hound.  Hear me?" 

 

She smiled and wagged her tail, stood with front paws on the chain link.  The goofy thing radiated love and affection that shone brighter than the security light under which she stood watching as he slipped away.

 

He set off on a path that led down darkened streets toward the area he and Spring had walked much earlier in the day.  Spring's distressed yips, barks, and piteous whining began before he got to the end of the block.  The only time she became anxious enough to do so was when he left home on these late night sorties.

 

*****

 

These nightly jaunts - he called them 'hunts' when he bothered to name them, at all - had become a routine part of his life, recently.  A few kids walked, often a bit unsteadily, toward their homes.  Now and again, cars would pass.  For the most part, he had the 2 a.m. streets to himself.  He used the solitary time to reflect, to plan what he could, to worry and to pray.

 

The money he had saved while working carried him through the first 2 1/2 months of his unemployment.  When being honest with himself, he allowed that he'd made some serious mistakes with it.  Despite turning 57 just a couple of days ago, he had not believed work would be too hard to find.  The economy in this area was thriving and his experience and work ethic should have made finding employ pretty easy.  So he'd pissed some of the savings away.  With the last of the money available to him, he bought a week and a half's worth of food for himself and enough dog food to feed Spring for the next couple of months. 

 

That was three weeks ago and his optimism had not borne fruit.  Hence, the hunts.

 

A strong moral foundation and a healthy dose of Catholic guilt (which had not gone away when he lapsed) prevented him from becoming a predator.  He could not sell dope.  The opportunity to buy liquor for underaged kids presented itself almost daily.  He turned away, not even tempted to give in. 

 

But you're turning into a thief, aren't you?

 

He sometimes wondered if he might not be insane on some level when this happened, but it did not stop him from entering into a conversation with his conscience. 

 

I'm not stealing.  I'm raiding garbage cans - big difference. 

 

Oh yeah?  Then why do you stop when you see someone? 

 

Bob Seeger answered that one, "...well, you used to throw it down but now you stop and think about your dignity..." and although his conscience shut up after that, he couldn't really say he felt any better.  He still hunted, though.

*****

 Spring's tail waved in wide, exaggerated swoops that made me think of NASCAR.  It was easy to imagine an enormous black and white checkered flag fastened to it, hear the crisp snaps and pops of the material as she rewarded the front-runner at Daytona or Talladega or Darlington.   

 

We made our way along a neat little street.  A few mature shade trees, homes and playgrounds for the chittering and engergetic squirrels that skipped from branch to branch, merry and daring, cast pleasant shadows over the sidewalk.  The dog came to an abrupt stop and her attitude changed to one more alert and businesslike. She shot an over-the-shoulder glance my way as if to say, "Shhhh.  They're close."  We watched two rodents chase after one another in a spiral that transformed the trunk of an oak into the equivalent of an animated barber pole or peppermint stick with far more muted colors.  Spring vibrated with predatory watchfulness, leaning forward, frozen into a stealthy pause.  In a flash as sudden as surprise, the squirrels clawed their way into the cathedral-like arc of branches above us.  Tail in motion once more, she approached the tree, planted her paws on the rugged bark and sniffed a bit.  Spring achieved whatever canine satisfaction scents bestowed and she led me on.

 

We turned up the short walkway to Mom's house. I released her from the lead and Spring snatched up a rolled newspaper, vividly colored ads wrapped in flimsy plastic. She walked to the entrance where she paced impatient figure eights. I veered to the tiny well-kept flower patch planted just outside the bay window and scooped a few errant and drowned oak leaves from the bird bath that a cast concrete St. Francis presided over then returned to Spring.  The doorbell rang with pleasant bird chirps.  I opened the door and announced, "Special delivery." 

 

"In the kitchen, baby boy o'mine.  Come on in." 

 

Springy squirted past me, trotted across the living room - Front room, dear. No pretensions allowed here, don't you know. -  and into the fragrant space beyond.  I laughed while closing the door and scoffed under my breath, "Baby boy."  My 57th birthday had come and gone.

 

I followed the animated click-scratch  sounds that dog claws make on hard surfaces with a smile, knowing what I was going to see before I even reached the kitchen door.  I was not disappointed.  I leaned against the jamb and watched as Mom, coated with flour almost to her elbows, a white stripe on the faded olive skin under one eye like some sort of tribal marking, held the dog's jowls in both hands, tugging Spring's head back and forth.  Both of them flashed brilliant smiles.  She praised the hound with effusive thanks for delivering the paper which sat, forgotten for the moment, under a chair pulled back from the table.  Spring ran in place and her entire body, not simply her tail, wagged in bliss.  She, too, had snowy white tribal markings on her face, ears and neck.

