Through the Wilderness

Sunday Morning at Valley Forge Park
-Pat O' Driscoll Fine Art

“Lancaster, Pennsylvania!” I tug my seat belt in order to sit forward and squint through the lowering gloom at the highway sign. (There are shadows in Pennsylvania unlike anything in my native Illinois. They are large and very dark, composed of trees - lots of trees - and, well, mountains.) “In 1847 Levi Zendt loaded his big Conestoga wagon and left Lancaster. He had six beautiful draft horses pulling it and probably some cheese-making equipment in the back along with his wife, I’m not sure.”

“Levi who?” My hubby asks distractedly; he concentrating on this winding path though the wilderness. (Which is actually a real road, but it doesn’t feel like it with the forest so close all around us.)

“Zendt. Levi Zendt. Centennial? James Michener?”

“James . . ?”  He stops himself, but I am encouraged nonetheless. We have traveled all these long lonely miles to attend a funeral, and I have charged myself with providing distraction.

“Michener. He wrote a lot of really weighty novels. Anyway, Levi Zendt loved those horses a lot. So even though everyone told him ‘Levi, you’ll need oxen for this trip’ he was determined to bring his horses. Guess what? They didn’t make it and he ended up buying oxen anyway.”

Travel was precarious, back in the day; now as well. Outside my window, I’ve lost the moon behind a mountain, and trees are shielding bobcats the size of elephants.

A million miles away, in Illinois, my own kitty is probably crying. He might even be dead from missing me by now, who knows?

But it is lovely here, and history calls from every turn in the road. As though the mountains themselves are tenderly cradling those who have gone before – pilgrims and pioneers, Shawnee and Iroquois and colonists. Washington’s men are spectral shades behind the loblollies; a screech owl’s call blends with a fading rebel yell over Gettysburg and a drummer boy plays in solitude over the next rise in the road. History is lived here – the ground is steeped in the blood of the brave and true. Think of it – layers of muscle and sinew, skin and bone, laid over with tall grass and mountain flowers. Hepaticas tiny, white as pearly teeth in your palm.

We don’t feel history quite so plainly in Illinois, although of course it is there. Generation of farmers on the same chunk of land, and always able to tell you just how Grandpa weathered the Depression with four dollars pinned to the inside of his overalls. Great Aunt Delilah’s china stacked in cupboards and World War One mess kits in basements - and yet we still feel as though we’ve moved forward.

The mountain I travel with my sweetie tonight diminishes us to the size of fleas; it feels as though it must have been here when David played the secret chord, and I can’t decide if I love or hate it.

My cell buzzes and a text ends my ruminating. Kitty is fine, all is well! Be safe!

That’s better. I glance up again just as a hawk swoops close enough to nearly graze the windshield.

Love, hate? Perhaps something closer to awestruck.

Hello, East Coast!

~*~*~ 

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Once-Upon-a-Time McDonald's

Setting creates a mood.

She sat in the new McDonald's on Main and actually typed that sentence in order to better think about it.

Setting is mega-important to the reader and, ipso facto, to the writer. Chapter One: Time of day, what the sky looks like, is the air hot or cold, the ground wet or dry? Choose your words carefully and blah, blah blah.

Setting creates . . .

She sipped from her Diet Coke and stared at the opposite wall, which was emblazoned with a monster-sized glossy pic of an apple. She blinked and looked around, as though wakened from a dream, at the sand-colored walls, the spindly black stools, the elegant brown cloth window shades.

And she thought, “What in the pluperfect hell has happened to our McDonald's?”

(“Pluperfect” is a lush, gorgeous word. She typed that, too.)

This McDonald's, she thought, is where we used to hang out. Three kids and all their friends and a single mom who paid for Happy Meals with change out of a tip jar. The walls were red and yellow, then! Ronald himself grinned maniacally from a picture over the counter and nobody, nobody counted the freaking calories in the chicken mcnuggets. Those Happy Meals were absolutely grease-soaked. The air reeked of fryer oil, the floor was sticky as carnival taffy, and there were no window shades. The sky out that window was always shiny, hard blue as ceramic, and the people in here were happy, even if one of the kids dumped their pop-not-milk, because . . .

The walls weren’t brown.

And those cheap red plastic booths were just perfect.

Setting creates a mood.

Of course, the proper setting for a writer is a quiet area with beigey-poop tones and maybe apples. And quiet. The sunshine should stay just the other side of that window shade.

Chapter One . . .

But she missed the glaring colors and the fly-strip floor. McDonald's felt all wrong without Ronald, even though he had always creeped her out just a little. The calories posted above the counter and fruit pictures - what the hell were they going for, Starbucks meets Planet Fitness? And why is nobody smiling?

