Blowing in the Wind

     The wind was up. 

    Blowing.

    Relentless.

    "Gale force," she said.

    "Worse," he said.

    "How could it be worse than gale force?"

    "Well, easy," he said. "Just look out the window." Which she had been doing for the last ten minutes, watching as the wind spewed up dirt in the bald patch of grass, then picked up that scourge of urban life, the plastic bag, spun it up, up, up, then hurled it towards them, and slammed against the picture window, a giant, a misshapen white eye on the glass. They laughed and backed up.

    "Quit your staring," she said.

     "Careful, Mister," he said. "Remember you are only a bag."

    "Yes," she said, "and not even compostable.

    The bag slid an inch down the window, as if in agreement, then a sudden gust lifted it up, up, then a shift in the wind pasted it against the window again, inches from her face. The implication was clear: Take that--which made her mad at first, genuinely angry until she started to laugh, more than a chuckle, but, thankfully, short of hysteria. The bag trembled on the window pane, but didn't really move. The force of the wind kept it plastered it there, inches from her face.

    "That's the nastiest bag I've ever seen," she said.

    "Hmmm, a bag with personality," he said, instinctively accepting the assignation of conscious behavior to a thin piece of white plastic with three red concentric circles.

    "Well, I wasn't thinking . .. . "

    "It's okay," he said. "The wind will take care of it."

    She took a step back, to show that she was abandoning the top-of-her-head, first-thing-in-the-morning conversation and wondered, with a whiff of compassion that bordered on interest, how he would extricate himself from the pointless morning banter.

    "Blowing in the wind," he crooned. "How many roads must a bag blow down before you can call it a bag."

    "And how many bags must rise up to the roof before they are sent to the trash," she sang.

    "The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind."

    "The answer is blowing in the wind." They hit the last note perfectly and laughed together, also perfectly, a gift of their long partnership.

Cake Eaters

     She leapt up at the sound of the timer, the insistent buzz of the damn timer that came with the stove, with the apartment, with the cheap rent for a cramped efficiency in a "good" neighborhood. Well, her dad was happy about that--a safe place for his little girl, he'd bragged, probably was still bragging about how he had found the perfect flat for his baby girl, et., etc. Well, at least she couldn't see or hear him.

    Not yet, at least.

    He was the reason for the timer, the cake in the oven, the probably bad-idea cake in the oven. What was she thinking? She could have bought a cake, an already baked and frosted cake, or a pie--he loved pie--but there were no pies or pie mixes at the corner store, just Betty Crocker's Triple Chocolate Fudge cake mix. And, of course, who remembered frosting? She had nothing to decorate it with . . . and no candles either.

    Well, she'd say, "It's the latest thing----better for you, purer, stripped to the essential . . ." and here she'd practice the dramatic pause . . ."chocolate cake baked just for you!"

    He valued (1) efficiency and (2) bare essentials. "Strip to the bare essentials," was his favorite phrase, repeated ad nauseam, so that was the welcome she was preparing, a bare essentials cake that merged perfectly with her favorite phrase, Let them eat cake.

    She was her father's daughter, after all.

Touch

     The old dog was sick. Obviously. He--it--was walking too slowly, too tentatively, as if it were ill or lost or depressed. She smiled at the thought. Depressed? Can dogs be depressed? Sad? Do they have feelings?

    Of course they do. She remembered King, her brother's dog, and the way it mourned when their old cat died. A cat! The rival pet in the household, the animal King had stalked, barked at, pushed out of the way at the water bowl. Well, King didn't really push that old cat, but cozied up uncomfortably close, a tease rather than an assault.

    So maybe this old dog, mutt of some kind, was recovering from something rather than being actively ill . . . or rabid. Funny how the threat of rabies sprang up so quickly--her mother's fear still embedded fifty years later.

    Well, the dog slouching up the sidewalk was not rabid: no foam oozing from its jaw, no swaying hips, just a sad, slow one paw in front of the other progression. She'd never seen a dog, or any animal for that matter, move so slowly, so deliberately.

    So, she should do something, go to it, offer some comfort. She knew the power of touch, the power of welcome as well as anybody, probably better than most, so she popped the brake on her chair, and wheeled down the ramp to the sidewalk.

