Collection Three
What’s Your Take on That?
1.6.22
It was ten minutes to eleven in the morning. Clouds were forming on the back side of the mountain as Frances opened the door to her office. She’d thrown on a light hooded parka, somewhat expecting the day to be cool. The clouds confirmed that premonition.
It would be a light day on her schedule. A couple she’d seen the week before who were teetering on the edge of divorce, but not clear why. She’d allotted two hours for them, thinking the session might evolve into a first step in divorce mediation. An hour break for lunch boldly appeared as “LUNCH” on her calendar at 1:00. She wanted to have some time for her own processing. She and Anderson had a bit of a tiff the night before, an issue with his daughter that brought some conflict in the parenting category. She took another look at her calendar. Ah, yes, that intriguing Gary guy who’d flashed in two days ago saying his sister Roseann had recommended Frances as someone who could straighten him out.
Her cell phone rang. It was her girlfriend from high school who’d returned to their home town a couple of weeks earlier, fresh out of her 20 year marriage and was taking a respite living with her widowed mother. “Hey, how’s it going,” Frances inquired.
“Oh, not too bad. Mom’s a little jittery with me around. I think she’s been alone long enough to like it. But I think part of it is that she’s been hitting the wine a little too much. That’s why I called, wanting to get your take on her behavior. Got time?”
“Sure, about 8 minutes. Talk fast. “
“I walked in last night about 9 after spending the evening with Lucy. You remember her from high school, don’t you, she’s the…”
“Hey I said I’ve got 8 minutes. There are only 7 left. Get to the point.”
“Ok Sure, well basically, mom’s been hitting the bottle pretty hard and seeming to enjoy it. But her house is a total war zone, two years of newspapers stacked in the hall, dirty dishes stacked on the counter. The cat box is full of you know what. I’m not sure I can stand it. So that’s about it, Like a said. What’s your take on that?”
“I have two takes. Your mother is depressed and probably living the life she didn’t live when your dad was alive. Don’t worry about it. The other take is you should find another place to live. Then it won’t bother you. I gotta go. Your bill is treat me to coffee on Saturday morning. Ok?”
“Sure, huh, thanks.”
Alicia and Allen walked in the door at precisely 11:00. Alicia in running gear, bright orange nylon parka, hair tied back in a pony tail, face somewhat flushed. Allen wore a business suit, sans tie. Hair, what there was of it also in pony tail; dark rim glasses big as saucers covering most of his face.
“Hi folks. Let me get you coffee and we’ll get started. ”The couple settled on the couch with a significant distance between them.
“So catch me up. How was your week? Who wants to go first?” Pause. “Ok, how about you Allen. What would you like to say?”
“Oh, I’m okay. I went golfing on Monday, closed a couple of large contracts and played poker with my guys on Thursday. Oh yeah and I had to take my Beamer in for a tune up and they found it needs new shocks. I was in shock over that, no pun intended. That’s pretty much it.”
“Uh hu, and was there any interaction with Alicia that you’d like to talk about?”
“Well, she made a really nice dinner on Tuesday and we took the kids to dinner at the pizza place on Wednesday. That’s about it.”
“Ok. Well let’s just leave at that for now. Alicia, your turn.”
Alicia sat for a moment, arms crossed, top foot on crossed legs bobbing up and down. “What’s your take on what Allen just said?”
She blurted out, “Not one iota about the tension in our relationship, his part in it and what the options are.”
“Hmm. You sound a little miffed. Care to expand on that a bit, tell me, both of us what going on with you.”
It went back and forth from there. Alicia basically expressing that she felt invisible in the relationship. Allen lived in his own little world, came out briefly to interact with the kids, but their intimacy was at a low ebb.
When Allen spoke again is was a one liner. “Yeah, and there’s that hunky trainer she spends time with three days a week at the gym. What’s your take on that?”
“Alicia, Allen seems to have some concern about your fitness trainer. Anything you want to say about that?”
And she did. “Nice guy, divorced, two younger kids, drives a Toyota Highlander and takes his kids on camping trips, goes to the Episcopal church each Sunday. He asked me to have lunch with him to discuss my exercise routine.”
Frances sat taking it in, scribbled a few notes on her yellow pad. “How old are your kids?
“Fourteen and sixteen,” Alicia responded quickly.
“Old enough to fend for themselves, take care of themselves for a weekend?”
“Probably if someone checked in on them. Why?”
“You guys aren’t running in the same orbit. You just need some time alone without distraction. I sentence you to a weekend together at the coast. Here’s the address of my condo and I’ll check in with your kids every evening at dinner time. So, what’s your take on that?”
Allen reached to straighten his tie, realized he didn’t have one on. Looked at Alicia with pleading eyes. “Sounds good to me,” and paused for what seemed like an eternity. “I’m so sorry for being absent and for being such a dunce.”
