During the Hurricane

    They are all there, the Fowl Family, on the wall, in formal portraiture, arranged by the patriarch Rusty Rooster who placed himself in the middle, where he could keep an eye on everybody. He claimed that roosters, aka adult chickens of his size and prominence had eyes in the back of their heads and the Little Red Hen, for one, believed everything he said. For that matter, so did Chicken Little who had shamed the whole family just a week earlier, by yelling "The sky is falling!" in his shrill Chicken Little voice. "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"

    Well, as we all know, it was just a hurricane, the sky was not falling, showed no signs of falling, but because of C.L.'s shrill warnings, most of the fowl fled.  Chicken Big and the Wise Little Hen made a strategic retreat early during the so-called emergency and are now living, safely and happily, on a farm in Idaho. Henny Penny and Cocky Locky stayed put, determined to weather the storm, staring deep into each other's eyes, soul to soul. Nobody has seen them since the storm, so they are probably at the Pearly Gates, the first to arrive which will please the always competitive C. Locky.

    Goldie Hen, of course, kept her cool during the storm and emerged picture perfect, every feather and comb in place. . . which could not be said of Brewster Rooster, who was so unsettled by Chicken Little's shrill warnings that he simply froze, depended on his sharp beak to keep danger away, and still hasn't moved as far as anybody can tell.

    It is true that Chicken Licken kept her eyes closed during the entire storm, then, when the wind and rain finally died down, opened both eyes, ruffled her feathers, and clucked, "What's for dinner?"

    "I hope it's not one of us," the Wise Little Hen said, which lightened the mood (one of her gifts), produced a few nervous squawks,  and most went back to clucking, cawing, and scratching in the dirt.

    Not Brewster, the Rooster. He kept his sharp eye and pointed beak ready to deter intruders ... and, of course, nobody could stop Chicken Little from continuing to race around, hither and yon, shouting, "The sky is falling, the sky is falling!"

Some chickens just don't know when enough is enough.

Un-Hooked

Un-Hooked

The coffee was cold, the toast was cold, stiff and cold, and she was out of jam. Peanut butter was not the answer even though her brother once proclaimed that pb (as he called it) was the solution to everything, especially minor discomforts such as boredom and hunger, which he equated despite her arguments to the contrary.

She was not that hungry, but eating, especially first thing in the morning, was a habit, one that kept her stable (relatively speaking) and ready for the day. The coffee that same brother, speaking authoritatively (because of his appearance on earth 13 months before hers) pointed out that coffee has no nutritional value, so, of course, he didn't drink it.

She did, probably in reaction to his disdain and now a habit. She was hooked, as he would say, hooked, one of his favorite words.

She stood up, poured the coffee back in the pot to warm it up, changed her mind, poured it in the sink, threw away the stiff toast even though it was already buttered, opened the freezer, took out the pint of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz and ate it right out of the carton, sparing herself another dirty dish and proving again that she was an independent spirit, well able to take care of herself, thank you very much. 

Dreamer

     There in his back yard the boy swung the bat like a pro. Nobody pitching a ball to him. No ball at all that I could see, just a boy with a bat, swinging it like a star, like Joe Mauer, Kirby Puckett, Rod Carew, long gone heroes he's never seen or heard of, but practicing the swing, the stance without the ballet of a ball heading his way, getting the swing right before he encounters a ball.

    Practicing.

    And dreaming. 

    Another form of practice, of getting ready for the moment, the opportunity, the hurtled orb of possibility arriving when you are ready, when you most expect it: proper stance, eyes wide open and on the ball, ready to swing at the right moment, prepared for the crack of bat on ball, the slight thrust backward as ball meets bat, then rises in a perfect arc as you circle the bases, one, two, three, and home.

    That's how he'll get there, to ahs and cheers, and his mother, father, brother rising in the stands, shrieking "Go, go, go Boy!" and he does because he practiced in that narrow back yard, because he dreamed, because he believed in himself, in himself and the dream.

    He knows you never let go of the dream.