    The dog heard her coming, stopped, lifted his head to look. She waved, then laughed at herself--who waved to a dog?

    Well, the dog saw her. He had stopped, was waiting, obviously waiting, for her, and when she got to him, he lifted his great head for her touch.

    Just what they needed, both of them.

Gift

We were sitting there, at the window, facing east, as the sun rose, slowly, but without hesitation. First the stripe of red light, a promise that expanded, widened, faded to pink, then pale blue, but still slowly, so slowly. . . then faster than you'd expect, clear evidence of the earth spinning, moving, making the morning, making a new day.

"Here comes the sun," somebody says. You say, because it is true, the only thing that is happening, the only thing that matters. Here comes the sun, on time, on schedule, steady and faster than you knew, a line of light expanding to an arc, half-circle, rounding, nearly complete, then, there it is! 

The sun!

The sun rose again and still rises as the earth spins, with movement barely visible, until it  becomes a child's drawing, a round yellow ball above the tree tops--and, it's all right, it's all right. It's just a day, a new day, an ordinary day.

A gift every day.

A Modern Tragedy

     "There's no internet today."

    "What! No internet?" She claps her hand to her face. "Oh, no, whatever shall we do?"

    "Well, really. Come on. This is serious."

    "We could go for a walk . . . "

    "At 5 below?"

    "Read a book . . . "

    "I just told you, there's no internet today."

    "We have a bookcase full of books. Also magazines. You know, the printed word on paper still exists."

    "Well, not the original printed word. That was probably a line drawn in the sand."

    "Or in clay soil, so it would last, so it could be read by others."

    "But who would read it? Who would know how to read it?" He paused, thinking. 

    She waited, silently of course, to see what would come from this ridiculous conversation. He had once admitted that the pointless conversation was his favorite form of sparring, the contest was to see how long you could keep an almost rational conversation about nothing alive. She had liked that thought, that idea, liked it then anyway, when they were just getting to know each other, but 30 years later she did not want to encourage the aimless supposition and inevitable word play that emerged effortlessly from him.

    "But," he was saying, "if no one could read it . . . no problem! The fact that it existed, that somebody was caught up in the possibility, of saving, of recording, real words, thoughts, phrases, ideas, the beginning of literacy. It would be another sign of the superiority of the human animal . . . " and he was off, rhapsodizing on the brilliance of the written word, the ability to record, to document, to preserve, preserve (a word he shouted twice).

    She smiled and let him go on. And on. And on. By the time he wound down, the internet would have rebooted itself, or whatever it needed to do, she would thank him for the diversion, and get on with her day.

Celestial Gift

     "Turn off the light."

    She didn't move.

    "You've got to see this! Really! Turn off the light! The stars are out--diamonds in the sky."

    "I can't see to read if I turn off the light." She held up the book as evidence of some kind, dramatically turned a page, and went back to The Evil Wind in the Northwest Corner of Somewhere or some such thing. Probably a mystery, or, worse, a psycho-babble-thriller, not that he would ever offer an opinion of her literary tastes.

    But the night sky was especially clear and star-filled. If she would just turn off the light for a minute or two . . . or thirty, she--they--could see it. He knew she was stubborn, had never liked being told what to do, but the night sky was especially clear and star-filled. If she would just turn off the damn light for a minute or two . . . or thirty, she--they--could see it. But she'd never liked being told what to do, and now made a predictable show of turning the page of The Gale of Death, and appeared to be reading.

    So he did it for her--leapt up like Gabriel himself, grabbed the book, flung it across the room, turned off the lamp, pulled her up by the hand, as she resisted, protested . . . and laughed, he noted . . . danced her across the room, through the kitchen, and right out the back door.

    "I'm freezing!" 

    A clear invitation to wrap his arms around her.

    "Now, look up, up and out," he whispered in her ear. "Look up," which she did, eventually, overcoming her instinctive aversion to being told what to do. She looked up and her gasp of wonder, of joy, of delight, of surrender told him he'd done the right thing . . . again . . . and with the added bonus of holding his beloved tightly, probably too tightly, in his arms, on a glorious, star-filled night.