Frances slapped herself on her knees with both hands and let out a yelp. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” She tossed the keys to the condo to Allen. “I’ll see you next week and wait with baited breath to hear each of your takes on the weekend—and what your take is on your relationship. Now get out of here. I’m gonna go for an early lunch and ponder what is my take on my own life. That will be $200 bucks for my take on yours.”
Why Didn’t You Call Me?
Her hair hung down in that just pulled-it-out-of-the bun manner. Eyes showed sadness, a slump in her being. “Why didn’t you call me?” ran through her brain. He hadn’t called—simply left with separation hanging in the air-–seemingly disappearing.
Their time together had been short by some measures, but intense–filled with precious moments of history, discovery—recognitions of commonness. It had been a chance meeting by some standards, divinely guided by others. She on assignment to Madrid, from London. He exploring the potential of ex-pat life out of the US. A mutual acquaintance had played their match maker, given them each other’s numbers.
It was the usual migration of events–long chat over wine, he suggesting a drive to the hill country, she inviting him for dinner, first hug, first peck, her reaching for his hand—a would you like to stay over followed by “it’s been a long time, but I’m ready to explore again.”
Her days had their work assignment fullness, but also time to adventure. Nights together now had shorter gaps between them. They explored the city and surrounds, discovering where common interest would lead them, sharing more of what had not yet been said. There were references to loves left behind, each having one that had not been totally resolved, each carrying wounds not yet healed, each revealing resulting fear, each feeling safety in the “holiday” nature of their coming together.
With familiarity came recognition of differences, places where they didn’t align. Their pledge was awareness and disclosive honesty. Techno rivaled rock and roll, Type A ran into quietude, lots of touching was challenged by firery passion. At first the differences were an opportunity to learn and grow together—to explore “communication” and how awareness and honesty were valuable. But as the glow dimmed, life itself regaining it priority place, the differences began to replace the commonness and they found themselves at odds, lingering abdominal hollowness often displacing the rush of joy.
The evening, last night, had been special–on his invitation. It was first class. A reserved table overlooking the lights of the city, a dance floor adjacent to soft jazz, lights of the tone that make every woman look delicious. They held deep gazes for long moments. He knew it was coming, but still felt stunned by her words of impending departure, assignment nearly complete. Slow tears of recognition, affirmations of staying in touch.
They returned to her room. Went through their familiar routine until he experienced mal-function, dropped in energy, made excuses. She reached out, eyes questioning, was met with shadowy resistance as he pulled in, fumbled with clichés—declared his need to go, blurted the standard “I’ll call you”.
She had spent the day winding things up with her cell phone strapped to her side—last contacts, email reports, trinkets for her kids, that one irresistible sculpture for the hall alcove. Now it was past the reasonable time of night to call and there had been none.
Jane looked at herself in the mirror, reached for a tissue to dry the tears. Pulling the tissue revealed the message light on the phone. It was blinking. She brightened, wiped the tears, hesitated with her finger over the answer button. Looked again in the mirror. Smiled and moved to the bed where her suitcase lay open.
Not Having
2.5.18
” When she looked at the waif sitting on the wall, she faced the reality of the very question that brought her here: What is it like to not have, to not have basic needs met, to not have the normal comforts of life? The child was thin, oh so very thin, dark skinned, which may have explained her obvious poverty. And in the classic sense, ragged. The scarf that covered her head had the appearance of something colorful at one time, but, whatever the colors it had been the were bleached and blended and the fabric like string. Her dress had taken on non-descript tone and shape. Both did, however, cover her body and most of her head.
Gwendolyn had been in Afghanistan for three hours. She was there on a self-assigned mission to photograph the “less fortunate of Afghanistan”, as she called them, which in and of itself was a theme of not having.
Gwen, an early thirties, single American woman, had done her research, had a vague idea of the politics and tribal conflict nature of Afghanistan. She’d read and heard all of the reasoning why the US had decided it had the obligation and right to bomb the hell out of Afghanistan. But she had no idea of the degree to which the people, ordinary folks, were living in a state of not having. That was her mission.
Now, faced with a real person, one of the have nots that she had imagined, it all began to gel. Her camera was at the ready, one of those fancy Canon canons with lots of capacity, a very long lens and a bag full of gadgets to enhance the shooting skills she had developed as a fashion photographer in NY City.
She was tempted to just start shooting away, but restrained herself and took only one close up shot of the young girl just to make sure she would have something. But the girl heard the snap, the click of the shutter, and looked up. Not surprised, not startled, not with reaction, Gwen mused. More aspects of not-having adding to the list of things Gwen imagined that the girl didn’t have: not having a home, not having a family, not having food. This was going to be a tough assignment, she thought. “I had no idea of the degree of not having that I would encounter.”