Ritual

The old dog is asleep, noisily asleep, twitching in a dream, breathing too heavily, audibly recording her dream so that when she wakes up, smells my coffee brewing, stretches, asks in that polite way she has--not looking at me, not directly, warm snout on my leg, waiting with uncommon patience for me to realize she is there, waiting for me to open the box of milk bones, the only doggy treat she deigns to eat, take out two, put one in her open mouth, put the other on the floor next to her water, not in her dish, open the back door to let her out to make water (as I say so as not to embarrass her), but stay by the door so she can quickly come back in for the second treat which she will wolf down (in a nod to her lineage), have another lap of water before going to her place by my chair where she expects me to be as soon as the coffee is perked, one spoon of sugar, a scant spoon, and a drop of skim milk stirred in, and both of us sitting near the window, up, awake, happy, even content, ready to begin a new day together which is as it should be and, actually, is how it is.

Over Easy

    "Isn't the world wonderful?"

    I wait, wait for the explanation, the qualifier or, more likely, the litany of wonders he has just unearthed, discovered, thought of, puzzled over, read about, or, more likely, most likely, made up. I am waiting, a bit impatiently, I admit--well, quite impatiently--waiting, spatula in hand, ready to flip the eggs, but waiting.

    "Well," he finally says, "consider the egg."

    I chortle at that, nearly choke, and scoop the eggs up and over before they harden, all the flavor dried out, no yolk to dip the toast in.

    The toast! "Did you put the toast down?" I shout just as it pops up. "Oh, good! No butter on mine." Which he knows, but sometimes forgets.

    And within a minute . . . well, 3 minutes...there we are, sitting at the round table his grandfather made, each of us eating our eggs--two each, over easy, perfectly cooked--toast with butter--his; homemade blackberry jam--mine.

    He doesn't say it again, because I hurry to get the words out first. "Yes," I say, "You are right. This truly is wonderful, quite wonderful, all of it."

    "Eat your eggs, Pollyanna," he says, and I do, we both do, pleased and, yes, full of wonder.

Witness Tree

First day of fall, of autumn, and it was dark out. Which must mean she was up too early. Dark meant night meant sleep, and she was awake. Awake and drinking coffee, as if....as if? As if she were glad to be up, looking at the silent trees. Well, tree, the one tree, the old pine he'd planted so long ago, when they were giddy new home owners.

He'd insisted on that tree, that specific tree, at the nursery, against her concerns, her comments, well, really her criticisms. "It's squat," she had said, "branches too low to the ground, nothing...nothing...truly majestic."

"Majestic!" he'd laughed. "Majestic? Well, it will grow, and we'll grow with it, have babies who will become children, who will climb that tree, easily, first branch low to the ground, and. .."

"Like an invitation?" she'd said, meaning it as a problem, a warning, a preventable danger to their precious unborn children.

"Yes!" he'd shouted, as he always did when he was happy, excited and happy. "Yes--it's perfect!"

So they...he...bought the tree, planted it in the scraggly yard of the house, that house, their house. And the children came, climbed the tree, nobody fell, no bones broken, and now, they were gone too, one to each coast, and she was left with the old tree, branches still too low, grazing the ground, bent with age, but low enough she saw, as if for the first time, branches low enough for her to walk between the them, to breathe in the earthy smell of plant and to be embraced by tree.

The branches brushed against her as she entered, surrounded her, and hugged her when she made it to the trunk, the bark rough and familiar on her cheek.

"Still here," she said. "Still here. Both of us, still here."

Look

It was a gift. The day, this day, was a gift that came unbidden, without conscious thought. The world turned, the sun appeared, then light! light! That revelation of what was there, still there, always there.

She started to say something, hesitated, then said it anyway, "We're still here! Look! The sun has risen, again...a miracle in itself, without prompts or reminders or bells going off."

"Yep," he said...which surprised her. 

         He was interested! Well, who wouldn't be, but still, she was surprised. "And it happens every day," she said.

