It was a cool evening in the fall and I was enjoying the view out of my living room window. The red maple trees in the median in front of my house and across the street were a striking bold red color this season, noticeable even in these early evening hours. When the maples turn color, they are always pretty but this year they seemed to be especially striking. Then I walked toward the back of my house and looked out at the covered patio and into my back yard. It was dusk by this time and I noticed a couple of items I had inadvertently left out when I was working in the back yard. I thought I could easily remove them without spending a lot of time outside as it got darker, so I walked out the patio door for a quick tidy-up of the back yard.
Then I heard a noise – a soft moan. I thought I was alone, outside as nighttime approached, and now I was concerned. Was someone hurt? Who was it and exactly where were they? I waited a few moments – all was quiet. I went back into the house, flipped on the patio light, picked up a flashlight, and quietly tiptoed back outside. I heard the moaning again, but I couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from. I could see the patio area and back yard, and no one was there. I have very little lighting on the side of my house, so I pointed the flashlight down the side of the house where there is a walkway to the front yard. Again I heard a soft moan but saw no one. I stopped and looked around at my yard and then peeked into my neighbor’s yard to see if either Heather or Todd were hurt or needed help. No, there was no one there. I paused to consider…think. Then I realized nobody was hurt and the moaning was not coming from my yard or my neighbor’s yard. It was October and the evening was very still and quiet. The sound of my night visitor was emanating from My Morbid Mind. I’ve never been outside at night before when they were “entertaining” people I guess, because I’ve never been aware of the sound until now. I’m typically inside my house when it begins to get dark – whatever hour that might be.
I’ll remember this occurrence for quite awhile. I’m not likely to venture outside after dark in October again. That sound can definitely be concerning, and even a bit scary (which is the goal I guess).
Walking through the preserve here at Ovation is so relaxing and generally quite peaceful. I can hear the small animals scurrying around sometimes, and when I walk very early in the morning, I can view the owls and other nocturnal creatures getting sleepy and bedding down. I notice the wildflowers in bloom and I look forward to seeing the yellow daffodils every spring. I often follow the trails and enjoy listening for the sounds of nature and seeing the beauty that is everywhere I look.
I walk freely anywhere in the preserve. I even end up near Marvin Road sometimes, and my mother taught me that I have to be watchful for those vehicles that travel along that road. But wherever I go, I am admired, whether I am near the road or deep in the woods. I know I am admired because people stop and stare, and I often hear the clicks of their cameras. Sometimes I pose for them, but if they get too close, I head farther down the trail and out of sight. I do remember people I’ve met before in a general way – I remember if they are on my “safe” list or if they are on my “stay away from” list.
Yes, I am aware how many admire me. And I do have many positive traits. For example, I have a gentle nature, my hearing is exceptional, I have good eyesight and superb night vision, my excellent sense of smell helps protect me, I can sprint up to 30 MPH and can leap 10 feet high or 30 feet horizontally. My favorite foods include acorns, blackberries, huckleberries, alfalfa, corn, clover, and especially apples – apples taste like candy to me. As many of you know, I sometimes eat grasses, leaves, and flowers too. My lifespan is dependent on my species and many other factors. In this state, I may live in the wild anywhere from 8 to 10 years typically.
I get along well with my admirers as long as they don’t get too close. I teach my children to always be aware of what is around them, even when they are just eating lunch or playing with each other. I have two fine looking children – a male and a female – their names are Buck and Grace. When my children were quite small, I had to walk slowly in order for them to keep up with me. They have often accompanied me when I wander the woods looking for food. Now my son is growing up so fast – his antlers are noticeable already. Grace is still fairly young, although she has lost most of the spots on her coat.
As long as my human neighbors and my family all get along, we can continue to live in harmony and share this beautiful area we all call home.
We met a few years ago in a parking lot in Olympia. I was in a new car and she says she was attracted to me (and the car too!) as soon as she saw me. She came to see me a couple of times and it wasn’t long before we were living together. We’ve become great buddies. We depend on each other. She takes care of me and I take care of her.
