February is National Haiku Month. There is a month for everything, I guess. I’ve never been much for writing haikus. I was intimidated by the 5—7 – 5 restriction: three lines – the first with five syllables then seven and finally five in the last line. I didn’t tackle them. Our Writers’ Forum has a haiku contest each year. We have some natural haiku artists. Haikus spill from their brains seemingly without effort.
I decided to try it this year. Now I’m writing haikus in my head as I walk each day. I walk in the natural environment of a nature preserve or a town park, sometimes just around the neighborhood, as I practice the 5 – 7 – 5 mantra. Traditionally haikus are written about nature. I found myself composing more about human nature. These are a few I came up with. I didn’t submit any of these for the contest, saving that until February 22.
Soft lips spoke lies as Crystal drops rained from her eyes In thorny goodbye.
His side undisturbed Grief o’er flows her hollowed heart Their bed as witness
Bodies in congress Rhythmic movements of urgent Longing and loving
Sunrise unwraps bright Spires dressed in layered colors Grand Canyon morning
I’m still wrestling with one that I cannot make fit the haiku scheme. Any ideas?
A nun’s story 4 Nineteen to thirty 5 Lost in hopeless addiction 7 Found change of habit 5
On November 5th we hosted a pot-luck Texas Hold ‘Em poker party for a group of long-time friends. We ate outside on the back patio then went in for the card game. Our poker parties go back many many years. As couples, we used to meet regularly. When covid hit the parties became sporadic but we still met on occasion. In total, there are seventeen of us. Not everyone makes every party, but we try. The ladies of the group also gather monthly for dinner at a restaurant to celebrate a birthday. When there is no birthday that month we meet anyway to celebrate friendship. In October there was a garden party hosted by a couple who built a greenhouse during the pandemic. The incentive for that gathering was to show all the beautiful plants and vegetables they propagated during the last two years. Everyone left with a small basket of fresh veggies to make soup at home.
Ken and I owned a real estate company and, in 2002, hired our first agent. During the next couple of years, we added more agents. We met their spouses and became friends. We added some of our clients to the group and, over twenty-plus years, an enduring bond of friendship and support was created. That friendship continued even after we retired. We all managed through covid, vaxed or unvaxed. Two couples moved away for several years, one to California and the other to Minnesota, but returned and were immediately brought back into the fold. In 2021 one of our friends died but he is still very much in our thoughts and part of our conversations.
Potluck is our preferred kind of party, even if it doesn’t include poker. Everyone brings a favored dish to share. Just as potluck is a combination of foods, our group is a combination of individual talents. Each person contributes to the whole with their uniqueness. All are blessed with the knack of friendship – they listen, they make others feel comfortable. We poke fun at one another in gentle ways and in memory of all the good times together. Laughter is a big part of every gathering.
The day after our party the 1940 film, Our Town was shown on TCM. I remember reading Thornton Wilder’s play in our 11th-grade English class taught by Mrs. Lupton. The play was performed by our high school drama club. Then again years later, Ken and I saw it performed by the Seattle Repertory Theater. Even though I am an oldy film buff, I had never seen the movie. The play takes place in the early 1900s and its human themes resonate today. I reflected on our party. As friends, we have known each other, not since childhood, but through years that included births (of grandchildren), love, divorce, marriage, illness, and death. We attended baby showers and followed the milestones of each grandchild. Now one of those grandsons is in basic training for the Air Force and there are still toddlers in the group. Life moves at a breathtaking pace. I am ever grateful for their continued friendship as we compare old veiny hands and the inconveniences of aging. We discuss travel plans, artistic endeavors, beloved pets, children’s achievements, the highlights of grandchildren, and celebrate each accomplishment. Poker is fun too and we all (yes, even Larry) cheer the winner.
Our Town was knocking on my consciousness. This post began life as an entry in my journal several weeks ago. Within days of my journal entry, I started and finished reading the novel Tom Lake by Ann Patchett in which a “character” in the story is the play Our Town. Hmmm, a coincidence? My journal is much longer and more detailed, but I decided to pare it down and post it since the play seems to be all around me from a movie to a novel and the sense of my own community around me. Funny how that happens – recurring themes. The life of a writer.
In the space of two years, Officer Hershey came into my life three times.
In the 1990’s, we lived in a neighborhood at the top of a hill in Bellevue, Washington. On this particular morning, after my husband left for work, I ate breakfast, played with the dog, did some housework, and got ready for work. I’ve never been a morning person. I don’t get my head working much before 9 am. I was late two out of five mornings. I tried to make it up by being early at least once a week. Luckily, I worked for an old friend who put up with me.
I looked at the clock and, oh my, I had ten minutes to make the fifteen-minute drive to work. I jumped in the car and started down the long winding road from the top of the hill to Main Street. The speed limit was 25 because it was so curvy and, in places, steep. My foot never touched the accelerator, only the brake as I drove down the hill. This morning I didn’t pay attention to speed. I was traveling between 40 and 45 mph when I saw the motorcycle cop behind me with his lights and siren. I pulled over. Darn, now I’d really be late and with a traffic ticket on top.
I rolled down the window and in my sweetest tones, “Good morning, Officer. I must have been going a bit fast.”
The officer had a big grin on his face like he’d caught the fish of the year. His badge said Officer J. Hershey. “May I see your license and registration young lady.”
