A Sample of Five Stories
Is Anyone Listening?
“The Silence was deafening?”—a trite expression, but true. Her last words hung in the air like ice cycles ready to drop. “Is anyone listening?” she whispered, then repeated louder until it pierced his silence.
It has been a long presentation, he thought. It was about dreams, how to use them, how to help your future existence by working in your dreams, how to bring them into reality. He was intrigued at first, but mostly fascinated by her radiant beauty and deep presence. But now wondered again why he was there. – Their meeting was in the reader’s section at Barnes and Nobel. He was looking for something to help kick-start his “spiritual quest”, had pulled a book off the shelf that hinted at his quest, Dream Your Way to Spirit. As he sat in a cuddly chair flipping through the pages, she approached him and commented on the book he was reading. She had written it, it turns out and a conversation ensued. He had taken her in, physically at first—very cute and bubbly—and then at deeper levels as she wove her tales of dreams and their impact on life. More chat and then a quick goodbye as she scurried off to her scheduled author’s lecture at the rear of the store. As she whisked away she dropped her card in front of him with a smile. “I hope you’ll attend.”
“Sure. Why not. Might learn something. What else am I going to do?” all raced past his mind. Final thought: well at least she’s lovely to look at. I’ll go.
His hesitancy was that he wasn’t a dreamer, didn’t remember dreams. Thought people who did and talked about them ’til he was weary, were too fanciful and it all boiled down to a bunch of woo woo hooey. But why not check it out. He was, after all, committed to a new approach to life, a spiritual connection (whatever that was) and had the afternoon free.
So there he sat. Caught red handed, not really listening. Not really remembering what she had said, almost ready raise his hand and say, no I’m not listening. She looked around the room and repeated herself. “Is anyone listening?” She looked at him and smiled. He felt a surge of embarrassment that turned into acceptance that moved to a warmth in his chest. This woman really cared. It wasn’t a challenge or rebuke. It was an invitation.
He lifted his eyes and his chest and words began to form. “I was, but somehow became lost in your words. I don’t understand what you are saying, perhaps because I don’t remember my dreams,” flowed out without much thought.
“Ah,” she sighed. “I understand. Perhaps I should have commented at the beginning that some of you might not resonate with this message because your experience with dreams is limited or non-existent. Trust me when I say that you most certainly do dream, and there are things that you can do to bring them into conscious reality, to remember them, give meaning to them.”
She went on from there with some basic exercises that could do just that. He relaxed. As she continued, he began to understand the dynamics of dreams and get a hint of how he might use it. Then time was up. She took a last question, folded up her projector as people rose to leave. He lingered unable to take his eyes off her–aware of a growing attraction for this woman who had just entered his world. Words just popped , “Can I help you with those things?”
A warm smile preceded her, “Yes, that would be wonderful.”
The afternoon drew to a close as they sat in the cafe roaming over their pasts and what life had dealt them as the sun slowly sank into the winter sky. His was pretty uneventful, a bit of time in the service, some schooling in engineering and such, jobs of a creative nature that ended in boredom, some relationships long and short here and there, a bit of general lack of direction in his life that he had just recently begun to notice.
Hers had some similarity, but seemed to him more purposeful. The standard husband two kids and you’re out scenario, followed by another husband, no more kids, but still out scenario. All of which lead to the searching for meaning that landed her in the field of dreams. A warmth grew between them. They could both feel it. He reached for her hand. She hesitated. Didn’t respond. He pulled back, redness came to his face.
“I must go,” she blurted out. “This has truly been a great chat. I feel drawn to you, but must tell you that my guy John is picking me up in 10 minutes. I’m sorry if I have mislead you in any way. Your sincerity and interest has truly inspired me. With that she gathered her things and headed for the door.”
He was shaken, having let himself open to her in fanciful hope that she might be the one to fill his lonely evenings by the fire, walk with him through snowy winter fields. He sat there for a bit pondering their discussions and what she had said about how to use dreams both asleep and a wake to bring a reality into your life. He said a little inward visioning prayer about the joy he would feel when a women with whom he resonated and was available came into his life. As he sat there in that thought, he felt a tug at his shoulder. A bit dazed, he opened his eyes. Another woman stood there looking at him. She too was lovely, flowing red hair, glowing with a warmth.