The View

    She saw him from her window on the sixth floor, not that high up, but high enough to call her view a view of more than the back side of other condos, but, still, not impressively high.

    I love living in the trees," she often said, almost apologetically, but it was true. She was at the height of bird's nests, nesting squirrels, in the leaves, almost shielded from the street below, but still she could watch people hurrying past, cloaked against the cold in winter, scantily dressed in summer, her too high to be noticed and the people below, paper dolls, as if she were the giant on the hill that she'd once pretended to be, the giant who could reach down and rearrange them at will.

    Which made her laugh to think about and that, in her wisdom, or should we say, sanity, she never tried to do.

    So, she was a watcher, an observer, a person who noticed things, and what she noticed now, what she was watching, was a man walking slowly . . . well, at least slower than most . . . walking with a slight limp as if something were broken--a toe, twisted ankle, maybe a congenital limp, too far away to know, but noticeable.

    Then he fell. Just walking along normally, well, semi-normally, with a limp, but walking and then he was lying on the ground, not moving, alone, nobody near enough to help.

    She called out, "Are you alright?"

    Too far away to be heard.

    Panic! What should she do?

    Call 911? Was that necessary? Maybe he'd get up, but he wasn't getting up. "Don't overthink it," she yelled, "Find the phone!"

    By the time she was back at the window, hands shaking, mis-dialing 911, there was a crowd gathered around the man, who now appeared to be sitting up--or propped up--supported by two people--men? women? strangers? She couldn't tell, but the goodness of the world, the blessed instinct of the stranger was unfolding right there in her view from the sixth floor.

    She had done nothing, but somebody did. Somebody did, and that was all that mattered.

The Quiet Man

         She couldn't stop thinking about him, the quiet man in the black sweater, the image of calm, perseverance, and intelligence in the face of lies and unprovoked accusations. 

    He didn't shout.

    He didn't insult or accuse.

    He didn't back down.

    He was calm and assertive during the attack, resolute and clear.

    They didn't hear him because they weren't listening. They were cloaked as mafioso,  performing for the media, unafraid and self-righteous because they believed they held all the power--and the cameras were rolling. They'd show the quiet man . . . they'd show the world . . . who had power, who was right by golly, and they were undeterred by their unfounded accusations.

    "You never said 'thank you!'" the Consigliere shouted, a phrase dredged up from playground fights (a time when memory was short, self-serving, vocabulary was limited, and facts irrelevant).

    "How dare you disrespect the Oval Office," the Capo shouted to the man who sat quietly and composed.

    The quiet man did speak--or tried to. He defended himself and his country, refuted the accusations, and, again, showed the power of calm and self-control in the face of unprovoked assault.

    The score? Depends on whose counting, but she'd vote for the quiet man every time.

 

Attraction

     "Mosquitos love me," she said. "I can't get out of the car."

    "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "We drove all this way. It's a short walk."

    They had driven miles out of the way so she could see something special, a mythical lake in the deep woods, a lake which now looked more like a pond-- even he would have to admit that--a pond, in the woods, miles from civilization, a pond--lake that she'd expected to see from the window of the car, the moving car, but now they were there.

    The pond teamed with life, with a buzz of energy, a buzz she recognized all too well, a mosquito buzz of want, of need, of hunger for a taste of blood, for her blood. Yes, of course, birds in the trees, singing; there was a duck . . . or was it a goose? with an insistent clack or click or whatever you call it, a dog barking somewhere, probably scaring the goose/duck, a hawk circling above, and, no doubt, a bear somewhere, waiting just for them. The great outdoors.

    "Mosquitos love me," she said again.

    "Easy to understand," he said, as if it were a compliment. "Glad they're not bees or wasps."

    So, yes, they were there, in the woods, in the Lost Forty, the uninhabited Lost Forty, forty acres lost to civilization, so he could show her his boyhood haunts, the scenes of his tales: swinging on a vine in the woods (his Tarzan imitation) when the vine broke, and he fell 50 feet; the place where he'd surprised a bear, a mother bear with cubs, who came after him,--an example of his youthful exploits, and, if she was honest, that was part of the attraction: the light in his eye, the glow when he began a tale of teenage daring do. And so, he had somehow talked her into this excursion in the woods, to the deep woods. "To know me better" he had said and, she had to admit, even now, that she did want to know him better. 