I pulled the license from my wallet and the registration from the glove box and handed them to the policeman.
“You live on this hill,” he said. “Yes, sir, Officer Hershey.” “Then you travel up and down this hill a couple of times a day, don’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “You know the speed limit here, right?” “Yes, sir.” “You know this is a dangerous road when it’s raining or icy, right?” “Yes, sir and it’s a beautiful day today.” “Are you on your way to work?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you love your husband?” His face became serious.
Now that one knocked me back. What was he getting at? That didn’t sound like a traffic citation question. I looked up and tried to see his eyes through his dark motorcycle goggles. “Yes, sir.” I said with hesitation.
“Well, this is what I want you to do. When you get to work, call your husband. Tell him you love him and want to take him out to lunch. That lunch will cost about the same as the ticket I should be giving you. Apologize for driving too fast down this hill because it is not safe and tell him you won’t do it again.”
I let out a big breath. “No, ticket?” I asked. “Not this time but I patrol this road so don’t let me catch you again.” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
I did exactly as he instructed. I told Ken the impossible story of how I barely avoided a traffic ticket over our lunch.
A few months later, on a Saturday, I was in a traffic jam on one of the main streets in town. I was in the middle of three lanes inching forward little by little on my way to the mall. In my rear-view mirror, I saw a motorcycle cop working his way between the slow moving cars and when he got to my car, he put on his siren and lights. He gestured for me to move out of traffic into the parking lot of a business. Disgruntled, I signaled and began traversing the road through traffic. Other drivers were also made unhappy by this movement. I glanced again at the cop and realized it was Officer Hershey. What the heck? I couldn’t have been speeding, I was barely moving. Why was he pulling me over?
I parked in the lot. He got off his motorcycle and came to my window. “Please give me your license and registration,” he said. He took a second look at me and said, “Oh, you again”. “Yes sir. I couldn’t have been speeding. What’s wrong?” “Please step out of the car.”
I did as I was asked wondering if he was going to give me a sobriety test or something. Very confused. The traffic on the street picked up a little as the light changed but it was still very congested.
“Come back here.” He gestured to the rear of my car. “You don’t have a current license tag. You are out of compliance; your car license is expired.”
I looked and sure enough. The new stickers were not on my car. “You’re right. I have the new stickers in the console. I asked my son to put them on for me last weekend, but I didn’t check. The little bugger didn’t do it.” “How old is your son?” “Fifteen.” “Yah. That’s sounds about right. Get them out of the car.” I did as he asked and handed them to him so he could see they were up to date.
He took a cloth from his jacket pocket and wiped off the license plate then took the sticker and put it on. Then he did the same for the front plate. “Have a good day.” He said and touched his cap as he got on his motorcycle and moved back into traffic. “Thank you again, Officer Hershey.”
Nearly a year later the tranquility of a Sunday morning in our hilltop neighborhood was shattered by a violent soundscape. Adults yelling. Young children screaming and crying. Car doors slamming. The crack of gunshots. A car engine roaring. Tires squealing. A car racing down the street. Ken and I looked at each other puzzled and he said, “I better go check what’s happened.” Out the front door, he went. A few minutes later he came back with our neighbor, Maryann, bloody, trembling in her pajamas, barefoot, with a coat thrown over her shoulder.
“She’s been stabbed. There’s blood everywhere inside and outside the house,” Ken said and went to call the police.
I took her into the bathroom to address her wounds. Fortunately, nothing was spurting or flowing. (I faint at the sight of blood). She told me how her estranged husband showed up uninvited and demanded to take the kids. They argued and he snatched the kids and took them to the car. Then he returned to the house and assaulted her with a knife, stabbing her several times before she could grab a gun from a kitchen drawer and shoot him.
Maryann and her family had moved into the rental house next door a few weeks before this incident and we’d only met them casually. We didn’t even know her husband had left the family.
Within minutes the doorbell rang. I answered and who stood before me but Officer Hershey. “Officer Hershey, come in,” I said in surprise. “It’s Detective Hershey, now,” he answered, a serious look on his face as he entered the house with two other officers.
I sat with my arm around a quavering Maryann as she told her story to Detective Hershey. Ken was questioned by one of the other officers. Then the police took Maryann back to her house to continue investigating the scene. That was all we heard until we were called as witnesses at Maryann’s trial for attempted murder.
As it turned out, Maryann was crazy, threatening her family when her husband moved out of the house. He wanted to get the children away before they were harmed. She knew he was coming over to get the kids and she staged the fight so she could have a motive for shooting him. She inflicted stab wounds on herself. Luckily she wasn’t a good shot. She wounded him in the neck, but he was able to get to the hospital for treatment and was okay. Maryann was sent to an asylum for the criminally insane.
We moved from the neighborhood soon after, not because of the shooting, but because it was a planned move. I never saw Officer/Detective Hershey again, but he remains a sweet memory. I looked him up online. In 2017, he retired as a Captain after 35 years in the police force with commendations and kudos from dozens of citizens in the city, especially high schoolers who appreciated his common sense approach to teens, his humanity. He had a significant impact on young people in the city. He was called a legendary gentleman by one citizen. Bellevue was blessed with his service. Exemplary man and policeman. Thank you, Captain Hershey!
Look at that happy face. You can’t help but smile back.