 

He was sitting up now, one leg over the edge of the bed, moving slowly for a guy who usually leapt out of bed and body-blocked her to get to the bathroom first. So she waited. She could have beat him, but she waited, for some disclaimer--or joke--at the blessings of the new day.

"Which," she said, "which makes it . . . "

"Even more amazing!" he said. "And our job is to make the most of it, to make it wonderful, to celebrate this day, this dawn, this dawning day."

She nearly choked at his response, or, worse, laughed, but, luckily, she held it in, and waited for the clever remark, the name-calling, Ms. Pollyanna or She-Whose-Head-is-in-the-Clouds....something clever or sarcastic or, more likely, acerbic.

But nothing came. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, looking out the window, which now, miraculously, had a rosy hue.

"Look to this day..." he said, almost meditatively. "That's what my dad always said, his first words to me...to all of us...every morning. 'Look to this day.'"

"You never told me that," she said.

"'Look to this day/for it is life,'" he said, almost in a whisper, a seductive whisper. "'...the very life of life.'"

"Who said that?" she asked.

"I did!" he said in that don't fool around voice she was used to. "Let's get about it, Fairy Princess. You know, 'The bliss of growth/the glory of action...'" And he was up, but she swiveled just in time to catch the pillow, hurl it back, and make it to the bathroom first.

Look To This Day

Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course

Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn!

Kalidasa (5th century CE Sanskrit poet and dramatist)

A Gray Lie

   Veronica was late.

Again.

She knew it and rued the fact--yes, she had to admit that it was a fact that she was always late.

"It distinguishes me," she'd explained early on in the spirit of full disclosure and all that--wanted Mary Ellen to know before they went any farther.

"That's okay," Mary Ellen had said, then laughed, that beautiful contralto laugh that was the first thing Veronica noticed about her, the first attraction in a growing list. "We all have our little faults," Mary Ellen said.

Veronica looked at her watch. 7:23 and she was 10 minutes away. Well, actually 15, only 15 if she got all the lights, but she could do it, close enough for a 7:30 curtain....

She could call, but calling would delay her, make her late, well later, which would be worse. Mary Ellen had been very clear about the pleasures of reading the playwright's notes, the director's comments, taking in the set, the stage, the anticipation of what was to come. "That's what I love about live theater," she had said. "Anything can happen, the play is written, the cast have learned their lines, rehearsed, but the execution each time is always different--it's never the same play twice."

"I love that too," Veronica had responded, smiling broadly as if she too were a frequent theater goer. She wanted this to work, more than anything, but now she was late, a too familiar experience, but she knew what to do, ran a light, cocked her head--no sirens, almost there.

Mary Ellen had the tickets. "I'll meet you in the lobby," she had said.

Veronica was now 3 blocks from the theater. She avoided the clock, just drove, made two green lights in a row, and the entrance to the parking lot was in sight.

A minute later she was in the lot, circling the parked cars, up another level. Glanced at the clock, 7:33, but it was often wrong. She prayed that it was wrong and just then her prayers were answered, a space. She careened into the empty space, leapt our of the car and ran, just as another car sped past. Good. She could tell Mary Ellen that she wasn't the only person arriving late  the traffic was terrible, I hit every red light and the guy in front of me.... Maybe she could make a little joke about late arrivals being fashionable.

She ran, a good trick in 3 inch heels and a pencil skirt, but she ran and was in the lobby 2 minutes later, looking for Mary Ellen, in the crowded? lobby, which confused her. Was it the wrong day? the wrong theater?

"Oh, shit," she said just as somebody tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hello, Beauty." It was Mary Ellen, smiling her lovely smile, not mad, happy to see her.

"I'm sorry," Veronica began, and began the first lie, "but the traffic...."

Mary Ellen smiled, gave her a quick, forgiving hug, whispered, "Come on. Let's find our seats."

"I'm so sorry," Veronica tried again, but Mary Ellen was showing an usher their tickets, then pulling Veronica down an aisle. When Veronica had the nerve to look at the stage, she was surprised to see that the stage, designed as a high-end bar, was empty, no actors, no action, nothing.

