Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: Escape into Reality

(Read time: 17 minutes; words: 3200)

Photo by Maria Orlova on Pexels.com

He did not want to look at houses, not today, not tomorrow. He sat rigid in the car while his mother fairly skipped up to the broad porch with determined gusto. Jenness Granger’s ideas were not ones to take issue with often, but he was not about to meet her hard driving talks with dutiful agreement. In fact, there would be no further talk after he managed to endure monotonous views of house number three, the last. That made seven for the week and he was so done with it he might either scream into the leafy neighborhood or enter a fugue state and drift away.

Jax had thought about that second thing after his last therapy session. This somehow came up when he was informed he’d been experiencing some dissociation, as if he didn’t know that, vaguely. Who would want to feel the sorrow and guilt he felt? Then this other phenomenon was mentioned in passing, the fugue state, and he had looked it up later. How wonderful it would be to suddenly develop amnesia and take off to somewhere new, assume a different identity with no recollection of his past..until it was all over one way or another. He might be found or he’d have to come to grips suddenly–be jolted back to the old reality. Well, damn it, that was not going to work, was it? His exhausted reality is what he prefered to dissociate from.

He was stuck between a rock and a hard place so Jax eased his length from his mother’s champagne-colored sports car and loped up the sidewalk where she waited with the real estate agent. Eleanor Trent smiled and reached for his hand which he witheld; her bright nails flashed in the sunshine. Of course, Ellen knew he went on these viewings under duress but she worked for his mother at this time, so kept up the sales patter. Jax brushed by her, into the foyer. And tuned it all out.

Nothing could interest him less than house hunting with Jenness, the name (her given name) he’d called her since he was a teenager– at her behest when he called her Mother, too formal and icy, she said. So that was how it became: Leonard, his father, and Jenness. Parents to three sisters, also. Not the cozy, how-deeply-happy-we-are-with-you-all kind of parents, however. Raising a family was more akin to raising their thoroughbreds, which they did much better. He cared about horses but not the business. His sisters had other plans, decamped to Spain, New Zealand, Alaska. So Jax, still nearby, was the project Jenness decided to manage since she’d retired. Leonard, smart man, was busier than ever.

Correction: she’d decided to try and take hold of things since Marta was no longer in his life.

They wandered into the large dining room, through a kitchen that shone like all the kitchens did, and past a giant fireplace in the cathedral-ceilinged living room, and on and on. Why would he desire a house like others he’d lived in? Shared with the woman to whom he willingly gave his heart–who then somehow managed to shred it into fifty pieces before he even got close to being fifty? After the first couple of years each new year brought another ruination, another tiny murder. Or that’s how he had come to see it. Bitterly, angrily, then with cynical resignation.

It had taken alot longer than his friends, family and even a few his co-workers at Bellham International (where he was an industrial architect) to see it. To grasp the enormity of the fact that a liquid drug could cause so much havoc, then devastation. Emotional losses and a a near-financial crisis. When she got serious about drinking, Marta also liked to throw money away, she gambled alot, and not just on family race horses. When Marta hit bottom over and over, she entered not just fancy health spas (her first forays into sobriety) but treatment centers known for state-of-the art mental health and addiction programs, to bare bones state-run rehabs. Finally, jail for two DUIIs. Finally, prison for hit and run, a totaled car crash ending in a death. At death! here was nothing much left that might happen but her own complete demise, God forbid. She’d get out eventually. Maybe she would see the light while behind bars. He just couldn’t visit.

He knew she was gravely ill, had been a long while. But Jax was emtpied, done.

“Jax, are you noting this tasteful master shower? It has river rock flooring and walls, very appealing, isn’t it?”

He nodded vaguely, seeing Marta before him at a vanity, her shoulder-length dark hair glistening, carefully applying pink lipstick before a night out with friends. Laughing when he commented on her fine white towel attire. They must have been married about three years then; he’d wanted her to have her fun after her work as a research biologist.

So long ago sicen she was removed from his life and he filed for divorce. It had been a year. Long enough for him to move on. To sell that big echoey house. He’d ended up with Marta’s dog, giving it to a woman who loved whippets alot more than he ever did or could. Jax didn’t have that sort of constant caring in him, anymore.

“Look at that view, Jax, you can see the mountains clearly! This is a lap pool, too.”

They went outdoors, Jenness and Ellen chattering on. The pool water undulated, flashing gold and blue under the sunny sky. He ached. They used to swim before work and before bed so often in the beginning, and while she’d drunk herself into mayhem and stupors, he just kept right on swimming. Until he couldn’t dive in and tap into his power, anymore. No, he didn’t want a pool in his yard.

He abruptly turned away, feigned politeness. “Thank you so much, Ellen, for your time but this isn’t anything I’d buy with or without Jenness’s approval.”

“But it’s such a good price, dear, just small enough, you must consider it–“

“I am going to the car.” The edge to his words was clear. He was not interested. He didn’t want to act difficult with her–he just longed to hear his own musing, discover his plans. If he had any much of either.

He had to get away, breathe, let his mind–his being– empty. And no more Alanon for awhile, as helpful as it had been awhile: self examination; self care; sharing with others. He had to simply hear his own feelings and ideas without pressure or pretense.

He soon packed a bag and left a voice message for his parents: “Headed to the mountains, don’t worry, back in a week.”

They’d still expect him to hole up at the beach house on the other side of the range. He was going to sell that place, in fact. Jax was not the ocean person he’d thought; Marta had been a true beach nut. He preferred to hike in forests, mountains, and though she accompanied him, she loved to stroll along beaches, agate hunting. Those were better times…they seemed to help her tame the demons at first. In time, however, it became another scene of more crimes against heart, soul, body…

*****

Once embraced by the beauty of the mountains, he slept three days and nights in a slightly musty, bright, rented chalet. He awakened to use the bathroom or snack but mostly lay in bed or lounged on the orange plaid sofa, then fell alseep again and again. He’d worried about dreams, nightmares, but they were imbued with fewer signs of fear, anger, sadness, and ceased shortly. It was as if he’d put off complete slumbering until then. As if he’d been intent on staying awake, on task even more, figuring out a life as it was to be with her gone. Working harder despite not liking his job that much. Going through the motions of being a friend. A son.