We drive together to a lot of places – the grocery store, the school her son attends, some of her favorite specialty stores like Hobby Lobby or Michael’s – various places we like to go. Occasionally we go to Dairy Queen or Costco or the Regal Cinemas. We go to one place or another almost every day. Sometimes we’ll take a longer trip and head north on the freeway to Seattle to visit family or friends.
Even though we are very close, she almost never touches me. It bothers me really. I want her to touch me but she seldom does. It seems a bit . . . . . inconsiderate. I knew we were headed for trouble at some point if we couldn’t resolve this issue.
One day as we were headed to the store, we got into an accident. It was bound to happen. We weren’t speeding, but she turned left unexpectedly and we got hit by a car in the other lane. She was very shaken by the whole ordeal and I wanted to reassure her and still let her know that I wished she would touch me more often. I’m conveniently located, easy to handle, but some people just seem to forget I am here for their safety. Can you tell it’s one of my pet peeves? Why does she keep forgetting to touch me? Perhaps now she’ll remember to push me up or push me down so everyone will know what she wants to do, where she is heading, and everyone will be safer.
When you drive someplace, do you remember to touch me?
I suppose, if you don’t know me very well, you might think I’d be bored doing a lot of the same things every day. Sure, my day starts the same. I rise at about the same time, I do a lot of big jobs and smaller tasks throughout the daylight hours, and I retire about the same time each evening. I don’t feel that my existence is boring though. My days may often seem similar, a bit like your days, but definitely not boring.
I am described as bright, vital, full of energy, strong, and exuding unmatched warmth and helpfulness. My days are generally quiet and calm, but every day I am actively doing many things for many people, and I do them quite willingly and quite easily. Some things I do alone, and some things are accomplished by working with others. For example, I do some of my best work with others during the spring and summer months.
I love the spring and summer, don’t you? I like the summer’s warmer days. The days are longer so I feel energized to accomplish lots of things. Just like me, so many people enjoy being outside – some working, some socializing, and some just relaxing. And I love making memories with you. As the days go by, I enjoy seeing everyone come outside and watch the buds pop open and the blossoms come into full bloom. There are flowers of all hues – reds, pinks, yellows, purples, blues, whites, even tangerine shades. They add such color to the world, and despite what some people may say, variety does make the world more beautiful.
Since we mostly see each other when we are both outside, you might ask if in the wintertime I work harder than in the summer months because the days are shorter and there’s always so much to do. The truth is, I never work. I automatically share my energy, my strength, and my vitality all the time. I never work at it. It’s just my nature – it’s what I am – and I don’t need to work at it. I enjoy being able to share my qualities and express my brightness, warmth, strength and vitality all the time. I’m a necessity in your life, I bring you joy, and I am your sun.
“When I was a girl of 17 I went to all of Gatsby’s parties. That’s where I met Bill .”
It was just before dawn. Mark Post closed his great grandmother Marie’s ancient diary and put it in his backpack. He looked at the rusted gates of 111 Kings Point Road and took a deep breath. The no trespassing sign hung sideways from one screw and was almost completely covered with ivy. He looked up and down the road. There was no sign of anyone watching. In a scrabble of arms and legs he was over the gate in fifteen seconds. When his feet hit the driveway, he could have sworn he heard music coming from the beach beyond the trees.
It was a quarter of a mile though the trees overgrown with ivy along the cracked and buckled drive to where the house once stood.
“I never met Jay Gatsby. No one ever saw him. We just came there every weekend from the city because the word was out that he gave spectacular parties. The place overflowed with free liquor and the best jazz bands from Harlem. “Gatsby pool party
A robin’s egg blue predawn sky dimly lit the pit overgrown with weeds where the chateau of dreams Gatsby had built for his Daisy once stood. Three Corinthian columns were all that remained of the portico that opened to the terrace and the formal gardens that stretched from the house to the beach of Manhasset Bay.
