Author: melgrieves

Hugging the fall trail

Clustered orbs of giant pearls

Snowberry surprise

It was a hot and moonless night in the badlands above Riverside. A parcel of land between March Airforce Base and the town down below where eons of weathering had created a wasteland of ruts and gullies where no one ever went. Except for teenagers that is. On summer nights They populated the old dirt road that lead up to the south east from ritzy Canyon Crest. Many a romance was born on that rise above the city, under the stars and with the glittering lights of the Inland Empire in an eternal blaze below. Few of them knew that on that same rise of land many an outlaw had dangled from an old olive tree until his eyes bulged and his swollen purple tongue popped out of a newly dead mouth. 

    Jake Finnegan was one of the few kids in town who did know the stories. But this night on the rising badlands he had no idea what was about to rise from the earth behind his old 1964 Crystal Blue Dotson pickup truck. 

Annie Ramirez straightened her blouse and twisted the rearview mirror to check her smeared lipstick.

“It’s okay Jake. I didn’t want to go all the way anyway.”

“Yeah” Jake said. Holding in the urge to say. “I wanna breakup anyway.”  He was not doing so well with the girls these days.

BAM! The truck rocked violently to the right and continued to rock for a good six and a half seconds.

“What was that?” Annie screamed.

“I don’t know.” Jake whispered. Some animal must have been running in the dark and didn’t see the truck. Jake rolled down his window and looked down at the ground then back to the rear of the truck bed. There was nothing there.

“Shit Jake roll up the window! You don’t know what’s out there. Let’s get outta here. “

BOOM! Another something hit the truck.

Jack simultaneously rolled up the window and started the truck pressing the accelerator to the floor. He glanced back in the rear-view mirror to see a huge dull ball of dust kick up from the earth as he pealed onto the old dirt road.  He looked ahead and realized he hadn’t turned on the headlights. “Shit!” He flipped them just in time to see the curve ahead at the edge of what was locally knows as Hard Sand Canyon. The truck lurched to the right and barely stayed on the road just making the curve, barely.

“Oh my God.” Annie said. “What do you think that was.

“I don’t know.” He repeated.

He glanced at the rear-view mirror.  He saw the pale eyes in dark sockets and the rictus smile. There was a passenger in the bed of the truck. 

“JAKE! LOOK OUT!”

Jakes eyes snapped back to the road ahead just in time to jerk the truck to the left just missing a coyote.

When he looked back in the rear-view mirror the passenger was gone.

Jake dropped Annie off at her dorm at UCR and drove the rest of the way home with the radio blaring “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder.  He lived with his parents who were away on a conference at Berkeley. As he drove up to 3205 Valencia Hill Drive, he felt finally safe.

The house was 7 years old, bought brand new it stood near the site of an old Spanish ranchero that had begun being  subdivide in the first decade of the 20^th century. There were rumors around the neighborhood that the house of 3205 Valencia Hill Drive was built over the buried foundation of the old Hacienda.

Jake stayed up watching the Tonight Show and then a part of a late movie just to try and forget those eyes he was now convincing himself were a trick of the mirror or his imagination. It must have somehow just been his own reflection…. Somehow.

He shut off the lights in the house and those in the upstairs hall and finally crawled into bed on the second floor just after 2am. He switched off the light by his Early American maple twin and as he had since he was three, pulled the covers up tight over his head.

There was a soft sound in the dark. Almost imperceptible. Like someone breathing.

“Stop it Jake.” He whispered.

The breathing stopped. Jake squeezed his shut eyelids tighter. 

It began at the bottom of the stairs. Boom. Boom, BOOM, BOOM! 

Someone of something was coming up the stairs banging on the walls. The House began to creak like an old ship in a storm. BOOM. BOOM. The thing was banging on the doors at the end of the hall and coming closer.

Jake threw off the blanket and sat up in terror. He switched on the light. It was icy cold in his room. He gasped as the banging hit his bedroom door. He could see the vapor of that gasp explode in front of him. He struggled up and ran for the door. He put his hand against it and grabbed the doorknob. If he opened it, what would he see?

“Please, please.” He whispered. “GO AWAY!” his shout shocked him. He flung open the door. The hall was ablaze with light. No one was there. He ran down the hall for the stairs and as he made his way he was tossed from side to side, bouncing off the walls. The whole house was pitching and rolling.  

He nearly tumbled down the stairs to the foyer. The first floor was lit up. All the closet doors were open. He ran into the kitchen; cupboards were flung wide. But not a dish disturbed. The house was moaning as if being tortured! Time to get out.

When Jake opened the front door and stepped out onto the lawn it was softly, soothingly quiet. It was warm summer again. He looked out over the open filed across Valencia Hill Drive toward Box Springs Mountain. The moon was just coming up over the ridge. He turned to look back at the house burning electric bright and silent.  After ten minutes he went back in and right to the phone.

“Annie it’s me…” he said as she picked up on the first ring.

“I know.” She said. “I saw him too. I’ll be right over.” She slammed the phone down.

She was there pulling up into the drive in under seven minutes. Still in her pajamas she jumped from her battered Renault and ran to meet Jake who waited on the porch.

“What do you mean you saw him?”