He’d begun to isolate more. He’d sit on his deck inthe gathering dusk, watch the orange orb sink–so reliable– then light too big a fire and stare into flames as they hissed and crackled until nothing remained. He’d felt numb a long while. Even a glass or two of wine or a couple of beers did nothing to soothe or enliven.

Jax finally arose from the messy bed one morning and stretched deeply, every muscle in his body happy to be pulled and freed. He ran in place five mintues as he put bread in the toaster and heated water, and scrubbed his dirty hair with his knuckles-that was good enough for now–then went to the doorway. Flung it wide, stepped outside.

The vantage point offered a broad and deep view of the valley beneath a cliff. The walk to a four foot high wall offered rich piney coolness; he inhaled one last bit of air, let it out. It was fall and the sharp, clean hint of snow slipped through. The blue-green conifers all about him were lush, shadowed. He knew he could drive to a little store with gas pumps within four miles, but it felt like the edge of the world. And he leaned into it all. Birds were full of songs and chirps. Squirrels and rabbits were busy with winter prep, scurrying here and there. He thought a heavier critter crunched something but when he checked, he saw nothing.

He went in to make strong coffee, in a stove top coffee maker, and instant oatmeal, then carried them to a picnic table. He had little idea of the time, perhaps near noon–his old family analog watch was ticking away in the bathroom. It seemed as if he had escaped, and a shiver of relief and pleasure coursed through his lithe body.

A large Douglas’s greyish squirrel ran down a hemlock and up to the table, sitting on its haunches, sniffing about. It stared at Jax as he ate, chittering and chattering, then picking and poking earth for conifer seeds. He recalled the creatures from trips even long ago with his parents–when there was still time to go RVing on weekends. He’d enjoyed watching them, trying to decipher their fast talk, their crying out, and their agility to beat all.

His childhood was filled with family camping and hiking, playing tag or hide and seek among dense woodlands, roasting hot dogs over fire and making s’mores, fishing a little in rivers. They laughed more back then. They shared good times; they’d just lost the art of simple fun as time passed. Moneyed dreams and goals had taken over too much as the horse business grew yearly. And it had become part of his daily life as a youth, though he’d managed to not take the lead, even as his parents got older. No one wanted to take over for them, it was just such hard labor with variable outcomes–despite the success thus far. He knew it had been hard to accept. The ranch still did well, managed by others.

He mused about his life as he wandered about the forest, following a rough trail, careening his head to try to see tops of towering spruce, fir, hemlock and pine trees. How had Marta made alcohol her nemesis when it had started out easy, enjoyable? Oh, he knew all the facts about alcoholism and, too, that alcohol was a mysterious force that pulled some into its magnetic circle while others–like him–were not afflicted with its devastating entrancement. It hadn’t quite occurred to him that Marta was on the verge of drowning and when he finally saw it, he was almost helpless to save her. He had to do what she hated far more than he did–call in outside help. Over and over. Clean up the messes, try to save face for both, try to repair the gaping holes in the dam that had once protected their finances. Their whole lives.

The guilt of it all had piled atop mind and heart. It felt like a maze of fun house mirrors, reflecting shadowed or shiny lies, confusion and flashes of clarity, all of it making him sick with the need to remedy, to understand. Why, how, when, what? If he could have done more, sooner, better, how might things have turned out, instead?

But when a company holiday weekend at a grand hotel included Marta dancing wildly by herself to all the best numbers, then yanking off a tablecloth, laughing foolishly as she chattered nonsense, it felt like the very end. She broke multiple items of china and crystal due to that action. Marta was no longer entertaining when drunk, which was so often, nor was she even smart or attractive–and Jax knew that worse was ahead.

A co-worker had witnessed them both all week-end and pulled him aside.

“Hey Jax, we should talk. Like, would you consider coming with me to Alanon some time? The twelve steps can help partners stay sane while the alkies in their lives get what they need.” He put an arm about Jax briefly. “Trust me on this–have I steered you wrong at work? Well, life needs serious problem solving, as we know, and believe me I have been in your shoes.”

Jax glanced at the guy’s friendly, capable wife helping Marta up from the floor, then trying to guide her to a restroom. Marta’s green silky chemise had a side slit that was torn to her hip; her hair was a mess, her mascara running as she wept loudly. Everyone was watching with mouths open, and whispering. All he wanted was to rush off, get her upstairs and in bed, then pack up so they could leave before the sun rose. And what was his boss thinking?

Marta could not drink a drop, that was all there was to it. But she disagreed and tried every way she could think of to take longer “breaks”, go and get “dried out”, and then promised again to return to “far more sensible alcohol use, really, it can be done, I do know how to do it–you’ll see, darling Jax!”

Soon he found more secreted bottles of bourbon, vodka and rum, even tossed out the wine he no longer drank but that she’d inevitably drink if desperate. Pleading did nothing. Calling an ambulance worked when she fell down the stairs twice or passed out on the sidewalk in cold, wind-driven rain; and when security or an in-house doctor came after she refused to leave a five star hotel lounge when she was cut off and no one was left but Marta, ranting incoherently.

It killed him a little more each time she failed to keep herself healthy and safe. That he’d failed, too, though his rational mind told him it was not his doing.

Jax never got tired of inhaling nature-tinged breaths, his eyes taking in the greens of stately forest designs. Day after day he let his ears absorb a multitude of birdsongs; let his skin feel refreshment of brisk clean air; let his lips and tongue taste no words, only the salt of a few slow tears. He let them fall for the first time in months.

The waste of her lively, fascinating mind and lovely body hurt him as much as his own lingering wounds. But she had chosen to keep drinking. To drive when drunk.

He must make his own choices, better ones, each day.

He got his walking stick and backpack and followed one of several trails into the depths of wild land. The farther he hiked, feet navigating rutted earth or massive roots creeping this way and that, the stronger and clearer he always felt. He glimpsed a lovely doe feeding, then a buck, admiring the majestic antlers as he peered into the shade. The creature turned its head slowly toward him and gazed for a long few moments. Jax was spellbound as he always was, full of admiration for this royal resident…and then the two deer lept, front legs rising and falling, and ran off. Vanishing in a moment, it seemed they’d not been there…he kept looking.