“I couldn’t help noticing you in the dream workshop,” she said. “I felt so much compassion for what you said about not having dream experiences because I have that same problem. I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with the presenter, but just wanted to share that with you.”
He smiled, rose to open a chair for her and again felt a surge of warmth as he momentarily reflected on his vision of joy prayer just a few minutes before. “I think this stuff really works!” He said.
She sat down and reached for his hand. “It seems you were listening,” she responded, eyes sparkling into a smile.
I Remember to Ask
Prompt: And so I remember to ask.
Did I remember to ask her about her dog? Did, I make the deposit, pay the bill, leave a tip? What is his name? Didn’t we already see that movie? Did I really write this?
And so it goes. Those Senior moments that happen. Is it dementia? Is it Alzheimer’s? Is it just life as we age? This is a true story. A 73 year-old’s personal expose! I often cover it, the diminishing memory, with what I think is an accurate and sage expression: “I don’t remember what I don’t remember.” Judging from comments of my aging peers, it’s common, not unusual, experienced by most. The reality is that as I am aging, my short term memory is, well, shorter–less acute, less accurate, less–memorable.
Oh gosh, I forgot where I was going with this. Oh well, just keep writing and trust that something will come out. That’s the secret, I guess, or is it a coping method. Just keep writing or opening your mouth or doing what is in front of you and no one will notice the memory lapse. Everything will turn out okay.
It, the short term memory phenomenon, manifests in so many ways as does the recovery—the acknowledgement or the apology or the…what are the other things I do? The most embarrassing is forgetting the name of a longtime acquaintance or someone met just yesterday, or my niece or—really anyone. My response is usually, “Would you remind me of your name.” And then I say mine as well on the chance that they too have forgotten mine.
Often I follow that with “I think we should all wear name tags,” or “We should all have our names tattooed on our foreheads.” Another come back is, “I find it’s not necessary to remember peoples’ names because most people remember their own name. If I forget someone’s name, I can just ask them.” Sometimes, if I don’t’ recall the name or the face, I just pretend to know, smile, say something nice and ask how they are doing, trusting that a clue will come out to remind me who they are. Rarely do I find anyone of my age range peers who doesn’t acknowledge similar experiences.
Other reminders come from looking back at written evidence of things I’ve done in the past: Problems solved, legal documents written, even stories written in this writers’ group several years ago or last year. They simply aren’t in my memory, but the proof that I wrote them is right there on the page. I read them, am surprised, sometimes impressed. Did I really write that? Pretty good. A big and frequent reminder is going to Blockbuster, picking up a movie that seems good and even after reading the description not being certain whether or not I’ve already seen it. Fortunately, Blockbuster has a record of my rentals and can tell me.
And then there is all the stuff we need to remember: Pass words! Holy crap—all those passwords—thank god for the prompts. Phone numbers used to be a challenge, but now technology has helped with that and we store them in our phones—how many phone numbers of even close friends and family do you know now? How about your own? How about license plate number, social security number, and on and on.
Gratefully there are aids to memory. Social security cards, credit cards, and for me a rolodex full of pass words and PIN’s.
My question about all of this is why? Why does it happen, how does it happen, what in the grand scheme of things in human life does it serve? What is the purpose of this apparent reduction in short term memory that occurs in later life? It seems to be just the recent stuff. Right? Stuff it would be nice to remember, like peoples’ names and where I put my cell phone and whether I turned the water off. But ask me the date I met my sweetie Karen and there it is June 21 or 22—oh, what year was that now. I guess that was too recent to be an example. But really, who I took to the senior prom, Eva, is right there along with all the details of the story of my asking her and the hullabaloo it raised in my family because, lovely as she was, she was the daughter of an itinerant Mexican family. But all the detail remains there–the blue dress, the smile—the anguish. And there is detail on the synchronicity in finding my first lawyer job, and how much I hated picking strawberries as a 7-year-old and oh so much more from the distant past.
So as I discuss this with others in my age range peer group, my experience seems common. With age there is a deterioration of shorter term memory leading to Senior moments of forgetfulness that are usually of no consequence, but sometimes do lead to serious consequences. Just now a flash of the signs that would appear in the house of my 90+ year parents. “Take eye drops” or “Turn stove off” or on the back door itself—”Close the back door”.