“When you were driving away. There was a man in the back of the truck. He waved to me. I tried to call you, but your phone was dead. Is he here?”

“Something is in the house. If we go in, you will hear it.”

“Okay…” Annie said tentatively. “but I don’t believe in ghosts. I think we should call the police.”

Annie walked into the foyer. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Is it cold?”

“Yes, it is. Come in and see.” As he stepped in, she looked around. Why are the doors all open and …? “

“I don’t know. Look Annie can you stay over. You can sleep in the guest room next to mine.”

“Why not in the same room?”

“I don’t think we should do that.”

“I didn’t mean THAT.”

“Neither do I. Look, you take the guest room and I’ll take my room and, in the morning we will compare notes. Its only a few hours away. Anyway, I don’t think I’ll sleep. “

“Okay, let’s just check to make sure no one is in the house. Got a baseball bat?”

“Yes.”

After a complete check, shutting cupboards and turning off lights. They locked all the doors and windows. And climbed the stairs. Jake checked the thermostat. It read 68 degrees. But still if felt bone cold.

“If you hear anything or get scared call me.” He said at the door to the guest room.

“Okay.” She opened the door then turned. “If YOU hear anything call me.”

“I will. Goodnight.”

“Let’s hope so.”

As soon as Jake closed the door to his room the cold was gone. The pressure in the room seemed to lighten. It was over.

A few hours later Jake woke to a white bright Southern California morning. He got up threw on his robe and opened the door to his room. Annie was sitting on the floor huddled wide eyed next to the door frame of his door .

“Annie what’s wrong? What happened.”

She looked up at him and he could see she was crying.

“He sat on the end of the bed all night. I was too frightened to move and call out.”

“Oh Annie!”

“He spoke to me.”

“What did he say?”

Annie closed her eyes then opened them to look at him.

“He said. ‘Go get Jake’.”

…….. or how a 36-year old learned the joys of camping. It was the fault of the kids, but you guessed that, didn’t you?

So, it started with this big-city boy finding his way to the Northwest with his wife and raising children in a street full of them. That led to making friends with neighbors for whom getting their shoes muddy was a lifelong habit. They were going camping with their three boys in a Washington State Park.

“Why don’t you come too. The kids can play together, it will be fun” they said.

I hesitated too long.

“Yes, please can we go?” the little traitors chimed in unison.

“Well,” I started to say, but stopped. I was screwed and I knew it.

Our camping equipment comprised a book of matches at this point, so we turned to the Coleman Company for a tent, stove, lantern, sleeping bags and a supply of gas bottles. Still not confident that sleeping on the ground would be fun, as promised, we added air mattresses.

We did at least own a VW bus at the time, which could swallow the gear, children and our sense of foreboding. On the appointed Friday morning, we set off in convoy behind the neighbor’s van en route to Salmon La Sac on the eastern foothills of the Cascades above Cle Elum. There we were joined by a million mosquitos, give or take. They would not make their presence fully known until dusk, when I had finally figured out the multi-part poles and the proper sequence for assembling our tent. Because, of course, instructions were for sissies. The prospect of starting over ruled out retreat as an option, although divorce was still on the table, I was informed.

Of course, the kids did have fun, as we allowed them freedom to explore and get dirty while we de-stressed to the sound of the rushing river and the smell of fresh air. But, by Sunday lunchtime, we were ready for a hot shower, broke camp and returned to civilization.

So started a regular summer schedule of mountains, lakes, beaches, high desert and old-growth forests. The Washington State Parks never let us down although the weather often did. Along the way, we abandoned the adult’s air mattresses in favor of cots, assembled a plumbing masterpiece to feed the gas stove and a gas hibachi from a five-gallon propane tank and added fishing poles, an inflatable boat and plastic containers of sundry stuff. Plus, tarps. Lots of tarps.

Thirty years on, we still share the stories of those trips with our camping partners. The mistake of camping at Deception Pass on a Memorial Day weekend and suffering through gale force winds and horizontal rain. We never camped earlier than the middle of June after that. Nearly stepping on a rattlesnake was a lesson to stay on the trails at Alta Lake. We learned that leaving harvested clams in a bucket of water overnight, to flush the sand out of their siphons, would amuse the ladies to no end in the morning.

Nature was never far away. The crows that would create such a racket at 5am or the pairs of eyes reflecting back when a flashlight was pointed at the trees near the tent. But we never encountered a large animal or any danger. While camping at Lake Wenatchee and in pitch darkness on the trail to the outhouse, we had occasion to look up at the starriest sky we had ever seen. It was breathtaking. It took a trip to the summit of Mauna Kea in Hawaii many years later to beat it.

We visited many parks, but we had our favorites; Kopachuk on Henderson Bay and Bowman Bay across from Deception Pass. We even had our favorite campsites at these two and would leave early enough to be sure of securing them. With experience came the knowledge of where to find the facilities with hot showers and the best places to create a blue-tarp city for the inevitable wet weekends. We discovered that if you played Trivial Pursuit in the dim light of a gas lantern, it presented an opportunity for our wives to substitute the junior level card set for the questions posed to them. We would find ourselves laughing hard and often.

