Tag Archives: sailboat

Our 122nd Wedding Anniversary

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This morning, as we took our slow walk around the neighborhood, Ken mentioned that he thinks he can make it to our anniversary later this week. He has been a warrior for ten years in a battle with Parkinson’s, a movement disorder that takes his mobility away piece by piece. He is doing a heroic job of staving off the predicted progression, or should I say regression, of the disorder. We celebrate each and every milestone.

This week will be our 122nd anniversary. Yes. We have had 121 anniversaries so far. We were married sixty-one years ago – twice. Our first marriage, in January, was an elopement before Ken left for spring training in Lakeland, Florida, as a Detroit Tiger rookie. Then, eight months later, in September, when he returned from the baseball season, we were married in church with friends and family as witnesses. We have celebrated twice a year since; thus, it will be our 122nd anniversary. We kept our first wedding a secret until twenty years ago, and that’s another story.

Of course, we went through years of thick and thin, bounty and scarcity, as all long-term relationships do. We raised three kids and countless pets. We were on the brink of divorce at one point, separated for several months. The divorce was unsuccessful; we stayed married another forty-eight years (96 anniversaries) so far.

Chocolate cake with butter cream frosting and peanut butter roses

When first married, we lived simply. I remember peanut butter sandwiches (no jelly) were my lunches at work, sometimes they were dinner too. We lived in apartments in Washington, Florida, and California. Between baseball seasons, we took whatever jobs we could find. Minor league baseball players were only paid during the season, and it was a minimal wage not meant to get one through a year until the next season.

One apartment had a bedroom so small that only a twin-size bed fit. We both slept in that bed, me in the crack next to the wall. Ken was a 200 lb., six-foot-one strapping young fella whose feet hung over the end. He barely fit the bed at all, but we couldn’t imagine sleeping separately. At one time, we lived in a trailer in Florida that had been modified to add bathroom fixtures with a toilet in the living room and a shower in the kitchen. Oh, well – young love doesn’t make note of such inconveniences. We were happy to be together.

In 1966, we would walk with our new baby in a stroller down the hill into town from our suburban apartment to spend $.50 for two ice cream cones. It was an extravagance. We couldn’t drive to town because we couldn’t afford to use the gas in the car that Ken needed to go to work. At that time, gasoline cost less than $.50/gallon. Our two cones were the price of a whole gallon of gas. (Today, gas costs around $3.00/gal, and so does just one ice cream cone – inflation?)

We continued in the American dream to acquire a house with a mortgage and two cars – actually moving in the same city five times. Over the years, the houses became bigger and the cars nicer. Our kids thrived through school and sports, left home for college and lives of their own, and we became empty nesters. During those years, we lived in Bellevue, Washington.

Ken had a career in the home building industry, and after the kids were all in school, I took jobs doing admin work in a variety of companies, including our own. My jobs were mostly time fillers with no career aspirations – a way to make extra money for fun stuff.

One year, we left our jobs, sold our house and furniture, took our kids out of school, and went on a road trip through forty-eight states as well as a few provinces of Canada and Mexican states near the border of the United States. A challenge full of memories I wouldn’t trade for any amount of money.

We had friends, threw great parties, traveled extensively, and did everything we wanted to do. We had a sailboat and cruised the waters and islands of the Pacific Northwest alone together and with friends. We led a very privileged life and still do, but in a more modest way. We are back to simplicity, not quite the peanut butter lunches variety. We moved to Arizona nearly thirty years ago. Our lives are circumscribed by age and lesser abilities, but still full of friends and family. We have an abundance of gratitude for the abundance of our memories and each day we are given.

Happy One-Hundred-Twenty-Second Anniversary, Ken. I love you.

Who Done It? – A very short mystery

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Bequia at anchor in Doe Bay

Winston kicked loose rocks into the slow-breaking waves, his sandaled foot making soft plops in the water. Sand crabs skittered away at his approach across the rocky beach. Cold, briny air blowing steadily against his face ruffled his dark hair and brought the scent of faraway adventure back to him. His forty-three-foot sloop, Bequia, bobbed at anchor sixty feet offshore where the shelf dropped to deep, near ebony waters. Uneasiness haunted this return to his boat, hiding behind his sense of liberation. It had been a tense week on the island.