And then he nearly stepped in a large pile of scat, not too dried out. He kenlt down and studied it. Yes. He gazed about, noted a couple of yards away an area of flattened bushes, vines. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and saw two tracks ahead with five toes and claw indentations. Not cougar, he guessed. Bear. The earth was hardened so a bear must have traversed there when it was still muddy, but when? Every inch of his body was set in quiet attentiveness, almost bordering on alarm. A branch moved against a tree with a scraping sound; there was a movement in the distance and then he saw it: a huge black bear with almost reddish fur.

It was standing up, but away from Jax, leaning toward a tree trunk, scratching bark. Tall, oh that bear was tall and heavy. Jax knew the giant would make short work of him if it was aggravated or enticed by him for some reason. He didn’t carry food. But if he ran…

So he breathed softly, backed up, commanded his legs to not get excited and do a runner backwards, only wanting both bear and himself to have no argument. Just to move along, have a fine afternoon. But the great bear was busy, leaving a message or sharpening claws–who knew?– and Jax kept going as steadily as he could. As he strode on, it began to vanish behind a shield of united trees, he turned and simply walked back to the chalet. He had only hiked about two and a half miles out. It felt long but was not; he was okay, and calm. As he covered more ground he realized how amazing it was to have seen a black bear doing what a bear does– minding its own business as Jax minded his. He knew they very seldom attacked, and are always foraging or looking for a female in nature’s right times. Berry gorging season was about over; soon that bear would find a den and settle in for the winter.

People who lived in the Northwest learned useful nature facts, but as Jax relaxed under pricks of starlight, he knew he’d learned something more. He couldn’t make progress if he was haunted by a hard past or hampered by fear of a changing life. If he felt unwilling or unable to take the pathways toward a life defined more by healthier experiences. And resultant authentic contentment. He had the power to free himself from the urge to give up, or stay in a rut, or lazily and blindly repeat errors. It was time to take charge of and be responsible for his life, alone. And to see all the good that was left to build upon, to discover.

Dusk, twilight, and darkness. Jax lay on the cold ground with a rolled blanket under his head. He recalled constellations of his youth that he had felt were heroic, mythic: Orion, Casseopeia, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, for example, the last two being the Great Bear and Minor Bear, her son. He searched for a few more and was successful. He mainly wanted to gaze upwards, be happy in the glittering dark of a wilderness night. And he was.

When he returned home he’d tell Jenness and Leonard that, yes, he’d soon sell his old house and buy another. He hoped to more often work from his place if he could, or find another job, a new way. But it would be a mountain house, a good-sized, simple place. IT was what he longed–a clean, open, healing space after a life built on too much artifice that was fragmented by pain. It would have room enough, in time, for visitors. A few friends. And his family, whenever they could meet under mountain skies. He’d gather wildflowers, place them on the table each visit as a sign of love for them. And maybe one day he’d buy a horse, but no thoroughbred–just a reliable, beautiful companion for the trails.

Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: The Pleasures of Bookstores and Where They can Take You

(Time to read: 12 minutes; word count: 2222)

Photo by Anastasiya Badun on Pexels.com

There I go again, following my nose, stepping right through a doorway that opens into the tantalizing world of words captured on paper. That particular scent of new books–paperback or hardbound–is like a tonic, each page smelling like fresh comfort. If I am at a used bookstore, there is also not another olafactory experience just like that of older books, long handled and well tended. (The cobwebby, mildewy stores I admit to scanning more briefly.) But as the store’s door opens I enter a zone in which time melts away and worries on repeat vanish. I surrender to the search of my next engaging book. The choice becomes a serious meditation, a needed reprive, a delight in which to indulge at random and at length.

But what do books–lined up brightly or dimly, neatly or haphazardly– have to do with anything? I mean, when they intersect with hard reality or just everyday living? They can take up alot of room and gather far too much dust on home shelves. They may or may not accurately inform. They can entertain or disappoint, and even–book gods forbid it!–bore. Or provoke or inspire. They may seem well worth one’s time or a waste of effort on page one. They may use money more critically spent on gas and food. And they encourage far less movement, lots more sendentary ways. –I personally read even when cooking or walking about, though not recommended for safety’s sake. (In bed at night is my favorite time and place, though the dining room table or my easy chair is alright.)

Why is it that books in hand are still sought out in bookshops? Besides finding a comfy chair or quiet table so you can settle in with a cup of coffee, scone and a book–or ten? Why are they at last purchased and taken home with a smile? I have books enough to last far longer than I’ll be breathing.

There are also a vast number of books written about bookstores and libraries (mostly fiction, not all), rare book hunting, the art of bookmaking, used bookstore maps, book review magazines, and so on. Despite many no longer choosing books of paper, ink and glue.

Yes, a reader can peruse all genres online, inumerable opinion pieces or life vignettes, stories of any length or poetry for the poetry-dismissing person. Yet in 2026 actual books ring out a clarion call to me as apparently to scores of others. I’ve been noting over the past few years that independent bookstores are holding their own, even flourishing. Nationwide, Barnes and Noble stores, for one example, are packed and selling. Books are flying off the shelves lots of smaller places all over the world. (I won’t quote sources; you can find articles and chat with book sellers wherever you travel, too.)

In Portland, there are about 60 independent bookstores, including those that cater to sepecific audiences such as children or romance or mystery lovers, or are queer- or black-or all women-owned. One of our old neighborhood favorites is Broadway Books, 33 years in business and still going strong. I was just in there before Christmas though it is a drive now. Powell’s Bookstore is known as the world’s largest independent bookstore, established and thriving since 1971. Winding my way through its many floors that are maze-like the city center store is like taking a crazy vacation. Yes, even with crowds, which seem always to be there. All those good used (cheaper!) books to root out as well as new, unusual ones! But I can quite enjoy myself in the tiny Booktique, two used book shops in town that give proceeds to my local library.