It was an escape from busy lives, when the demands of a new business made extended vacations difficult. The children loved the relaxed parental rules and got along really well with each other. We were grateful to our Washington native friends for their wide knowledge of the State Parks and the opportunity to get to know our surroundings better. We knew that we would never now leave the area willingly.

The children have lasting memories too. None apparently more vivid to our daughter than when she was suckered into believing that she would be arrested by the Park Ranger if she and her brother didn’t settle down in the tent and go to sleep. Some grievances go deep it seems. We can look at an iconic photograph of the five of them in a circle on a beach digging a hole, one of them happily ignoring the advice to not get sand into the plaster cast on a broken leg. But now we see the doctor, engineer, state trooper, college administrator and forester. Married, with their own children and the inspiration to take them camping.

The Grim Reaper glided along Elmwood Street, following a couple engaged in a quiet conversation.

 “I’m excited about the costume contest and the dance-off. Do you think we have a chance of winning?”

“Honey, you look great tonight. I think we have a shot at both.”

“Remember to take it easy during the dancing. Your heart medication can only do so much!”

“Oh, yeah, I don’t want to bring on a heart attack tonight!”

The dark figure took note and followed discretely as the masked Romeo and Juliet approached the community hall. Shunning the glow of the main entrance and the gathering guests, the Reaper lingered in the shadows.

A dry-ice fog muffled the steps of the cleverly-costumed brigade: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, George and Martha Washington, Thelma and Louise, Big Bird, Julia Child, Captain Hook, Dr. Who, the Pussycats (minus Josie!). Excited chatter filled the foyer hung with spider webbing and graced by the statues of the Mummy and Oz’s Scarecrow.

“I can’t believe this set-up! Mickey and his crew went all-out!”

“Oooh! It looks like there’s a haunted house in the hallway!”

“I’m guessing they didn’t ask for Polymorph permission.”

“No worries! I’m sure everyone will remember to stay safe tonight.”

Electric candles lit the main room, sending shadows up to the vaulted ceiling. All the familiar diversions of a neighborhood Halloween Carnival were in full swing. The team had, indeed, gone all-out. The normally regimented tables and chairs had been replaced by booths and activities to entertain and amuse.

The Grim Reaper slipped in unnoticed and took in the happenings. A gypsy was turning Tarot cards for Little Bo Peep. “Hmm…the cards say you have lost something of value, and Death may pay a visit. Oh, dear!” A Headless Horseman carefully cleaned the knives at the pumpkin carving station. “Wow! These are really sharp!” Marie Antoinette preened in the mirror at the head of the costume parade. “Does this wig make me look fat? Rats! I keep catching the lace on the hem with these shoes!”  Maleficent was green with envy, polishing an apple. Three Little Pigs heaped their sagging plates with delights from the buffet. The Big Bad Wolf drooled at Florence Nightingale, who blushed. Cher rolled her eyes as Sonny cast daggers in her direction. Donald Trump bought all the raffle tickets from Gerry Mander and Hilary Clinton. Rip Van Winkle dozed by the fireplace. All the vices were in play and the din was deafening. Outside, the moon rose.

On the small dance floor, characters competed in the Monster Mash and Electric Slide until John Travolta cleared the floor for the Hustle. Lady Godiva sold kisses for $5.00 to a knight and a cowboy at her booth. Juliet made sure Romeo didn’t get a chance. Jack the Ripper slayed at the Pumpkin Carving table creating a perfect Joker. William Tell popped all the red balloons with his trusty darts. Huskies and Cougars snarled and splashed their way to a drenched finish at the apple bobbing.

Julia Child won the cakewalk. The Lion Tamer walked off with the White Elephant prize. More than $800 was raised for charity and everyone but Rip Van Winkle helped clean up.

As Captain Marvel, Gerry Garcia and Cleopatra shuffled home, the Grim Reaper sidled into the Elm Preserve. Under the shadow of the nearly leafless trees, an accounting was made: “Heart attack, poisoning, stabbing and loneliness were all put on hold tonight. Yes, all seven deadly sins were here this evening, but sometimes even Death takes a night off.

Chapter One

“Murder!”

“What?” squawked the man in the Seahawks cap. “What are you talking about?”

“Murder. The answer to question number 20 ‘What is the collective noun for crows?’ is murder. A murder of crows.”

“Well, I guess you learn something new every day, but please! No more language trivia questions! Can’t we just stick to sports or movies or current events? Oh! And no more music, either. “Flock of Seagulls! Bah!”

“It’s all in good fun,” said Artist Bill.” I read that brushes are called a ‘brood’.”

More grumbling ensued, but the monthly gathering for Tuesday Trivia eventually wrapped up with Grody’s Soldiers of Fortune taking home the bottle of wine prize supplied by the Whys Guys.

Chapter Two

As the trivia moderator headed for the building exit onto Taroroot Road, the neighborhood mystery writer and movie buff chivalrously held the door. “Where do you get all those great trivia questions? That last one was a real zinger! It reminded me of that classic Hitchcock thriller.”

“Well, I pull from a wide variety of sources, but that particular one was personal.”

“Personal?! Is there something in your dark, mysterious past we should know about?”