He untied his dark gold, black streaked, rubber dinghy from a large driftwood log and pulled it out into the surf. Slick clumps of seaweed made walking on the rocks like skating in slug slime. He grounded the dinghy with one foot and shoved off with the other until it floated on its own. The halo line of the rising sun on the east horizon above the hill cast faint magenta fingers into the morning-tinted sky. When he lifted anchor, he would say goodbye to Orcas Island forever. The only witnesses to his departure were three seagulls hanging sideways to the wind.

            It was one of those rare early fall days in the San Juans, portending sunshine at the crack of dawn, no cloudy onshore flow, and a bit breezy. Holly, the waitress at the Swing Inn Café, wiped the crusty pink and gray marbled countertop. Marla never seemed to get it clean before she left at night. She inserted the “daily specials” card into each menu on the stack. The little bell at the door announced morning customers when they arrived. That jangling bell at the door was her starting gun for the day. She watched for regulars – Ted, when he was in town, and Paulus, the Greek.

Then there was the dark-haired stranger who showed up at five am every day for the past week. She still didn’t know his name. That was unusual because, if anyone could charm customers, it was blue-eyed Holly. She hadn’t been successful in finding out where he was staying or why he was in their small town. He came in, ordered the breakfast special without even looking to see what Marty had on the menu, drank two and a half cups of coffee, left a $3 tip, and nodded goodbye. Other than his order and curt answers to polite questions, he didn’t utter a syllable. He was civil, but barely, a real challenge for the gregarious waitress.

Holly tucked her summer-streaked brown hair behind her ears and watched out the window as dawn slowly lit the street in front. The smell of biscuits and coffee filled the small café with a tantalizing good morning aroma. Soon, slices of ham, sausage patties, and strips of bacon would sizzle on the grill.

            Ting-a-ling.

            “Hey, Holly.  How’s tricks?” Old Paulus was always jaunty in the morning. He was a retired fisherman whose wife died four years ago. It became his habit to spend an hour each morning at the Swing Inn. He slid into his customary seat, third from the left end at the counter, and opened his paper, keeping an eye on Holly as she poured him a cup of coffee and put the brown cow pitcher of cream beside it. It made him feel almost married again to have his breakfast with a pretty woman. 

            “You want the special or just eggs and biscuits this morning?”

            “Mmmm.  Today’s Friday. Crab omelet, right?”

            “You got it.”

            “Okay, the special. Did you hear the fireworks last night?”

            “What fireworks?” Holly called over her shoulder, “Marty, one special for the Greek.”

            “Evidently, someone started a fight at the Razmataz, complete with gunfire, squealing tires, police lights, and sirens. No one got hurt or arrested. The guy who started it got away. Some stranger in town. A couple of fellas went to the station for questioning. I heard ‘bout it on the radio before I walked over here.” 

            “It must have happened after I went home,” said Holly. “I was out at Gull’s Wing until the band quit about 1:30 and didn’t notice anything on my way home. I drove right past Razmataz.”

            “How d’you do it? Out dancin’ at night and perky in the morning.”

            “I’m not telling my secrets, Paulus. I might want to sell them one day on QVC.”

            “Youth, it’s all about youth.”

            “I’ve been around awhile. I know what winds my stem. I figured out how to fit the rest of my day around dancing.”

            “Maybe I should try it. These old bones might like to jig.”

            “Come out with me tonight. I’m probably going back to Gull’s Wing. Colin Wilson’s band is playing. Good dance tunes, some country two-step, some swing, some salsa. There’s always a lively crowd when he plays. Plenty of singles. You’ll have your pick of partners, and I’ll certainly dance with you.”

            The door chimes rang again.

            “Mornin’ Sunshine, mornin’ Greek.” Ted took off his cowboy hat and swung his lanky frame onto the stool two down from Paulus. Ted did long-distance trucking. When he was in town, he was always at Swing Inn first thing each day. His wife, Tina, was the kindergarten teacher at the local elementary. She was a vegetarian and liked slow, quiet mornings with yoga and soft classical music, so rain or shine, he walked to the café for conversation and meat.

            Holly poured his coffee in a big mug – black, no anything. 

            “Order up.” Marty hollered.

            Holly pulled the warm plate from the serving shelf and put it in front of Paulus, and warmed up his coffee.

            “What’ll it be, Ted?”

Holly turned at the sound of the bell at the door to welcome the dark-haired new guy, but found her smile greeting an elderly couple who sat themselves in the middle booth of three next to the window.