But again why, what is the purpose? One explanation that slips out of my mouth in these discussions is simply that the hard drive is full and I need to dump some files before there is space for new ones. I wonder if at a brain synapse level there might be some truth to that analogy. Another is that in later age, we have less interesting current experiences and are thus forced to tell over and over again the interesting ones of earlier times. But since I talk mostly to the same people, if the listeners don’t have good memories either, they will forget the last time I told them the story and it will be fresh and new again and I always have an attentive audience. I’m sure there are other explanations. What I know for sure is that it seems to be a true, normal and a very usual reality of aging.
So, let’s assume it is a given. The question I prompt myself to continually ask is: What do I do? How to delay the demise or even reverse it if possible. That could be another story in itself, but I do pay attention to the many promotions of things that can help. I take ginkgo and Neuromag and acetyl L carnitine and niacin and turmeric and phosphatidylserine. I write and dance and stretch my brain with problem solving challenges. I play backgammon and cribbage. I keep extensive notebooks for longer term encounters, building projects, legal projects and such with lots of notes, facts, figures, lists. I record lots of stuff in journals and computer files. I bookmark web sites. I enter phone numbers and emails in my cell phone with the names and sometimes identifying hints to remind me who goes with that name. I too am so grateful that I have sweet Karen in my life for it truly is a boon to have a companion and partner to help me remember. Bottom line is I get by, I deal with the embarrassment of having forgotten in a hopefully tactful way and trust that as I move forward in life I will remember those things that are essential and important.
And there is the other bottom line: So simple. When I forget, I simply remember to ask.
Heading Down River
It had been a dream of Jason’s for as long as he could remember, prompted by one of those movies they made years back that contained sequences of the idyllic life of Native Americans, Indians we called them then. A memory of a brave paddling down river in a birch bark canoe. Jason had a vision of being in that canoe, nothing but pure nature surrounding him, water up against deep green on the shore, trees towering overhead, yellow and red flowers on shrubs, brilliant blue aky and the sound of the winged ones flying above.
Here he was now, car and trailer parked in the parking lot of Detroit Lake in the Cascade mountains, a lake created many years ago by a dam on the Santiam river. On the trailer, the nearest thing he could have to a birch bark canoe in today’s times: a canoe made of wood, not aluminum, not fiberglass, but wood, mahogany at that. It glistened brightly under the nine coats of marine spar varnish—the only varnish that repels water adequately to assure the endurance of the wood underneath. He was especially proud because he had built this canoe himself.
Jason was not a professional carpenter, but he had a father who was and who introduced Jason to wood and wood working tools at an early age. He can remember the first electric tool he had used, a vibating jig saw with a table and how he used it set it up on the bed cover of his bed, the bottom level of the bunkbeds he and his brother shared. Back then, oranges came in crates of 1/8 inch pine wood, perfect for cutting out designs with his new saw. From there he learned to use larger tools, a table saw, radial arm saw, jointer. All machines with whirling blades that could so quickly nip off fingers, but with caution could create magic with wood.
His father didn’t build canoes, or boats for that matter, so, although Jason was adept with woodworking tools, when it came time to embark on building his dream canoe, he had to look to other sources. A neighbor, tall, bearded, long haired Ramie, had built a boat some years back and was a bit of help, but Jason, now a modern guy, quickly turned to his most used mentor, Mr. Google. There on the screen of his computer were several YouTube videos showing exactly how other folks had built their canoes. From there it went: the purchase of the wood, the creation of the work space, the acquisition of special tools, clamps, brushes and the marine spar varnish. Fourteen months of nights and weekends it took him and now, sitting on the edge of the trailer, envisioning the launch, he was about to fulfill his dream.
Unbuckle the tie downs, back the trailer into the water, gently push the canoe off the trailer hanging on to the rope tied to the bow and pull it to shore. It was spring, the weather was on the cool side; there were some clouds overhead, but blue was coming through. A significant breeze blew off the lake making the water a choppy.
Jason pulled his car up from the lake edge, parked it in the appropriate spot for cars with trailers, grabbed a jacket, a paddle, his water bottle and a cushion. Walked back to the canoe, gingerly stepped in and used the paddle to push away from shore. So far so good.
He turned the canoe around and paddled toward the mountains looming dark and high on the other side of the lake. He was in bliss, taking in the vista before him, the gleam of the sun off the water, paddling gently to get a feel for how the canoe handled, noticing how the wind, however slight could quickly atler his course.