In 1970 when the movie Five Easy Pieces was released, I was a grownup suburban matron with three children. Such was my disguise, cloaking the heart of a rebel. Jack Nicolson embodied that rebel spirit and I adored him. That movie was one of my favorites at the time although now I don’t remember the plot or much about the movie. I do remember the scene at a restaurant when he orders a side of toast with his omelet and the waitress says they don’t have side orders. So he orders a chicken sandwich on whole wheat toast, hold the mayo, hold the lettuce, and hold the chicken. That reaction to nonsensical rules comes back to me often.
We recently went to a restaurant and our grandson ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. “What kind of cheese?” asked the waitress.”American,” he responded. I was surprised because he has a fairly sophisticated pallet for cheese and I don’t think of American as a favorite. The order took longer than expected (no doubt, the exotic cheese choice) and forty minutes later everyone had their meal except our grandson. How hard is a cheese sandwich? He finally received his order. It was a simple sandwich with a thin layer of cheese painted between two slices of toast.
When we received the bill, we were charged for the sandwich plus 50 cents for the cheese. I laughed. Pay extra for cheese in a cheese sandwich? What next? Extra for ice in iced tea or cheese in a cheeseburger? The server’s response was equally nonsensical. She said the management was terrible and they were understaffed. What has that to do with a separate charge for cheese.? I’m very sorry for the overworked, unappreciated staff but… Fifty cents is not the issue. It’s blindly following some rule that says if cheese is ordered it’s extra.
I fear the sheep in our society are multiplying rapidly. Compliant, unquestioning followers – not leaders who look above the fray, see daylight, and search for reason. No offense intended to sheep.
Prompt: Write a story or poem based on a stanza, lyric, or chorus of a favorite song.
“Soft kisses on a summer’s day laughing all our cares away, just you and I. Sweet sleepy warmth of summer nights gazing at the distant lights in the starlit sky”. Chad and Jeremy, A Summer Song.
These lyrics take me back in time to the summer of ’63 after high school graduation. Ken had a job in the warehouse at Associated Grocers during the week. I was the stay-at-home babysitter for my nine-year-old brother; both of my parents worked. On weekends Ken and I would slip away, drive to the mountains or shore to spend the days just being together. Hours and hours alone. I know we talked the entire time, well mostly. I recently asked Ken if he remembered what we talked about. Neither of us can remember. Nothing consequential, I fear; not the Vietnam War, the economy, global cooling (yes, science said another ice age was developing), world famine, or the politics of the Kennedy administration. I was team Kennedy, he team Nixon. Somehow the hours melted away.
One standout memory was sitting on a blanket on the bluff above Deception Pass watching boats go out of Skagit Bay into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Our location part way down the bluff was sheltered from the eyes of anyone on land above us and open to the water below. At one point we were in a heavy clinging embrace when a cruiser passed through the channel. The captain blasted their very loud horn and shouted encouragement. They were so far below they were unable to see us clearly, just that we were entwined and off in our own world. We couldn’t see them, only the boat. We waved as they passed by.
That memory makes me smile each time I hear the lyrics of the song. On weekends, Ken would pick me up early in the morning and get me home late Saturday night, then repeat on Sunday. We would gaze at the starry night skies for as long as we could. We drove all over the northwest part of Washington State looking for secluded places to park and picnic, sometimes in the mountains, sometimes in the islands. It was an idyllic summer of love, very little responsibility or care, and loads of time to ourselves. We had money, Ken’s baseball signing bonus plus his job, so we could do anything; but we spent little, choosing instead to just be with each other. Those tender memories are part of the bond that has held during our sixty years together.
Thirty years after that summer, we sailed Wind Dancer, our 41′ C & C sailboat, by Deception Pass but not through it. Water depth in the narrow passage ranges from around twenty feet in places to over two hundred feet and the currents are treacherous so boats can only go through one at a time. Keeled craft are discouraged as they can be sent spinning out of control.
I wrote this poem about that summer.
Summer of ’63 I was seventeen You were eighteen Life ahead full of unknown currents Unplanned and unexpected Carefree summer of love, Passion unbounded, undenied. Love as deep as ocean canyons Kisses soft as sugar froth Melted on our lips. Time unwound slowly A bottomless well Those happy days Followed by years Navigating life’s swollen eddies Struggles, celebrations, Misunderstandings, reconciliations. The tumultuous tides of our affair Like the sea gushing through Deception Pass Smoothed into calm waters of well-aged love.
St. Agnes is the patron saint of virgins. A beautiful girl of a wealthy Christian family back in the year 304 CE, she was martyred at the age of thirteen because she refused the advances of a high-born Roman suitor. From then, on January 20th, the eve of St. Agnes feast day, when properly implored by a virgin, St. Agnes reveals in a dream the man the virgin will marry. It’s real, look it up.
As a teen, I was a devoted Episcopalian. I studied about and loved many of the saints, especially Agnes. I went to church at least once a week and attended bible study with our priest. Father Mac lived across the street from us with his wife, a piano teacher, and two little daughters. I babysat the girls a few times. Father Mac and my dad would swap stories over a beer on Saturdays. At one point I considered becoming an Episcopalian nun doing good works around the world. That was a bit in conflict with my ambition to be a multi-lingual interpreter and world traveler who lived most of the time in France with ten internationally diverse children – different fathers, no husband in the picture. I guess that is the wonderful part about being a teenager – dreams don’t have to reflect reality. I remember on a couple of occasions when I didn’t want a goodnight kiss from my date, I would use the nun card and tell him I had to stay pure. It usually meant no next date with that guy, but it was a good way to end a going-nowhere relationship. Most of my dates in high school were going-nowhere dates anyway, but I liked to be asked and always had a good time.