Because, well, McDonald's is no longer our happy place.

Incorporating wifi and blended coffee drinks was at a cost of something far less tangible.

The writer closed her laptop and primly disposed of her fruit (what the hell?) cup before approaching the counter again.  She ordered a nasty, sloppy Big Mac and a Happy Meal toy - troll! Purple hair! And she left McDonald's determined to keep her future visits on a drive-through basis only.

Setting is imperative, she thought, but not necessarily beige.

~*~*~ 

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It's 2017! Time for Now

On the evening of December 31^st, she tucked 2016 beneath her arm and gingerly traversed the basement stairs, dodging a pair of roller blades and a saggy salt bag that had not yet made its way to the softener. A little short of breath already – 2016 was heavy – and hampered by the brush of cobwebs across her face, she lugged the Years Gone By box from the shelf and straightened the crick in her back before opening the lid.

                A smell like pumpkin innards – Halloween – rushed out at her and the pop of July firecrackers made her sit back on her heels. Frogs leaped amidst poinsettia leaves and cicadas croaked in time with the 9^th inning roar at Wrigley Field. Moldy tennis shoes reclined alongside graduation gowns, flip-flops slapped in time with the snow shovel scraping the sidewalk.

 

                Darker things, perhaps, residing at the bottom of the box. House fires and hospital stays, the funeral stink of blood lilies.

                She tossed 2016 in and quickly closed the lid.

                Upstairs again, black kitty on her shoulder with his whiskers twitching inquisitively, she contemplated the New Year box. She had stenciled 2017 in a color bright as sunshine on the lid, but now, faced with the blank lines in her notepad, she thought yellow to be a foolishly optimistic choice.

                So many demons to conquer, so little time. 

 

She picked up her pen.

 

                #1. Lose weight! Never mind that she had lost twenty pounds three years earlier and had kept the weight off. She could always lose more.

                #2 Overtime hours, lots and lots. (Because new car and stupid internet and dear God, everything else that cost too too too much)

                #3 Exercise. Well of course, duh.

                The list was much the same as 2016’s had been, and yet it had nothing to do with what she had found in the Years Gone By box. Losing weight, in fact, looked almost trivial compared with frog song.

                Kitty purred and nudged, and finally bit, just enough to get her attention.

                “Stop,” she admonished, and underlined 2017 on the box.

                So many demons, so little time.

                What if . . .

                Kitty yowled. Now. Pet me now. And, abstractedly, she rubbed his ears.

                Now.

Wait! What if there is ONLY now? What if the one demon - the only demon - is time itself? Time, always hurtling her forward, always making her cry, always passing before she could grasp a hand or kiss a tear. Time, making her older, adulting her children, bending her parents. What if there is no time? What if there is only now?

Now the light is slanting in through the bevels in the west window, making a pattern like purple raindrops on the linoleum. Now the kitchen still smells a little like Christmas gingerbread and Regina Spektor is singing on the iPod, an absurd song that lifts the soul and breaks the heart all at once.

Now the cat is feeling horribly neglected.

She picked him up and kicked the New Year box to the bottom of the stairs.

                Hello 2017!

A Chicago Christmas

Four thirty pm and three bitter degrees in downtown Chicago, the wind cutting in from the Lake and the sky giving itself over to a glassy color like pearls. The trees are outlined in white twinkle lights and street performers in full swing beat out “Joy to the World” on garbage can lids while the throng pretends not to notice.  Women clutch holiday bags and children clutch coattails, all breathing the glorious stink of the city – kettle corn and upscale steakhouse, sewer and garbage.

The red line huffs to a stop at Randolph and a Muslim woman ushers her daughter across the salt-chipped sidewalk, looking neither left nor right before slipping like a shadow into the car; she is nearly invisible beneath her hijab, and the white bread girl who sits next to them doesn’t acknowledge them.

Daughter strokes the fur on the blonde woman’s Almost Famous coat and mother jerks the hand away.

Long limbs encased in boots and leggings cross primly.

The L rattles and sways and Feliz Navidad is audible through the headphones of a Latino sitting closest to the doors; he appears to be sleeping, hands in coat pockets, the pink Victoria’s Secret bag incongruous at his feet.

At Clark, the decline in speed is sudden enough to jostle the passengers against each other. They recover from this unwanted intimacy without speaking, and the doors open for a large black woman who is head-to-toe fur, face lost beneath layers of scarf and blue-rimmed Buddy Hollys. The glasses have fogged and she’s carrying bags, and for a moment she can’t find a seat. By the time she lands, the man behind her is furious. He’s wrestling a plethora of holiday bargains – dolls and stuffed dinosaurs peering from half a dozen bags - and he walks with a limp.