Any wonder I live in this city? For a writer and any book lover, this is a mecca for readers of all ages. Ask my grandkids.

The truth is, a bookstore and a library are also public, so welcome all. It is always free to browse at a book store, too, sometimes all someone is happy to do. People of any age, socioeconomic status, race, religion or creed can get a book and find a corner at either. How many such places do we still have like that these days? Maybe a variety of parks or wildernesses– if free.

In my decades of book searching, it is the actual stores that often are key. Since they’re a business the place creates an atmosphere that tries to part a shopper from her money, granted. To that end, there is good but not blazing lighting, nooks and crannies in which to hunker down to read, directive organization that guides easy access, and perhaps a coffee bar/cafe with treats or lunch items, always a plus. If the store feels physically comfortable, efficient and coziness is like a current that imbues stacks of volumes and seating areas, surely a reader feels right at home. That person is likely to enjoy the outing and purchase a book.

But there are other reasons I go. I’m a lifelong writer, and that means seeking motivation and inspiration in different ways if I’m feeling weak willed. Wandering among lots of books can be enough to get me in the corrected state of being and I’ll want to write more. Or there may be a cover image, a title, a first line or paragraph, a familiar author’s (or new one) latest book–they can charge and sync up my brain waves. I may discover new topics to write about from my perspective. I can get jump started, for example, by reading a fine poet’s offerings–it may baffle or intrigue, even thrill me. I go to my desk later ready to focus once more on that difficult form.

A bookstore afternoon or evening also offers a way to connect with a community of other language lovers, art and photography lovers, or those who have children or grandchildren and/or simply love kids’ books. Anonymous and somewhat oblivious is fine. But I’ve enjoyed brief conversations with those checking different genres, offered and been given recommendations by customers and booksellers alike. And I’ve appreciated author readings, chatting afterwards, buying the book with the writer’s autograph.

A simple reason for moseying about a bookstore, one or ten books clutched to my chest and finding a table, chair or bench: being there is a relief, taking my place in a haven. A gentler, quieter, happier place for a few hours. A chance to shed the harsh outside noise and quick conflicts that flourish these times–and rest, read, muse and dream. I hang out with others who respect and love written language. We’re hungry for stories of an astonishing variety, from old classics to avant garde. We share a desire to gain useful information, enter into other worlds, expand minds and hearts, elevate our spirits.

I recall long ago when it was a sacrifice of cash to buy books. Yet I found books more critical to well being than a great meal. I needed to fill up with language and story; seasoned rice with a small plain salad was good enough. I may have too often spent more than I should have from a practical standpoint. But despite having more books than I can read, they are a reliable purchase when it comes to altering how I anticipate the future, offering ways to better envision a rewarding life, and ways in which I can write with more dedication, verve and skill. I sort through them a few times a year–and put in boxes those volumes that didn’t hold attention or have been read. Then off we go to a used bookstore. I may not get a penny–the whole point is to pass them on. And sometimes I am able to share mine with others who have curiosity about “my” authors or an established interest in a topic. This provides an exchanged fondness, for sharing favorite books is one kind of more intimate action.

I also have a perspective on what it can mean to dream, plan and then actually write a book. I wrote a novel over a period of some ten years, well over ten revisions. It was hard mental labor, long hours on certain days and some nights while I worked full-time. I was sweating it out, trying again, plotting next chapters, fixing dialogue and refining characters. I was fully engaged with thte porcess, mostly fulfilled doing it with times of despair breaking in. Finally, after meetings with agents and editors at various writers conferences, it generated some interest. But, still. The manuscript wasn’t what quite I’d hoped it would become. Then feedback I got required more revisions to tackle. All that editing and re-thinking things, proofreading for a multitude of errors, more sleepless night perseverating about a small detail, a conversation even a minor character had: it seemed herculean to attempt after so many years given it. I began to lose steam on the project.

I considered it might be because I was over 60 that I didn’t get greater responses. (In the early 21st century that was partly true–less so now.) But in the end, the story may have been for more my benefit than others–a first completed novel manuscript. An experience unlike others. Away it went, into computer files and the paper copy into another file. But those characters haunted me for years. I had come to know them closely, deeply, and the story and locale were reviewed like a full color film in my mind.

There are other ways to get books out there and in print–into the hands of others.

My son, Josh Falk, spent over a year writing a short memoir. He has unique stories to offer about becoming a pro skateboarder and a painting company owner, a creative doer, a person who has overcome big odds. Someone who has transformative faith in a deep, far-reaching universal connection– and the experiences it brings him.

Of course, I offered and soon began to read his revisions and do a little editing. It wasn’t easy; not all he wrote about was known by me. And not all was a perspective or memory I agreed with…a sure risk for memoirists when they talk about family events. But it was harder to not revise as I would prefer for myself (but am not a trained editor) despite it being his work and his own style. He is not heavy into technical perfection with writing like I am, nor a usual use of language and formatting familiar to me. He never liked to read–I worked with him to learn better outside of school, hoping he’d enjoy it more. He was about action from day one, yet writing became something he gradually loved. After reading part way through his manuscript, I had to stop fixing things I thought could use it. Let it go free, leave it in his hands.

He accepted pieces of feedback, maybe used some, and then kept on with it. Which I understood. I had to allow full space for his writing journey, figuring it out however he chose. I knew he was doing so honestly, working diligently when he could. And that he’d complete it. That’s how my son lives, with purpose, persistence, passion–and a willwingness to embrace his mistakes to achieve the final victory. Which I learned late to do, more beleagured by errors and failures.

Recently he self-published it, completely in sync with accomplishing goals independently. A paper copy is thus put in hand each time it is bought and printed. Print-on-demand has become very popular–I buy self-published books this way and naturally I bought Josh’s. Self-published book have been known to take off as far as sales, even if it takes time. But it has to feel good seeing it online==it makes me happy for him.

It has all gotten me thinking about another novel…or a collection of short stories or poetry…

The point is, it is another, different kind of book put out there for people to consider. And he’ll sell to the right readers. People buy what they are curious about, what resonates with them, what may help. I hope that he has many sold but, truly, he is first and last pleased the book got completed, story he had need to share. And since I am his loving, proud mother, so am I. The thought, the sweating it out to keep on working and at what cost it can be to reveal your own story–it is an emotional as well as actual feat of sorts. I know that since I write short memoir (posted often in my blog).

