This image of crows I carved from a stamping material over twenty years ago still pleases me. And here they are on the ground under a Eucalypt tree with clothesline attached. And on the line are hung the ragged bits of cloth that cover nothing. On the ground between them are tiny flecks of gold that are more important than scraps of clothing that no longer cover who we are.
I am tired of talking to myself. Tired of the horrendous state of politics in this country. Tired of wishing people were willing to think for themselves. Tired of fluctuations in the weather. Tired of eating a handful of peanuts hoping it is adequate protein. Tired of ………
So….instead of using this blog to just whine about what has very little in the way of solutions, today I will post a recent short story. Then I will retreat into that private place where words come to me … words I can read aloud to the me kept waiting to hear them … all written down on legal pads of yellow paper with blue lines stacked up in front of me.
The Neighbor S. Webster
I watch her. She has pulled her car back into the garage. The door drops down behind her. Whatever she carries into the kitchen from there is hidden from view. So, let’s guess.
One large bag of dog food. The barking when I go to get my mail suggests there are two dogs – both nervous and protective.
Fresh produce – celery, carrots, potatoes, onions. Not leeks or fresh spinach – not on her budget. The neighbor only wants enough to make a soup of what meat she hasn’t eaten the last few days.
Eggs and a half gallon of milk. Combined these two can make an omelet or turn stale bread into French toast.
Flour and sugar. She might want to bake something in case company drops in.
One of her sons will come by to check on her. Make sure she is still okay to stay by herself and not have to be packed up and taken home to stay with him or his brother.
Yes, she’s fine. No need to think about adjustments that would have to be made. But it may be a good idea to pick up a walker if one comes up at a garage sale. Best to be prepared. I’m sure that is what goes through the minds of her sons.
They never stay long – about an hour. Somewhere it must be written that one hour is enough to show you’ve done what’s proper. In that hour a son can give a quick hug in greeting, ask how she and the dogs are getting on, etc. And mom can make coffee, set out a plate of cookies and answer enough questions in the way they need to be answered.
She practices her responses and often inserts a small fictional account of an encounter with her caring and supportive neighbors.
Each are saved from having to think of how all her knick-knacks would have to be packed off to flea markets or Goodwill. God knows there is no place in their homes for all her treasures. Or so they tell themselves.
The son visiting now has avoided telling his mother that his wife left several months ago. The subject never comes up. His mother never liked his wife and the feeling was mutual.
And before you know it, the hour is up and assessments have been made. She’s good enough to stay by herself. A quick hug on the way out the door and as soon as the car is out of the driveway, he can call his brother, give a report and remind him that he is up next.
Lovely.
I watch him pull away with the phone to his ear and I wonder if she had time to bake cookies.
She has followed him out to the mailbox and returns with the paper.
So, then what does she do? Back inside behind closed curtains and a shut door?
I’m pretty sure she makes herself a cup of tea and sits down at the kitchen table to think. Think about the chores she finished doing earlier before her boy came by. Whether there is anything else that needs doing today. Oh yes, fold the clothes that have finished drying.
But first she picks up the weekly paper to read the news. Skip the front page of accidents and arrests and turn to the letters to the editor, then finish with the obituaries. Although a name seems familiar, the photo is of a much younger woman. She notices the men who have passed on look like they could go soon, but surviving family tend to find a better (and younger) picture of mothers and grandmothers.
As she pulls clothes from the dryer, each one is held out at arm’s length. If no noticeable spots, then fold in half, press down with one hand and fold over again to fit in a drawer or drape over a hanger. And if there are still spots (usually grease from salad dressings splashed down the front) then get the dish detergent and rub some in. Wipe off with a wet sponge and figure, when dry, the spots are faded enough to get by.
I know she does this because we all do it. Why toss it back in the hamper to wait another week to be washed again? We will want that shirt before the week is up.
And it’s a good thing there is another week to go before the bed is stripped and sheets washed, dried and put back on the bed. Yes, it’s lovely to sleep on clean crisp sheets, but wrestling fitted corners over heavy mattresses is not worth stripping the bed every single week.
Next, she will fill the dog dishes and give them time to scarf it down before finding the leashes and taking them for a walk. Making sure plastic bags are stuffed in her pockets before setting out.
This would be my time to visit with her, but I can’t stand dogs. Drooling, barking, over-zealous creatures! Is the companionship really worth all the commotion they cause? I don’t think anyone here in this closed-in neighborhood needs them for protection. I’d be more concerned they might misread a neighbor’s slow stumbling movements as a threat in some way and take a bite to get them moving.
I did have a dog once. When my father decided to move us from the north down to Florida, he told us we’d have to find a home for the dog. “Dogs don’t survive the heat down there. Too much hair and they die within a few weeks. Better to say goodbye and find a home here where he has a chance.” Same thing about my bike. “No room on the roads for bikes down there.” I hated that state long before I arrived to find even more reasons to wish I’d given myself away to the kind people who took my bike and dog.
There she goes. Dogs pulling at their leashes off to the right. Why is it even dogs know that when you enter a different space, you always turn right?
Should I go out my door across the street and also turn right? That way we’d be going in opposite directions when we meet halfway around the block. I could say a brief hello before her dogs give me a sniff, realize I am just another harmless old one and race past. Why not? It’s better than being rude and ignoring her. It would be a brief encounter. It’s not like she’d be inviting me over for tea. People don’t do that when they are going in opposite directions and being pulled along by dogs.
I slip out the door and turn right, passing one house after another. Each attempting to distinguish itself with different yard ornaments. Pink flamingoes signal the end of this side, and I turn right, past two more houses before right again.
There she is. Paused in front of a house while her dogs sniff and mark a small chain-sawed bear.
I make the quick decision to not talk to her. Just smile, nod and cross the road to avoid her dogs. Then hurry home to shut myself in before she turns the corner pulling her dogs past flamingoes.
In a few days when my daughter comes by to make her assessments on whether I should stay here, I will tell her what a nice visit I had with the neighbor.
the end
This story made me smile….
Til later….