“Move your ass!” His voice is harsh above the racket of the L, and his skin is a shiny color like good dark chocolate. He heaves himself into a seat across from the little Muslim girl and the passengers collectively shudder.  “You go left, you go right, you can’t make up your mind! Get the hell out of my way!”

The woman floats the bird before taking her seat and the child’s mouth drops open.

Her mother shrinks a little into her hijab and the Mexican’s eyes blink.

The white girl pretends interest in her phone.

“Don’t you even!” The man splutters, and the tirade that follows throws a pall over the whole car - anger and unhappiness and fear like a nasty puff of skunk.

The woman responds in full cry, calls the man a cripple, a beggar, a steaming pile of horse dung.

The Muslim woman places hands over her child’s ears. Child squirms free; her eyes are bright as the buttons on the white girl’s boots.

The black man winds up to deliver his final epistle. “You ugly!” He hollers. “You SO ugly!”

The little girl can’t help herself – she leans forward to assess, peering around her mother.

“She is!” The man leaps upon the faux pas, and now the white girl, too, sends a furtive glance the length of car before staring fixedly at her phone again. “Isn’t she?” The man crows. “Take those glasses off and show everyone how ugly you are!”

The woman again utilizes her longest finger and the little girl goes saucer-eyed before giggling out loud.

Tiny sound, at first. Musical, clear as a lingering high C, four breaths long.

Mother clucks a warning; child can’t stop.

White girl’s mouth twitches; Mexican’s iPod goes quiet.

Now the little girl laughs out loud. “Your mouth is ugly,” she at last articulates carefully, to the man, (and to her mother’s horror) and now the black woman laughs, big belly-laugh, happy.

Finally, the man laughs, too, and suddenly the air in the car is breathable again. In fact, it’s light; it smells a little like peppermint.

The black woman stands at the next stop, heaves her purse over her shoulder and grabs her bags.

“That’s right, get your ass outta here now!” The man bellows at her. “And have a Merry Christmas!”

Curse of the Stone Arms: Kitty-Boy's Tale

From the desk of Gothika, Dark Lord of the Grimalkins aka Kitty-Boy

                “It was a dark and stormy night.”

                No.

                “Once upon a time, in a land far away. . .”

                Oh drats! How does she do this? And why? Slavering for public approval like one of her hulking outdoor “pets” – is nothing beneath her dignity?

                 Actually, it was a rather ordinary night, but for the enormous Iah,  (which modern humans, tapping into their full  literary and imaginative potential, have dubbed “the Supermoon.” *sigh*). I had watched its ascent across the night sky, and had fallen asleep contentedly on the kitchen table (the Man having gone to bed hours earlier) when I was awakened by the horrible shrill of my human’s Pavlov Response system. (Please see footnote#1.) Inevitably, the humans shine at classical conditioning exercises, and I watched with some pride as they hurtled from their bed, donned boots and clothing, and scurried from the house. Their performance was marred only by a brief collision in the bathroom doorway. Both snarled and swore most impressively. My Human showed her teeth.

I did not see them again until the lovely Iah had disappeared over the hill. They came home positively reeking of house fire, their noses black with smoke and their eyes circled with it. Most alarming of all, My Human had turned to stone from wrists to elbows. (Please see footnote #2) She seemed most vexed at this transformation ie, more colorful swearing; she is truly well versed in language skills. The Man, as is often the case, was also quite vocal about the inciting incident, and implied that the entire fiasco could have been avoided had My Human slowed down and looked before you f**ng leaped.

                I haven’t the faintest notion what My Human leaped into, but the results have been catastrophic. She has the temerity to pat my head with her stone hands! I very nearly chipped a tooth whilst defending myself. She is hit-and-miss with my food dish and her attempts at scooping my litterbox have been dismal. In the spirit of generosity, I left my latest offering on the floor next to the toilet and the ingrate swore at me! Who would have realized the tenuous connection between human hands and brains? Is her mind turning to stone as well? I fear it is a possibility.

                My Human knows I must have ice in my water bowl at all times, and yet she is failing at even this simplest of tasks. When in desperation I stand on the (dirty!) dishes in the sink to drink from the faucet, she responds in the vilest manner by trying to lift me bodily with her concrete arms. I will not stand for it!

            Alas, I fear for my well-being. If you are reading this, please send help. Preferably in the form of salmon.

Pink, Alaskan salmon. Fresh.

Canned tuna offerings will be summarily rejected.

#1 Nine-one-one page to a fire.