As a high school senior my friend, Mike, asked if I would go out with his cousin, a University of Washington freshman, who was from out of state, living with an aunt and uncle, and wanted someone to take to parties. I was that kind of friend. It was understood that Bob had a girlfriend back home in Iowa but needed a girl-friend to take out for social events – no romance involved. Sure, I’d love to go to university parties. Bob was a super nice guy, kinda shy but easy to talk to. He was on a football scholarship so most of his time after class was taken up with football. His scholarship was limited, and he didn’t know if he would stay at UW. He was very homesick. He took me to a couple of high school dances, and we went to UW events and a football team party, but I saw him only about once a week even though he lived down the street. I had a crush on a boy at school who couldn’t see me for dust and had had a summer fling with a guy from another school that ended when he left for college. Nothing big going on in my romance department, but I still had plenty of fun times.
In September, I joined an organization called Junior Achievement, promoted by my Civics teacher, Mr. Keller, whom I admired. A group of teens from both high schools in town were divided into smaller units and mentored to develop businesses. Each unit created a company, sold stock in the company, created a product, marketed and sold the product and, at the end of the year, did a Year End Report that was judged. You could earn scholarships from the efforts you made in your company. Our business, we named ESCO, was sponsored by the local utility Puget Power. We had three advisors. We made and sold extension cords.
After a few meetings brainstorming our product and other business options, the company voted on officers. A boy named Ken, from the rival high school, was elected President and I was elected Secretary. Everyone in the company worked in manufacturing and selling but the officers (I don’t remember who was Vice President and Treasurer) had separate meetings and duties. Ken and I were together often. At our first meeting, I was impressed by him. He was gorgeous, tall and athletic, and very smart. But as we got to know each other I began to despise him. He was an annoying tease, he mocked and goaded me, an arrogant boar. He evidently was a big-deal three-sport athlete at his school and the best pitcher in the Kingco League, but it wasn’t impressing me. He talked incessantly about his “fiancé”, a model, who lived in San Francisco and was older than he was. He dressed the best, in clothes that he said she sent him as gifts. Gag a magot – was my mental response. We met with city business leaders and did some publicity for Junior Achievement. It made me grind my teeth when we had to go places together or have meetings apart from our weekly company meetings.
I wrote in my journal of my woes and disappointments as well as the fun times. On January 20th, St. Agnes Eve, I said my regular prayers and then prayed that St. Agnes would send me the dream of my true love. Of course, I had a couple of boys in mind, but hoped not to influence her with specifics. When I woke, I realized I dreamed of STUPID KINARED. That is what I wrote in my journal. I couldn’t believe it. Why would she send me a dream of the very LAST person I would even speak to? St. Agnes was relegated to “suspect” on the saint list, and I promptly kicked her to the curb so to speak. STUPID KINARED and I had never dated and never would so what was her message?
Two weeks later, Ken asked me for a date.
“What would you say if I asked you out for Saturday night?” was his exact question. “I don’t know, try it,” was my answer – stifling a gag. I knew he was pulling my chain. “Well, would you go out with me Saturday night?” “Sure,” I said knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t show up, relishing the idea of me waiting for him, and then having some lame reason the next time we met. I skied every Saturday and never dated on Saturday night because I was so knackered by the time I got home, I couldn’t hold my head up. That was perfect. I knew he wouldn’t show, and I wouldn’t care.
He showed up. I was warming my cold aching body in a steamy, hot bath, thinking of the dinner Mom had waiting for me when she knocked on the bathroom door and said there was a boy named Ken asking if I was ready for our date. I was beyond surprised – and a little ticked off. “I didn’t know you had a date for tonight,” she said. “I didn’t either,” I said. “Well, what shall I tell him? He’s in the living room talking to your father.” I thought about it and decided I didn’t want to be the one who failed to show for the date. I’d never hear the end of that. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” I said. I had no idea what the date was, but I sure hoped it included dinner because I was famished after a long day of skiing and only a little lunch several hours before. I dressed for a dinner date.
He took me to a Seattle U basketball game. I HATE basketball – a bunch of sweaty jocks with squeaky shoes running from one end of the room to another. Pointless and boring, I never can figure out what’s going on. I was miserable, I was cold, I was hungry, and I hated my escort. The date from hell. I didn’t speak to him except in single syllables. By the time we got in the car, he was irritated by my behavior. He opened the car door for me, then slammed it so the car shook. I started quietly sobbing with my face turned to the window, hoping to get home quickly, have something to eat, climb into my warm bed, and forget the night ever happened.