“Golly, NO! Honestly, Mickey, you can be so dramatic!” She continued, “Hyper and I were playing frisbee over on Schlitz Court Monday evening when I witnessed something I’d never seen before: a massive mob of crows lifting off the treetops of the elm preserve. What a racket! I could hardly hear the freight train going by! Hyper stopped in mid-chase and cocked his head at what first sounded like ball bearings in a metal cup, then a whoosh and whirl of wind through the leaves as hundreds of crows erupted out of the trees screeching and clacking before forming a mass moving in unison north over the new construction.”

“Huh! I wonder if they do that often. I wonder what set them off?”

“I don’t know, but it sure was creepy!”

Chapter Three

At the weekly Encore at Elmtree social that following Friday night, conversation once again turned to murder. Like so many birds of prey, theories and hyperbole took flight.

“I heard he was found with strawberry plants in his pants pockets and marigold seeds in his shirt pockets.”

“I heard he had a roll of poop bags in his hand when he died—do you think he had a dog?”

“Maybe! It could have been a dog leash around his throat that killed him—you know the kind for walking multiple dogs! Mine’s gone missing.”

“I’ve seen chickens in that part of the preserve. Maybe he got that Chinese bird flu!”

“There were animal tracks nearby. What do you think? A coyote? Oooh! Maybe the cougar got him!”

In another covey of neighbors, Nancy Lark expressed measured concern for how this mystery might impact home prices, while Lon Wilson wondered aloud if the evidence of a small fire near the body would finally get the attention of the construction chief. Mel Reeve listened thoughtfully, but kept her own counsel while a gaggle of gossipers chattered on.

Kathi Finch chirped that it must have something to do with those crooks over at Polymorph.

“Yeah! They never tell us anything! I’m gonna complain to Sunny when she’s here next week!”

“Maybe we could create a small memorial for him in the preserve?” Carol Dove suggested.

The murmuration and twittering flitted from circle to circle punctuated by conversations peppered by veiled accusations.

“Maybe that fresh bread in his backpack was poisoned?”

“I heard someone from the card players saw him entering the trail off Elmwood.”

“Has anyone notified the Snowbirds? They’ll want to know before they come back from down south.”

“He had a syringe. I’ll bet he was a druggie.”

“That gash on his forehead could have been caused by a golf club.”

“One shoe was missing. He lost it when he was running away from someone or something!”

“Maybe he smothered in that plastic they found him wrapped in.”

Like so many clucking hens, the residents clamored on as they dispersed to their safe nests for the night.

Chapter Four

A week later, a headline in the local paper announced:

“Transient Found Dead in Elm Preserve Identified”

            A local man whose body was found by a hiker at Encore at Elmtree has been identified as Jupiter Falke, 67, of Yelm. His estranged daughter Eyrie confirmed his identity based on his belongings and dental history following notification by the Thurston County Coroner’s Office. “He was a good dad until he lost his job in the recession and my mom died,” she said. “Then things just went downhill for all of us, but especially him. He moved around a lot and we lost touch about a year ago. I heard from an acquaintance about two months ago he was trying to get to Canada because insulin is so expensive here. He hated relying on the kindness of strangers and did his best to repay them by weeding their gardens or walking their dogs.”

The Coroner confirmed Mr. Falke’s death was accidental. Sherriff “Doc” Bartlett said, “Mr. Falke apparently lost his footing on uneven ground and struck his head on a large concrete block. He seems to have dragged himself to a large sheet of construction plastic for protection from the elements before slipping into a diabetic coma. We estimate he died late Monday afternoon in an area of the preserve known to be frequented by wildlife. His body was discovered by Bill Stiley, local artist and a resident of Encore at Elmtree.” When questioned about the distinctly avian markings about the victim’s face, neck and hands, Sherriff Bartlett declined comment.

“When Papi wouldn’t come when I called, I hiked into the underbrush to investigate,” Mr. Stiley said.  “Papi hightailed it out of there when she got spooked by a giant flock of crows…and she was carrying a shoe. As I saw the mob arc across the sky, they reminded me of an angry black paintbrush mark on a blank canvas. Then I found the body of that poor man. I can’t tell you what happened, but I ‘m guessing one witness was a “Murder of Crows.”

Milan, 1497

Her dress fell in soft pleats to the floor from just under her demurely veiled breasts as she crept along the dark passageway. Her stub of a candle flickered as drafts made the silken webs around her gasp and flee. Her soft-soled slippers whispered along the uneven stone. Her left hand brushed the clammy walls until she heard voices up ahead and to the left. Growing more distinct, the voices became familiar. Her father and…someone else. Holding her breath, she slid back the bolt and slithered behind the wall tapestry outside the solar just as her father’s sonorous voice called for a flagon and a toast. A quiet reply she couldn’t hear. Such celebration must surely mean…(mumbling) unite our two dynasties (mumble) What?! Had her young man finally asked for her hand? Alas! Not her sweet young Matteo Giuliano, but the Master of the Merchant’s Guild, Master Lorenzo Mecucci! That old barnacle? Was she to be traded for peace in Milan? Impossible! Unacceptable! Something must be done!

