Left To Write

We’re going to the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump. A typical precursor of excitement that was our made-up mantra. We started that chant when our father had announced that the barrels standing in the alley were full and needed emptying.

It was another time, the late 50’s and early 60’s. Our small town had a poorly maintained garbage dump about four miles outside of town. The eyesore sat in a low-lying area just about three hundred yards of the state highway; the main connector of many small communities in a north south direction from Great Falls, the big city in north central Montana. The dump, as everyone called it, had a single dirt roadway that was slightly elevated, and eventually gave way to a couple of branch roads off to both sides. Every six months or so, the city maintenance vehicle, which was really a pickup truck with a push blade in the front, would clear the buildup of trash dumped unceremoniously on the actual road and force it down into the tall grass and weeds that grew unchecked.

The typical resident of our farming community had many vehicles including at least one pickup truck. The usual refuse container area, was filled with yard clippings, branches, and household garbage. Fifty-five-gallon barrels, the typical garbage can for the area could be found in almost every alley. They may at one time been filled with fuel or oil but repurposed. The top was cut off and the barrel was a sturdy long lasting household garbage container.

Burning bans were not in existence during those years and common sense was the rule. Trash was incinerated if the barrels overflowed. As kids we stood around and watched the flames, as if it was our own personal campfire. Conscientious home owners would toss some kinds of screen over the barrels to prevent flaming debris from flying out.

The seagulls instantly appeared when we approached the dump, and the smell of the area was a signal of drawing near. I wondered what highway travelers thought as they drove by our dump. That was just the way it was back then.

I never did figure out what was so exciting about taking the drive to the ultimate resting place of unwanted piles of junk, but I never missed a chance to journey there. I imagine anyone following my dad down the back roads with a full load would be bombarded with limbs, grass clippings, and ashes from the uncovered barrels.

My mother would complain that dad would inevitable come back with more stuff that he left with. She was often right. He was a tinkerer; his love was old radios.

“Why this is perfectly good, or, all this needs a new plug on the cord, or, the radio works fine without that plastic cover, or, I have some tubes I think will fit this one.” He would announce in justification to add to his hoard in the garage.

Occasionally he would get one working and we all had to marvel at his genius. He gave me one small radio he had resurrected, and I kept it on my night stand. The first night I turned the thing on, it threw up a big puff of smoke, a bang, then went dark. The next day it was back out in the workshop being examined and resurrected.

Now I’m getting sidetracked a bit too much. I wanted you to get an idea of the times. There weren’t container trucks built specially for trash, or container cans approved by the city, or certain days for pickup. There were certainly no rules for trash burning in the city limits. The garbage got emptied simply when the barrels were full, or the roads were reasonably clear of winter snow, and someone had a truck available.

My dad, as well as a large percentage of the fathers in my town, were Word War II veterans. They came back home to take over the family farms, set up mechanic shops, worked in farm implement stores, and other businesses endeavors. Almost all started families, their kids were friends of mine. The Baby Boomers they called us.

Everybody knew everybody and everybody’s business it seemed like. It was a town of three hundred and fifty people. So, you can imagine. It was also a community that would lend a helping hand when needed.  One farmer was laid up and unable to harvest his wheat. The others in the area abandoned their own fields and brought in the entire crop in one day. That’s how it was.

Again, I can’t seem to get to the point, but you get the idea that these folks were salt of the earth.

One day a new man came into town. He rented a small three-room house right near the edge of the community reservoir. His name was Jake Funkhouser. Jake was of slight build, prematurely white hair that stuck out like a haystack under his pith helmet. You know, the one that all the rich people on African safari wore. The helmet had a little ribbon on the front of it.

My dad told me it signified a person had earned a Marine Crop silver star citation for his action of bravery and gallantry during the war. Dad explained the decoration to me in his words with an air of respect.  I had no idea if that star was a big deal or not, but I guess it turned out to be the case.

I never saw Jake wear anything but dark blue bib coveralls and a white tee shirt. Never. 

The man kept to himself, exchanging short conversations with people, but not making an effort to prolong their interaction.

Dad said the man was probably suffered from shell shock, explaining to me that sometimes the pressure, tension, fear, and seeing death on a major scale affected a guy’s mind, and it took a while for him to get straightened out.  Today it is called PTSD, post-traumatic stress disease.

The people gave Jake his space and privacy. That’s how it was for a short time.

 Jake drove around an old truck that was popular with the Army during the war. Dad called it a “deuce and a half transport”, which apparently meant a two and one-half ton truck. It looked a bit like a jeep, but didn’t have anything fancy on it. Just a plain old truck. The insignia on the truck was that of a REO. Some of the farmers in the area drove the same make vehicle but they were grain trucks. Jake’s truck was painted olive drab, the favorite color of the United States Army. Dad figured he bought it at an auction, a sale of surplus equipment from the war.

Jake’s landlady, a really old woman who came to our church on Sundays, was quite a baker. Everyone lined up early when her cinnamon rolls were being sold for some community fund raiser. She also baked a ton of bread, giving it to needy people and friends. She was a nice woman. Apparently, she had mentioned to Jake that the man who usually ran to the dump for her had torn up his leg in a bailer accident and she was concerned about how she was ever going to get her garbage containers emptied. And that is actually the beginning of this story.

Jake began to haul trash, junk, and garbage for the people of the community. Word of his service traveled quickly in the small town. And he refused to take payment. At least payment of money. He was bombarded with foodstuffs, baked goods, hot dishes, and fresh fruit and vegetables. He was given tickets to spaghetti dinners, the Lutheran lutefisk feast, school functions, and vouchers for gasoline. But never money.

Jake kept the work up, without complaint or conversation. He didn’t drink as far as anyone knew, was an avid reader and traded books with various people in the town.

One day his truck pulled up in front of our house. My dad went out to talk to Jake for a brief moment. I watched dad turn away and walk toward the garage. He had three radios of questionable condition under his arms. Jake had made a point to bring dad a treasure trove from the dump. A big smile shone on my father’s face. I never did figure out how Jake had known what my dad’s passion was. Somebody must have said something.

One week Jake didn’t show up on his usual route. A few men came around to his house and found he had injured his back. Apparently, it would be some time before he could help the people with their trash. A few fellows borrowed his truck, under the guise of covering for him until he got better. In reality, a bunch of the town mechanics and metal workers, and farmers installed a hydraulic lift on the back of his old REO. No more lifting those big barrels into the back of the truck.

If Jake showed up at a church dinner of some kind, the church ladies descended on him like a flock of birds. I watched him at one dinner. I thought he was a little bit embarrassed but he sure put away the food set in front of him. Polite, appreciative, and quiet.  Wearing the same clothes as always.

He was once asked why he chose our town to hang his hat. He said he had been traveling the state, drove by the town and noted a military service being conducted in the cemetery, the city graveyard situated right beside the highway. He stopped to pay his respects, heard the twenty-one-gun salute and the final end of day melody of taps. He thought this might be a good reverent town that honored those who had served in the armed forces. Why not, he said.

Jake lived in our town for about eight years, then one day was gone. He left no notes, forwarding address, or anything else. It was quite a topic of conversation for some time. A mystery.

The town started to forget about Jake Funkhouser, until one day an event brought to the forefront his memory. High school graduation was nearing and a stranger visited the school for a brief time. He was invited to come back and speak to the graduating class.

The tall ramrod straight speaker was about the age of my father. He talked with a slight southern accent but was easy to understand.