Now that the girl had noticed her, Gwen didn’t really know what to do next. So she sat, camera in hand looking in the direction of the girl, trying not to stare. There was no one on the street other than the two of them, a distance of about 20 feet separating them. Gwen noticed that the girl held a small bundle, wondered what it might contain.
The girl looked up again. This time straight into Gwen’s eyes and slowly a smile began to form on her face. Glistening white teeth emerged as eyes squinted. The girl opened the small bundle, drew out a small piece of round crusted bread, extended her arm in Gwen’s direction and said something. Gwen, in preparation for the trip had studied the local language a bit, but didn’t recognize the words and really didn’t need to. The girl was offering her the bread, plain and simple. Gwen rationalized that it may be the only food the girl had, but rather that politely refusing, she accepted the bread, broke off a hunk, handed it back and said “Thank you.”
The girl smiled again and pointed at the camera. Gwen smiled back, turned the camera around to show the girl the photo she’d taken. The girl reached out her finger, touched the photo and then surprisingly pulled out an iPhone, pointed it Gwen and snap a photo of her. They both giggled.
The girl got up and motioned for Gwen to follow her down the street. A block later she stopped at a door that was about four feet tall, opened it and went in, beckoning Gwen to follow. Gwen was wary, a bit hesitant, but shrugged an “oh well” and stooped to go through the door.
. Inside the room was a courtyard with an opening to the sky. A small fire burned in the center. Two women crouched near the fire tending to something in a large pot and a teenage boy squatted nearby, bowl in hand. The girl spoke a couple sentences in her language. The boy looked up and said “American” in a questioning way.
Gwen was surprised, but responded “Yes,”
He then started talking in English, asked her why she was taking photos. Gwen totally taken off guard, quickly re-gained composure and told him that she was a photographer and wanted to capture photos of how the military actions of the US were affecting the daily lives of the Afghani people.
The boy nodded, spoke to the others in the room in his language. One of the women rose up, ladled out a bowl of what appeared to be lamb stew with vegetables and handed it to Gwen. The boy turned to her and simple said, “Oh, life goes on. It’s been so long that we have adapted.” He paused. “I think you may have misinterpreted my sister’s appearance from the way she was dressed. The outfit she is wearing is one she put together for a part she is playing in her school play. She says you got a very good picture of her and she would like you to email her a copy.”
Gwen could only smile as she nodded to the woman who gave her the bowl, quietly tucked her camera away and began to eat her soup. Her mind was processing what she saw and felt around her in this room that was not present in her life in the US.
Gwen, sensing that all eyes were on her, awakened to her normal, outgoing self and turned to the boy. “My name is Gwen. I live in the state of California on the Pacific ocean.”
The boy smiled. “We know about California. That’s where everyone is in the ocean on surfboards.” He paused. “My name is Abdul, my sister is Bina, my mother, the one who gave you soup, is Camila and the other woman, my aunt is Bashira. We are all pleased to met you.” Abdul translated the conversation and one by one the women placed their hands on their hearts and said a word Gwen recognized as “salaam”, a common Arabic greeting.
When Gwen sat her bowl down, Abdul asked if she would like to hear their music and pointed to a guitar like instrument hanging on the wall. She smiled, “ I would love that.” It went on from there, to singing and Bina doing a dance, Bina showing Gwen photos on her computer and a new head scarf her mother was making for her.
Gwen looked at her watch, remembered a dinner date with her traveling companion and said she needed to leave.
As she walked away, her mind buzzed with what she’d just witnessed. She began forming a new perspective, changing from what these Afghanistan people didn’t have, from “not having”, to what they have: family and warmth and care and compassion—and joy. She mused again, “Was that what she was searching for in her mission, what the Afghanis have that she does not have?”
Dream, Dream, Dream
2.23.15
The Prompt: Dreams. What if it were really true and we said what we really thought, just how we felt.
“Dream, Dream, Dream; Dream, Dream, Dream.” oh how those Everly Brothers could instill a picture of creating a dream woman, “I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine any time night or day….” Darren was at his computer, trying for the nth time to put together his personal profile and wish list for Find Your Mate.com, the latest online dating site he had joined. If only he could do just as the song implied, dream up the perfect woman and have her manifest right in front of him. His fantasy even jumped to seeing the 3D printer he’d recently read about print out his dream woman in plastic and have her come to life.
He sat there, following the prompts of the profile format that came on the screen, creating his dream woman: 5 foot 2, eyes of blue, sexy and smart, classy and rich, kids– maybe; Buddhist, Agnostic, Spiritual not religious. Testing out the options listed. Checking those that were acceptable. Pondering on others. Creating the program that would cause the 3D printer to spit out his dream woman.
Then there was the part that asked him to tell of himself, listing things of interest to him–hiking, biking, dancing, fishing, cooking, movie watching. Yeah, an impressive list. A vision of one of those nature programs he had seen flashed through his head. You know, one of those that shows the male bird building a nest and flashing his feathery colors, all to attract a mate. What else could he share?