    "Are we really going into the forest?" she asked. 

    He grinned. "Of course." So, yes, they were going to the woods, the deep woods. It all happened in the forest, he'd said, in the virgin woods of the north, the forests of his now mythical youth. Which is why they were now at the Lost Forty in northern Minnesota, home of mosquitos the size of baby robins, she pointed out as soon as she realized how far from civilization they were.

    He laughed at that. "An exaggeration," he'd said. But now they were there, actually there, the car parked, him out of the car, waiting for her to get out.

    "Mosquitos love me," she shouted through the closed window. 

    "Easy to understand," he shouted back, blew her a kiss, bowed, opened the car door, and offered his hand. "But there probably isn't a mosquito for miles. Nothing flying around. Nothing in sight."

    Which was true until she got out, took three steps and, even he had to admit, she was swarmed by . . . mosquitos.

    "Everything is attracted to you," he said, in the tone of somebody offering a compliment. "I understand that!"

    He droned on a bit longer, stringing together compliments as she ran around to the driver's side, swatting and cursing all the while, yanked open the door of his car, slid into the driver's seat, revved the engine, and, steering with one hand, swatting mosquitos with the other, careened out of the Lost Forty.

    Hitchhiking was also prominent in his mythical youth. . . he'd get home all right.    

  

Teacher

     "I want to tell you about my cat, my Buddhist cat."

    I nodded, and tried not to smile, or, rather only smile and look receptive. She was old, quirky old, and Mother had told me--ordered me--to be patient with her which, in those days, I interpreted as "Keep your mouth shut."

    "He practices walking meditation," Nanny was saying. "First thing in the morning, he rises, stretches, walks the perimeter of the bed, then the room, slowly now because he's old, like me, but he is mindful."

    "Mindful?" I had to ask--mindful must mean full of mind, or something like that.

    "Yes," Nanny said. "That old cat is mindful--first thing I noticed about him when he showed up at my door. He was slow, took everything in, step by step. He smelled, he touched, he stopped for a second before moving on, the most Buddhist feline I've ever known."

    I remember now that I almost laughed at that. Buddhist feline!? Luckily, I held it in, and said just the right thing. "Tell me more."

    So she did, this grandmother of mine, my oldest relative, a woman with an occasional crack in her voice but, in my memory, a gift for eloquence, patience, and love.

    The cat, her cat, the cat she named Teacher, knew himself, she said, accepted himself, accepted himself as a cat with the power of smell and consciousness. "I know Teacher would like to be outside, in the fresh air, but I can't let him out because of the birds. His feline instinct would take over."

    "Feline instinct?"

    "The hunter in him. Birds are food, so he sits at the window . . ." she pointed to the window next to her chair, "and watches, is mindful of his ancient instincts. He watches, and I watch. We are mindful together.

    "That's it?" I said, I hope without showing my incredulity at her romantic account of an old cat.

    "Yes," she said. "It's enough."

~

    That was more than 60 years ago, but the memory still soothes me, slows me down, calms me every morning, and makes me grateful for two of the best teachers in my life, Nanny and her cat.

    

House of Cards

    The new guy fired everybody. He swirled in, looked around, and fired them all because he thought, no he knew that he was smarter than everybody, especially the people entrenched, (one of his favorite words, entrench), the people entrenched in their bureaucratic cubicles, doing what they did the way they had always done it, following the law, without . . . without . . . without what? Without considering how the smartest man in the world would do it?

    "I'm smart," he explained, more than once. "I'm smart and, from now on, we will be the greatest . . . " The predicate of the statement never mattered. It was the seductive assurance, the outrageous proclamations, statements that sounded like promises, guarantees if you didn't look too closely, statements that encouraged, even reassured, many of us.

    Oh, there was muttering at the water cooler, even a bit of laughter, muffled laughter--what's going to happen if he does what he says, takes over every business on the block, in the neighborhood, on the other side of town, in the next state? Then what?