"Take a breath," Mary Ellen whispered. "Relax. We're fine."

"But it's nearly 8:00.

"I know," Mary Ellen whispered. "Curtain is at 8:00." She squeezed Veronica's hand, "I lied," she said and laughed. "Probably won't work again, but aren't you happy to be here? I'm glad you're here."

"Probably not," Veronica admitted, and, after a short interior struggle, managed to smile, and say, "Well, I'm glad it worked this time."

News of the Day

     "Do you have any thoughts about the Speckled Pigeon?"

    She glanced up from the paper, the Sunday paper, the only paper edition they still received, the heavy-with-ads-paper edition, a real newspaper with front-page headlines, a crossword, editorials. She loved the heft of the paper, even the whiff of ink on paper. She knew she could get more information than she wanted on one, complete with people's snarky comments or, occasionally, a wise observation about the news of the day. But she preferred her news unmediated by strangers and, on this one day of the week, on Sunday, the day of rest, right?....she wanted to read the paper, the real paper, the newspaper.

    The Speckled Pigeon has a very yellow eye." 

    She looked up then, hoping the irritation and incredulity at the random statement showed on her face, but was careful not to say anything that would create a real conversation.

    "Surrounded by orange feathers, almost a mask."

    She risked a "Hmmm," then ruffled the paper, turning the page, refolding it, quickly, in a hurry, as if anxious or impatient to continue the article she was reading.

    He took the hint, mumbled something like, "Well, okay," and turned back to his book, a bird book, no doubt. Called what? Pigeons of the World? She had no idea...but now she found herself thinking about birds, pigeons specifically, realizing against her will, that there were probably many varieties of pigeon and who the hell had time to categorize them down to the specificity of "Speckled Pigeon?" Was there an Unspeckled Pigeon? Smooth-faced Pigeon? Unblemished Pigeon? How many varieties of pigeon are there?

    Should she ask him?

    Well, no, because he'd say, I'll find out, type something in, both thumbs flying, and then she'd have to listen to the litany of information he found about the Unspeckled Pigeon and pigeons in general. She looked up quickly --a mistake--he saw her, brandished his phone, "Also called the African Rock Pigeon, lives south of the Sahara . . ."

    Well, okay. Enthusiasm was contagious, and she could read about the man with the orange hair anytime, but pigeons . . . "That's fascinating," she said. "Tell me more."

    

Room With a View

There were three of them, giggly girls, playing in her yard. Well, not technically her yard, but close enough, within her direct view, all of them dressed in too short shorts, short shorts with filmy tops and barefoot, not a shoe between them. What about nails, rusty nails, tetanus?And where were their parents? She frowned at the spectacle she was witnessing, was forced to witness.

    Because they were there, and she was inside, in the house, of course, waiting for the mail. The letter carrier would have to weave through the girls, but Mildred knew she (she! the letter carrier a woman delivering the mail!) could do it, given the way she skipped down the street with those US Mail bags hanging off her shoulder.

    Well, life is change, which is what she used to say to Albert when he sank into one of his grumble fits. "Life is change," she would trill, because she knew it irritated him. "A little irritation is good....keeps your whistle clean."

    That always made him laugh, and once he even launched into a monologue on the whistle as produced by the human body.

    Well, now she was irritated alone, alone, cranky, and vexed while the three spindly girls mucked around in her yard. She rapped on the window to get their attention, because....because....because they....then she stopped just as she realized there was no reasonable explanation in the phrase she was forming in her brain, which made her laugh.

~

    The three of them now were looking right at her, or so it seemed, until the youngest, or, at least the smallest, snapped off the stringiest daisy on the boulevard, a volunteer flower Mildred had meant to get rid of, and ran back to her friends, then up Mildred's walkway to her door, pressed the doorbell three times, bowed, dropped the flower and dashed back to the other girls who had swiveled as gracefully as ballerinas during her dash, and then the three of them ran off together, in perfect harmony.

    They were gone before Mildred could get the door open, and a foot on her porch, but the peal of their joy carried her through the rest of that long day.