He explained that his brother, Jake Funkhouser, who had lived in our community for years, had passed away from cancer shortly after leaving this area. The brother said that Jake didn’t want to burden the community with his illness. The man also went on to tell other details of his life.

His family had a successful business in Texas, an oil processing corporation. Jake had the opportunity to be a high-level manager, but, after the war, had no desire to be involved.

Jake was a decorated war hero.  He had won a Silver Star citation.

The brother went on to tell the story:

 Jake’s platoon, one of many on Midway Island, was being impeded by cross fire from machine guns. Jake crawled and ran through the maze of bullets, tossed a grenade into one machine gun nest, then race on to engage in hand-to-hand combat and silence the other machine gun. Jake saw so many of his fellow soldiers die that day and for days afterward. It had a great effect on him and he closed himself off from much of the world. I’m sure many of you saw that part of him. He was a gentle soul, a hard worker, and a great friend. In the days before death, he talked about the kindness this community had shown him, a stranger in the midst.

He wished to show his appreciation in some small way. I have directed the local bank to manage a large money fund that will be used for future scholarships for this community’s high school graduates. The Jake Funkhouser Memorial scholarship will be awarded to any young man or woman who has aspirations of serving with Uncle Sam. If the recipient continues to be enrolled in the college or university and remains involved in the reserve officer training corps curriculum, all expenses will be paid by the scholarship. He loved the Marine Corps.

My brother was also an avid reader. He told me that he often exchanged books with other readers in the community. My brother has set aside an amount of money for the city to use to build and maintain a public library. His only directive is that the words, “Behind every Great Community is a Great Library” be displayed somewhere on the premises.

Jake was buried with full military honors near Austin, Texas.  He was a good man.

The brother, on completion of his talk was given thunderous applause. I have to think, though, the ovation was for Jake, the garbage man.

LABOR DAY, 2023, 1P.M.           

I stood staring at the face of my Samsung 23 ultra, the newest hottest cellphone on the market. A blinking movement of light faded and I barely noticed a slight device vibration as the telephone call ended. The audio connection had finished and suddenly a bright picture of the Lake Tahoe shoreline appeared. Charlene had chosen to display that snap as the current background screen. She picked the gem over all the hundreds of others that filled the gallery of this little electronic wizard. She had told me it would bring me to a happy place every time I looked at it. She wasn’t wrong.

A memorable vacation indeed. Char, myself, and our crazy mix of a mutt, Shorty, were the travelers. It had been the last road trip of the year and the weather had been beautiful the whole time. The lake water was clear and blue, and the different pine trees that framed the shot provided a nice contrast. I didn’t take it, of course, since I had no patience to work the landscape and the lighting for just that perfect image. Char is the one to take the snaps, and they seem to always turn out beautifully.

We had camped, I fished, she cooked, we napped, and Shorty, our adventuresome dog, found every pile of animal dung in a three-county area to roll in. He had been given more baths in those two weeks than in his entire life.

I was trying to flesh out a storyline for my latest novel. I was blank. Nothing seemed to come to me. I was trying to keep my literary agent appeased. No distractions outside of a few late-night partiers in the campground could help in that endeavor. Char was able to get in some quality studying to ready herself for the national testing to finally receive her much-deserved pharmacy license. Thirty days and counting for that big event.

I mindlessly focused on the cell phone image for quite some time until its face turned dark.

I had been engaged in a conversation for the better part of fifteen minutes, but barely speaking a handful of words. Information from the other end had bombarded me; things that I just couldn’t understand or comprehend. My head was whirling in confusion when the line started its long steady buzz indicating the call had finally ended.

“Who was that Teddy? “My wife asked with concern.

She had been watching me during the entire telephone call.

I spoke with a soft, almost whispering voice, “That was my brother.”

“Who?” Char said apprehensively.

“My brother.” I repeated louder that I wanted to.

“Ted, you don’t have a brother!” she blurted out as she quickly walked toward me.

ONE MONTH EARLIER….

“What is this?” I asked my diminutive wife. Her Asian heritage height was typical of her cultural background. She claimed to be five feet five inches tall but that would have been with six-inch platform shoes. Height didn’t matter. That was fine with me. She was my Vietnamese beauty. The bronze skin, dark hair, warm brown eyes, and perfectly curved lips drew me to her immediately the first time we had met.

A chance encounter as classmates in a basic history class at the state’s university began it all. She was definitely not just another pretty face. The class we shared was just an elective for her to fulfill her general requirements in order to enter the School of Pharmacy. I took it just because, but struggled with the class. It was, to me boring and full of memorization. I would have rather spent my hours in the library reading the classics and trying to understand the styles of successful writers.

She had earned a Doctorate in Pharmacy. Me? I sat around thinking up things to write about. I should have paid attention when the professor was talking about the early twentieth century bourgeois. Oh, and the succession of royalty in Europe. That’s about all I remember of that class, except I made sure to sit next to Char every day.

Coffee dates, movies, and dances, when she could fit them into her busy schedule started things off. Soon after a whirlwind romance and approval by her extended family, we were wed. We had agreed on a small quiet ceremony. A quick honeymoon to Disneyland and we were soon settling into married life routines.

“I know what my heritage is. It is quite obvious, but I thought it would be fun to discover where your genetic background existed a few hundred years ago. I bought this kit so you could find out why you are so handsome and strong.” Charlene answering my question with a big smile.

My Charlene, known as Hoa to her family, had always been so thoughtful and pleasant. I, in turn, made an extra effort to support her in all of her activities. She was working as a pharmacy intern at a local independent pharmacy, and loving it. I became a reluctant or willing chief cook and bottle washer. I didn’t mind as I was at home in front of my computer many hours of the day.

I had published three mystery and drama novels in the past two years under the nom de plume of D.D. Masterson. I have no idea where that name came from but my editor was all for it. I was told that Theodore Zuckermeier just didn’t have the right pop. It was easy to agree to the alias.

Char had asked me about my family history a few times, and as we couldn’t really pinpoint a region where there were many Zuckermeiers, she decided it was high time we find out. I was a little over six feet tall, a barrel chest, a bit hirsute, but not hairy like some middle eastern and Mediterranean men, strong upper body build, dark, and somewhat curly hair, a light beard, and a strong chin. She was right. I needed a little DNA information.

“If we have any children, I’m sure they would like to know why they look the way they look.” She said as a continued encouragement.

“So, I just spit into this tube, wrap it up, and mail it away? And that’s it?” I asked Char.

“Yes, sir. So easy even you can do it.” She teased.

“Why don’t you drop it in the mailbox when you walk the dog? Shorty is anxious to see if the boulevard trees have any new messages on them. I think he’s ready to leave a few of his own, too.” She added and giggled.

The name Shorty was a no brainer. We thought he might be a dachshund and corgi mix, but his coat and tail really didn’t belong to either breed. His belly was about two inches off the floor; hence, Shorty became his moniker.

The ancestry information had arrived by mail about a month later. A time of discovery was at hand. It was “Who exactly is Ted” time, I guess.

“Well, this is interesting.” my wife commented as she sat, curled up in our one and only oversized, overstuffed chair. It was her reading and studying domain and I dare not sit in it upon fear of death. She was busily scanning the results of my ancestry. The packet displayed more advertisements on the face of it for further options with their company. Promote, promote, promote.

“It says here that your ancestors came from the German states, England and Ireland. They touched Spain sometime along the way, too.” Char continued.

“Did you know any of that, Teddy?” she asked as she looked up at me.