    Well, the new people weren't worried. They put on their jackets, their matching outfits, sat at the desks, shuffled the papers, turned up the sound, and proceeded to do whatever could catch his attention. It was a blitz he bragged, a purge. Singlehandedly, he was making the company powerful again, great again, the greatest.

    Yes, it was a seductive swirl of action. The company rose and fell, rose and fell, until the last bold assault, aided, he had bragged by AI, AI who was never hampered by stale protocols, practices, guidelines, or laws.

    "It's the wild, wild west," one complainer said, a complainer who was quickly eliminated and, thus missed the satisfaction of watching it from the inside, the whole tower of cards slide, fold, crumple, then collapse--a collapse, well, yes, a collapse, but, as he pointed out, it was the greatest collapse ever.

Much Ado

    The car wouldn't start.

    Nothing turned over. No sound Silence. Profound silence.

    Well, that's not exactly true. There was a low grunt, a kind of gasping, a last effort sort of gasp and, yes, a grind from somewhere deep inside the car.

    "Grind is never good."

    "Yes, I know. Neither is silence."

    It was easier to talk about it as they were deciding, no, contemplating, considering what to do. The battery? Or . . . .

    "Could be, but I don't think so."

    "But that sound, that grinding sound . . ."

    

    "Leading to nothing, so . . . "

    "Much ado abut nothing," she said.

    He laughed. Muttered something about glory, overcoming obstacles, then got out of the car, slammed the door, and raised the hood.

    She watched him scowl at the still and silent car innards as she rifled through her purse for the AAA card she thought they had . . . or once had . . . or meant to get . . . couldn't remember.

    It was a dance, a minuet, a prelude to the waltz, the giving over to a problem that might be solved if you just figured it out (1) by staring at the inner workings of the beast long enough--which he excelled at--or (2) dragging out the owner's manual--the researcher, her strength, both on the way to find a solution together, maybe even simultaneously.

    "I think . . . " he was saying.

    "It says here . . ." she said.

    "That we should call Triple A," uttered. . . or was it muttered . . . simultaneously, and so they did.

Kindness

     She'd been sitting at the bar too long, nursing the drink, carefully, like a proper caretaker, like a nurse, somebody with skills, competence and compassion, nursing her drink. The thought bothered her, made her take a quick gulp of the Mule, the Moscow Mule--who even knew what it was, what poison sent fire down her throat.

    Well, she didn't visibly choke or cough. Her eyes watered, she felt hot, but not sweaty enough to call attention to herself, she hoped . . . then wished she hadn't thought of that, that somebody might notice her.

    She should never have come. That much was clear. 

    Clear now.

    The gift of hindsight didn't help when she was wallowing--or was it "struggling?"--whatever meant caught by her own error, her own stupidity, her impulse to . . . whatever it was. To what? Who knew or cared?

    Well, sitting at a bar, stubbornly trying to down a drink she didn't want, didn't like, that burned and blurred rather than soothed was not the answer.

    And now, the bartender was watching her,  coming over, ready to pour another drink, take more of her money, to say she'd been there long enough, too long, time to go. So, she smiled. Tried to smile, but it didn't feel like a smile. The effort was stuck somewhere in her throat, so stuck, that she actually laughed at how hard the struggle to smile was, how wrong, bad, terrible, sad . . . which then made her smile. Well, almost smile.

    "You all right, Ma'am?"

    A rumply voice trying to be kind. She recognized that immediately, the kindness, knew he couldn't help it, knew he was born with that voice, and the words were right, so she raised her head, met his gaze, both of them aware of the tears in her eyes, and now on her cheek.

    She nodded.

    He touched her hand, briefly, very briefly, but enough for her to feel the warmth of another human being, enough to make her strong enough to say thank you, and mean it.

The Training

    The cat was up.

    Rosa knew it was up because of the march of paws across her back, followed by the soft susurration of a leap to the floor, the predictable soft landing, front paws, back paws, all four feet on the carpet, and then the silent footsteps out the bedroom door to the litter box, the familiar rearrangement of the gravelly mixture, then the quiet march to the kitchen where it would wait.