Mark hopped up on the low foundation wall and made his way gingerly to the columns. He stood in silence and looked out over the expanse before him. In the distance across the bay twinkled the lights of Sands Point where Daisy’s house stood until just a few years ago. The cloudless sky behind those winking fading lights was turning pale pink. When he walked down the broken steps to the dirty marble terrace once again, he heard distant strains of an old tune.
“Bill was an odd duck. He was not a rich boy and had no prospects. But he was handsome and could dance like nobody’s business. He wore Shalimar. All the girls called him sissy to his face because he wore that perfume. They thought he was “funny that way”. But I knew he wasn’t, and I didn’t care because it smelled wonderful on him. Bill just laughed at those silly women and then swept me onto the dance floor and held me tight as we pivoted into a fox trot.”
Mark moved slowly across the terrace and down the last sweeping set of stairs to the haunted remains of the formal garden. There were wildly overgrown roses on either side of the wide path that lead to the beach. They seemed all to be leaning toward the east in anticipation of the sunrise. Ancient flowers filled with perfumed memories of past loves long dead. Only the sunlight could make them bloom and bring love to life again.
“On the day I married Bill, he gave me his bottle of Shalimar and said he would never wear it again. He told me that he only wore it because he knew that it was the perfume that would lead him to the woman he would marry. ‘It is your perfume now’ he told me. And ever since my wedding day, it has been and always will be my perfume.”
Mark reached the place where the garden ended, and the beach began. Rotting wooden posts reached out from the shore into the bay where the old dock once stood. They seemed to be forever reaching toward the lights of Sands Point and a long forgotten green light.
Mark opened his backpack and took out a small silver box and a tiny bottle of Shalimar.
“Bill has been gone now for many years. And now in my 104th year I know I will be joining him soon. I hope that heaven is like those glorious parties at Gatsby’s and that I will meet Bill there and dance forever in his arms enfolded in an eternal cloud of jazz music and Shalimar.”
At the edge of the garden where Mark imagined Marie had first met Bill, he buried the silver box containing a few mingled ashes of his great grandparents. Then he opened the bottle of Shalimar and dabbed a bit on his wrists and behind each ear. He swore at that moment that he would wear Shalimar until he found the woman it belonged to.
He could hear the music from the past clearly now. The fist ray of sun hit his eyes and blinded him. He turned around and for a shimming moment Gatsby’s house was ablaze with lights, the music roared to life and the party was just beginning.
When we had to shrink my mom’s world for her move into assisted living, one of the things I inherited was her mother’s set of silverplate flatware, service for 12. My dismissive first look judged the flatware’s design not to my sophisticated taste. So, the wooden chest with rows of precisely formed, red-velvet-lined slots, one for each group, was tucked away on a sideboard shelf under a pile of placemats. I asked siblings and cousins if they had any interest in the set. No takers. Collecting special China, crystal, and silver wasn’t a thing anymore. It sure wasn’t my style, and I knew very little about the traditions. Relics of the past, like so many memories.
Mom’s mother was my Gramma Pesz. She was my refuge during the reign of Sir Lie-a-lot, our first stepdad. I escaped home to spend many weekends in her downtown Everett apartment. That time in her gentle presence did much to inform my creative sensibilities. For her church’s missions in Africa, we sewed children’s clothing, pieced together from mismatched donated fabric. We made scrapbooks for the missions, too, collage pages with images cut out from used greeting cards. We toddled together down the block to her church for choir practice where there was always a cantata in rehearsal.
Recently a local artist and neighbor who creates art from found materials, posted a request for used silverware. I thought of Gramma Pesz’s set, unused for decades, and offered it. But what did I know about these relics we’d held for so long, patiently waiting in their storage chest? Should I do a little research to ensure I wasn’t giving away a rare collectible—something worth more than I realized?