Darren paused, rocked back in his chair, recalling the night before when he had been at a poetry reading. One poem that stuck in his mind floated through. The exact words weren’t there, but the essence of it was. Something about what if what we said was what we really thought and how we really felt. How would the world truly be if we spoke the truth.
Here was a chance to check that out. Instead of conjuring up the image of how he wanted to be seen and what he would like to happen in his life –he hadn’t hiked since last summer, hadn’t fished since he was a boy and cooking for him meant making a sandwich from whatever was in the fridge. Would this be a chance to put on the online page the truth about who he is, what he thinks and what he aspires to. What kind of woman would that bring? He let that sit. Looked again at the question, looked over at the mirror above his dresser and took in the image of a middle aged man, greying at the temples, a bit droopy in the eyes. A smile began to form. That’s me. That’s who I will present.
He began to write. Loves to dance and can fix things. A closet full of Levis, but can blend well in any setting. That felt right. Comfortable with who I am, noticing aging advancing at an even pace with increasing wisdom. Yes, that sounded good. Wanting to travel the world with my love, photographing its places and people. Committed to clear communication and looking for a woman who is the same, comfortable in the feminine and her own sexuality. Yes, it was coming out and felt good. He went on in this vein, tried out some words and phrases, sat back to reflect, made changes to be more truthful. Adjusted his birthdate to remove the 5 year advantage he had given himself and replaced the photos of him that were taken at his brother’s wedding 9 years ago with that one of him at the beach in July, paunch and all.
He was complete, felt good about it, paused with his finger over the send button for a bit and pressed down. It was near midnight as he parted the sheets and slipped into bed.
As dawn crept over his face, Darren came to life. Sleepy haze cleared. Memories of the night before slipped in. He sat up, looked over at the computer and murmured to himself “Oh Hell, why not?” There were three winks and an email in his inbox on the online site. The winkers were interesting, had nice photos and sweet profiles, but the email brought a lilt in his body. A sweet smile with lovely salt and pepper hair stared at him. And as he read the words he could hear her voice singing in his head, “Such a pleasure to see your honesty. It touched my soul. Care to join me at Starbucks this afternoon?”
I’m Not Much Into Regret
Yelapa, 1.20. 2020
Phillip and Jane sat at the small table, their wildly colored plates vying with the wildly colored table cloth. Beyond the railing a half dozen brown pelicans were cruising two meters above the bay, opportunistic frigate birds glided above, waiting for an opportunity to steal their catch. It was a March, the morning was already a balmy warm, the mood at the table was anything but.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” spouted Jane. “I can’t believe you can so casually say that you weren’t aware that your dancing with Melinda in that very damn sexy way would embarrass me. Come on Phillip, she’s a tart and everyone knows that. Not a woman at the Yacht Club would have reacted any differently than I did. I’m not sorry I yelled at you last night and I’m not sorry you felt like you had to sleep on the couch and I’m so damn angry that I’ve got my suitcase packed and I’m gonna be on that 9:30 boat out of here. Catch me when you can after you’ve come to your damned senses and can admit you screwed up big time.”
Phillip stared at his coconut milk saturated granola. Collected his senses, calmed the heat rising in his neck. “I hear your anger Jane. And I have to admit I’m not sure what to say. You know that I’m not much into regret. What’s done is done, I can’t redo it.”
“Oh, don’t you dare give me that you can’t regret it crap. I’m tired of hearing it. If you can’t regret something, admit you made a frigging mistake, what hope do we have. Do you expect me to just say, ‘Okay sweetie, I hear that you were so stupid and unaware of me your wife that you didn’t think one little dance with young, cute little innocent Melinda would offend me and I’m glad you had such a good time dancing with her.’ If you can’t regret it and admit it was one huge mistake in judgment, then what good are you. You’re loosing points here at a god damn fast rate, Buster, and I’m glad that 9:30 boat is only a half hour away. You’ll be getting a letter from my thousand dollar an hour attorney an hour after I hit the runway in San Diego. Count on that.”
Phillip took a breath, then another very deep breath, spooned another glob of granola into his mouth, watched as three pelicans pivoted and dropped with saber like beaks into the bay waters as he chewed and swallowed. It was time to go into recovery mode.
“Okay sweetie. I’d like to request that we do our talk and listen routine to get out of this mess. Are you willing to do that?”
“I’ve said what I need to and I’m out of here, Phillip. Can’t you understand that?”
Phillip stayed calm, tapped his fingers on the table. “Ok, I hear that you are very upset that I danced with Melinda last night in a way that embarrassed you. And you are so angry that you want to divorce me and don’t want me to give you my I don’t believe in regret monologue. Is that correct?”