    Patiently, Rosa assumed, had always assumed, because when she eventually flipped on the kitchen light, the cat was there, always, next to his empty bowl, feigning indifference, an attitude he had perfected . . . or inherited from some ancient, solitary ancestor, feigning indifference unless . . .  unless Rosa made the mistake of starting the pot of water for her tea before scooping the half cup of kibble out of the Friskies bag into the empty bowl.

    No kibble, no peace. That apparently was the cat's motto, his guiding star, his modus operandi. It began subtly: the silky body rubbing her ankle, emitting a faint sound from deep in his throat, then the slightest murmur of complaint, that slowly became insistent, once even a claw showing and the mewing rising in volume if the dish was still empty after her tea had brewed and the toast was up and buttered, tantalizing the cat's heightened sense of smell and entitlement.

    It was a game they played--Rosa waiting to see how patient the cat could be, how long before the first yowl of complaint, but, if her tea was poured and she approached her chair by the window, the cat streaked around her, leapt up on the chair, and stood, quiet, even calm, but unmovable and unforgiving.

    It made her laugh, a guilty laugh because she knew she'd ignored the cat on purpose, to see how long it would feign indifference (one of its talents) before the serious complaints started.

    Which was immediate this morning. The insistent meow started up as soon as she flipped on the kitchen light, and the message was clear.

    I'm not playing your game today . . . feed me NOW . . . and, of course, Rosa did.

Oh, Boy

It was late. Probably too late for the boy to be out, alone, walking down her block. She did like the way he crossed the street, looking both ways, making a show of looking both ways, and then strolling across. Yes, strolling as if he hadn't a care in the world, which the stiffness in his neck, the awkward swinging of his arms belied, but he was trying, he was trying.

She thought of calling to him, asking if he needed anything, knew she shouldn't, knew her interference would add to the weight on his shoulders. He was already tentative, and the imposition of a stranger would only make it worse.

But . . .

Well, what if she had something for him, a gift, a cookie, or a piece of pie? Boys like pie. Well, cake was probably better, but she didn't have cake. She did have pie, apple pie. What could be better than a slice of hot apple pie?

So, she was up, already moving toward the kitchen, wondering if she should add ice cream. . . but she only had chocolate. Can you put chocolate ice cream on apple pie?

Well, you could. You can do anything you want, but would it be good?

By the time she'd cut the pie, a big, generous piece, she'd given up the idea of ice cream, and was inching down the steps, pie on a good china plate in one hand, the other sliding along the railing as she descended the four steps to the sidewalk.

"Oh, Boy!" she called, but not loudly enough. He was moving with that easy stroll she had admired, but now nearly at the far street corner.

"Oh, Boy!" she called again, but he was too fast, and she too slow.

She tried one more time, louder, more insistent and and she raised the dish with the gift of pie higher as she yelled, "Boy! Oh, Boy!"

No reaction. How rude, she thought. How disappointing. It wouldn't occur to her until much later that he hadn't heard or seen her.

She waited until he had crossed the road safely and was halfway down the next block before she turned for home, still carrying the pie. At least it hadn't slid off the plate.

And when she got home and was sitting in her chair, with the apple pie and a fork in her hand, she said, "Oh, boy," one more time, and smiled at how two simple words could change meaning in an instant, from a call for attention to a celebration of pie, pie just for her. No need to share.

Oh, Boy!

Bait and Switch

            He went to the store for zucchini, and came back with cucumbers.

            “What will I do with this?” I said and brandished one so he could see clearly that it was a cucumber, not zucchini.

            He shrugged.  “I’m just the errand boy,” he said. “You didn’t tell me your plan.”  And then he was out of the kitchen and down the hall before I could sling the cucumber at him.

            “I’m not making salad,” I yelled. “Or pickles. I’m cooking zucchini, the way you like it, with cheese and tomatoes, a little onion, sea salt. Zucchini!”

            “Great!” he hollered from the living room.

            “I can’t with a damn cucumber,” I shouted, but by the time I got there to ram the cucumber down his throat—more satisfying than hurling it across the room, he had left. Fled. Was in the driveway, backing out the car.

            He cracked the window when he saw me on the porch, arm raised, cucumber threatening. “Need anything at the store?” he said. “It’s on my way.”

            Pause. Long pause. Couldn’t think of what to say.

            “Maybe a zucchini or two?” he said.