“No, my mother thought she had ancestors in England, but my dad was pretty closed mouth about any of that stuff. I don’t know why. Maybe he either didn’t have a clue or it wasn’t important to him.” I answered.

I could see his point on both of those possibilities.

“You, my husband, are just about as big a mix as Shorty.” She smirked and handed me the pages of information that a one hundred dollars’ worth of saliva had afforded me.

Some of what was presented was interesting, but most was as exciting as watching grass grow.

“Is that what you think of me, Doctor Charlene?” I said and reached down to kiss her warm lips.

“I hear that Spanish lovers are the best, and it’s in my DNA. Be forewarned.” I smiled and raised one eyebrow.

“Hay lam tinh.” She spouted enthusiastically in her native Vietnamese language.

My educated wife didn’t need to interpret those words for me; I knew she had said” let’s make love.” That was one of the first phrases I learned. I didn’t hesitate. We quickly made our way to the bedroom, undressing each other along the way.

We both napped for a short while trying to rebuild the energy we had gloriously exerted, then I slid off the side of the bed quietly as to not awaken the sleeping beauty.

I looked at the newly found information about my ancestry for just a minute as I flipped through the pages once again.

“That’s nice.” I said offhandedly to myself, then tossed the packet under the pile of “I’ll get to it later” mail and correspondence and completely forgot about it, concentrating on other duties.

That is until I got that telephone call.

LABOR DAY, 2023, 2P.M.

“Yes, a brother. He had apparently been searching for his birth background for quite some time when my genetic profile alerted him as to my existence.” I said to my wife, still not believing what I had just heard.” He had a lot to say over the phone.”

He told me his age; he was three years older than myself. I figured this tryst with his mother would have been in the years that my father was still in the hills of northern California, living free and easy, and enjoying the life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He had always claimed he was the consummate commune hippie.

I didn’t offer that information to the caller, but he did confirm that his mother had also lived the same life style as my dad, and became pregnant during that time. She had, quite honestly, told him of her early years, and that his father could have been any number of men. He learned all of this before he was even a teenager. She had told him that people came and went on a whim so she couldn’t honestly give him the information he had longed for. He said it had been a pretty heavy load for him as a young person to carry, but that his mother wasn’t necessarily concerned about his feelings. It was just the way she was.

The man, Joe Lightness, was quite animated over the telephone and wanted to meet with me and any other siblings I might have.

“Nope, it’s just me.” I said keeping all my cards close to my vest.

I wasn’t sure of any of what he was saying, but agreed to meet him at a later date. I told him I would text him as to the time and place.

“I know you live in Montana. The telephone number prefix gave that away. I’m in Coeur d’ Alene. I’ve been here most of my life, and now have a wife and three kids. I hope to make a visit, as it isn’t too far away. I’ m really anxious to fill in some blanks about my father. I can imagine you must feel bombarded by all of this so just take some time to decide what you want to do.” He finished.

“Oh, and by the way, if you Google me, my name in most hits will be Journey Lightness. Compliments of a spacey, but commune loving mother.” He added as an afterthought, then ended the call.

“So, Charlene, my dear, I guess I got more than I bargained for when my DNA discoveries hit the information highway. Now what should I do?” I asked my wife, her jaw still dropping from my pronouncement.

“Well, you’ve lived your entire life as an only child, but now you find out you may have to share your father with a brother. Can you do that?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t really have a choice, but the other thing I thought about was whether or not I should tell Dad all of this. I don’t know if any of this is true, so maybe I will wait and do my own investigations to confirm the whole mess.” I continued vocally firing off all of my jumbled thoughts.

“I think we should wait, but not for long, and maybe the whole question is moot. You know the progressiveness of Charley’s Alzheimer’s.  Some good days, some bad days, and some terrible days. Even if everything is on the up and up, this Joe character might not get the satisfaction of actually meeting his father, such as he is.” Char spoke in practical terms.

Charles Zuckermeier had lived alone, then with home assistance, as long as was practical before I had to make the gut-wrenching decision to move him into a facility. His home, my home, was sold long ago to pay for the horrendous medical bills of my mother’s sojourn through cancer treatment. He was settled into a nice apartment and was quite upset when we had to move him again. I realized during all these moves that possessions, or lack of them, weren’t important in the big scheme of things. He had nothing now, a ward of the state, and barely hanging on to sanity.

Charlene was right. The sooner the better so that Journey Lightness’s curiosity of his progenitor issue would, at last, be answered.

I did some quick research and found my newly discovered brother was an owner and operator of a small construction business outside of Post Falls, Idaho. It seemed to be a viable long-established business. They advertised the success of all sorts of work modalities. The owner, Joe Lightness started the business alone and had built it up. That told me something about the guy. I couldn’t find any photographs of him, however.

What was truly amazing is the fact that my father was also in construction. He had been a finish carpenter most of his career, but also branched out into foundation and concrete work. That, in itself, was interesting.

The main thing that kept bombarding my brain was what effect, if any, would have on my father’s fragile situation. I wondered whether I was being selfish, not wanted to share him with this person, or was I truly concerned about my father. I didn’t know if something like this would really set him off.

I made the call.

TWO WEEKS LATER..

I met Joe alone at the Big Perk, a coffee shop just off of Higgins Avenue. He was excited that I had wanted to talk with him and fill in some blanks about his father, my father, our father.

I saw him walking toward the shop. He was easy to recognize. It was as if a younger version of my father had somehow and miraculously recovered from his debilitation and was coming toward me. I did a double take and waited.  He walked in, and directly to me. I became, finally, excited to meet.

“I knew your face from the picture on one of your mystery books. They are a great read by the way, when I have the time. I did a little research, or should I say one of my kids did the whole computer bit. That skill is pretty minimal for me.” Joe said, the first thing out of his mouth.

I apologized for staring at him without speaking for a moment. I explained his family resemblance.

I knew at that moment that his story rang true. He was my father’s son.

We talked at length. He told the story of his mother, Moonbeam, becoming addicted to heroin after years of dabbling with other drugs. He was taken from her at the age of fourteen and raised by his grandparents. He got word that she had died of an overdose somewhere in the San Francisco area. They never talked much about her, ever.

The fact that he and his father were both in construction gave him a great moment to ponder. He asked all sorts of questions about that career, where he worked, what it involved, was he a union guy, and other things. He even suggested I look into insurance policies that might have been taken out and carried by the union. I hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

I showed him a group of photos of my father. I had chosen several that would be indicative of his life, from the time I was a baby, until just recently.  The man across from me silently studied his picture.

He finally looked up at me through tear filled eyes.

“Thanks Ted, you have no idea what it means to me to see these pictures. When did Charles, right, Charles Zuckermeier pass away.” came an innocent question.

I measured my answer carefully and said, “He’s still alive, he lives in an Alzheimer unit here in town.”

I could tell the answer caused some anxiety from my newly found brother.

“Do you think it would be appropriate to at least see him?” Joe asked.

I was greatly relieved by the way he worded the question. He was concerned about me, and my father.  I made the decision quickly.

“No time like the present. It’s early in the day and he is usually a little sharper than in the evening. I’ll drive us, or you can follow me. It’s not too far.” I suggested.

Joe explained almost apologetically, “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take my own rig. I’ve got a big job bid this evening that I need to be present for. But I appreciate the time you are taking for this.”

“Hey” I said and lightly slapped his shoulder, “that’s what families are for.

He quickly turned his head, hiding an emotion, and we walked out of the coffee shop.

The drive to the old Deaconess Hospital, now strictly a unit for dementia and Alzheimer’s sufferers took about twenty minutes.