When I head into a bookstore, I know the completion and availability of each book in the huge rows of shelved, tabled volumes took hope, courage, excitement and long and tedious effort, alot of time away from other necessary activities– and people. I honor their work even if it isn’t my type of writing or desire it in my life at that time. I always pick up those books I’ve never heard of before and study the cover, read the blurbs, gaze at the author picture–then open to the first page. It is beginning an adventure, a small, perhaps wonderful time. Or a dead end. I have to find out.

This is one of my places: a bookstore. A center for freedom, with expectationd of something enticing and good, made of a changing community of ordinary people sharing time, space and printed pages. Frequenting this environment has helped inform, uplift, guide, surprise me. I’ll be back soon, no matter where I am in the country–they are everywhere out there. I’m excited to explore what lies beyond the next welcoming door.

Thursday’s Words/Short Story: Staying Afloat

(Read time: 14 minutes; word count: 2600)

A person didn’t have to adore boats or even water to manage to live on one acceptably well. People got put into situations regardless of preference so they learn, they adapt or get out–usually. It had been a life on moving water since she was seven when her parents bought Adelaide, a painstakingly refurbished houseboat. She and her brother offically became river people, too.

Miles was adventurous so was thrilled; she trembled the first moment she stepped on and wondered what her life would be from then on. For one thing, she couldn’t swim and didn’t want to learn. It secretly terrified her, and her delay in this milestone baffled and annoyed her athletic parents. They informed her she’d have to gain basic skills for safety even if without enthusiasm. It was clear this was not something Treeny could argue–they were settling on a river among countless other houseboats, and there was no way out of the plan for a kid.

At first it seemed her life was one endless rock-a-by nightmare, especially in the dark; she had to hold tight to Jewel, her purple elephant. It was days of random swaying with pauses. It distracted, kept her off balance. She stood with feet apart and walked goofy. It all depended on currents, the wind, how many and what type of boats cruised or charged by–so she was told. Plus other unknown forces that made her head ache. How to figure this out? But she lost half her appetite and developed smudgy circles under her eyes so that Miss Hardy, her first grade teacher, sent a note home: “Katrina spends too much time gazing out the window or dozing.”

Her parents worried more after a few weeks of no progress made. Her mother devised activities to help her gain better sure footedness. She read books to her at bedtime to help her relax and turned on favorite music. Treeny’s parents wanted this to work, she knew. They hoped she would be happier in time, like Miles. For him it was more fun.

“She is sure resisting change…you know the houseboat doesn’t move all that much…” Dad said, frowning and pulling at his goatee.

“But she is a child having a hard time–what are we going to do?” Mother fairly snapped at him, a rarity.

“Maybe she has sea sickness,” Miles offered with a shrug. “Can’t she take medicine for that? Or hypnosis?”

“Hey! I’m in the corner reading,” she snarled at them.

Miles threw his crumpled napkin at her; she ignored it but wanted to go smack him with her book. How come he wasn’t on her side?

They were stuck on this river, not an endless sea… It wasn’t even serious motion sickness or her parents might have reconsidered or more likely taken her to the doctor. It was her own self, an huge longing for firm earth where their bright townhouse stood. There was a back yard–narrow, yes, but it had grass, a swing and sandbox. There had been a big gnarly apple tree that her father grumbled about when cleaning up after apples fell and rotted but that Miles climbed and she had been working on scaling better. It was all surrounded by next door friends. Treeny had known them all her life.

Then they moved to the creaky old Adelaide and hardly ever saw them. What a weird name for a house!

“I completely hate it here!” she burst out one morning while shoveling cereal into her mouth as the houseboat subtly shifted. Soggy cornflakes landed on her lap.

Her father pushed his glasses down his nose, stared at her with large blue eyes. “Alright, Katrina, apologize for the tone.”

She scraped messy cornflakes off her pants, then smacked her spoon on the bowl’s edge to dislodge then and said quietly, “I completely hate it here.” She whacked the bowl again a bit more gently. “Sorry?–but it is the truth.”

Miles snickered. Their mother shook her head woefully. Afterall, Dad and she had saved a decade to buy their dream house/new experience and here was an ungrateful child. They didn’t need a snide response or furious objections. It was a done deal. They were a floating family. Well, moored but afloat.

Except for Treeny who continued to feel let loose in a strange state. The only way to offset that was to spend alot of time on land and away from bobbing misery: play dates, week-end outings, after school classes, weekend camps–anything to help her live around what she could not control. She began to twirl her hair between her fingers and slump.

“I know you have friends who love to visit. Mira and Jenni stayed overnight three times,” Mother said one Sunday night as they watched TV. She patted her daughter’s knee. She wanted her old Treeny back, for the pouter and sulker to be gone.

“They just visit, they think it’s fun but weird, they don’t have to live here.” Treeny sighed deeply then got up to rummage for a snack in the galley kitchen. Thank goodness for TV. Thank goodness for trees to try climbing along the shore. That was the main thing she liked so far. Miles gave her pointers, as ever; they didn’t fight then.

As fall faded and winter came and went, taking with it loads of rain and stormier windy times when they’d almost gotten a hotel room…when seasons rearranged, the sun found courage to show itself. They began to hang out on the deck. Watched the opposite shore, which was dominated with hilly woods. Treeny especially liked the sky and water as they began to darken, despite the niggling uncertainty if the houseboat rocked. She’d sit on a plastic chair and peer into the woods, wondering what was there–foxes and owls or hiking trails or a cabin hidden deep in the trees. At nightfall she’d wait for light to show up, even a flashlight’s dancing beam, which she saw three times in a week. Someone was camping, maybe. The stars above came out sharply so she’d try to count them, then tried to guess how far away they were. Dad sometimes came and pointed out a few constellations.

“I do like our stars showing up so bright here,” she admitted.

He ruffled her hair. Our stars.… “I know you do.”

“But I still miss home on Gilson Avenue.”