Chiara stifled a whimper as she slipped back into the hidden passage. Silent tears dampened her cheeks as she retraced her steps and beyond. Up the well-worn steps to the atrium, around the corner and down the short flight to the scullery. The heavy door to the kitchen was ajar so she skirted the cook’s assistant and found her way into the kitchen garden. Plants had always fascinated her, and even now she took comfort in the heady scent of rosemary and then lavender as she reached the laurel hedge and its entrance to the Wisteria Pergola. Overhead the branches on their trellis formed a low roof and she sank to her knees, overwhelmed. Even her mother’s timeless garden couldn’t bring her answers today!

The bells from the campanile tolled the half-hour. Luca would be attending services soon. Luca! Maybe cousin Lucretia could help! Chiara brushed the dust from her skirt and set off at run. If she hurried, she’d just make it to the Duomo before her recently-widowed cousin left for home.

Breathless, the young maiden entered the cool darkness of the newly-built basilica. She closed her eyes, waiting for them to adjust and her breathing to return to normal. Moments later she skimmed the small crowd, noting many strangers and a few acquaintances, but no elegant golden head of her father’s niece. The devout of Milan preferred to give generously from their purses rather than their knees. Her shoulders dipped in disappointment before she noticed movement in an alcove across the nave. Luca was just lighting a candle beneath the icon of St. Christopher.

Shoulders up and chin down, the younger cousin strode to intersect Luca’s path as she made to leave. Success elicited a warm smile and a finger to her lips as together they exited through the cloisters and then the Bishop’s garden. Once outside Chiara poured out her woes to a woman only recently released from the convent following an unfortunate turn of events. Luca listened thoughtfully as they wandered among the herbs and flowers the monks used to treat everything from gout to consumption. A kernel of a plan formed behind her veiled green eyes. Keeping her own counsel, she promised they would dine together on the morrow. “Remember, my dear, in matters of trade, one needs the right currency. In matters of the heart, the price is often high.”

Chiara’s father was away on business when the younger woman arrived with a heavy heart back at the villa on Via Durini. She passed again through the garden and into the kitchen, this time snagging an apple from a basket near the door. Polishing the fruit with her veil, she trudged up the three flights to her chamber. The wooden shutters had been closed to block the worst of the midday heat, plunging the room into shadow. She crossed the small space and leaned on the cushioned window seat to fling the shutters open to an expansive golden view of Milan beyond the garden. Somewhere out there were her dreams, her future, her fate. The moon rose over the Duomo before she finally slept.

She rose with the sun, carefully donning her father’s favorite gown, dressing her floor-length plait and crowning the look with a flattering coif of lace and linen. More than hunger roiled her stomach this morning. The inevitable meeting with her father was nigh.

As she entered the solar, her father kept his gaze on a small collection of parchments beside his plate. She offered up a benign “Good morning, Father” to no response. Several fruit pits, a rind of cheese, and bread crumbs were the remnants of his broken fast. She helped herself from a central platter and took her accustomed seat at the far end of the table. Since her mother’s death a year ago she had technically been the lady of the house and enjoyed the seat of honor. Her tender age and slight frame belied her maturity in matters of manners and household.

Harrrumph! Her father cleared his throat before launching his assault. “You are betrothed. The bands will be read this coming Sunday and a fortnight hence you will be wed to Master Mecucci. No expense will be spared. Begin preparations immediately. Your cousin Lucretia has offered to help with details. She will join us after siesta.” The issues settled in his mind, his attention returned to his accounts.

Her breath strangled as tears pricked her eyes. The soft fruit in her hand squashed to the floor. Watching the life juice seep into cracks in the stone floor, she saw her own life seeping away as well. “No,” she whispered. No acknowledgement from the other end of the table. Unthinkable even yesterday, she found the words: “No, Father.” A heartbeat. Two. Silence.

“Please Father, I beg you!”

“Silence! The contract has been made. We will discuss it no further.”

“But…”

“Leave me!”

A swish of skirts and she fled the scene in horror.

Away! She must away at once! She would have to pass her father to use the front door, so she turned once again to the back garden. Alas! The gate through the garden was now occupied by a workman installing a new lock. Clever Father! She needed to think, so back up the stairs, the cook’s scowl burning her back.

Milan through her window looked the same, yet everything was changed. She was to wed a man thrice her age. A widower. Nephew of the Bishop. A merchant. A wealthy, dour, scion of faith and virtue…The four walls of her chamber closed in on her like a prison cell.

Ladies of her social stature were both powerful and pawns in the alliances of Italy’s elite. Her dowry would buy new influence and connections. Hadn’t her own cousin been married off when she was but fourteen? It was rumored the Pope himself was Lucretia’s true father. War had been averted before her first husband mysteriously succumbed to a fever. Her second marriage had been officially annulled under suspicious circumstances to allow her to marry again, more advantageously. Poor Lucretia!

Poor me! To pass the time and order her thoughts, Chiara read selections from Politian, but the love poems made her weep in remorse, so she turned her attention to her trinket box. A blown-glass bracelet from her mother, a pressed flower from Matteo. Sigh. All from a simpler time.  She closed her eyes, hoping to dream of the past, but praying for a different future. Sleep, but no rest.

A servant’s knock alerted her to the coming hour. She changed her gown for a sober brown and dressed her hair severely. (“See how miserable I am, Father?”) Her feet and her heart were leaden as she waited in the atrium.