“How’s he doing today”, I asked Mary, the patient coordinator, who seems to know answers to all my questions.

“It’s been a pretty good day. He acted out this morning about something that was bothering him but he’s settled down. Go ahead on in.” she suggested and pointed to a day room that held another half dozen people.

We approached our father quietly. He was sitting still in a day chair, looking out the window. I walked around in front of him and sat down.

“Hi Dad, it’s a beautiful day outside isn’t it.” I said, never asking him to try to remember anything.

“I saw a bird on the ledge. He was trying to get in.” he said and pointed a wrinkled arthritic finger past me.

“I brought a friend. His name is Joe.” I said and Joe walked around quietly and sat next to me.

Charles just nodded.

“Joe wants to talk with you, is that okay?” I asked.

He nodded again.

“I am glad to meet you, I live in Idaho and came to visit. My mother Moonbeam said to say hello.” Joe said in an uncertain voice.

Charles turned his eyes toward Joe and looked at him for the longest time.

“I was in love with Moonbeam and wanted to marry her, but she said no. Where is she?” he said and turned slightly in his chair to look behind him.

Joe gripped my forearm so tightly after dad had finished talking. I knew that affirmation meant the world to him. He finally got his answers.

“Moonbeam isn’t here right now.” I said quickly.

My father, by then, became lost in the jumble of brain waves that would no longer make sense to him for quite some time. He moved his head slightly and gazed blankly out the window.

“I saw a bird on the ledge.” The old man said and nodded to the window.

I gave him a kiss on his cheek, and the two of us walked out together. Joe excused himself and headed to a restroom. I could hear muffled sobs behind the door. I understood.

We stood out in the parking lot for quite some time just talking about different things. We exchanged e-mail addresses, home and work addresses, and everything else we could think of. I promised to send Joe the entire medical records of our father in case a question of heredity came up for himself or his kids.

We set another meeting date in Coeur d’ Alene the following Sunday. I was anxious to meet my nieces and nephews and my sister-in-law, and, in turn, bring my sweetheart along to brag on her.

A new chapter was about to open up in my life, one I never, in my wildest dreams, could have imagined.

ONE WEEK AFTER MEETING MY BROTHER FOR THE FIRST TIME….

I began to formulate a storyline for another book. It would be one of love, tragedy, and intrigue. It began:

They thought the feds would leave them alone. A little weed here and there wasn’t a big deal.  Aquarius, our leader, had called a meeting of the community. We were to decide if we would protect our home in the woods, or, as he put it, let the fascist bastards run all over us. He stood in front of us, holding an automatic rifle across his body as he spoke.

I was sitting next to my very pregnant girlfriend, and feeling very alarmed.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Serenity. This is not a safe place to be.” I whispered.

“I can’t go, all of my friends are here, besides where would we go?” she said quietly.

Suddenly shots rang out.

Claudia looked intensely at her boyfriend for the longest time before she spoke.

“It’s been almost two years; you can do this.” She said with encouragement.

Danny didn’t say anything but kept his eyes on the two-track road. The tall grass between the paths brushed the underside of the old Chevy producing a strange flapping sound, the autumn hatch of grasshoppers trying desperately to jump out of the way.

Claudia reached out and gently grabbed his forearm.

“You haven’t said a single word since we started down the river breaks road. It’ll be okay, I know it will. You just have to get past what happened.” She said quietly.

Danny turned quickly to his girlfriend and blurted out, “I know, I know all that! I’m here aren’t I?”

Claudia, a bit startled by the outburst, moved from the center of the front seat, and reached for her towel. She opened the passenger door and began to slide out.

“You’re coming, right?” she said.

Danny turned to her before speaking, “I’ll be there in a few.”

“If we don’t see you in ten minutes, the whole gang will be back here to drag you out of this car, do you hear me!” Claudia said forcefully and shut the door with an unintended force.

She walked toward the old growth of cottonwood trees shadowing the edge of the river. Danny watched her move so gracefully. He thought himself a lucky kid to have such a beautiful girlfriend. And that body!

Danny looked at the collection of four other vehicles parked in the same area. He knew who was probably in the water right now, just from recognizing the cars. It was small town familiarity for sure.

He stared out the front window, unmoving.

“Get out and enjoy the day, Danny boy.” a barely familiar voice suddenly broke the silence from the other side of the car.

Danny looked to his right.  He was stunned and wide eyed at the sight of his old friend, and just as quickly felt an anger creep into his mind.

“Why did you have to dive. I told you not to go head first until we had checked the bottom. You knew the spring runoff changed things in the Mud Hole. No, you had to be the first one off the tall bank, didn’t you.” Danny said in admonishment and looked over to see his best friend, Mark, sitting next to him, wearing nothing but a swimming suit.

“I know, I had to show off. I heard you yelling up at me but I ignored you. I figured it was safe. I’m sorry, man.” Mark answered in a quiet even voice.

“The river was so muddy you could have at least checked around the dive area beforehand. Why didn’t you?” Danny asked, his voice cracking.

“Honestly, I didn’t even think about it, I just saw the ledge up above, and the water down below, and everybody watching, so I went for it.” Mark answered.

“And when you came up floating on your face, I thought you were faking, so I ignored you.” Danny lamented.

Mark looked out the front window then back at his lifelong friend before explaining, “I was already gone. I hit that bank full on and broke my neck. It was over and I didn’t feel a thing.

Danny was crying while he did his best to explain, “You kept floating and I couldn’t grab you. I had to get out the river and run along the bank to catch up to you. That current was really strong and taking you downstream.”

“I know, I saw you coming. I was somehow strangely hovering above the whole scene. Thank you for nabbing me when you did, and also using that CPR we learned in Boy Scouts. But like I said, it was too late.” Mark explained.

“You had been my best friend, and you still are. I haven’t forgotten all the fun times we had, and all the trouble we got into, too. I don’t want one stupid act on my part to cause you any more pain. I love you too much to let that happen.” Mark, continuing in a quiet soothing voice, said.

“Please get on with your life and remember me. I’m doing just fine. I’ve got to go now, but it was wonderful to talk with you again, Danny boy. See ya.” He said with a smile then vanished in an instant.

Dan looked over at the now empty space and whispered, “I miss you, but will always remember you, man.”

He sat quietly with his head bowed for what seemed to be eons, then raised his chin enough to notice that Claudia hadn’t made it to the tree line yet. He beeped the horn of his Chevy, grabbed his towel and goggles and jumped out of the car.

“Wait for me.” He yelled.  

People have loved magic since the beginning of time.  Who hasn’t enjoyed watching a magician do his tricks?  He seems to make things you thought were lost or destroyed appear right in front of you – such as the ripped apart playing card trick.  Or conversely, he can make something disappear that totally surprises you – things which are supposed to be there are no longer visible.

I remember watching a TV special with David Copperfield as the magician.  He did everything – card tricks, the bunny in the hat trick, the escape artist trick, and he made an entire airplane disappear – a Lear jet no less.  But his most famous trick was done in 1983 in front of multiple cameras, with millions of people watching from home and another ten or twenty in person, and no one watching could figure out how he made a 310 foot, 225 ton Statue of Liberty vanish. Years later, the secret was revealed by David himself.  