As he settled into his setting, Jason became aware of other boats on the lake, all of them motor boats, mostly fishing boats and some of them were cruising along at a fairly good clip. Reality began to set in as he had to acknowledge that he was not a solo early American Indian on a green banked river, but on a public water way where high speed boats and avid fishermen, some of whom were probably sufficiently beer saturated to be unruly and some of them were coming pretty close.
Jason felt himself tighten up. What had he gotten himself into? Then it happened. Three of the motor boats headed his way coming fast. One by one they came alongside his canoe, then turned sharply spraying water over him and flooding the canoe as they yelled obscenities about canoes on the lake. He was horrified, ready to flip them off, but regained composure and, thinking otherwise, abruptly turned around and headed back to shore.
Jason pulled the canoe out of the lake, turned it over to dump out the water, reloaded the canoe and drove out of the parking, wet, cold–very dejected. Looking back at the lake he could see even more motor boats zipping around in all directions, some now pulling water skiers. The vision of paddling along in a birch bark canoe fading quickly from his mind.
Glum, a thought about finding the offenders cars and puncturing their tires, then neutrality, then the thought, “It was just the wrong venue, beautiful lake, but not canoe territory. What was I thinking. I know there are section of the Santiam river that run freely in its natural state.”
He pulled back onto the highway, turned back toward civilization and headed downstream. After passing the dam, Jason could see the river on the left, lots of white water, but too swift for a canoe in his judgement.
Then Fishermen’s Bend popped into his mind. He had driven by it a hundred times on early trips to Detroit lake and had fly fished there a few times in his youth. A sweeping turn in the river where the terrain was more gentle and the river fanned out wide.
He found the turnoff, followed a bumpy road to the river’s edge and there it was: A smooth flowing section of the river bordered by towering maples just completing their leaf out, trilliums blooming in the bushes and not a soul in sight.
Jason chuckled to himself as he unloaded his canoe, drug it toward the sandy bank and slid it into the water. Right dream, wrong location went through his mind as he pushed the memory of the Detroit Lake fiasco away.
He headed down river paddling gently, looked up at tall maples and blue sky above and then resting the paddle on the sides of the canoe reached up with his left hand and straightened the feather in his headband.
The Feeling of Warm Hands It’s one of those experiences in life that’s hard to describe: The feeling of warm hands. But there they were. Warm hands on his body. Not his. Someone else’s. Soft caresses. The slow movement left lingering twinges of warmth. His eyes are closed. His head swirling. Machines are humming. Could he open his eyes? Would it be alright? What are those humming machines? Why is he afraid to open his eyes? What does he remember? Who am I? flashed through for a moment. There were voices too. Who’s voices? They too are warm, but unfamiliar, words he didn’t understand.
I’m Gerald. Or am I Geraldo? Why was there confusion?
Her voice said I think he’s awake. It was familiar. He knew that voice. Was it her hands he felt? The other voices were muffled and fast, but he caught a few, knew their meaning. Bueno was one. That meant good didn’t it. Spanish. Yes, Spanish. So Geraldo makes sense. It’s coming back now. He and Sherry are in Mexico. They live here now. She is here with him in a room with other people speaking Spanish and there are machines. And they are talking about him.
Warm hands were good. Soft voices were good. He was awake now. That was good. Si todos esta bueno went through his mind. And then he felt the pain and the numbness. His left leg is throbbing. His left arm is numb.
The warm hands are now stroking his face, holding his face. The voice is calling him. “Gerald, are you there. You can wake up now.”
Does he dare? Just a few more moments. Bring it back. Why am I here, why does my leg hurt? Why can’t I feel anything in my left arm?
The voice went on. “You are going to be okay. Your bicycle is a total mess, but you are okay.”
“Bicycle?” went through his mind. Am I still a child? Did I not grow into adulthood? Is this a trick? The impulse to open his eyes was strong.
It was just four days later that Gerald had surgery on his left arm. He came out of the operating room in a similar state as the one he remembered just four days before. And there they are again. Those warm hands, those caressing hands, those reassuring hands that ushered him back to reality, let him know he was cared for, would be alright. He opened his eyes again to see Sherry in a white gown, her nose and mouth obscured by a blue surgical mask, her eyse smiling. “Buenas dias me amor”.
He smiled. Lifted his right arm to her face. “Did it go well? Did they fix it?’”
“So it seems. The surgeon was pleased, said it was successful. At least that’s what I thought he said. He used bueno a lot. But I guess we will know in an hour when the anesthetic wears off.”