Over the next few days, I filled hours in a deep dive down internet rabbit holes. The antique wooden chest had a small, gilded label attached to the red velvet lining behind the stack of cream soup spoons. Of course, I didn’t yet know these were spoons made specially for cream soups. That was one of my later discoveries. But that label gave me a starting point. Browsing through page after page of Rogers Bros 1847 silver patterns I found no match. Hmmm, where to find another clue? As I said, I know little about these traditions. Glaringly obvious, once discovered, was that the back of each piece is marked with the manufacturer and collection name. Mine was Oneida Tudor Plate, not Rogers Bros after all. She’d apparently acquired the wooden storage chest separately.
There is so much about my grandmother’s life that I didn’t appreciate until years later. She obviously was a brave woman, becoming Margaret Pesznecker when she married after growing up as Margaret Smith. My earliest memories of her are at a farm east of downtown Vancouver, Washington, on land long-since covered by miles of suburban homes and Interstate 205. My mom describes an idyllic childhood there, with three older brothers who invented all sorts of adventures in the fields and surrounding woods. Everyone helped in the barn and with haying. Summers were busy canning and freezing the bounty from Gramma’s kitchen garden, where of course weeding, watering, and harvesting were among the kids’ many chores.
Why would Gramma Pesz have a silver service for twelve? How could this frugal farm wife even afford it? Gramma and Grampa weren’t known for entertaining. Yet, more research helped me identify specialty pieces that you’d never find in a modern flatware set. We had a jelly server, a master butter server as well as individual butter spreaders, soup spoons with shapes designed specifically for cream soups, and others to be used only with broths, then iced tea spoons and pickle forks, cake servers, ladles, and more.
Oneida’s Queen Bess silverplate was introduced in 1946. It’s probably the best-known Tudor Silverplate pattern, a floral flourish inspired by garden roses that was described at the time as “simple enough to go with anything, modern or traditional, yet has grace and distinction.” My mom confirmed that Gramma had started this collection soon after it was introduced as a Betty Crocker premium. Thousands of housewives around the country spent the late 1940s and early ’50s clipping Betty Crocker coupons from boxes of select General Mills products and sending them in, along with a little money, to gradually build their Queen Bess sets. I picture Gramma sitting at her kitchen table, an envelope of neatly organized coupons, carefully choosing her next acquisition in the slow process of collecting full service for 12, as well as those specialty serving pieces. This was something to look forward to, something precious she could bring into her humble farm home.
Grampa Pesz’s family had emigrated from Germany to Hungary in the 1890s, then to America in 1903, hoping to avoid being caught up in war. He wasn’t much of a talker, more of a doer. On the Vancouver farm, he worked hard raising brood hens.
I was a little shy of his gruff demeanor. You knew he held everyone, including himself, to very high standards. During WWII, my oldest uncle was drafted into the Army where he spent time as a German POW. My mom says that’s the only time she ever saw her dad cry. Later in their lives, times got tough and Grampa needed help keeping the farm going. On the drive home from a meeting with Portland bankers, his car veered into a bridge support. He didn’t make it home to tell Gramma that their loan request had been denied.
About that same time, my newly divorced single mom of three moved us from Aberdeen to the Seattle area. We needed to be closer to her brothers and their families who were all there by then. It also made sense for Gramma to leave the farm behind and move in with us.
How lucky we were to have her there, after-school treats at the ready every day, to have her care for us when Mom worked late or on rare occasions went out on her own. She expanded our collection of home-sewn dress-up outfits, taught us card games, played endless rounds of Sorry, and always beat me at Scrabble while helping me learn the strategic value of odd two- and three-letter words such as qi, jo, raj.
We were just old enough to stay home alone after school, at least by standards of the time, when Mom brought Sir Lie-a-lot into our lives. Gramma opted to move to an Everett apartment, close to her favorite pastor who’d relocated there. I missed Gramma’s everyday presence, but we stayed close, enjoying those weekend escapes to her apartment, sewing, cooking, and listening to classical music. Her favorite was trumpet, mine piano.