He was quiet a long while. “Well, Treen, I kind of miss my old studio. But don’t go telling everyone. I learned long ago to make do.”

She tilted her head at him; he was looking at the black water. “Me, too. I liked the smell of oil paint and the other stuff through the house…Now you paint at that place downtown. I don’t get to watch much.”

“Well, come by more. I’ll tell Mom.”

Treeny looked up and saw what she thought might be a shooting star. “Look up, Dad.”

But she was thinking: maybe sometimes you think you know what you want, but then it isn’t all that you wished. Like when she found something in a store, then at home it wasn’t so wonderful.

“You should paint right here outside when it stops raining so much. You like to do landscapes, too.”

She saw him nod. The picture this brought to mind was so vivid that she knew it would happen, he’d paint right there at times, and it would make things feel better. She said, “Dad, this summer will you teach me how to actually swim? So I am strong. I don’t want to be afraid of this river.” She grimaced. “I don’t want to be chicken.”

“You’re afraid of it?” he asked, suprised. He’d thought she disliked the patience it took to learn the skills, or not being able to swim like Miles.

“Sometimes, yeah. Mostly…it’s even more water here! It moves all the time. What if I fell in and didn’t drown but just floated to faraway watery places and then we–we never saw each other again…?”

Dad reached over and gave her a good squeeze. “Ah. We’d miss you terribly…but we’d quickly find you!” He cleared his throat. “But you’re right. You have to be a good swimmer. I’ll help you learn in this river outside our door. No chlorine! But it’s beautiful, Treen, when you get to know it. This quiet bend in its journey, kind of off on its own, is pretty safe–one big reason we picked it.”

Her mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hearing the water’s song, the birds all but quieted for the night. Her husband’s and daughter’s soft voices. Tears burned a moment and she gave herself a hug. Miles, watching from an open window, thought what fun they could have that summer when Treeny swam well. If she stopped being such a grump. He’d have to keep an eye on her, though; he was almost ten and he was pretty excellent in the river.

Treeny smiled. Things might shape up better. Maybe she’d shock herself and become a great swimmer and that big bunch of water would feel more like home. She imagined herself running off the dock, smacking into the water, sinking fast then pushing upwards until her head bobbed above the surface– like a happy otter or seal– and that sky a world of shining blue above her. Hooray, her family would shout, hooray!

**********

Treeny is lying on the green and white striped hammock– perhaps a questionable thing to buy with her dad but he’d liked how it helped his pain–and relaxes in its rhythmic sway. It’s windy on a mid-fall day, a bright nip to the air. She’s beginning to swing harder over the houseboat deck then back over the water. It is easy to conjur her childhood days.

How fearful she was of the restless, sometimes roiling river as it made its way past their houseboat, thrusting itself toward the turbulent, treacherous conjoining of the Pacific Ocean and Columbia River. It wasn’t so foolish of her to be worried about being swallowed up in the depths, she later had learned–people could and did drown out there, and at the confluence the biggest ships at Astoria’s shores fought to stay upright, on course, and many lost the battle.

But at this spot, true to her father’s assurances, it remains reasonably calm, even sheltered, a good place to learn to navigate the chameleon-like dance of the river.

It has been a year since her second parent passed away, her father’s exit from earth following her mother’s three years earlier. The renter Treny got for the houseboat moved out after six months–it was not their kind of place. Or as she thought: not the right inhabitant. Since then, it has been empty.

She falls into nostalgia despite intending to keep it all business. The variety and quality of moments they lived and shared–it still boggles Treeny’s mind. She has started a journal of such memories. Maybe just to hold onto them better. Her mother, a research psychologist and her father, a successful painter: their hearts, souls and bodies aligned, misaligned and realigned in an almost alchemical manner that Treeny has rarely witnessed since. They were meant for each other. There were hard times, yes, but they adored sharing life and caring for their children.

And this houseboat was truly meant for them. And for Miles and Treeny, finally. It became a way of experiencing growing up separate from all the bustle, and allowed them to be more a part of nature’s powerful antics, transformations. A lifestyle different from the majority yet making a strong community with others who chose that way. Some could unmoor and float away, as could her family. The places they went, the shores they disembarked upon…not so far, but far enough. Magical to float along and end up elsewhere…

The years flash before her. She begins to think about what a book it all might make. Sketches, too. How she became an oceanographer due to this powerful, mercurial river, and a bold, caring family. Though Miles left as soon as he graduated high school. He became someone who surprised her. An international business consultant, he lives in Amsterdam and left the houseboat issue up to Treeny. They talk irregularly, if fondly, but close ties are very loose–for now. They talked more after their dad’s funeral.

Miles reprised their earlier chats. “You know what to do. You always said we should sell it when they were gone…that’s really alright with me. I’m not going to come back much. And you are… how far away?”

“I’m still in Seattle, Miles. On Lake Washington.”

“Right, right. Still on the water, always a kind of water…Didn’t you say you might move the houseboat up there, though?”

“I thought it over–and no.” She paused, listening to him walking in the street, his voice buzzing from a long, long distance. “I might buy a good one day, for fun trips.”

Miles enthusiastically encouraged that, and soon they rang off.

The fact is, the Adelaide only for her would not be what it was meant to be–a unique family home made to well care for and fully utilize amid the Columbia. Or another fine place. She’s been divorced for years, no children or current ties. She travels for work often. She is not about to relocate or worry about a big old houseboat, nor pay for constant upkeep for a renter. She worries it is almost on its last legs though it cleans up well. It will take a stalwart, water-loving person to keep it afloat.

Treeny recalls the summer she finally dove off the deck into that muddy, swirling, green-blue river and discovered a new empowerment, a thrilling sense of who she might become.

How their father clapped and Miles’ fist punched the air as she surfaced, and their mother whistling shilly like the country girl she had once been. They were a thoughtful but brashly working unit; they were not like other people in some ways. More curious, perhaps. More fortunate.