            I nodded, defeated. “Better get three,” I said. “Sometimes they’re small.”

© 2024 Kathleen Coskran

Here, Here

     She was stuck. Really stuck this time. All the loose chatter that had poured from her mouth as long as she could remember had dried up.

    She knew she'd been a talker and was almost embarrassed by her ability, nay instinct, to go on and on, to fill every empty space with stories--some of them true . . . and then, and then. . .

    But now she was done. She'd said it all--nothing left to say or think. The words had stopped coming. No more descriptions of glorious meals, hilarious accidents (or mere mis-steps), no recitation of every memory, all of it now cut off in mid-thought . . . not even mid-sentence.

    She was all that was left now, too old for anybody to want to listen to her, and her throat scratchier than ever. Her voice had made the transition from sultry and sexy to parched and worn without her permission.

    So, nothing to do but watch, croak uh-huh when somebody asked her a question, to smile when smiled at, to not recoil when that unrecognizable woman claiming to be a relative--cousin of some sort . . . a dime a dozen those kind--patted her arm and whispered, "There, there."

    Yes! That's what the woman actually said. Ethel couldn't believe it, but after the third there, there, she repeated it herself, slowly, as if taking in each letter, t h e r e  t h e r e, not that easy with a one-syllable word, but she'd always been good at making something out of nothing.

    "There, there," she repeated softly, softly and shyly, then shifted cadence, went from there, there to here, here, where, where  . . . and then a there there in her best imitation of Maria Callas.

    Soon a child was singing with her, singing, "Where?" --a where that brought out Ethel's there, there more powerfully and eventually led to everybody singing, "Here here, where where, there, there--all of them clapping, harmonizing, laughing, making music, all of it nonsense, but at the end, when the chanting died down, and after the last laugh, the final sigh, somebody said, "What was that?"

    But there was no answer, just the warm feeling mammals sometimes get when everything they are part of fits together. Not bad, Ethel thought, not bad at all.

The Coming Storm

     "It's snowing."

    "Well, barely."

    "Yes, that's true, but there is the white stuff we call snow falling now, as we speak."

    "But, it is hardly snowing."

    "So, what would you call it?"

    "Flurries."

    "Semantics . . . the study of "the logical aspects of meaning" how meaning is interpreted. So, when I say it's snowing, and you correct me, and call it . . ."

    "Flurries!" he shouts triumphantly, "flurries, a more precise definition of what is actually happening. A flurry of snow, not a blizzard or a pelting.

    "But it is still snowing, a perfectly valid . . . and provable . . . description of what is happening as we argue about what is happening." 

    "Discuss...."

    "Which started as a simple observation, not a discussion. Nothing to discuss. Look out the window, and what do you see? The white stuff we call snow falling from the sky, which is usually described by the noun snowing."

    "There are degrees of snowing . . . "

    She nods, mutters something, goes back to her phone.

    "What?" he says.

    She shakes her head, says something under her breath that sounds like a complaint or curse . . . about what? Snow?

    "What?" he says again. "You really think this deserves to be called a snow storm?"

    She shakes her head, and holds up the phone. "Well, it is hardly a snow storm, just a normal snow, but it'll get worse. What is really worse is that Trump just said he's going to annex Greenland! Now that will be a storm!"

    He laughs. "I know you don't like him, but no need to make things up."

    "I don't have to," she says. "I don't have to, it says here . . . ."

    He is still laughing, clearing his throat with that definitive rumble he's perfected and says, as sarcastically as possible, "Well, don't worry about Greenland. I'm going to text him and point out that Canada is a lot closer. . . and much bigger! He'll love that idea--Canada, our 51st state!"

    "Don't even think it," she says, but it's already too late.

Vocabulary Lesson

     It was a luminous day, a day full of possibility, the sun radiant, the air clear--the gift of winter, her mother would proclaim on such a day, "Six above and the glory of the earth shineth."

   Sybil often called up her mother's voice, her mother's gift for pronouncements and proclamations, as if she were quoting a saint, a famous poet, the Bible. "Add an -eth to any word or phrase," Mama had told her, "and you immediately sound smart, learnéd, and widely read."