After a few years, Mom finally got Sir Lie-a-lot out of our lives and we landed in an apartment complex where we met Richard the Kindhearted, who became our new stepdad. I no longer needed those weekend escapes to Everett. Instead, we’d drive up to her little apartment and bring Gramma down to Seattle for the day and a meal with our newly blended family. As time went by, high school study and a tight-knit group of friends filled my days.
When I eventually moved to Pullman to finish college at WSU, I was completely absorbed adjusting to life on my own, making new friends, figuring out how to become an adult. I’m sure I wrote letters and sent cards, but I don’t recall taking the time to visit Gramma for far too long. Everyone’s life was complicated and changing. By then, she lived in a senior care facility. All but a handful of her lifetime’s belongings divided among Mom, who got the silverplate, and my three uncles.
Oddly enough, a few months after I relocated to Pullman, so did Mom and Richard, where he had a new job with a large farming operation. After we moved away, Gramma withered. Within a few months, she passed in her sleep. Mom is sure Gramma just gave up, willing herself to die. Her heart ached over that for a long time.
The perspective that aging brings is a curious thing. No way to learn or share it without doing the time. I often think back on the choices I’ve made, both bad and good, and where each one led me. One regret is that I may not have made sure Gramma knew just how much she meant to me. As I uncovered the history of her silver, it became a symbol of her presence in my life. Precious, unseen for a time, then newly cherished. Thinking about her while writing this story helped me recover wonderful memories. And I am so very lucky that my mom is still here to share her memories and perspectives. Her advice, to learn from the outcomes of your decisions and then go on, helped diminish my regret. I appreciate that Gramma’s influence has been a guiding force all my life.
This silver set had little significance to me and sat in a cupboard for years. When I finally brought it into the light, it took on a meaning that I couldn’t have imagined. I had found rare collectibles worth much more than I realized. Now I’m ready to let the silver service go. My mom and I can’t wait to see it become art.|
Today started off calm and quiet. I was with others I often palled around with and things were going fine. Then it became one of those days. It got cold and very very wet. This wasn’t just showers or what you’d consider a light rain. The water just seemed to pour down by the bucketful and everything became very wet. It stayed that way for an hour or so, a heavy deluge on and off, and finally it stopped. All was calm and still for a little while. I stayed where I was and waited. Was this a good time to get out of there? I wasn’t sure I wanted to chance it. But I also didn’t like being so damp and cold.
I waited until Nancy came. After she arrived, I was able to go inside to a room that was always warm. By then I was pretty cold and ready to get dried off. My friends and I stayed pretty much together, although it seems like DT (he says that stands for Darn Tough but none of us believe him!) gets separated from us sometimes. Anyway, I felt better and better the longer I stayed in the room. My friends all seemed to feel better too.
When we all felt warm and dry, we came out of the warm room and joined Nancy. There were quite a few of us and we divided up into different groups, and then headed into different parts of the house to spend some time together. Tommy, Calvin and Ralph were together. I stayed with Ann, Liz and Alfred. Eddie, DT and Levi formed another group.
Then, because Nancy likes to do this, we played a game similar to Hide & Seek. Each group hid in different parts of the house. When it’s time to find us, Nancy is pretty good. She can usually find whichever one of us she chooses. I think it’s because we usually hide in the same places when we play this game. But that’s okay. We all have fun anyway.
Maybe you like to play Hide & Seek too. Our names are probably familiar to most of you. There’s Alfred Dunner, Eddie Bauer, Calvin Klein, Liz Claiborne, Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren, Ann Taylor, Levi Strauss, and DT (and it really does stand for Darn Tough). You probably see some of us pretty regularly. Do you know where we were that was so cold and wet? And do you know what the warm room was?
He remained in the shadows in his small boat looking out over the water and focused on the three people in the yacht, talking, drinking, and seemingly just having fun. He had been sitting there in the dark for hours, watching and listening. He could hear them talking but was too far away to hear their conversation clearly. If he moved any closer, they would see him. He had been shown pictures of the three people gathered there, and knew their backgrounds. What were they up to?