We were part way home and he asked, “Would you like to stop at the Burger Master for something?” I perked up a bit. “Yes. That would be great.” My stomach nodded in approval. Maybe something would be salvaged from this disaster after all. He pulled into the parking lot. It was a drive-in restaurant where a waitress came to the car, you ordered, and then she brought the order to the car. We weren’t going into a warm restaurant. “What would you like?” the waitress asked. Without looking at me or asking a question, he said, “Two vanilla milkshakes.” I hate vanilla milkshakes. I’m a chocolate malt girl. Things were not looking up. I had never been on a date when I was not consulted – first, about where we were going, usually school dances or a movie, and second, what I wanted to eat if we were at a restaurant. Who did this arrogant joker think he was, God? My bad mood deepened. When the shakes arrived, I said, “You drink them both, I don’t like vanilla milkshakes.” He did and we left.
Instead of driving me home, he drove to a place by the lake. Quiet and secluded. “I’d just like to talk to you,” he said. “About what,” I grumbled. And then he talked. I don’t know what about because I wasn’t listening. He asked me to take my coat off because he was allergic to fur, and it had a fur collar. I declined. I asked about Sue, his “fiancé” and got a non-answer. There was no kissing, no making out, no nothing and he took me home.
In the morning, my mother asked, “How was the date?” “Never in the history of dates has there ever been a worse one,” I replied. “You’ll never see that guy here again. I sent a clear message.” Later in the day as I was doing homework at my desk my mother came into my room. “You know the guy you said I’d never see again? He’s at the door asking for you to come out to talk to him.” Sure enough there he was standing by his car, with his best friend he wanted me to meet, bouncing a basketball between them. The gall of this guy, the absolute impudence, the audacity! I was intrigued. What made him come back?
From that day on he either called or came by to see me every day, sometimes driving across town to pick me up after school to take me home, or driving up to the slopes to ski with me on Saturday. His persistence slowly won me over. I began to see his charm. We would go out or he would come hang out at my house. My parents loved him. My mother made him his favorite blueberry pies and my father barbequed steaks when he came to dinner. We dated exclusively for the rest of the school year and summer. We fought, we broke up, we reconciled, rinse and repeat. We had great times together and it was never boring. Bob had to find a new girl-friend.
Two years ago, I was going through old journals and papers. Most of the journals from early days were tossed when we moved from Seattle to Tucson, but I found the one from my senior year. Over the years Ken and I talked about that first date. He didn’t remember it being so bad – obviously. I showed him my entry from St. Agnes Eve when I said I dreamt of STUPID KINARED (capitalized and highlighted). He laughed. I had totally forgotten that St. Agnes foretold our marriage in a dream that I had scoffed at and ignored.
Now over sixty years later, when we go to bed at night, he leans over to kiss me and says, “Thank you, St. Agnes.”
Never underestimate the power of a saint. They work in mysterious ways.
PS: Our JA company received an award as Company of the Month one month and an honorable mention at the end of the year and Ken received a scholarship award as runner-up for President of the Year. After high school, Ken signed a pro contract with the Detroit Tigers as a pitcher with spring training starting the following February. Ken never took me to Burger Master again. We didn’t attend basketball games either. We attended plays, movies, dances, and the very nicest restaurants in town. He is the BEST date I ever had. Sue continued to write to Ken even after we married.
This is a writing exercise based on a scene.Prompt scene: A busy small neighborhood café in the 5th arrondissement of Paris. Two old men each alone at his own table ate peacefully by themselves. One picked up fries with delicate fingers as the other spooned an ice cream sundae into his mouth, both protected and seemingly immune from the surge and retreat of customers around them. How long had they been coming here, months or years? Did they know each other, even a little bit? What are their stories?
Gerard walked with purpose past several couples already sipping coffee and nibbling croissants at square tables on the terrace in front of Café Couronne. Gerard was rarely this late to brunch. The café was a short brisk walk from his flat on Rue de Rennes at the intersection of Rue de la Couronne. It opened at 10:00 each weekday. It was nearly 10:20. His table was always inside even during the glorious summer months. Today was one of those soft spring days, with filtered sun, and a cool dampness from the night’s rain. While Gerard loved the Paris sunshine when it appeared, he hated the traffic along Rue de la Couronne. It frustrated his need for quiet as he ate brunch each day. The peace inside the tiny café, only 16 tables, was perfect for contemplation. Martin saw Gerard coming in his gray wool topcoat, with a grey scarf and fedora. He had short gray hair and a conservative mustache. Martin waved to him, pulling out his chair.
Every weekday Gerard occupied the table near the back wall of the café so he could observe without hindrance those who came and went. Martin faithfully served the regular patrons each morning.
and knew his order, plain yogurt, strawberries, or blueberries, depending on the chef’s choice, frites, and strong coffee. He immediately went to collect it from the kitchen. In his seventy-three years, Gerard found routine to be the cornerstone of his existence.
Gerard acknowledged, with a nod, Phillipe as he entered the café. Phillipe always sat at a table smack in the center of the room. In his red cape and beret, he preferred to be the obvious but unapproachable sun around which the other diners and staff revolved throughout the morning. His thick white handlebar mustache accented a face with twinkling eyes. Although they frequented the same café for ten years nearly every day, neither man spoke to the other.
When each man had his order, they settled in to enjoy their respective breakfasts. Gerard finished his yogurt with fruit and picked with delicate fingers at his fries while Phillipe spooned his sundae into his mouth slowly, delicious bite by delicious bite as the world spun inevitably around them.