Luca appeared in a swirl of russet silk just arrived from Genoa. Her famously blonde hair perfectly framed her face and her double strands of pearls spaced with jade beads set off her sparkling eyes. She was gracious and stunning, and yet, there was something else. A knowing. A secret.

Dear Luca wasted no time catching her uncle up with all her family news: Her brother would soon be betrothed! Her mother had just returned from Florence. Her friend master Leonardo sends his best! Then she moved on to her social calls. Why, just this morning she had taken Barley Tea with Master Mecucci at the Guild Hall. Such a respectful gentleman, so generous, so…mature. She hoped his cough cleared up before the wedding. He was looking a little feverish when she left…

Just then, a knock at the door. A messenger! Father’s face fell as the news was conveyed. “It can’t be! Dead? Are you certain?” Then to no one in particular, “Master Mecucci is no more! A sudden fever and a failing heart have destroyed my plans for the guild, for the city, my own daughter!” He continued to rant as he left the young women at the table. They heard the front door close behind him.

A serene Luca gazed out at the garden. “My dear, walk with me.” Arm in arm, they walked the gravel paths, stopping now and again to remark on a plant or a scent or a purpose. Peace filled their hearts as the sun’s last rays left them in a violet dusk. “Remind me to share some seeds from the plants Master Leonardo sent home with Mother. The flowers are so beautiful and Leonardo assures me that Foxglove can be quite useful if handled carefully. Truly life-changing.”

“Oh, dear cousin! Aren’t they terribly dear?”

“In matters of the heart, the price is often high. We Borgias know that well.”

I have spent my entire life accumulating.  My exception to this statement was when, for a short period of time, I lived a frugal, austere life in rebellion against society and its excesses. Remember the 60’s?  My youthful collections included ball bearings (go figure), stamps, coins (my grandfather said I was a good numismatist and I held on to the moniker for a long time to wow my friends) and the very educational Mad magazine.  Interest waxed and waned throughout the years and most items ended up in a box or drawer somewhere.  True accumulation came with marriage. Someone else had stuff too!  Plus, the ultimate insult came when our parents asked us to get all of our crap out of their attics, basements, and bedrooms.  Ok, we could find space for our cherished items, but when the babies started to come along, things began to heap.  Buy a larger home, they said, get more square footage, they said.  Made sense to me.  That happened six times in our married life. Each move was to a bigger home.  Ovation finally broke the insane progression.  The castles, finally, were in our rearview mirror. 

My wife and I enjoyed a long life of perusing antique shops, estate sales, and local garage sales.  We started to collect Wizard of Oz books and memorabilia (what else, my wife’s name is Dorothy).  Along the way we accumulated enough other books to rival a public library.  Our collection of over 180 pieces of carnival glass, of course, needed display cases and shelving. “More rooms!” I shouted. 

Late relatives, of course we all can relate, were another source of property.  Who could turn down Grandma’s shell collection, Grandpa’s wood working tools, and lots and lots of linen, photos, and the always wonderful salt and pepper shaker collection.  Multiply that process 4-5 times in your lifetime and that is a lot of stuffed cardboard boxes set somewhere in the house.  I know, you’ll get to them soon! Those folks (May they rest in peace) were not the only source of, shall I say junk?  I was just as complicit.  This past year we found bank statements and canceled checks going back to 1982 (you never know when you need to put your hands on that information), college class papers and text books, and the usual scrapbooks that were put together during our early youth. We discovered 6 boxes of items that were to have been sent to Goodwill about 4 years before.  Of course we went through them! There might be a misplaced treasure that was mistakenly discarded.

When the decision was finally made to make Ovation our new home, first and foremost on our mind was how to decide what in our existing home would have a continued life in a smaller space.  A daunting task lay ahead and we had to be brutal, for lack of a better word, with our possession accumulation. The attempt to ignore was short lived.  Reality was in our face.

It is unimaginable how much “stuff” can be squirreled away in every nook and cranny of a home.  How did it get that way? The answer is simple. When you don’t know what to do with something, keep it.  When you will never use an item again, keep it.  When something is broken or a piece on it is missing, keep it. When you paid more for something than you would ever be able to sell it for, keep it.  If you are sure your beloved antique will someday make headlines on the Antique Roadshow, keep it.  I had enough tools from my grandfather and father to outfit the finest machine shop.  I was sure the welding supplies and drill press bits would be important parts of my retirement plan. Dorothy was much more meticulous with her treasures. Her procedure of evaluation was simple. First, should I keep it, secondly, what is it and what does it do, and thirdly was it really ours?