Jane glared at him. Was she going to let him off the hook and go into that talk and listen routine? Was she going to let him pull her out of this very justifiable angry mood? Well what was the option? To carry this anger and triggered state to really, after all of these years, pull the divorce trigger. Or was she going to accept the olive branch, cool off, play this silly little game and come back to normal?
“Ok, I’ll play, but just this one round. Yes, you’ve got it right. But I’m still feeling that you really put me to shame in front of my friends, made me feel totally invisible and you’ve got to pay for it in some way—big time.”
Phillip did his best to reflect back what she’d said. Jane seemed to soften a bit. The flush left her face. She nodded. “Yes, that pretty well got it. Look, I’ve only got 25 minutes ’til the boat leaves. But I’ll play the game and give you a turn. What’s the goddamn excuse you want to give me?”
Phillip felt more calm. “Okay. Melinda and I have known each other for a while. I think you know that. We have danced at the dance group that you don’t like to go to for quite a while. She is a great dancer and we move well together. There is a closeness that is smooth and flowing, but we have a boundary that is respectful of each other. That waltz came on last night. She and I had danced it before. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the floor and we moved into a close rhythm as our bodies swayed with each other. You saw that and I can see how you thought it was too intimate and reacted to it. I don’t have regret that I did it, but would rather have done some things differently. I should have been more conscious of how it would affect you. I’d rather have asked you if it would be okay for me to dance with her. I don’t know. I guess I could have done a lot of things differently, but I didn’t. I’m sorry it affected you that way.”
Jane listened, felt herself soften. Just sat their looking at him.
“Well, can you repeat that back to me as the listener?” Phillip invited.
Jane, brushed back her hair, cleared her throat. Spoke it softly with only a little tinge of anger, but repeated it accurately.
“Thank you,” Phillip said softly.
They sat staring at the pelicans floating on the water. Phillip sensed the that the war was over. “Don’t you need to get to the boat?” Phillip said with a slight hint of teasing in his voice.
Jane couldn’t hold back her smile. “Oh shut up, you jerk. You sweet talked me out of it again. You know as well as I do that if I’d done what I threatened to do we’d both regret it. And after 30 years of this back and forth we go through, I do know how much you aren’t into regret. You know what, I’m not into it either. Want to play cribbage?”
Call Me By My Own True Name
Prompt: Please call me by my true name. Have a dialogue between an inanimate object and an animate being.
Bustling, bustling, bustling. The sound of skirts and shoes and traffic. Passersby, passing by, unnoticed, unacknowledged. The floppy eared dog padded along, tongue panting, nostrils sniffing, alone in the crowd of legs.
He, sat on the corner, strumming his ancient Martin guitar, eyes closed, absorbed in the rhythm that flowed from his hands, unaware of the herd of legs rushing by. It was a sweet soulful melody coming through, not heard by him before, spawned by recent readings in his early morning time. He worked with the refrain, words softly forming under his breath, “Call me by my own true name, call me by my own true name, call me by my own true name —and I, yes I will do the same.”
He liked it, felt a resonance in his chest when the words he sang matched the singing of his guitar. His guitar case was open with the token seed $5 bill laying flat with duct tape fastening it to the bottom.
Sebastian was a loner, on a quest not yet revealed, but “making it” as he would offer to others who inquired, “gettin’ by” in the New York City jungle. Pleased that he had survived these many weeks since his arrival from the remotes of New Mexico, mostly by the change he picked up playing on the street. He was good, knew it, but realized no one else really did.
Floppy eared dog, sniffed along, stopped a body length in front of Sebastian’s guitar. Raised his nose, sniffed again. Ears lifted imperceptibly, gaze shifted to Sebastian’s face. Sebastian was unaware at first, focused on the words and rhythms rippling his chest. “Call me by my own true name”, growing louder now. A walker-by now and then turned a vacant stare toward him for that moment of passing.
Floppy eared dog sat on hind legs, head tilted toward the guitar. Sebastian’s eyes opened for a moment, took it in. A smile formed, strum intensified, words came stronger as he watched Floppy Dog’s response. With louder sounds, Floppy Dog straightened his back. On softer, he seemed to relax. When the words came, Sebastian thought he could see a glazing-over in Floppy Dogs eyes. He was intrigued. Was this dog listening to the music, affected by the notes coming out, the words being formed?
The dialogue went on, walkers continued by, the mist began to lift, soft blue appearing here and there. More words came. Floppy Dog moved closer, nose nearly touching Martin Guitar. Sebastian played on, fascinated with the exchange between Floppy Dog and Martin. He changed tempo again. Floppy Dog changed expression. Was he actually dancing? Sebastian relaxed, let his fingers float along the fret board and over the strings. It was as though the music was being channeled, coming from another source. Floppy Dog seemed enthralled. A thought: “Who was in charge?” Were Martin’s sounds affecting Floppy Dog or vice versa. It was subtle and Sebastian could control it, but the more he let go, relaxed, the sweeter the interaction.