But then: how clumsy I was when learning to fish properly….and then there were endangered salmon to learn about and those impromptu and chancy kayak trips to Washington and Saturday night bonfires at the rocky beach…

But that was her past, is not her present. In this time she vacates her high-ceilinged, white-walled condo more than she lives in it due to research trips in far flung locales and “wild swimming” trips for pleasure. She gradually became a great swimmer after that first nervous summer, alright, winning swim team and diving awards and trophies. Then she’d discovered oceanography. In many ways the Adelaide had provided her the luckiest break, a chance to find out what she was capable of, and how to manage in waters that were fickle–and also silken, mighty, mesmerizing. Vital in nature’s scheme.

“Hey there, Katrina Copley!”

She looks up. It is Singh waving at her–her likeable realtor and fellow houseboat owner, and he’s bringing prospective buyer number seventeen. He ushers through the door a broad man with an honest tan and sandy hair, and a gangly boy with uneven teeth, surely his son. He is twelve or so, on the cusp of more–and immediately riveted by the river’s shining, swift flow. He shields his eyes from play of sunlight on the current, the shimmering that creates mobile, sparkling designs on its teeming surface. He chews on his lower lip, frowns, grabs his father’s arm. When he notices Treeny looking at him, he lets go self-consciously and studies the far shore. Anxious? Or dreaming of adventures? His father is beaming at it all and at her, as if he’s already falling in love with the set-up.

Singh nods at the guys and her. “This is Al Thurman and his son, Hank. This is my excellent friend, Katrina.”

Treeny slips out of the hammock and extends a hand, grinning. She has a hopeful feeling about this buyer. It’s as if it’s high time to loosen her grip on the place once and for all. The Adelaide sso nug on its river–its muse, beguiler, challenger and faithful companion–somehow seems good and ready, too.

Friday’s Poem: Emissaries of Light

What is the angel’s endless lot and labor

but to find and mingle for eternity with beloveds–

moving in and out of darknesses– yet still

unsinkable in their flights?

And so they move through atmospheres unamed,

arcs of multi-shining light, whirling orbs. then

into breath of earth’s domain where we settle and roam.

It is you the angels seek to bring their messages,

you they lift and settle on their backs to carry

during foot-wounding journeys to chiming paths.

And (while you puzzle over hardships) they offer

countless hallelujah daybreaks and amen nightfalls,

heroic moments of angel grace–just for you. Me.

What worthiness have we, you ask?

What worthiness can be salvaged from

our errors of harm, of harried emptiness;

what wisdom can be gleaned of myriad wrongs?

Study credos of angels: note how they bathe

the bitter heart with salve of compassion,

and meld split places with sparks of life,

and seed visions of bounty in fallow lives.

They do not blame. They are watchful. They wait.

Take your miseries or delights to them; their duty

guides them to transmit all needs to God.

Many angels I’ve known came forth as I hid my face

because all had failed, when a burden could not

be ferried further, and my soul was tangled, blurred.

And have seen them intervene for those most ruined, emptied.

Bent with hurt, anger, regret, and then–

the hush, a silencing, a stalling of fear, as the Light guardians

found their way to a human’s whine and moan,

shout and sigh, mad dance and blinding drear.

Emissaries, they are– unseen, too little known– who

journey far to illuminate our way, to remind that

we are not ever not ever truly alone–

not in our attacks of suffering

nor in the slow miracle of healing,

nor in our beds of grief,

nor in our showy celebrations,

nor in our lostness within a somewhere,

nor our breathtaking arrival to safety.

Despite the world’s odious or fine illusions,

the congregation of angels come; they surround

us and without our asking bring offerings:

the reminders of a deeper deepening Love,

the root and alchemy of it, its undying flame.

You are standing in such truth, kneeling in it,

yet may dismiss it or call it by names other than its own.

Do you not yet feel them?

There come one or many in stirrings of air

with their wind-toughened, transparent wings,

faces blazing greater than all the known

glittering suns and opalescent moons.

They come to fold you within the whole harmony,

of which they sing if you listen well enough.

They come with an offering of God’s own peace

to bring in and give away.

Take it. Go. Be braver,

walk the valleys, traverse the peaks

but do not let it slip from your knowing.

Rejoice at the rush of holy air beneath their wings.

You may still not believe, but I will be here

praying for the company of more angels.

**************************************************

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, readers, and thank you.

Wednesday’s Words/Flash Fiction: To Do–Buy Jewels and Socks

(Read time: 9 minutes; word count, 1620)

The little shop, MJ Foot Attire, was wedged between two rather imposing stores, and when Mina and Marie Joseph decided to rent the space they painted the storefront a rich blue and soft gold, the idea being that it’d stand out as unique, quaint. So passersby would pause. They weren’t far from wrong. People who browsed and purchased items in the well-known jeweler’s on one side and the intimate undergarments store on the other did peer in their window. Then they tended to go on their way. The problem couldn’t be its pleasant appearance; could it be the simple merchandise? Socks, all kinds of socks, anything from special holiday motifs to quirky designs to dressy styles to sturdy woolens for a good hike.

“I guess people who shop for fancy underwear or jewels won’t stop for items as ordinary as footwear,” Mina bemoaned. Her frown deepened forehead lines, which she automatically kneaded them with slim fingertips. Their red sparkle polish glimmered despite her moodiness.

Her sister, ever the positive thinker, laughed at such a notion. “But everyone needs socks! We just need a more eye-catching strategy. Dangling socks limply over the cottage-style dresser drawers, or draping them across end tables aren’t helping. Our storefront needs to be more interesting, beckoning.”

“That lovely dresser is antiqued with a Tiffany-style lamp, and matching side tables with two snow globes atop silk scraves. There’s an angel mid-flight hooked to the sheer curtain behind….I can’t imagine how socks can capture people’s attention better. Either they need them or they don’t. That was the premise for starting this business: a quality product people need in order to live their lives– in a climate requiring covered, warm feet much of the time.”

Marie went to Mina in the back aisle where she was fiddling with candy cane decorated socks. She put an arm about her and squeezed. “Nice ad copy, Sis, but sales have been steady and decent after six months. Now that holidays are upon us, our sales trend has slowly slid upward, right?”

“I guess.” Mina gazed out the window at gentle snowfall and shoppers walking briskly. She’d rather be at a coffee shop; she’d been unpacking expensive merchandise too long. “Well, we better get on it.”