Martin hurried to Phillipe’s table after delivering Gerard’s breakfast. He placed a steaming pot of green tea along with a large mug on the table and asked after Phillipe’s health. Phillipe was a habitual diner at Café Couronne but not daily. His apartment on the sixth floor of the old Art Nouveau building was a bit further down Le Rue de Rennes from Gerard. Phillipe’s attitude was com ci, com ça. He abhorred routine. At age seventy-six, he was sometimes absent of a morning due to a variety of ailments, heart, back, liver, eye, shoulder, or hips, but he never missed Thursdays. He had come on thirteen consecutive mornings so Martin felt sure he might be due to have a breakdown soon. Phillipe said he was sound this day and looking forward to meeting a friend for a stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg after his petit dejeuner. “I’ll have a strawberry parfait sundae this morning,” he told Martin.
The two men left the café within ten minutes of each other, Phillipe being the first, stopped at the flower shop down the street from the café and purchased two dozen white daisies. At precisely 12:00 pm the two gentlemen of Paris met at the Rue Guynemer entrance on the northwest side of the Jardin du Luxembourg (6th arrondissement). From there they silently strolled the path past L’Orangerie with its intoxicating citrus smells, then around the green grassy oval in front of the Palais toward their favorite statue. The statue reminded them of her. They took two side-by-side chairs at the edge of the path and quietly spoke of her. After thirty minutes they strolled together to the Cimetière du Montparnasse to stand at her gravesite, privately mourning the woman they both loved.’The two men left the café within ten minutes of each other, Phillipe being the first, stopped at the flower shop down the street from the café and purchased two dozen white daisies. At precisely 12:00 pm the two gentlemen of Paris met at the Rue Guynemer entrance on the northwest side of the Jardin du Luxembourg (6th arrondissement). From there they silently strolled the path past L’Orangerie with its intoxicating citrus smells, then around the green grassy oval in front of the Palais toward their favorite statue. The statue reminded them of her. They took two side-by-side chairs at the edge of the path and quietly spoke of her. After thirty minutes they strolled together to the Cimetière du Montparnasse to stand at her gravesite, privately mourning the woman they both loved.
Gerard loved her first when she was seventeen. A muscular athletic man, he was ten years older than she. She had been an aerialist in the circus where he trained lions, tigers, and bears. She only performed there for two years, but they remained lovers even after she left to study magical arts at Arcane University in Paris. He would take the train from wherever the circus was temporarily situated in Europe to see her when he had a few days off. His hope was to persuade her to marry him and start a farm retreat for old circus animals in the Loire Valley. She finally tired of their long-distance affair. She asked him to stay away. Heartbroken, Gerard married the circus horse trainer on the rebound, and they had thirty-one quarrelsome, combative, marital years. After his wife died, he retired to spend his days in Paris researching butterfly habits and habitats with his true love still very much on his mind.
Phillipe met her when she was twenty-six. He was a professor of alchemy and enchantment at Arcane University. She was his most creative student, inventing unique ideas for magical entertainments. They became lovers within two weeks of her matriculation. She told him of Gerard, her first love, and the dozen or so that followed, but vowed he would be her last. They had happy times writing and producing magic shows for children. Sadly, she died of pneumonia after a mere five years together.
Twenty years went by, Phillipe and Gerard met one day at her grave in the Cimetière du Montparnasse. They eyed each other but didn’t speak. After several chance meetings, a coincidence neither of them questioned, they began a conversation about her. They assumed she intentionally brought them together. As time went by their meetings were formalized every Thursday at 12:00. When they met, they shared stories about how she enriched their lives. Each revealed a different side of her. To Gerard, she was a daring acrobat, lithe and supple, a physical wonder. To Phillipe, she was a cerebral partner with ideas flowing from her inventive mind. It made them feel that she was still with them. They alternated taking flowers to her grave. Occasionally both took flowers when a specific memory was observed by one or the other. After a while, they began eating breakfast at the same café, but never spoke except on Thursday. Their only subject was of her.
January 6th, 2024 is the 60th anniversary of our first wedding. It started as a dare. Surprise, surprise it lasted! The beginning was a bit unusual.
Ken and I met in 1962 at a Junior Achievement Meeting. He went to the rival high school across town. We began dating in February 1963. It was a rocky romance at best. He proposed on our third date. My response was to laugh. Ridiculous I said. We’re in high school and I have plans. I was going to be a world traveler and a French/English interpreter living in Paris not a haus frau in Bellevue, Washington. He was undaunted and asked me several times. Each time I said no. He was intense and serious; I was a flibbertigibbet. We broke up over and over, but I kept going back to him. There was that indefinable something that I couldn’t resist.
We were enrolled at Washington State University and our dating life the first semester was a replay of our high school experience. On again, off again. We went back to our homes at Christmas break and saw each other for the holidays. It was common practice for a student with a reliable vehicle to sell space in said vehicle to other students who needed rides to and from the west side of the mountains. We each signed up for the ride back to the University after New Year. The guy oversold the space in his car. Ken and I can’t remember exactly what kind of car he had but Ken thinks it was something like a Chevy Malibu – not a full-size car by any means. The driver, his girlfriend, and another fellow sat in the front seat, Ken and two other big guys in the backseat and me. The only place I could sit was on Ken’s lap. We were all 18 and 19 years old so being packed like a canister of tennis balls didn’t seem so bad. After all, it was only four hours across the mountains from Bellevue to Pullman.