The saga went on, but no longer unnoticed. A woman with small girl in hand stopped, watched, smiled, swayed side to side, dropped money in his guitar case. Others too broke their stride and paused, some reaching into pockets and purses. Minutes passed, rhythm slowed. Sun came out. Guitar stopped singing. Sebastian opened his eyes and smiled at the pile of change and bills in his case.
Floppy Dog seemed to wake from his trance, raised onto his four legs and looked at Sebastian. “Want a cookie?” Floppy dog hesitated, sniffed the cookie, glanced at Sebastian, sniffed the cookie again and pulled into his mouth.
Sebastian resumed his strum, words came again, “Call me by my own true name…” Floppy Dog repositioned his body in the forward direction and padded off into the sea of legs. Sebastian called out, “see you tomorrow?”
Floppy Dog paused, looked back, turned and resumed padding.
And How About You
Yelapa, 1.25.16
He sat under the Bodhi tree. Not really. It’s a parotta or one of those trees here in the tropics whose name he doesn’t really know. Is he ashamed of not knowing that? Does it lessen him?.
Roland was on vacation in the tropics, a place to not be named for confidential reasons. You know, clandestine of sorts, not wanting his “significant other” to know. It was a time of reflection, thinking about who he was, perhaps time for a later than midlife crisis.
Roland came from good stock in the south central section of the US. Country club and such in his history. Soccer and swimming and piano lessons as a kid. Went on to the University with his peers and was headed for a normal but accomplishing life of some sort. Not hard to look at, a fair athlete, good with money—he had all of the trappings of a good catch, someone for equally qualified ladies to pursue and capture if they wished.
One thing led to another: A couple of degrees, a job, a marriage to Stephanie who he met in his last year of grad school, lovely but by now somewhat fading. A couple of kids who had trekked in his trail into a similar mold. All was well by most standards, but was it?
On the plane, he had pulled out the airline magazine and found an article about a woman who had a speech impediment, found her voice and moved past her shame by expressing rather than squelching embarrassment about her condition. It caught him wondering what embarrassment he had that kept him from full expression of himself, who he was. “And what about you, dear Roland?’ was the question that formed in his mind. “What was the impediment in your life that held you back, caused you to duck away?”
His mind churned in time with the swizzle stick in his pinacolato, spinning, reflecting, opening. “My mom” came into his mind. That slap of correction in 4th grade; her disapproval of Peggy, his first true love in 5th grade; her chiding when he announced his interest in trying out for the football team; her teasing his clumsiness while learning the Twist in high school. He had some insecurity about being good enough it seemed. And then it began to unfold. Memories of his Catholic aunts chiding him for not being a Catholic. Rejection by Sharon in high school, failing election to class president, losing the speech contest because he forgot his lines. Little stabs here and there. Little failures, little reinforcements of just that—he wasn’t good enough. And on through life, not having courage to volunteer for Kiwanis finance manager, quashing the desire to nominate himself for Rotary president, and so it went. Clearly a chronic case of I’m just not good enough.
He pulled a straw full of the pinacolato into his mouth, felt it penetrate his being, leaned back in his chair to take in paradise, palm trees dancing above, pelicans rising for a dive, unknown birds trilling their chorus. “It truly just doesn’t get any better than this,” came through his thoughts. “So what to do about all of this?” followed that thought. “Here you are Roland. You’ve got the prompt. You’ve got the question. You have some hint of what it’s all about. What’s your next step?” He looked down twirling the swizzle stick. “Where did that come from?” formed in his mind. A pause, more swizzling. No matter. They are good questions. Are there answers, he thought. What is the answer? A pause and then it came simply as he reflected on the article he had had read on the plane. Let go to it. Embrace it. Accentuate it. Take that which you feel as negative about yourself and express it as fully as you would your attributes.
He traded the swizzle for the pen in his shirt pocket. A napkin became his tablet as he wrote the things he didn’t like about himself, was ashamed of–ways he felt inadequate. His less than ample hair, a somewhat rumpled complexion, self-criticism for not being able to keep up financially with demands of his wife, Stephanie, that led to separation and this current estrangement. Head bumping against the advancement ceiling. It tumbled out onto the napkin and then the other side and then another. He sat back again, pulled another straw full of pinacolato and again looked at the swaying palms and diving birds.
Maria Elena, carrying a towel, wearing only her skimpy red bikini, sauntered into view, pulled up a chair in front of him. Hola amor! Como estas? He took her in, her warm smile, her soft brown skin the feel of which still lingered from their morning loving–reflected for a long a moment. Ya know he said. I was just thinking. I’m not sure where this is going, but I do know that I’ve got to leave. Thank you so much for being here. He got up, leaned over, kissed her lightly on the cheek, walked back toward his room, cell phone in hand–“Hi Stephanie–can we talk?”