 

"Coffee's on the stove, no maid service in this house, buster," she said when she caught sight of me.  She went to the sink and washed up, shook the excess water off and grabbed a dish towel to finish drying.  At the fridge, she poked around until she found a soup bone, waved it at the dog a bit and Spring followed her to the little landing by the back door.  Mom gave up the bone and Spring's gnawing and crunching became the backdrop as I finished pouring a mug and held up the pot to inquire whether Mom wanted a warm-up or not.  She shook her head, filled a bowl with some water for the dog and delivered it.

 

We hugged and then sat at the table.  A salt and pepper shaker set, tiny male and female figurines, one clad in black tux and the other in a flowing white wedding dress, held the same place of honor on that table that they'd assumed the day she'd received them as a wedding gift some 70 years ago.  We sipped and then she gushed, "Well?  Tell me everything.  What's new?"

 

"Ah, same old, same old.  We were in the neighborhood and Spring wouldn't take "no" for an answer and here we are."  The air in the kitchen was a pleasant hodge-podge of fresh air from the opened window and screened back door, what smelled like her signature spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove, something subtle probably coming from the tiny herb garden basking in the Fall sunshine on the window ledge.  Though I tried to control it, my tummy growled. 

 

She got up and rummaged around in one of the cabinets, came out with a package of cinnamon rolls.  She put a few onto a paper towel, tossed them into the microwave, set the timer and looked at me over her shoulder.

 

"You eating?  Your face looks a little thinner."  When it dinged, she piled the pastries onto a plate and set them between us.  "Eat, kid, eat."

 

We both took one and nibbled.  She glanced at the clock hung over the sink, a copper teapot with a face that featured round cartoonish eyes and rosy cheeks over a pleasant smile.  The hands showed it was just a bit after two. 

 

"No luck finding work, yet?"

 

I shook my head, winked, and commented, "This too, shall pass.  Right, Lady?  Tell you what, though, I've started writing again."  I felt a little sneaky distracting her this way.

 

She glowed.  Her eyes lit with pride and pleasure.  As much as anyone, I owed what ability I have to scribble stories to her.  She taught me to read before I ever set a foot inside a schoolhouse.  I took to it like a duck to duckponds and never looked back.  It was she who encouraged me to begin to write my own stories in an effort to practice the penmanship that routinely got me the lowest marks I received in any grade school subject as a kid.  To this day, I can barely print legibly and don't even remember how to write in cursive. 

 

She exploded from the table - and that widened my eyes considerably.  It's not often one sees tiny octogenarians erupt into whirlwinds.

 

In no time at all, she returned,  and with a smile as penetrating as summer sunshine.  She plopped a portfolio into my lap and squeaked, "Go on!  Open it.  Open it, honey."  She shivered with unchecked and rapturous anticipation.

 

I smiled back, but with a look of confusion in my eyes;  looked down at the binder in my lap.

 

"Oh, you!"  She snatched it away,  opened it on the table and began to fish things out of it, sliding each item over to where I sat, stunned.  "And don't spill coffee on any of it!  These are my keepsakes."

 

In that bulging folder was everything I had ever written in my life, it seemed.  There were adolescent-composed paragraphs written on the type of note paper that had dashed lines bisecting solid lines, a graded copy of a story I had done for a fourth grade Scholastic Book Club contest with comments from my teacher and it was attached to the issue of the magazine it had been published in. Kid-made cards I'd spent hours at the kitchen table creating for assorted occasions like birthdays and such. There were the poems that I had crafted for another competition that had also been added to a local library-spawned publication.  There were book reports, science fair project notes and text, compositions, short stories, every letter I'd ever sent home while in the Marines, each article I'd done as a combat correspondent.  She even had copies of all of the pubs I'd done as a technical writer.  I smiled with warmth and fondness when I remembered it had been easier to provide copies of this stuff than fend off her constant nagging.

 

She came over and hugged me again.  "And I don't have to tell you that I want your new stuff, too."  She picked up the ad paper from under the chair and mock-threatened me with it.  "You aren't so big I can't beat your fanny, boy.  Don't make me do it,"  and tossed the paper onto the counter.

 

Mom took the top off of a pot and stirred the spaghetti sauce.  Without looking at me, she said, "Now, tell me what's wrong."

 

Spring let out a loud sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Impressum

Texte: Jeffrey B. Jones
Bildmaterialien: Photo Credit, David Niblack, Imagebase.net.
Lektorat: J.B. Jones
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.10.2014

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Widmung:
There are messages that have shaped lives in the most astounding of ways. Here are some of my favorites: 'Action cures fear.' 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.' 'Love is a many-splendored thing.' 'I have a dream.' 'Your attitude determines your altitude.' 'This too, shall pass.'