The process began. We “surfed the net” for downsizing information, read articles on retirement, and talked to others who had taken the plunge.  We were told not to agonize over possessions because when we were gone our children would have no problem “taking care of our stuff.”  We did take time to look at what was essential for our new home, what hadn’t seen the light of day for years, and what I borrowed from a neighbor months ago and needed to return.  First call went to our kids.  They needed some major appliances for their businesses, furniture and beds for houses as they were upsizing, (little do they know what is in store for them), and some pictures and knick-knacks they wanted. The toil of a huge yard, fruit trees, grape arbors, garden plots and the annual leaf accumulation of 8 maple trees was over.  Garden equipment and many assorted tools went to Habitat for Humanity and other groups that restored and distributed mowers, rototillers, and trimmers.  Goodwill, Saint Vincent DePaul’s, neighbors, and friends were involved in the dispersal process. Someone suggested we pack up items that hadn’t quite cleared the ‘stay or go’ category.  I thought I would try that.  Bad idea!  I have two medium sized cartons somewhere in the garage stuffed full of “we must keep these and decide later” items.  I wonder if Ovation is planning an annual garage sale.  I’ll be ready!  We used a local auction house, and finally the ultimate feeding frenzy, the garage sale!  Signs that read “Moving Sale” and “Everything Must Go,” brought some enthusiasm, but when we filled the $1.00 table with the slightly used merchandise, we had ourselves a party. 

The movers did a wonderful job in getting us to Ovation at Oak Tree, but the real heroes were myself and my wife for plowing through the process and accepting our success of the entire episode. 

We are strangely free from the weight of a lifetime of needing to be surrounded by possessions. What we have in our new home is what we need.  Why didn’t we do this years ago?  Ovation hadn’t been developed yet, silly.

I’m almost 80, can that be?

Where is that younger one of me?

That girl I was with skin so smooth

And not a wrinkle to remove

That girl who partied till the dawn

Replaced by me who hides a yawn

That girl I knew so very well

Who ran full tilt and never fell

That gal whose hair was natural then

And one whose knees could always bend

And how she  loved to dine at nine

But now, at four, it’s senior time

That  girl whose body parts and bones

Could move about without those groans

And  yes, when chocolate passed her lips

It didn’t land on waist and hips

It seemed so very long ago

When life was fast, and not so slow

That age when I could give a damn

And store clerks didn’t call me m’am

And life was just one big affair

My youth was longing to be there

But now,  I’m older.. some say wise

I’ll leave that fun for younger guys

I’ve found a niche, a slower pace

Still running in the human race

I would be younger if I could

But being older has some good

I rise without alarm wake up

And enjoy my coffee cup by cup

No need to hurry up and run

To jobs or duties  never done

Card games can be played all day

And friends are always up for play

The bones they ache and hurt a lot

But, I’m thankful for the ones I’ve got

I guess that younger one of me

She just matured…and now is free

The person that I’ve always been

Will always be my closest kin

So,  I’ll kick my heels and tip a beer

I may be old, but I’m still here

Taking a bath on Saturday afternoon brings to mind my grandmother Maude. Gone more than 20 years now, memories of her can still make me laugh. And sometimes shed a tear.

Each Saturday, Maude announced to whoever was in the house that she was taking over the bathroom for her weekly bath “whether I need it or not, so get your business done and get out.”  Seven people in one old house with just one small bathroom—that’s how it was in those days. I was just glad that by the time I turned three and cared about such things, the family had moved from the farm into town, had indoor plumbing, and baths no longer took place in the big metal pan tub, set up in the middle of the kitchen floor, boiling hot water dumped from the stove kettle to mix with the cold water carried in from the outdoor pump.

Like Maude, I loved baths, from the moment I first slid into that claw-foot porcelain job at the new house. I could sit and play in there til I turned blue and pruney. My mother, through trial and error, discovered that the only way to coax me out of the tub was to convince me I would go down the drain with the bath water once the plug was pulled. Then she’d hover over the tub, fingers poised to yank the rubber stopper, while I screamed and scrambled to make a quick exit. Hey, I was only three. She had no such power over her own mother though, and Maude used every minute of her reserved bathing hour.

At the 30-minute mark, Maude would holler for me or my little sister to come scrub her back. She made no attempt to cover her large, saggy body. Instead she’d say, “Bet you wished you looked this good naked.” For a woman whose mother was a minister, Maude was downright irreverent. I’ve heard it said that bonds often develop between members of every other generation, and for us, it was true. My mother took to her prudish grandmother’s ways; I gravitated to my own grandmother’s risqué humor. It was Maude who taught us the preferred body washing method: “First you wash down as far as possible, next you wash up as far as possible, then you wash possible.”

Maude had moved in with us when I was eight, leaving her second husband to tend the farm by himself, or maybe with the help of the woman he was fooling around with. Maude never talked about it, but as a quiet, observant kid, I learned things. Like the fact that she’d divorced my grandfather, her first husband, because of his drunken rages, and made her way through the 1920s as a single mother with two young daughters. Later she’d married Rube, the farmer. I never liked him. He was an ornery, foul-mouthed man, something Maude couldn’t cure him of. On that count, she settled for a bit of vengeful mischief and taught her parakeet to repeat: “Rube’s a sonofabitch. Rube’s a sonofabitch.”  Maude always found a way to make life fun, no matter what. And she’d seen some pretty hard times.

She wanted her back scrubbed with a bristly back scrubber and Ivory soap, then massaged with a hot washcloth. I think I would have been embarrassed to perform this task on my mother, but with Maude it all felt natural. Once I tried to count the freckles on her back. Now I realize most were age spots, mixed with scars from decades of hard work as a farm wife, and maybe a few from my grandfather’s beatings. Still, she was a big woman who stood straight and laughed loud.