How did he do those things?  Most magic involves redirecting or refocusing the audience’s attention, thereby enabling the magician to hide something from the audience, all the while talking soothingly to those watching, and perhaps pressing a few buttons.  Then the outcome is revealed, and the audience is appropriately stunned and impressed.  In the case of the Statue of Liberty, he hung up a sheet in front of the statue, refocused the audience’s attention in a different direction, talked soothingly to those watching, pushed a few buttons, rotated the stage ever so slowly so that a post on which the sheet was attached came between the statue and the viewer, and the Statue of Liberty magically disappeared when the sheet was lifted.  The statue was still there, but we couldn’t see it because our viewpoint had changed.

A British science fiction writer, Arthur C. Clarke, once said, “Magic is just science that we don’t understand yet.”  Science is explaining a lot of the magic in our world, but magic still exists.  It exists every day in nature, in the beauty around us, in other people, and especially in children.  But beyond all that, I experience that sense of magic every time my grandson comes to my house, I tell him what my computer or cell phone is doing or not doing, he talks soothingly to me, pushes a few buttons, and my attention is refocused as he magically shows me the now properly working device.  As always, I am appropriately surprised, wonder how he did it, and am seriously impressed. 

Technology is still magic to me!

Emotions –  we all have them.  Have you ever noticed how people behave when they are happy, or frustrated, or sad,  or simmering about something that happened that they had no control over, or so angry they seem ready to erupt? 

Most people experience a whole spectrum of emotions, usually over the course of time, but occasionally all at once – that is especially true with teenagers.  It seems like younger children experience one emotion at a time, but teenagers seem to have a great many emotions which can come tumbling out all at once.  Vicky was a young teenager, so her emotions sometimes came in bunches.  

Vicky and I were about the same age and we lived next door to each other after her family moved to Colorado.  We became good friends.  We felt comfortable together and enjoyed each other’s company.  When I saw her, I could usually tell what her mood was.  Now and then she confided in me because she learned that I wouldn’t betray her confidences; I’d  never tell her secrets to anyone else.  Other times I may not have known why she was frustrated, or sad, or whatever because there were times when she didn’t really feel like talking to me about what was bothering her.   We seemed to understand each other’s needs though, like sometimes friends don’t need someone yakking at them.  They may just need some quiet time, so they can think things through.  Every so often, with a good friend, you just have to wait for some indication of their readiness to talk, to move on, or perhaps to socialize.

I knew that Vicky’s dad died suddenly a couple of years back and that her mom decided to move the family here to our little town in Colorado.  Vicky wasn’t really happy about moving away from their home in Ohio.  There were times when she seemed lonely and sad.  Sad about her dad, I was sure, but also sad that she had to leave her friends at her old house.  Young children seem to adapt easier to change – wherever their family is is where they want to be, and they accept whatever changes come along. Vicky, however, did not seem to be adapting to her new environment very easily.

So when I saw Vicky out and about, I sometimes paid her a friendly visit.  I just wanted her to know that I was there for her, just like she was always there for me.  Every now and then, a friend just needs comfort, so I did my best.  This particular day just seemed like one of those days, so I walked over to her house, stood quietly by her side, and wagged my tail.

I live in a 55+ community, and love it. Love my house, love my neighbors, love all the great benefits a neighborhood like ours offers. And I love my boyfriend—or as I call him, my true love, Jack. He lives in another town, 45 miles north. Lucky for me, he makes the trip down here most weekends and we enjoy our time together very much.

Many of the residents here know him, but not all know that he doesn’t live here. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when I attended a midweek gathering and someone asked, “Where’s Jack?” I explained he is here on weekends and would be at the next gathering on Saturday.

The woman who had asked was sitting at a table with her husband and a few other people. She nodded at my answer. Then her face exhibited a progression of emotions as she thought about what I’d just said. Finally, with a dreamy look on her face, she asked, “You mean you have five days each week all to yourself?”

The other women at the table uttered soft moans and hmmmm’s as they, too, considered this idea of partnership. The men’s foreheads wrinkled, a few eyebrows raised, and their smiles turned downward. “Whadda ya mean?” said one of them. “Hmph!” said another. And quickly, the subject was changed and the community chatter went on as usual.

Jack and I don’t have a marriage certificate, nor kids together, but we’re as much a couple as any other duo I know. He’s my family, an important part of my life the past 13 years, and is named in my will equally to my siblings. But neither of us are keen on living together, unless, as we’ve often daydreamed, we could build a log cabin duplex in the woods. With a passage door between the two units. With a light over the transom that could switch from green to red whenever one of us needed our space.

Recently, one of the more hip members of our community remarked, “Oh, you’re like Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“Huh?” I responded. I mean, look at Gwyneth, look at me. No resemblance in any way, especially shape or form, unfortunately. And listen to Gwyneth, listen to me. I hope to hell I have more common sense than that broad. Just look up Gwyneth and Goop if you don’t know what I’m talking about.

“No,” my friend continued. “You’re both into LAT.”

Oh god, I thought, is this another weird sex/health thing the celebrities are doing, like Gwyneth’s jade egg or vaginal scented candle?

“You know. You and Jack.”

I was about to tell my friend she was getting way too personal here, but she finally explained.

“LAT stands for Living Apart Together. It’s the new trend. Gwyneth and her husband are married, but they live in separate homes.”

“Oh, that! Okay, sure.” I was relieved. “I didn’t know that was a trend.”

Well, apparently it is. People in lasting partnerships, married or not, who choose for whatever reasons to maintain separate living spaces. Some do it for financial reasons, some because their work makes it practical, or some because they feel that not being together constantly strengthens their bond. Maybe they just like to have a good amount of individual space.

I think it takes a certain level of maturity, self-awareness and trust to make Living Apart Together work. When I was young, I would never have been able to handle it. That trust thing is a big deal. Maybe we’re just old enough now that we don’t have energy to be on the lookout for alternative partners. Or maybe we’ve both had it up to here with untrustworthy partners and know a great thing when we have it.

When Jack and I met, we each had our own home, each fully furnished and outfitted to accommodate our single lifestyles. We both knew how to be happy alone. Plus, he’s still working and his business is based where he lives. When I retired, I scouted around and figured out just how far south I could go before he would have second thoughts about coming to visit. I think I hit our sweet spot with Ovation at Oak Tree. At least for now.

And hey, who knew we were being trendy? Might be the first time ever for either of us.

The old house timbers creaked and moaned as the winter wind began its introductory onslaught of a wicked snow storm that was supposed to hit the region. Fred pulled the old thread bare quilt over his shoulders and looked at the hot red coils in the wall heater.

“You sure as hell had better crank it up. What you’re throwing out isn’t cutting the mustard.” He spoke with distain to the unit sitting four feet away from his rocking chair.

Fred Phillips looked across the room toward an identical rocker.

“Belle, best be putting on a heavy sweater tonight, it’s going to be a cold one.” He suggested.

“You know, for the life of me I can’t figure out why we quit wintering down in Arizona. What’s it been, eight, ten years? Anyway, cozy up.” The old man continued.

Just then he heard the familiar slap of bells announcing that someone had come through the back door.

“It’s just me. I’m back to clean up the supper dishes. I’ll be out there in a minute.”  came the familiar voice of his daughter.

She, her husband and four kids lived next door. A nice convenience for everyone, Fred had always thought.

“I left some cinnamon rolls and put some cut up fruit in the frig for tomorrow morning.” She spoke loudly from the kitchen.

The woman soon came out to the living room. She still had the heavy parka hood covering her head, and fur lined boot on her feet.

“It is so cold out there. The radio said its going to be around zero tonight. I see you’re up close to the heater.” She said with a laugh.

She grabbed a nearby comforter and tucked it around him as he sat.