“They want to keep you over night. Like when you first came here, I can be with you. There’s a cot in the corner and I brought the backgammon set. I really like how accommodating they are, allowing me to stay with you. Their care feels like warm hands. Know what I mean?”
Gerald allowed a slight laugh. “Yeah, I’m really getting used to warm hands. Yours for example. They’ve pulled me out of unconsciousness twice in four days. Makes me wonder how you make them so warm.”
But he knew. They came with her. It was her nature. She was a nurse after all. That’s why they let her be in the operating room both times. He was convinced that she was born to be a nurse, born to be a care giver, born to comfort, born to give and rarely, so very rarely did she demand or even ask. Warm hands were her nature.
She saw him drifting off. “You go back to sleep. I’ll get coffee and be back.”
When he woke Sherry wasn’t there. Had it been just minutes or a long time? He’d had a dream about his mother. She had warm hands too. In the dream she was comforting him, stroking his face, talking about him falling off his bicycle and injuring his left arm. “It will be okay,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
Gerald looked at his left arm, mostly bandaged, fingers sticking out. He sent them a messaged to move. They did. And then he sensed the warmth. He could feel not just the movement, but their warmth–the feeling of warm hands. His own. He looked up to see Sherry standing at the foot of the bed, big grin on her face.
It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye
“As softly as she could she descended the stairs, not wanting to wake them. What lay ahead could only be imagined, dreamed of, and yes, feared. Who could say where this would lead, but it was an inevitable step, her departure, this leaving to go away–this journey she was about to begin.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake”, she mumbled. “This isn’t going anywhere.” Julie Anne was in her English lit class where the professor had surprised them all with an impromptu writing exercise that would count for one third of their grade. The theme for the writing was relationship endings and the challenge was to include the phrase “It’s so hard to say good bye.”
What was so confronting about this was that Julie Anne did have a real life experience that fit right into this theme, but she was reluctant tell her story in this exercise; it would expose some pretty private stuff about her.
Julie Ann, now in her third year at Princeton, focusing on a psych degree and hopefully heading toward a MSW (Master of Social Work) to prepare her to be a therapist/counselor. All of which was motivated by the unwanted pregnancy resulting from her steady boyfriend status with Richard in her last year in high school.
Though writing time was precious, Julie Anne couldn’t help reflecting on those days and months, the conversation with Richard, the “Oh what will we do?”, the agreement to tell their parents, followed by “No let’s just get an abortion!” and then of course “We’ll get married,” and finally “We better talk to the pastor”. So of course they did it all and as they proceeded from one encounter to the other, Julie Anne became more confused. She and Richard became more estranged, tension in her family mounted and she felt guilty under the “watchful eye of the Lord”.
Fortunately the discovery of her pregnancy was near enough to graduation that she ran no risk of her “condition” being discovered by peers and classmates. She finished out her high school years unscathed and had the freedom of several weeks to ponder and come to a decision.
As you and anyone who is at all sensitive may imagine, it was a trying time for Miss Julie Anne. Her folks were on the mid-western, conservative, pro-life side of the issue. Richard was black and white: “Let’s just married. I’ll get a job and we can move in with my folks and mom can take care of the baby while you go to college.” Pastor Tolbert offered to pray with them for guidance and though he tried to be impartial, his pro-life bias showed through. Richard considered him an ally and Julie Anne considered him to be an air-head without a clue.
In late June, Julie Anne struck out on her own to explore the abortion option, contacted planned parenthood and hooked upwith some pretty informed and smart folks who walked her through the options and helped her see the pluses and minus of each. It was helpful in so many ways, but the main impact of her experience of working with the planned parenthood folks was that it spiked an interest in her to do that kind of work. To help others in a similar state to wade through the options, plug into their true interests, look at projections of life up ahead under different scenarios and make a decision. Her own experience helped her chose the path that she was now on, going toward the MSW.
Julie came back to her senses. Looked at the clock and saw that she had only seven minutes left to write. Oh well, better short than nothing. She was finished in four minutes and smiled to herself as she handed in her paper. As she looked back on the way out of the classroom she saw the puzzled look on the professor’s face turn into a smile as he read what she had written. Her words. “I once had a baby, but knew I couldn’t give her a good life and gave her to other loving parents. It was so very very hard to say goodbye.”