#2 Arm casts from wrist to elbow.

Those Who Have Left Us

All Soul’s Night creeps upon us in new darkness, the sun snuffed before six thirty as effectively as calloused fingers pinching a faltering flame.

Light, then; we’re seeking light.

And we find it, in a fashion. Here in these old wooden pews where the same families have sat for generations with the stained-glass saints gazing impassively from above, already immortal. Here in the scent of candle wax and cool, moist brick. Here in the words, the kneelers, the lovely ritual.  

Eternal rest grant to them oh Lord. And may a perpetual light shine upon them.

Ah. Them. Those who have left us. If you’ve lived very long, you have them; if you’ve lived well, you loved them and you probably still do. Everyone here carries this with them. Think about that for a moment – all of us here, suffering that quiet loss together and yet still so alone. I could name you . . . ah well, they’re gone.

My line of work loans itself to the occasional death; my keenest losses are sometimes total strangers, and I don’t know if that makes it easier or harder. I only know that it is. And so, I am thinking of the hands I have held, the comfort I have tried to extend, the way that death slides over a face as implacably as the lavender sky smoothing after the sun has set. I am thinking this when something the priest says reels me back.

“If we live to give God joy,” he says. “Then we live in joy.”

Such a lovely voice, this man – an even and perfect tenor that loans itself well to sweeping statements. He imparts this nugget as though it is ipso facto.

Is it?

Live in joy.

But no. Sweet October has blown away as quickly as it came, and with it the color, the laughter and the bright expectations. November is as gray and chilly as the Chicago lakefront; it knows no joy. And the dead are – whether by accident or design, holding your hand or not – dead.

Ah, but they’re not. We’re here, tonight, because of them, aren’t we? And don’t we feel them – the caress on our cheeks, the voices in our ears, the little breath of life stirring the downy hair of the child sitting in front of you?

Where they are, they are living in joy.

But it’s bigger than that. The priest is right. If we – all of us here, and everyone we knew – were to go forward in joy from this night on, then our worries, our sorrows, our carefully cultivated grudges – none of these could hurt us ever again. We’d have no room for hurt, or for tears, or for misunderstandings. Joy. Each moment, every breath, etched in gold. The utter certainty of loving and being loved. We could wrap ourselves in that and this fear – this fear of loss, of heartbreak, of dying – would cower in our wake until it finally disappeared altogether.

That’s so big, it’s probably too big for us. But maybe we’re meant to try.

Outside, darkness has set in with a vengeance, the tiny pools of crystalline light from the stained-glass windows fading completely before I have gotten to my car. But I crank Sister Hazel on my iPod, and I sing along, all the way home.

October Magic

October soared homeward in the middle of the night, landing in her yard somewhere before daybreak. By dawn the spreading oaks in the cemetery had taken on a crimson tinge and the air had become so clear and chill that to drink of it was to know an immediate intoxication.

She would have known it was October even with her eyes closed. Would have felt it in her blood, would have remembered the way it slipped like a cool satin cloak around her shoulders.

And so, she kissed her true love right away, because there is nothing so magical as love, and as always in October, she was insanely, delightfully in love again.

 

After that, she danced to the soundtrack of Practical Magic with her black kitty, folded every single summer dress she owned into the closet, and put a purple witch hat on the scarecrow.

She burned leaves just to watch the smoke swirl in curlicues against a sky as shiny and hard as blue ceramic, and she sent good prayers skyward with each plume.

The Halloween box had spent eleven months in the basement but there wasn’t a speck of dust on it. In fact, when she pulled it from beneath the stairs, she noticed the way it glittered like moon light beneath her fingers, and when she removed the lid, a chorus of little voices sang forth:

Ooooh, there’s my favorite ghost, Mommy!

Halloween’s coming, skeletons will be after you!

I want to take the bloody knife to school tomorrow!

For a moment, she hesitated with her fingers still clutching the lid; she could feel the passage of time as ominous and cold as November thunderheads, rolling and tumbling and never-ever looking back, and she knew another year had passed. But October isn’t about regrets, and when the thunder passes . . .  well, the fat, white moon owns the sky; she dug into the box with both hands.

She unearthed cackling jack-o-lanterns, hanging skeletons, swooping bats on invisible wires, and by evening some of the little voices from the box had dropped by in their adult form, only to become children again. (Hershey bars and candy corn are the best cure for dull adulthood, but if you persist in being a grown-up, you should sip a little apple wine to relieve that headache.)

The sun lay down earlier than it had all year, in a nest of golden feathers, and the big dipper poured star dust over the yard. By midnight, she had really and truly let summer go.

Hello, beautiful October.

~*~*~ 

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