Empty Tequila bottle.
“I found this empty tequila bottle out by the hot tub,” was all she said. Rachel had been to St. Louis to visit her mom for the last eight days, came home late last night and, true to form, had been in her flower garden early this morning. “”Oh shit,” was all that went through his mind, but nothing came out of his mouth. She went into the bathroom and shut the door.
Alcohol had been an issue. Not flagrant; just there lying by the roadside, so to speak, a smoldering ember that could ignite if fanned by the slightest breeze. Johnny had been on the wagon, “More or less for 20 some years,” he said, but at times of pure honesty he would acknowledge there had been periodic slip and slides along the way, usually when he was in the company of drinkers and unescorted by someone who knew of his weakness and could moderate tempting situations.
Rachel, over the sevem years of their relationship, had of course learned of his challenge, but love was love and early on it was easy to look past the past, focus on now and appreciate his honesty. But she was cautious and paid attention. He was aware of that, knew his own dangers and for sure did not want things to escalate over such a minor event.
Johnny, re-grouped, was chagrined that he had been so careless and began constructing a response. He could say nothing. He could say he had no idea how it got there. He could say he heard a noise last night and a clink—someone must have thrown it over the fence. He could say that his friend Ralph dropped by, was carrying a bottle when he came in, they went out back, Ralph finished the tequila and must have set the bottle down. He could say he took it out of his old tequila bottle collection and was thinking about how to put a model ship inside it. Or he could make up something so fanciful that it had no viability. Like that he called Louise, his ex-wife. She came over and brought a bottle and they got into the hot tub together, got drunk and then went into the house and made love. Rachel knowing of his feelings of contempt for Louise would surely know it was not the truth and probably break up laughing.
Rachel came out of the bathroom. Looked a little stern, but started talking about her trip. “Mom’s real good considering everything. A little shaky on her feet, complains about tired legs. The doc says the knee surgery went well, minor as it was, and she should be pretty normal in a couple of weeks. I’m glad I went and it was good to see my sis Gloria and the kids. And I ran into Rex at the grocery store. Good to see him. He seems to have gotten over being pissed at me for leaving him. Poor old Rex, he’ll never catch another one as good to him as I was. How many eggs?”
“Three,” he responded.
“How was your time here alone?”
Johnny looked at her. Trying to assess her mood. Was that a smirk. Was she testing him? Had she just let it go? “Pretty much normal. Things are cool at work. The dogs have been a pain in the ass, barking like crazy last night.” Johnny reached down and gave both dogs a rub on the head as they looked up and smiled. He caught himself thinking, “Was he heading toward the someone threw it over the fence alibi.”
Rachel set the plate on the table, three eggs ,just the way he liked them; toast with butter, peanut butter and honey, just the way he liked them. “Was she setting him up for something or trying to elicit a confession.”
“Geraniums are looking good and the roses are about to pop open,” she said. “You must have given them lots of water like I asked.”
“Yep, every day.” He responded. “You know I kind of like it. Standing there with the hose running on them. Pretty meditative in a way. Let’s me kind of revel in how good life is, how happy I am with you.” God, was he trying to butter her up for the confession?
“Yes,” she said, “We truly are blessed. I am so grateful for our relationship. Your honesty, how I can trust you and feel comfortable going away for a while.”
“Oh no,” he thought. “She’s really going for the jugular here. What am I going to do.”
It was Saturday. Neither of them had to work. They’d planned a trip to the lake for a jog and picnic. “How long do you need to get ready for our lake adventure,” she asled. “I’m really looking forward to my favorite view, seeing the mountains reflected in the lake on a bright blue sky day, and it looks like we’re going to have one.”
He smiled, took her hand. “Me too. I’ll be ready in 15.”
“Good deal.” Johnny was starting to breath more easily. “Was he off the hook? No big deal.”
As they sat on the blanket, snacks and sodas in hand gazing at the mountains highlighted by deep blue, she looked over, “Want to say anything about the tequila bottle?”
He looked back. Smiled. “Well, as you might imagine I was thinking of all of the stories I could give you. I had a bunch of goodies, but the truth is…”
She raised her hand to stop him. “You don’t need to tell me the truth. I trust you completely and know how important it is to you to stay on the wagon. But I’m really interested in the stories that your mind concocted.”
Johnny laughed. “I had some good ones, but the best one was…” and he went on to tell her the one about him and Louise in the hot tub.
And the Singers Sang
His mom walked to the front of the church wearing her dark blue, below the knees skirt and suit jacket, a white blouse underneath, a small black hat with a dark mesh veil over her forehead. The room was pin-drop silent. Mom stood on the dais, looked at the pianist seated at the dark wood, upright piano on the floor to her right and nodded.