            “Be right with you folks. Special is crab omelet.”

            The elderly lady, slightly stooped with her green coat pulled close, her gray bob snug in a scarf, nodded back to Holly. “No hurry, dear, but bring tea when you come.”

            “I’ll have double ham, side of bacon, sausage, and two eggs easy over, and a handful of those biscuits,” Ted said as he gulped most of his first mug of coffee. “Do you have grape jelly this morning?”

            “I’ll check. I’m pretty sure a delivery came yesterday afternoon,” she answered and poured more coffee into Ted’s mug.

“Double ham, jacked, and two easy, Marty,” she called to the cook.

            Holly filled two aluminum pots with steaming hot water, grabbed tea bags, put teacups, two napkin-wrapped bundles of silverware on her tray, and two menus under her arm, and went to the couple in the booth.

            “You folks are sure up and out early this morning? Welcome to our little town. Staying at the hotel?” Holly handed them the menus and set out the tea, silverware, and napkins.

            “Did you hear the commotion last night?” Paulus addressed Ted.

            “Lights out for me at 10:00. What happened?” 

            “Don’t know exactly, but there was a ruckus at Razmataz sometime after closing.  Reports say no one was hurt, but the fella who started it got away.”

            “We’re here visiting our daughter and her husband, the Jamisons. Do you know them?” the elderly man answered Holly.

            “Sure do. Millie Jamison clerks at First American Bank on the corner, and Conner works at the auto shop, right? Nice people. Going to stay long?”

            “Body was found out behind Razmataz, in the woods,” Marty called through the serving window. “I’ve been listening to KRG, local news. They just found it. Don’t know who yet.”

            The halyard clanged against the mast on the swaying boat as Winston stepped from the dinghy onto the swim deck of Bequia. He pulled the dinghy aboard and closed the swim deck.  After securing the small boat on the foredeck, he started the electric windlass to raise the anchor and prepared to unfurl the jib. Wind quickly filled the sail, propelling Bequia on its north heading. Revenge left a gnawing hole in his gut, not at all the relief he expected. He set the tiller and slipped below to grab a bite to eat before setting the mainsail. It had been a long night. After he abandoned the rental car, he had walked the rough terrain in dim moonlight nearly 10 miles through part of Moran Park from Doe Bay on the southeast side of the island. He wanted to be in Canadian waters as soon as possible.

Six Sentences

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Our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum recently challenged the members to write a story in six sentences. I took up the challenge. It is fun to practice writing in a variety of ways. There were no restrictions as to genre or topic. Below is my story.

In the darkness of the midnight hour, the lines clang against the main mast as the little sloop, Step Two, is released from anchor and begins to float out of the cove in a rising tide. The jib unfurls in the freshening wind from starboard. She sets the wheel aiming toward open waters, then bends to her task. Her back and shoulder muscles strain as she heaves the body overboard, head first, and watches it slice through the inky waters into the deep along with the bloody knife. She exhales a deep sigh of freedom realizing he’ll terrorize no more. Light from the quarter moon creeps from between clouds casting shadows across her scarred face.

A few months ago I wrote another six sentence story for an on-line challenge. This is that story. It is titled Bi-polar. I feel I must add that it is not auto-biographical. I shared it with some in my writing group and they immediately expressed sympathy for me. I had to explain it was made up but comes from observation, reading, and listening to other people’s stories.

It comes without warning, unexpected, expected, furious, fierce, brittle, hateful. It goes the same, expected, unexpected as sweetness returns. calm consideration and laughter. My lover is possessed by a djinn called by many names, bi-cycles, bi-polar cycles, stealthily stealing love. I am thrown as from a swiftly moving car into brambles of pain, reason unknown, known, unknowable. My heart is calloused, trust gone an unbridgeable distance, leaving shredded tatters of love with only a gossamer thread remaining. The darkness of her despair, unreachable, unclaimed grasps my helpless heart building an unbreachable wall between.

Fiction is based on so many things from a writer’s experiences, reading, and research. While there may be tiny pieces of me in my fiction writing, it is mostly made up in my head. It is the inhabiting of other realities that makes writing fun for me. Some of them are dark. Some are ridiculous and some are funny. These two examples are on the dark side. I don’t think anyone thought the first story was autobiographical…but you never know. I have owned a sailboat.