On Sunday, January 5th, we left about 1:00 pm in a light snow. As we got into the mountains the snowfall was harder. By the time we reached the pass, it was closed due to the storm. We couldn’t use I-90 to get to eastern Washington and had to backtrack and reroute south into Oregon then across I-84 and up to Walla Walla and then to Pullman making a four-hour journey into an eight-hour marathon. We stopped a few times so everyone could get out and stretch their legs. Ken’s legs went numb a few times with me sitting on him but, as I said, we were young and everything was possible. We were all in good spirits and having a great time despite the delay.
Ken was going back to school for semester finals, then leaving the first week of February to go to Florida for Spring Training. After high school, he signed a contract to be a pitcher with the Detroit Tigers’ Baseball Organization. He was going to be in exotic sunny Florida with baseball groupies, playing ball all summer. I began thinking how much I would miss him.
I whispered in Ken’s ear. “Do you still want to get married?” Without hesitation, he said, “Yes.” “Ok, we’ll do it tomorrow,” I continued to whisper so our companions couldn’t hear. “Tomorrow?” he queried. “Tomorrow or never,” I challenged. “OK.” “I have two conditions”. “What?” “One: we don’t tell anyone and then when you get back from baseball, we have a real wedding. Two: you take me out of Washington State to live somewhere else”. “Ok.”
My first condition was because my mother would be disappointed if I didn’t have a big fat wedding. From the time I was knee-high to a beetle she talked about my wedding. She was cheated out of a formal wedding in 1943 because of the war and she wanted to put on a big affair for me. I knew it would kill her spirit if I eloped and she didn’t get the chance to plan a wedding. The second condition was because I couldn’t stand the dreary climate in western Washington and had wanted to leave since I got there when I was twelve. Ken was willing to live anywhere.
It was decided. We got to our respective dorms late and agreed he would pick me up at 8:00 to go to Idaho to get married. We couldn’t marry in Washington State because, at that time, men under 21 had to have a parent’s permission. There was also a waiting period from the time a license was issued until the nuptials could be performed. That didn’t fit our window of opportunity. In Idaho, there were no restrictions and no waiting period. We set off for Coeur d’Alene in Ken’s knackered old 1950 Chevy that used more oil than gas. At one point our car spun out on the ice and we ended up backed into a snowbank. A kind motorist stopped to help us get back on the road. It was still snowing lightly but undaunted we continued on. Nothing deterred us.
I dressed in a sleeveless cream-colored wool dress and high heels. It was the only almost white dress I had. High heels in snow are not the best choice either. But again, what about this whole thing made sense? I took my big china pig under my arm as my maid of honor…. don’t ask. Ken wore a sports coat, slacks, and sensible shoes. We each had a coat against the winter chill.
With a few stops along the way to add oil, we made it to Coeur d’Alene and found the courthouse. We quickly obtained a license and asked where we could get married. We were directed to a little chapel, The Hitching Post. A justice of the peace married us with his wife as a witness. It was done!! We had lunch at a lakeside café. They gave us a tiny wedding cake to celebrate. On the way back to the University, the Chevy gave up and died. We left it at a service station in Colfax and caught a bus for the ride to Pullman, pig, wedding cake, and all.
As soon as we got off the bus we went directly to the car dealer and Ken bought a cranky 1950 Cadillac, again not the most reliable car, but it got us around town for the couple of weeks before he left for Florida. The next weekend we drove to Lewiston, Idaho for our two-day honeymoon and happily ever after.
Ken never lets me forget I was the one who proposed to HIM. Yes, indeed I did, and I don’t regret it. We still chuckle over the impulsive decision and the fact that it actually turned out to be a good idea. We marvel that our spontaneous marriage has weathered sixty years.
We did have a formal wedding with all the hoopla, wedding showers, white dress, “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue”, flowers, music, big cake, and reception at the beautiful old Saint Thomas Episcopal Church in Medina with Father “Mac” McMurtry and Father “Val” Valspinosa presiding on September 4, 1964, just five days after Ken returned from the baseball season.
To keep up the story, Ken had called my father from Florida in April to ask for my hand in marriage, then sent me a diamond engagement ring in the mail. My mother and I went to the courthouse in Seattle to get the license. My best friend was my maid of honor (much better than a china pig) and Ken’s best friend was his best man. Mom planned the whole shebang. The only thing I picked out was my groom and my dress, she did the rest and had a wonderful time doing it. I was probably the least stressed bride in history.
We kept the secret for forty years until my mother passed away. She never knew the story and neither did anyone else. Our kids were flabbergasted that we kept the secret for so long from them. “What else don’t we know?” was their response. Oh, the stories we could tell…
This story is from a prompt. Write about a conversation with a stranger who turns out to not be a stranger. Include five different “clicks” that happen as your character begins to remember the person.
It was one of those lines that went nearly around the perimeter of Whole Foods when COVID embraced our town. Everyone stood their respectful distance from the stranger ahead and the stranger behind waiting as the line inched toward the three clerks at the front of the store. I was halted next to the deli section. Not a good thing since all I needed to buy was a bag of organic lettuce and one of organic arugula. My weakness is stinky French cheese. I eyed all the goodies, especially the creamy raclette and camembert that always enticed my taste buds into a dance of ecstasy. I averted my eyes and caught the smile of the man standing behind me. With raised eyebrows, he nodded toward the cheeses acknowledging the temptation. He looked oddly familiar but not. Click.