The week before, Ben had talked with his editor about being given “bland” stories to cover – wedding destinations, promotions at large companies, a new store coming to the area, etc. Nothing exciting. He wanted something a bit more “meaty” or perhaps an investigative story to follow up on. That’s when his editor assigned him to this story – an investigative report on the activity of the three people on the yacht – one woman and two men. The men had long rap sheets including convictions for theft and transportation of stolen goods across US borders – TVs and other technology equipment that could be easily sold and not easily traced. The woman was also a known criminal, but typically she was interested in transporting stolen gems. Why were the three of them together on this yacht? It seemed doubtful that they were merely socializing, chitchatting.
The yacht began moving slowly through the water. It docked at a marina on the far shore. Ben rowed quietly back toward the near shore, making sure he didn’t make any noise. With his binoculars he could see them walk towards the lone car sitting in the parking lot of the seaside restaurant.
The next day he saw the three of them again. This time the two men talked at length, but the woman drove away. Ben wasn’t sure who to keep track of, and decided to keep watching the two men. Later that evening, the woman returned. Ben didn’t see her arrive but there she was with the men.
The following day one of the men drove away and returned that evening to join the other two. Ben was having trouble determining who to track when the group split up. Should he follow the woman, the taller man, or the burly man? This time Ben followed the burly man when he drove off in his Honda. The burly man drove to the border, crossed at the appropriate place, and returned a couple of days later. Was he selling or fencing goods of some sort, or just taking a day or two of vacation?
That evening, Ben watched the three people eat dinner at a well known restaurant. He sat across the restaurant from them so he couldn’t hear them but could see them clearly. They seemed to be celebrating – having champagne and toasting one another. Later they again went sailing on the yacht, with Ben watching from his little rowboat at a safe distance. Safe, until he sneezed! All three people suddenly looked in his direction. One of them pointed. The burly man called out, “What are you doing out here this late?” He didn’t dare answer, but quietly rowed away as quickly as he could, trying to stay in the shadows.
The tall man let down a lifeboat with an outboard motor on it, and headed his way. That’s when Ben was able to make out a small cove to his right and he rowed into it and held onto the dense reeds on the shore. The tall man didn’t see him there and motored on by. He eventually turned around and returned to the yacht.
As Ben was writing up his story the next day, a thought suddenly came to him. He wrote down everything that had happened, what he saw, where everyone went, what they did when they returned, etc. It dawned on him what was going on. Then he visited the local police, explained the situation, and they put a couple of detectives on the case. As it turned out, Ben had been right.
The two men and the woman were not taking technology items or gems across the border. They were taking the cars they drove! Ben never saw them driving when they returned from their day trips, and he finally figured out they didn’t come back in the cars they drove over the border. All three were arrested and Ben got his front page story at last!
Just a little exercise from our writing group. We choose a word out of the hat, and all write for ten minutes, whatever comes to mind. The word was “grace” and this was on my mind.
••••
What the world needs now is grace, sweet grace. No, not just for some, but for everyone …
Much more than love, we need grace. Especially now. All the decades of talking about love don’t seem to have gotten us anywhere.
Maybe stop with the love babble and try grace. You don’t even have to like someone to offer them grace, so it might be easier. Grace seems somehow connected not only to the person needing it, but also to the spirit of the person giving it.
What exactly is grace? Webster’s has quite a list of variations, some having to do with religion and God. But I prefer the basic definition at the top of Google’s list that comes from the Oxford dictionary: courteous goodwill.
In my mind, grace involves shutting your mouth once in a while, not being so hell bent on expressing your opinion and convincing others you know something they don’t. It means you listen more than you speak. It involves some degree of forgiveness, or at least acceptance. You don’t have to agree with others, just be willing to let them be who they are without criticism or scorn. Certainly, without hate.
To be graceful means moving with smooth flow, not upsetting the surroundings. You can be graceful in all environments, all weather. Why can’t we be graceful with each other, no matter our extremes and differences?
Grace. Courteous goodwill. What would the world be like if we all had a little more of it?
Left To Write 