She sang as she soaked, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Everything from hymns to bawdy saloon diddies. My parents thought she was downright shameful at times, but we kids loved her. During years of my own family’s chaos that adults couldn’t keep hidden from sensitive youngsters, Maude provided a safety net of funny stories, knitting lessons, home cooking and silliness. As my sister says, “Maude was a gift.”

Last Saturday afternoon I sat in my Greek soaking tub, floating a bar of Ivory soap like a kid playing with a toy boat, and tried to remember the words to one of the bawdier songs she used to sing. What came to mind, instead, was an old Sunday school song, one she’d learned from her mother. “I washed my hands this morning, so very clean and white…” I don’t remember all the words to that one either. But I will never forget the vision of Maude sitting in the tub, her broad back clean and white, the scent of Ivory soap, and the warmth of the tiny, steam-filled bathroom.

Part of me is not exactly happy that I have turned out to look “as good” as she did naked. On the other hand, she set a welcome example of a woman who could love life and herself with all their imperfections. I sat in my tub and considered my own saggy body, and all the years gone by. Perhaps the only thing I regret about not having children is the lost opportunity to be the Maude in an unsuspecting grandchild’s life.

Midnight bells rang far off in the midst of London’s slumber. Wary and alone Maryanne Stewart pushed herself to walk faster past Marble Arch toward her home on Connaught Square. She was almost there.

“Stand and deliver, Madame!”

Startled by the demand in a rich ringing baritone, Maryanne turned in the fog to find that there was no one there, she was completely alone.

The streetlights on Bayswater Road glowed like warm fuzzy fireflies in the thick hanging fog. The light they shed barley made it to the sidewalk below them.  So thick was the murky night that she could barely see across the road to Hyde Park. She shivered and pulled her muffler closer to her chin and turned to walk on.

As she crossed Edgeware Road to the little traffic island a vaporous figure emerged before her in a swirling black cape and a three-cornered hat. If sky blue were flames, he carried them within his eyes.  What burned there was all that was visible of his face above the black silk kerchief that covered his nose and mouth. He held two Pirlet flintlock pistols aimed right at her heart. Maryanne’s mouth flapped open to emit only a chilled gasp.

The man took two steps toward her, lowered his guns and laughed. “I will do thee no harm Milady, nor shall I take thy coin purse or jewels. Such beauty as you hold within your face makes a beggar of any man you look upon. Believe it honest and true, I have never clapped eyes upon, nor am I likely ever again to behold such a woman as you in this life or the next.” His devilish eyes fell to her mouth. “What I will take with great pleasure and at any cost be it gold or the hangman’s noose is a kiss from those perfect lips.” He doffed his hat and gave her a courtly bow.

Maryanne looked him up and down then narrowed her eyes. “Get out of my way!”  She took a swipe at him with her tote bag and to her surprise it sliced though him creating a rolling wave of vapor which slowly and amazingly found its way back into his form  She looked from side to side to see if she were truly alone and the only person on the street to witness this apparition. A bus trundled past with only the driver on board.

The man pulled his kerchief down around his neck to reveal a face unsurpassed in the realm of male splendor. He leveled his gaze upon her and gave her a dazzling smile. “If not a kiss, then what say you to a midnight ride with me on the back of my horse Black Bess?”

“Look here Mr. Ghost, I am tired, and I want to go home. Besides hasn’t anyone told you it is not only very rude to frighten people but also quite out of fashion. Now if you will excuse me?” She stepped boldly forward and walked right through him. Half a block down the street she looked back. He was gone.

Along Stanhope Place Maryanne heard the clip clop of horse’s hoofs. She turned her head slowly to the left. There following along on the street was the apparition and its horse, the huge beast snorted, and its eyes glowed with the banked embers of hell. Black Bess no doubt.  Once again, the specter doffed his hat and bowed from the saddle. Maryanne sighed and turned her nose into the air and walked on. Black Bess and her master kept pace. When she reached number 20 Connaught Square, she unlocked the front door and stepped inside. As she shut the door on the street, she saw that he was still astride his horse in the middle of the street, watching her house with those eyes. Incredible eyes they were she had to admit with a slight shiver and a smile to herself. That night she kept the lamp on beside her bed.

By morning she had convinced herself that the entire thing had been a dream. On her way to Selfridges for a bit of shopping she came to the traffic island where she had seen the ghost the night before. As she waited with the morning crowd for the light to change an odd feeling came over her. She turned around. In the center of the island there was a plaque.  She had steeped over hundreds of times without ever reading it. Round and set flush with the sidewalk it simply read: “Site of Tyburn Tree”. She covered her mouth with both hands in shock. Of course, Tyburn, the place where criminals where hung in the 17th and 18th centuries.  Among the many who swung from the three-cornered gallows was the Highwayman who rode a horse called Black Bess.  What was his name? Her mind reeled as she shut her eyes and his face appeared once more before her. Of course! His name was Dick Turpin the most famous Highwayman of them all. And on this very spot, April 7, 1739 by His Majesty George II order Dick Turpin was hung until dead.

For the rest of her life when she walked alone Dick Turpin always gave Maryanne Stewart safe passage home. Whether she noticed him or not, she never made mention to anyone.