    Sybil did notice the emphasis on the final -ed in learnéd--another subtle lesson in how to appear smart and, yes, learned. She had absorbed those teachings without thinking much about them, and assumed that everybody's mother was diligently planting vocabulary in her children's unconscious to make them appear smarter than they were.

    Well, it had worked. Adam had visibly brightened when she proclaimed the day glorious, laughed appreciatively when he overheard her describe him as indefatigable. It was easy to embrace her mother's lexicon after that, to casually work anomaly into a conversation, to be loquacious without sinking into garrulousness, and to offer Adam strings of accolades in her practiced and carefully honed mellifluous voice.

    And now, as she walked down the aisle towards a glowing Adam, she realized she should have changed her name to Eve, but grace and the gift of her extensive research dismissed that thought as quickly as it had appeared. Sybil, the prophetess, Sybil, the oracle, was just what Adam, her earthy, well-grounded Adam, needed. It was, indeed, a luminescent day for them both.

Same Old

    "Did I ever tell you about the time I kissed Marilyn Monroe?"

    How do you answer a question like that, a repeated question like that? It is obvious that it never happened, that he was never in the same town or state as MM, that he was in junior high when she died, that it's another story, fable, construction, myth, part of the long, twisting fable of his life, the life, times, and, most certainly, the Adventures of T. K. Smith, the alias he adopted at the age of 12, on the cusp of teen agedness, the precipice of puberty, the entry into unfamiliar urges, desires, inclinations passions (still his favorite word).

    "Why T. K.?" I had asked innocently, before I knew what the power of a simple question ignited in him. "Why T. K. . . . and why 'Smith?' That's not your name."

    "Exactly!" he'd shouted. (Yes, shouted!) "The anonymity of Smith, and introduced by T. K. . . . thank! Think! Subtle, I know, but . . ."

    "So, you," I had said so long ago, as I tried to shift my snort to a tinkle of appreciation, "So you created yourself, your image, " I said, making it sound like a compliment, which he accepted with his characteristic grace, manifest as a quick bow, and that look in his eye of happiness, delight, pleasure, of simple joy which is there again to remind me again why I am still here with this eccentric old guy, who never kissed Marilyn Monroe or any other famous beauty.

    And, to his credit, today was the first time he'd mentioned Marilyn in years. Forgotten all about her, I'd assumed, but just as I shake my head at her resurrection, he takes my hand, "You're still better than Marilyn. Want more coffee?"

    I nod. What else to do? I nod, he gets the coffee, and we continue our long march to happily ever after.

Enough Said

     The old man sat still--two things he was good at, sitting and being still. Gifts of old age? Perhaps.

    But, if you asked him how he did it, how he maintained his serenity and calm, he would laugh, or, depending on the day, just nod, and say, "Practice. Practice."

    If you pressed the point, he'd explain that anything of value comes both as a gift and an intent, with a splash (one of his favorite words, splash) . . . with a splash of patience."

    So she tried it. 12 years old and curious, she was always asking questions, questions that annoyed some with her string of where's and when's followed with how's and whys, but she had her eyes open, that one, and took to sitting with the old man whenever she saw him on his porch.

    Which is where she was, where they both were, when the dog appeared, moving slowly, sniffing at grass, at the roots of the last elm on the boulevard, moving slowly, not in a hurry, just smelling his way down the block.

    "Smart dog," the old man said.

    "But slow," the girl said.

    "Well, they go together," the old man said.

    "Go together?" The girl liked questions and didn't mind raising her voice to show her skepticism (a word she had just learned) to the old man.

    "Slow tells you where you are, what you've seen or done--or, if you're a dog who sees the world with his nose, smelled. Look at him--he's exploring, not in a hurry."

    Which was true. The dog sniffed the length of the roots of the elm, the spotty grass and patches of dirt around the trunk, sniffed slowly and deliberately, then, lifted his leg, peed at the base of the tree, and hurried back the way it had come--job done.

    "Made his mark and moved on," the old man said. "Smart dog--left his mark and moved on."

    "Like a lesson?" the girl said.

    The old man nodded. "Guess so," he said.

    The girl stood up, grazed his hand with her fingers, left her mark, and the old man happy for the rest of the day.