The five-day stubble beard was interrupted by a ragged trail of a scar scoring the left side of his face from temple to chin, nicking the side of his mouth. The scar pulled his mouth to the left with a little pucker so his smile was lopsided but never-the-less friendly. His left eye drooped.
“A reminder of Paris, eh?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” I replied inhaling the memories. Click
I turned to move my cart forward.
A low laugh, full and rich, rumbled smoothly from his belly to throat and made me look back again. His eyes, a deep brown, looked me over from tête to toe. Click.
“Imagine seeing you at a grocery store in Tucson after all these years and all those miles.” I stared hard at him again. “Do I know you?” “Does Les Deux Magots one midnight in July 2003 ring a bell?”
A warm melting quiver involuntarily coursed through my body. Click. Again, I moved my cart forward, my mind racing through a dense forest of memories of those balmy July evenings.
“Sorry, did I disturb you?” he asked quietly. “I can’t believe, it is you, Anthony. What happened?” I looked directly at his scar. He had easily been one of the most attractive men I’d ever met, let alone bedded. The magnetism had been more than skin deep but his handsome face had instant appeal.
“One of those crazy challenges I couldn’t resist.”
I pulled my cart out of the line and circled back to him. Standing well within the prohibited six-foot radius of personal space I could smell his signature Jaguar Black Classic cologne. The musk, cedar, and bitter orange combination was the clincher. Click.
The disruption in the orderly line was noted by the other patrons who dithered their carts attempting to reestablish regulation.
“A race?” “Of course. And I won. But the ending was,” he paused, “explosive – one might say.”
Again, the low laugh that sent me back in time. He pulled his cart out of line and a collective sigh ruffled through the systemized cart-pushers.
“Do you have someplace to be or could we grab a cup of coffee? I’m in town for just a few days. I was going to look you up and I’m amazed at our serendipitous meeting. Meant to be, I guess.”
We left our carts at the end of the deli section and walked over to the coffee bar.
“Two French press Carte Noir, s’il vous plait.” Anthony told the barista.
I smiled. Ah, the memories that order brought back and it wasn’t just one midnight.
In recent news, a six-year-old boy was put on the wrong flight to visit his grandmother and ended up in Orlando instead of Fort Myers, Florida begging the question, where were the adults? Should children be allowed to fly unaccompanied?
Times have changed. I flew unaccompanied four times from the ages of four to eight. Each summer, I flew from Wichita, Kansas to Denver to stay for a month or so with my mother’s parents. I treasure those memories because it was a time when I got to know them and they me beyond just a short visit. My father’s family lived in and around Wichita, so I grew up with nearly weekly visits with grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins on that side of the family. The only opportunity I had to see my maternal grandparents, aunts, and uncles was summertime trips to Colorado.
That was in the late 40s and early 50s of the last century, oh my. It never crossed my mind to be fearful or apprehensive about those experiences. I was handed over to a stewardess, as they were called then. She looked after me from the time I boarded the plane until she gave me to my grandparents. Also in those days, my parents walked me across the tarmac directly to the door of the airplane. Things were so much simpler. At the end of my summer stay, my parents usually drove to Denver to collect me. One time my godfather volunteered for the duty, and I drove home with him and his girlfriend. I sat on the front seat between them (another thing that couldn’t happen today). It was a long day’s drive looking for Burma Save signs, counting out-of-state license plates, singing silly songs, and stopping for cokes and a lunch of toasted chicken salad sandwiches.
I remember on my first or second flight I was taken for a short visit to the cockpit to meet the pilot and copilot. It is not clear in memory if the plane was in the air but I’m pretty sure we had not taken off yet. I sat on the pilot’s lap as he showed me how he operated the plane with all the dials and gizmos he used to get us to our destination. He allowed me to “take the wheel”. It was fascinating. Back at my seat, I was treated like a princess with lots of attention and the flight went by very quickly. I never felt I was cargo or a piece of luggage being shipped from place to place. My grandparents were there waiting when the door was opened. I was always the first to deplane.
Each time I flew, I was given a junior stewardess pin with wings to wear that looked just like those worn by the pilots and flight attendants.
On the last flight I took solo when I was eight, I was seated next to Tex Ritter. He was one of the singing cowboys. My very favorite was Roy Rogers with his horse Trigger, but Tex was next best. Then came Rex Allen and Gene Autrey. I loved cowboys. Since I was the only girl in my neighborhood, I played outside with all the boys. I had a complete cowgirl outfit with a fringed skirt and vest, a neckscarf, boots and spurs, and a toy gun with a red holster. We rode up and down the street on our pretend horses chasing Indians and outlaws or hiding out from the same.
I had seen Tex and his big white horse, Flash, in Saturday matinees. I remember his low resonant voice. My favorite songs were, I Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle, You Are My Sunshine, and Froggy Went a Courtin. He sang the theme song of High Noon, but I believe that was later in his career. I don’t recall having a conversation with Tex other than “Hi” and “How are you”. He minded his business, probably read a book; and the stewardess gave me a coloring book, so I kept busy too. I did get his autograph in the autograph book that I carried with me and still have.
I’m not sure how I survived all that reckless treatment as a child with unsecured plane and car seats, and being handed from stranger to stranger far from home; but here I am – the lucky survivor of a happy childhood.
wonkagranny 