What she meant was that Marie had better get busy. She was the one with flashy ideas, so let her problem solve. They’d managed to stay open this long and perhaps Marie was right– more creative window dressing might do the trick. Mina had done the last one. Yet socks, even great socks, were a conudrum to some. They were so basic a need; you could get cheaper ones than they sold. On the other hand, they were a luxury when people couldn’t spend much extra money unless there was an urgent need.

“Shoppers need to want fabulous socks for their loved ones’ feet–and even their own,” Marie said. “So–I’m going to the coffee shop to meditate on that.”

Mina grunted. “Wait– you’re leaving me with this tedious work. What if we get a sudden influx of customers?”

“Are they stampeding through the door yet? Fifteen, twenty minutes…you’ll be fine. I need to gaze out the winodw at passersby, imagine what they’d want to see in our window…Sell, sell, sell, right?” She pulled on her brown tweedy vintage coat. “And yes, I’ll bring back your gingerbread latte and scone, so smile!”

“Good, just hurry it up.”

Of course there weren’t scores of shoppers–it was late afternoon, snowing more, and people were at the grocery or stuck in traffic. Mina unpacked the last box of merchandise, waited on two customers and tried not to watch the clock. Marie did not stick to the rules very well that they’d made at the start, like don’t abandon the other sister unless necessary. She was too lassez-faire, in her opinion. Whatever moved Marie seemed more important any given moment. Mina was the practical one, the laborer, the persistent one who was determined to grow the business. She’d expected shoppers would be streaming through the door by now. It was only three weeks before the holidays hit!

By the time Marie returned there had been two more sales, but only eight pars of socks that time, and that made a total of twenty-three pairs for the day. Minda had hoped to double that.. Her sister was pleased when more than ten pairs sold–that was her minimum sales goal. Way too little for December, now that MJ’s was open seven days a week, 10-8.

“Well, that did the trick, I’m back and ready to roll, Mina-lina-pie!”

A groan escaped Mina’s lips–that old nickname. Her older sister–by fourteen months–placed coffee and scone on the counter which she took to the tiny office and enjoyed a few sips and bites. And in came Marie.

“Do you want to hear my plan or shall I just make it happen?”

“What does it involve? More money or is it cheap creative thinking?”

Marie pursed her lips, then scratched her head. “I think I can get it done cheaply by cruising my favorite thrift shops in the morning.”

“Okay, operation can be launched.” She almost laughed in spite of herself. She knew how Marie was in those shops, she’d have a blast and come back with bags of curious finds. “But don’t buy too cheap or weird, we’re selling high quality, not junk.”

Marie rolled her eyes, then left Mina in peace when she heard the tinkly door bell ring. Another sale, coming up.

The next day Mina got to MJ’s early, then opened by herself as Marie did reconaissance for all she required to make great things happen. Marie returned with a medium bag in each hand, shakling her dark curls free of wet snowflakes. They both noted snow was falling harder than preferred, but threre was nothing to be done for it. Mina worried it was too much to hope for a steady stream of shoppers.

“Let me do this while you do what you must do. If people see me at work, I’ll smile and wave them right in! I should’ve dressed in an elf suit or something…hey, another idea!”

“Oh, gosh, that is so not classy of you! Try to be discreet, Mar!”

Marie shook her head–they just sold socks, didn’t they?– and got to work.

Forty-five minutes later, they stood outside studying the display. Neither spoke; they were struck by the scene before them. Shortly, a couple of people lingered, then another few paused and gazed with them, then another person stopped.

“Well, hmm,” Mina said softly. “You may have co-opted this tableau. I’m going inside now to tend to the customers that just walked in…” She patted her sister’s back in a congratulatory way, then pasued once more.

“Did not steal, was inspired. ” Her arms crossed over her chest and snowflakes landed on her pink cheeks and nose. “I might have done more…made one more clearly a guy? But could be, anyway…and dressed one in a slinky nightie? Put on the reindeer socks! Well–always room for improvements.”

“Nothing too wild or risque, now! This works fine, Marie.” Mina went inside.

Before the small semi-circle of onlookers was a scenario hit upon over her toffee cream latte the day before. It had been pretty easy to pull off (though she had to buy a couple of more pricey items) and not hard to set it up. And it looked good.

On the dresser was a series of elegant ebony mannequin hands with jewels on several fingers, the fingernails painted sparkly silver or gold. Various brightly patterned socks lay like offerings in opened palms. Half-open drawers now displayed lacey white camisoles–socks arranged either side of them.

Two others, a caramel-toned and a pinkish mannequin, one each sitting where side tables had been, wore satiny smooth green or brocade red pajamas, their legs bent slightly at the knee, with the pj bottoms pulled up a bit to show off their patterned or dressy socks on slim feet. At the ankles, small baubles were glued to the knit fabric. Bright circles of multi-colored gemstones shone on one mannequin’s earlobes, while the other sported a gleaming peacock brooch at one side of the head like a barrette. Delicate chains of gold hung around both necks. Their hands held socks rolled into floret shapes. They looked great, like simple accents amid tasteful jewelry, opulent yet comfy sleepwear, and slinky camis. Socks for relaxing, for even, perhaps, a fun holiday party! And they’d look good and wear well with shoes and boots.

Happy faux people relaxing at home in a holiday mood. It was campy but it was not boring. She just wished there was room for a glowing fire in a mini-fireplace…maybe she’d add that.

Shoppers walking by peered at the display and often entered. Purchased garments for feet…

At the end of the first week when closing up shop, Mina reported they’d done better than ever, better than she’d wished might happen. It was working out, and on top of that, they were going to be featured in a neighborhood circular with pictures.

“Whenever I suspect you’re not in this as seriously as I am, you go and do it again–make a great difference!” Mina said as they sipped wine at their favorite Italian place. The meal was a little celebration of progress made.

“I’m in it with both feet, Mina!”

“Oh–you didn’t really say that…”

They raised their goblets, toasted themselves. One year was soon passing and another year would open up–and may it be an even more interesting and profitable adventure. Sisters supreme at it again!