The notes rang through the church as her words floated out over the gathered mourners on her high soprano angelic voice with just a hint of vibrato, “I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses.” He doesn’t remember who the deceased was, one of many balding men or blue haired ladies whose relatives requested Mom to sing at the funeral over her life.
His mom was the first person whose singing mesmerized him, left a mark in his psyche to pay attention to singers, to appreciate the good ones, differentiate those who were mediocre or just down right off key and not pleasant to hear. And too, during those formative years, when Mom loaded him and his two siblings into the car on Sunday morning and drove them 10 miles over back country roads, rain or shine to the Presbyterian church where she had attended in her youth, he gained a joy of signing with the congregation.
Standing beside men with deep base voices drowning out those around them, appreciating the melodic voices of the young women, girls really, in the pews in front and behind. He had some favorites, Holy Holy Holy, Battle Hymn of the Republic being some of those. He now realizes he sang well because they were in key that was comfortable for his voice at the time–and he liked the rhythm and power of the tempo. He still sings them fairly well.
Other influences were the singing cowboys on the radio and later on TV: Gene Autry, Roy Rogers and Heck Harper on a Portland station. He loved it when they pulled their horses to a stop looking over a valley below that stretched for miles into the distance and started singing a lonesome cowboy song. They called him to get a horse and saddle and guitar and ride with them.
His small two room school house had no music program other than the Christmas pageant. He had a couple of lead signing parts and then passed through high school where there was no music at all. He could carry a tune–that was good enough at the time, but he knew, even then, that his voice was not stellar, would not rock the socks off anyone. That’s where it pretty much stands to this day. He sings mostly to himself or to lead a song group while he strums away on his beloved Martin guitar. It’s okay. He accepts it. And over the years he has become a great appreciator of good singers. Those with exceptional voices that shine above all others.
Some months ago, PBS aired a Ken Burns movie creation entitled Country Music. Sixteen hours of country music from the beginning, the Carter Family, Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton and the all-time favorite song Crazy written by Willie Nelson and sung by Patsy Cline. All great singers, all making it big time at the Grand Ole Opry and on radio and then TV.
He has some favorites above all else: Joan Baez is in the number two slot. He has an album of best hits, ones like The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down, Diamonds and Rust about her relationship with Bob Dillon. He plays it regularly. Her high vibrato that appears in nearly every phrase she utters melts his ears. So fine, so silky, so right for each time it accentuates the words coming forth.
In the number one slot, Linda Ronstadt. God she is so good, putting power and emphasis at just the right places. A bunch of weeks ago, a documentary of her life, entitled The Sound of My Voice captured his full attention. He watched it twice.
Linda hit the big time in her mid-teens, already polished enough to work her way onto music stages all over the country. The documentary revealed a life so full and so varied, way beyond what he knew about her. Yeah, she was a spitfire in early years, but she had the talent to get past it. Favorites like Silver Threads and Golden Needles, and You’re No Good were either songs that revealed her troubled love life or just songs she could totally get behind and belt out in a wide tone range. Then there was the Spanish songs era. Linda had mastered Spanish sufficiently to sound like the best Mexican singers. He listened to those songs, had the album. They were good, well sung, displaying her incredible voice range and power, but his Spanish is not sufficient to understand the words, the messages went past him unheard.
The documentary went on to her time of being an opera star where she danced and tiptoed around the stage in a lacy bonnet and flouncy dress forcing that incredible voice into songs of such high pitch and clarity that as he watched, he wondered if she would faint from lack of air. The documentary ends with a live interview of Linda, now in her 70’s, suffering with Parkinson’s disease that took away her voice. Oh, she did sing a bit in that interview at her home. It had sweetness, but no power. She accepted it, but he could tell it was a hard loss for her, even a bit embarrassing, he sensed.
His heart sank a couple of notches the day he heard the news that John Denver’s plane had plunged into the ocean somewhere off the California coast. He loved John’s high melodic voice that rang like an echo through the canyons of the Rocky Mountains he sang of. He saw John in concert once during his heyday and then again years later when his popularity had dropped to State Fair outdoors at night concert level. Take Me Home Country Roads, and Annie’s Song still are on his list of sing-along favorites.
Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and Susanne are on his song list too. He can’t match Leonard’s deep base voice, but bumping it up to a higher key with a capo seems to work. He knows these favorites date him but he has to say, “I’ve not heard current time singers that match them.”
The signers. Yes, the singers sang and they got older, many of their voices dropping into lower ranges. New singers took over. And one of his last memories of his Mom, who died about 9 years ago at 93 and who had suffered a couple of strokes changing her to a person he didn’t know well, was her response to his request that she sing In the Garden. It was still there. That high soprano angelic voice with a hint of vibrato. She was on key for the full length of the first stanza, coming back to her current self as the words stopped flowing. The singer had sung and was now ready for her afternoon nap.