“Yessiree, I was just telling your mother here that we should have kept on going south during this miserable winter weather we always seem to get. We’ll be okay, don’t worry about us.” Fred answered.

Just then his daughter walked over and stroked her father’s thinning white hair.

“Oh Dad, Mom passed away almost ten years ago, don’t you remember?” she said sadly.

The old man stared blankly at rocking chair sitting across the room.

“Well, of course I do, honey.” He said in affirmation and patted her hand.

There was a moment of silence between the two, then his daughter grabbed the television remote, pushed a few buttons on it then handed it to her father.

“It’s on the Western Theatre station. John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. I know you like them. Now make sure you keep warm and I’ll be back tomorrow late in the morning.” She said as she kissed his forehead and headed for the back door.

Fred watched the movie, cussing every time a commercial started. Finally, at the end, he hit the off button, shut off the lamp next to him, and pushed the chair into a reclining position.

“You know, Belle, I’m concerned about our daughter. There is something not right in her noggin. I had to play along with her notions that you were gone.” The old man, blankets  pulled up under his chin, said softly.

“We’ll talk about it the morning when this brain isn’t so tired. Sweet dreams, old gal.” Fred said and drifted off to sleep.

People 55 and over move to new locations for various reasons.  Sometimes the reason relates to climate, perhaps health concerns, some may relate to job or volunteer opportunities, some people are ready to downsize, some want to be closer to family.  People here seem to have moved to this area for any or all of those reasons.  I moved here along with a lot of others to be around people of similar age.  A senior community seemed like a good fit for me.

I’ve found, however, even though people here are by and large a friendly group, that I don’t always feel overwhelmingly welcome.  I know everyone here and they are familiar with me.  They just don’t seem to look forward to seeing me all that much.  I don’t think it’s because they think I’m all that different or unusual or odd.  I’m not quite sure what it is about me that seems less than desirable.

I guess I am pretty noticeable in this neighborhood.  Most everyone sees me every morning and usually in the evenings too.  I am around a lot and I’m loyal to those I become close to.  But I get the feeling that some people just wish I were not here at all or at least not around them.   I really can be seen everywhere in this neighborhood.  I’m considered fairly well known and kind of groovy, I enfold you in love and happiness,  I express a full life with many joyful times, my lineage is prolific, I progress over time.  Maybe no one likes me all that much, but I’m here to stay.  I won’t be leaving anytime soon.  I’ll repeat, I’m loyal, I’ll never leave you, I’ll be with you forever. 

As I mentioned, most people see me in the mornings and in the evenings.  If you’re like most people, you get up in the morning, you probably shower, dress, brush your teeth, comb your hair.  Some of you like to put lotion or makeup on your face.  Some of you shave.  Throughout all those activities, you are glancing in the mirror to ensure you look presentable.  It’s only natural that the image in the mirror reflects back to you and whispers, ‘Here I am!’    

Do you recognize me now?

Your groovy forever buddy,

Wrinkles

I have a mini goldendoodle

Paisley is her name

She really belongs to my son

But I love her just the same

My son is on a trip to Long Beach

He goes each summer for some sun,

Horseback riding, mini golf, and hiking—

The whole family enjoys the fun

Paisley’s a “senior” aged dog now

And she can’t see much at all

So she walks around carefully

To protect herself from a fall

I can tell she has a good memory

She figured out my floor plan quite well

And remembers where the water is located

And the food she can quickly smell

Her hearing is also quite good

So she knows when I am near

I tell her when to “step up” or “step down”

So with me she has nothing to fear

I take her on walks to the mailbox

I’ve learned to bring a bag along

When her paws feel the blades of grass

She leaves a small present on the lawn

She’s not overly fond of other dogs

Probably because she cannot see

But she loves the attention of people

And being belly-rubbed by you or me

I have her for one week only

I’ll miss her when she is gone

My son picks her up on Saturday

Then it’ll be just me and my very clean lawn

© 2011 Melody Grieves.

Even with a tight grip on the walker his family insisted he use, Walter Pritchard nearly fell over backwards when his daughter walked through the apartment door.

He turned and snapped at his wife, Gladys. “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

“We did tell you. Lotsa times. You just don’t remember.”

“Oh.” Walter knew he was losing his memory, but he kept forgetting that he knew it. All the old stuff he remembered like it was yesterday. In fact, the older the memory, the more quickly he could bring it into focus. He figured the most recent thing he remembered clearly was his 85^th birthday when he’d told Diana, this daughter who’d just stepped through the door, not to send him any more books because he could no longer remember what he’d just read on the previous page. That was his only clue that they weren’t lying when they told him now that he doesn’t remember something. How long ago had that been? Now Diana was here again, out of the blue, all the way from Seattle.

He dared not loosen his grasp on the walker as she gingerly hugged his shoulders. Her hair smelled wonderful, like pine trees and salt water. Or was he just remembering their trips west to visit her?

“Hello, Dad. How are you feeling?”

He tried one of his old lines, hoping to make light of the situation. “Okay for an old feller.” Then he forgot what situation he was trying to make light of. He felt tears come to his eyes. “What are you doing here, Di?” Then to his wife: “Does this mean I’m dying?”

“I just came to visit, Dad. That’s all. I have a few extra days off and thought it would be nice to spend them with you. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Gladys raised herself from the sofa and limped across the living room to greet Diana. “Hungry, honey?” Diana followed her mother to the tiny kitchen.

Walter made his way to the table that separated the kitchen from the living room. He hated this cramped apartment and missed their old two-story house in town. “She’s here two minutes and already you got to start eating?”

“She’s here two minutes you gotta start with the criticisms?” his wife shot back.

Walter might be losing his memory, but his powers of observation, when he was awake, were fully intact. He saw the eye-rolls exchanged between his wife and daughter.

Walter reconsidered sitting at the table and tottered back to his recliner. More comfortable than the straight back chair and, if he switched off Gladys’ soap opera, he’d still be able to hear them talking. He straightened the granny-square afghan, carefully turned his backside to the seat and slumped into it.

“Every time he feels his heart skip a beat he thinks he’s dying and wants to go to the hospital. I don’t know how many midnight ambulance rides we been on. I think he just likes the attention.”

“Oh Mom. Something must be wrong. He’s not making it up, you know.”

Damn women talk about me like I’m not here. “I can hear you, you know! You’re as loud as you are fat!” He glanced up to see them both scowling at him, his aging wife of God knows how many years and the daughter who could have been her twin 35 years ago, if you could do that with time. In his mind, you could. He scowled back. “Well, at least maybe Diana will believe me about dying.” Then he lay back and closed his eyes.

The women’s voices faded and gave way to a parade of recollections marching through his mind. He remembered when Diana was a little girl, how she had loved to stretch out on the back seat of the Chrysler and pretend to sleep, but still listen to what her parents were saying up front. She told him once that the conversations sounded “dreamy,” like they were happening in another world, one degree away from reality. He smiled to himself. They were a lot alike actually, both dreamers in their own ways. Except lately, everything seemed dreamy to Walter, and he had trouble telling real from unreal.

Walter dozed off amidst the kitchen chatter and the smell of potato soup bubbling on the stove, then awoke with a start when he felt his heart alternately racing and stopping, pounding hard, then not beating at all. “Call 9-1-1! I’m having a heart attack!” He tried to sit up but couldn’t get the La-Z-Boy into its upright position. When he looked up, two women stood over him, one on either side, peering down at him.

“See?” Gladys said. “This is what I’m talking about.”

The other woman held his hand and felt his wrist for a pulse. He jerked away. “You’re not my nurse!” He squinted at her. “Diana! When did you get here?”

“A little while ago, Dad.” She pulled the chair handle and pushed on the back so he could sit up. Then she sat in Gladys’ chair beside him, still holding his hand, and asked him what he was feeling.

He tried to explain it, but could only point to his chest. He felt his hand trembling. He wanted to cry. Please, don’t let them see me cry.

“Okay,” she said. “Try this. Breathe in deeply. All the way into your belly. Come on, do it with me.”

Walter watched his daughter’s abdomen balloon outward as she took a long, deep breath. He couldn’t help matching her breathing pattern. She’s hypnotized me. When did she learn how to do that? Several more breaths and he felt calmer. His heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. He reached over to stroke her hair with a steady hand.

This daughter used to hold my hand when we crossed the street, when she was just a babe, small and fragile. When did she become such a big lump of a woman?

“Come eat some soup, Walter. It will make you feel better.” Diana helped him to his feet while Gladys continued to babble. “I keep thinking he just can’t get no skinnier. Look at him. Nothing but skin and bones. I think even his bones are shrinking.”

It had been a marriage-long battle between them. Gladys adding weight while he lost it. Gladys forever trying to cook him the perfect meal she hoped he would savor and compliment, and he finding fault with every dish, screwing up his long nose in disgust and often leaving the table early. As Gladys and Diana had gotten heavier, he’d dwindled to lean, then scrawny, then almost anorexic. And even though he knew, in truth, that Gladys was a fine, salt-of-the-earth cook, he’d never been able to withdraw from the fight.

Walter sat at the table and waited for Gladys to serve his lunch. He felt the warmth of her hand when she lightly rubbed the back of his neck after setting a bowl of soup in front of him. Then she unfolded a paper napkin and tucked it into his shirt collar. Walter picked up a Saltine, broke it in half, set one half on the rim of his soup plate, and spread a thin coat of butter on the other. He dipped the buttered half cracker into his soup, and brought it to his lips, carefully testing the soup’s heat. He never wore his dentures when he ate. They hurt. He wore them only when he had to go out in public. Gladys usually took her suppers in the communal dining room of their assisted living complex. She loved people. He hated people watching him and ate most dinners in his La-Z-Boy with Dan Rather as company. He still missed Cronkite. He gummed the cracker and stared across the table at Diana. She grabbed half a dozen crackers and crumbled them between her palms and into her soup. Then she added a dollop of cold milk and a squirt of ketchup, extra salt and several grinds of pepper, and stirred it all into one mushy glob. It just about turned Walters’s stomach.

“I can’t eat this,” he muttered and reached for his walker.

Gladys reached for it too and pulled it away from him. “You have to eat, Walter. What’s the matter? You don’t want no lunch?”

Out of habit, he corrected her. “Don’t want any lunch.”

Diana touched his arm. “Really, Dad. You do need to eat. And you usually like potato soup.”

Did he? At that moment Walter couldn’t remember. “All I know is that nothing tastes the same anymore, Di. I don’t feel like eating anything.” He steadied himself with the table’s edge as he rose from his chair and his glare met Gladys’. She finally shrugged and pushed his walker back to him, and he shuffled off to bed.

* * *

Two days later Walter found himself feeling pretty good and checking his image in the mirror over the mantel. He noticed he was dressed to leave the apartment. He shifted the baseball cap that sat on his thick white hair, not greasy but clean today, patted the pack of Kools in the navy Polo shirt pocket, checked the fly on his khaki-colored Dockers, and then stared at his feet. What the hell are those monstrosities? “Gladys! Where did I get these shoes?”

Someone else answered. “We bought them Friday, Dad. Remember? The doctor said a good pair of walking sneakers could improve your balance.”

Walter smiled, suddenly remembering that Diana was visiting. “You’re still here.”

“Yes, for one more day. Have to go back to Seattle tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.” He considered his apparel again and made a guess. “Are we going for a ride?”

“Just waiting on Mom. Any place special you’d like to go?”

“No, the usual.”

For years now, whenever Diana made a trip back to Michigan, they would climb into the current Chrysler — Walter always bought Chryslers — and take a drive over all the back roads, past farms where his parents and aunts and uncles had lived, through the town where Diana and her sister had grown up, the house they lived in for so many years, and out to Clear Lake where he and Diana had spent many a morning fishing for that elusive Mr. Trout. Today, apparently, their ride would be Chrysler’s latest invention, the PT Cruiser Diana had rented at the airport. He did remember, to his immense irritation each time he did so, that he’d been forced to give up driving when his wife and daughter had confiscated his keys and sold his last Imperial. Walter grunted as he crawled into the back seat. “I can’t believe Chrysler made this thing.”

“Brand new for the new millennium, Dad.”

“Hardly room enough to lie down back here. Good thing I’m a lot skinnier than either of you.”

Gladys frowned at him from the front passenger seat. “If you’d ever take time to notice, neither me or Diana is very heavy any more. You just don’t want to have nothing to pick on us about.”

“Don’t want to have anything,” Walter said. But as usual, she wasn’t listening.

Diana countered, “It’s okay, Mom. I stopped listening to Dad’s snipes years ago.” She revved the engine, checked the mirrors and turned on the radio, twisting the dial until they heard Ernie Harwell’s voice describing a double play like no other baseball broadcaster could. “Harwell’s retiring after this season. Did you know that, Dad?”

Walter didn’t answer. He had already stretched out as much as he could on the back seat and had snuggled in to that dreamy place. If he did fall asleep, he counted on Gladys to rouse him when they passed things he might want to see and when they stopped at Webber’s Country Market.

“You shoulda been a boy, Diana,” said Gladys. “Still nuts about baseball. If Uncle Will was still with us, I bet we’d be spending the day at the farm so you could go fishing and ride horses.”

Diana upped the volume on the radio, but Gladys kept talking.

“Who’da ever thought my pretty baby girl would grow up to be a fireman?”

“Fire fighter,” Diana corrected, for the millionth time.

Walter damn near giggled.

After a quick tour through town where they stopped in front of the old house and commiserated over its disrepair, they headed toward the lake via Territorial Road, so they could pass by Uncle Will’s old place. Walter remained upright during this part of the drive. This scenery brought back his earliest memories, still clear, so close he thought if he concentrated a bit harder he would be able to touch them. His teenaged summers spent working the fields, the huge farmhouse where he and his cousins lazed on the screened-in stone porch when it was too hot to play baseball, the kitchen where Aunt Polly “cooked for thrashers” during harvest time. Now those were perfect meals!

Walter was pleased to see that whoever owned the place now had kept things up. The barn was recently painted, the garden well tended, the house looking as proud as it always had, maybe even a little fresher. He wanted to ask Diana to stop the car so he could go press his hands into his father’s palm prints, left there for posterity when he had poured the cement for the stone porch, long before Walter had been born. But his gaze shifted to the lane ahead, the one that led from the back pasture to the road.

“Whoa! Stop! That pinto is loose out here!”

At the end of the lane stood a brown and white quarter horse stallion, not yet in the road, but looking as if he was considering it. Looking as if he owned it.

“Turn in!” Walter told Diana. “Turn in and block his path!”

Diana did as he told her. Thank God she’s not arguing, for once.

“Now just inch forward, get him moving back toward the gate.”

The horse stood his ground until the Cruiser’s bumper closed in. There was room to go around the car, but as Walter had guessed, the horse thought better of it, turned and trotted up the lane, snorting and tossing his head wildly.

“Keep going. Get him cornered down there at the end.”

Diana followed instructions and angled the car to allow less room for escape. The gate to the pasture was still open, but the horse made no move to go through it.

Walter, forgetting his age and frailty and feeling empowered by his new sneakers, opened the back passenger side door and literally hopped out of the car. He staggered hurriedly toward the horse, waving his arms. “Hyah! Get in there! Get!” He felt like a hero, protecting not just the horse from possible danger, but somehow his wife and daughter, too. Then he heard Gladys screeching at him, and then the Cruiser’s “ah-ooga” horn. He knew Gladys had been the one to honk the car horn. Diana wasn’t that stupid.

The noise was too much for the horse. It reared high and dangled its hooves over Walter’s head. His heart pounded and he felt faint. He tripped as he scooted backwards, and tumbled to the ground, rolling into a ball on his side. The stallion’s feet landed just inches beyond his own. Walter knew that horses preferred not to step on people, but this one seemed crazy enough to buck nature. He closed his eyes tight and opened them moments later to an incredible sight. Not to hooves hovering over him, ready to send him to his next life, but to Diana bracing her tall, powerful body in front of the stallion, punching the horse squarely in the chest and screaming “MOVE!” And the horse did, turning sharply and saunterint into the pasture as calmly as an old mare. Walter wasn’t sure which amazed him more — the horse’s sudden change in attitude, or his new vision of his strong and capable daughter.

Diana closed and secured the gate and ran back to kneel beside Walter. “Dad! Are you okay? Where do you hurt?”

“Where in hell did you learn to do that?”

“From you. From those stories you and Uncle Will told me, years ago. Never mind that. Are you hurt?” She gently tested his limbs, moving them slowly, and checked his head for bumps and cuts.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Soft grass here. Just help me up.”

By that time Gladys had wrangled Walter’s walker from the back of the car and hobbled over to them. Eventually they all made it back into the car, Walter and Gladys sharing the walker, and Diana supporting both of them.

After they had all settled back into the car Diana slowly backed down the lane. “You sure you’re okay, Dad?”

“I’m fine, Di. Don’t worry.” In fact, he felt better than he had in a long time. “Let’s get over to Webber’s. You women have some cooking to do.”

Suddenly the back seat of the Cruiser felt as comfy as his La-Z-Boy. The Tigers had won their game and Diana changed the station to easy listening. Gladys hummed along with Dean Martin. Walter made a mental note to say something nice about his wife’s singing voice, but at the moment he was busy practicing the deep breathing Diana had taught him. He eased into a light sleep and popped wide-awake when the car crunched gravel and came to a stop at the market.

“We’re here, honey,” Gladys chirped. “What you want for supper tonight?”

Walter had been dreaming about his Aunt Polly’s cooking. The all-time best meal she ever cooked was for his twelfth birthday. “I want pork chops with milk gravy, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, tomato pudding and cucumber salad. And apple pie for dessert.” He winked at his wife. “And no lumps in the mashed potatoes.”

Gladys smiled back appreciatively, probably savoring this tidbit of flirty good humor. But still she argued. “You know you can’t eat all of that. And you couldn’t eat corn on the cob even if you put your teeth in.”

“Let me worry about that, Mom. You make the pie, I’ll cook dinner. I know what I can do with that corn, but you’ll have to tell me how to make tomato pudding.”

Walter decided to stay in the car and let Gladys and Diana do the shopping. He waved a greeting to Pike Hendershot and Pike wandered over to say hello. They agreed it was a fine first week of September. When Walter told Pike about his supper order, Pike smacked his lips and said Walter was in luck. This was the time of year when late corn met up with early apples. Walter nodded to himself as Pike walked off. “Yessiree. A purely magical time.”

Diana raised the hatchback and deposited bags of produce, then plunked down in the driver’s seat.

“Where’s your mother?”

“She ran into Ruth Webber and they’re having a chat.”

“Oh Lord. We’ll be here for half an hour, at least.”

“That’s okay, isn’t it? You doing all right?”

“Sure, I’m fine.” Walter saw the doubt in Diana’s eyes as she squared around in her seat to face him. “Well, not fine. We know that. At least you and I know that. Your mother doesn’t seem to.”

“She’s just concerned about you, that’s all. We all are.”

Walter again fought back tears. “It’s hard some days to hang on, Diana. If it weren’t for Gladys, I’d have died months ago. I’m ready to go, but I worry about how she’ll get along after I’m gone. We were always sure that she’d be the first to go, with all her ailments.”

Walter hoped he wasn’t laying too much onto his daughter. But he figured if anyone had the right disposition to cope with his honest thoughts, it was Diana.

“But then I started to fail. I was doing great until I turned 84 and I had that little heart thing. I thought I’d get back to normal, but by the time I was 85, I knew it wasn’t going to happen.” He glanced up to see that Diana’s eyes were wet, too. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

Diana sniffed and swallowed. “Well, it’s not your fault, Dad. Life happens. I’m just sorry that you’re having such a hard time.”

Walter let out a long sigh. “I’m so tired of living, Di. If it weren’t for your mother…”

“You don’t need to worry about Mom. We’ll take care of her.” After several minutes of silence she added, “I don’t want to lose you, Dad, but when the time comes, I want you to know you can let go in peace.”

Walter had a hard time meeting his daughter’s eyes again, overwhelmed by her compassion and generosity after all the years of his barbs and criticisms. If I were Diana, I’d be stomping me to the ground like that stallion tried to do.

“But with the way you’re acting and conversing today, I think you just might be on the mend.”

They smiled at each other, and Walter wondered if she really believed what she’d just said. He knew what he believed.

Gladys got into the car and chattered all the way back to the apartment, all the way down the hall and all the while they unpacked the bags, sharing the gossip she’d gleaned from her friend. Walter relaxed into his recliner, took in one deep breath after another, and purposely brought forth his oldest memories, until he could feel the harvest sun on his skin, hear his mother’s lullabies, smell the sweet smoke from Uncle Will’s pipe, and taste Aunt Polly’s Parker House rolls and freshly churned butter.

He dozed intermittently, awake often enough to keep track of the progress in the kitchen. Gladys schooled Diana on how much butter, brown sugar and tomatoes to add to the bread cubes for the pudding. They could bake it along with the apple pie, she said. Mmmm. I really should admit to Gladys at least once before I die that her piecrust is the best I’ve ever tasted. He heard Diana explain to her mother how she planned to scrape the corn kernels off the cobs and sauté them with a little green onion and minced red pepper. Maybe I’ll wear my teeth to dinner. He awoke at one point to a crash in the pantry when Gladys sent Diana in search of the potato ricer, her secret to lump-free mashed potatoes. When he smelled the blessed aroma of sizzling pork chops he went to wash up while Diana stirred up the milk gravy. He’d missed the mixing of the vinegary cucumber salad, but it was there on the table when he came out of the bathroom and sat down in anticipation.

Walter didn’t exactly chow down like his 12-year-old self, but he did eat a portion of each dish offered, and savored all of it. He even asked for a scoop of ice cream on his apple pie. Then, when he was more sated than he could ever remember being in his entire life, he smiled at the two women he loved most and said, “Thank you. That was a perfect supper.”

Gladys beamed, never having heard those words from him before. Diana looked at him a bit curiously and leaned in to gather up dishes. He tried to cover up a belch with his napkin, and they all laughed.

After he’d settled into the La-Z-Boy and pushed it to the far-back position, Walter closed his eyes and let go. Walter finally felt at peace.