May Day Rabbit, Rabbit

 

Miss Birdie and the Mysterious Jake Aaron (a Re-post)

 

 She slowed at the sight of a shiny black car  coming across Miss Birdie’s bridge. The driver, a dark-haired man who looked irritatingly familiar though she couldn’t call his name, threw up his hand and nodded before turning onto the hard road and disappearing around a curve.

Who was that? I know I’ve seen him before but not here at Birdie’s. A salesman?. . . too late in the day. . . odd, I thought I knew all of Birdie’s friends.

Miss Birdie was sitting on the front porch in one of her red-painted rockers. Her head was bent, one hand covering her eyes, as if she were praying, and she didn’t move as the jeep rattled across the plank bridge.

Closer to the porch, it seemed as if Miss Birdie was having a conversation of some sort.

Oh, dear. She’s been so sharp for all these years. . . I wonder… is she beginning to wander in her mind . . .

The old woman looked up as her visitor approached. “Why, honey, how good to see you. Reckon you thought I was just a-talking to myself like as if I had that Old Timers. Get you a chair and I’ll tell you what I was studying on.”

She drew a long breath and stared off across the road to the mountain beyond. “That feller was here just now. You might say he’s an old friend.”

Her wrinkled face gathered into a bemused smile. “ Yeah, buddy, an old friend is just what he is. Jay Caron . . .Jay Caron. . .that’s what he goes by now. I was saying it over and over so’s I wouldn’t forget.” Her brow furrowed. “When first I knowed him, back when I was a little un, he was Mr. Aaron, the peddler. And then, it was a few years back of this when Calven was tangled up with that no good feller his mama was living with, me and Dor’thy saw him up at that fancy place over beyond Burnsville--he was Jake Aaron then and his hair was just as siiver-

The old woman shot a sharp look at her visitor. “No, I ain’t a bit confused. When I was but little, when I was a young woman, and just now--hit’s the same feller ever time, no, not his son nor grandson. You got to understand, Mr. Aaron—Jay Caron-- ain’t like most folks. Names and looks might change but it’s still him. With him time don’t matter. He holp me out of an awful fix back before Luther and I wed and I’m right certain he had a hand in helping Calven get away from that evil feller they called Pook.”

The old woman fell silent, her eyes distant, gazing into memory. At last she roused herself and turned to speak.

 “I been studying on things my Granny Beck told me many a year ago. She said that time was . . . in the old days the crossing betwixt one world and another was more frequent and seldom remarked upon. Not much was thought of it if the Little People—them the Cherokee called Yunwi Tsundi --sheltered a child for a night. . . or a year. . .  those of the other world walked among us. And a man might walk in and out of Time.”

What is this? She doesn’t sound quite like herself. She sounds like she’s dreaming or as if someone-something?—is speaking through her. Though heaven knows, some of those stories she’s told me up in the graveyard. . .I wonder. . .

“What did he want? Now I couldn’t rightly say. He’s a nice spoken someone and we had a little visit. He was asking about my arthuritis and how was Dor’thy and Calven. Just a-chit-chatting, you know. He said he’d taken a notion to see me again, something about. . .what was the word. . . mitzy ? . . .something foreign. Then he hopped up and was off just before you come, saying he had other visits to make before dark.”

“Now, I see that look on your face. Don’t you fret none—not about that feller nor about my rememberer. I know what I know and Mr. Aaron ain’t never brought me nothing but good. He's been what you might call a guardian angel.”

The old woman stood, straightening up and taking a few tentative steps. She stretched out a gnarled hand, flexing her fingers and rotating her wrist.

“What’s more, honey, I believe that old arthuritis done gone off with him. I feel right peart now.”

 

NOTE:Jake Aaron, or later Jay Caron, pops up several times in my writing. He first shows up in Lydy’s tale (In a Dark Season) as a pack peddler Lydie meets in an inn just before the Civil War.

In Day of Small Things—spanning almost a century in the telling—Mr. Aaron’s a peddler with a mule, a mysterious someone with a car and driver, and a retiree living in a gated community.

He’s in Crows—at the beginning and at the end.

And, in an unpublished short story I’ve written. he’s an artist living in present day Marshall.

I don’t think I’m done with him yet . . . or maybe, he’s not done with me.

And while I’m talking wo0-woo (paranormal stuff,) I’m reminded of James Suttles who makes a present day appearance in In a Dark Season and helps out Sim in Crows. Could be a descendant/ancestor thing but on the other hand . . . (cue Twilight Zone theme music.)

 

Wordless Wednesday

 

A Flame in the Woods

 

The wild flame azalea in the woods above our road is putting on a magnificent show this year. Over the years I've bought and planted and lost half a dozen "tame" flame azaleas, so this unassisted reappearance is particularly welcome.

I think I remember Clifford, the man we bought the place from, telling me that he'd dug the plant up from high on the mountain and transplanted it down here so his wife Louise could enjoy it. 

I know that years ago, back when I could climb our mountain, I saw a flame azalea blooming near the top.  Who knows, there may be more.

But seeing this one in glorious bloom, just across from the pond, feels like a gift from nature . . . and Clifford.

Dear Sirs

 

Of course the attempted attack on the various government officials should be condemned. We are already sliding into third world status, but we should certainly not condone violence as a means to a political end.

Of course people feared for their lives--just as school children in the many school shootings have. Hearts pounded as they hid under the tables--no one should have to endure such fear. And yet our schoolchildren and their teachers are never free from the threat of another school shooting. Practice barring the door and hiding in a closet--if there is a closet.

POTUS argues that this incident proves he needs a bunker disguised as a gilded ballroom. I argue that until school children have the same level of protection, he should make do with his Secret Service.

Or, and here's a thought, perhaps we could have some serious gun control nationwide.

Like a civilized first world country.

A Much Needed Rain

 

At the Pond

We took a bottle of bubbly and some herbed brie and crackers down to enjoy the early evening at the pond. The scent of the wisteria was intoxicating.

Along with the wisteria, the yellow flags (irises) are putting on a show.

Many years ago, before the property next door had anyone living on it, I pulled up a couple of yellow flags growing in a boggy spot just past our fence line and transplanted them to our pond. They have done well.

It's such a beautiful and peaceful spot. There were butterflies and red winged blackbirds. As we sat there, sipping the wine and enjoying the surroundings, the thought came to me that the pond would be a perfect spot for my ashes to be spread someday. And a minute or two after I'd silently entertained that thought, John said, You know, I think this is where my ashes could be spread someday.

When you've been with a person well over sixty years, this kind of simultaneous thought happens quite often

The pond is a fine respite from the news of the day.

                                                    

                                   We'll be back.

 

Oh, Robert!

As I continue going through our many bookshelves, deciding what to donate to our library book sale, sometimes I just have to re-read a book before consigning it to the pile of donations.

I have a bunch of Robert Heinlein's novels--mainly well-worn paperbacks but a few hardcovers. I think I started reading him in junior high. I was a big fan of YA sci-fi. Heinlein could tell a good story and imagine so many futures. I was hooked.  Farmer in the Sky, The Rolling Stones, Citizen of the Galaxy, Double Star, Time for the Stars, Starship Troopers, and many others are still quite enjoyable to me.

Stranger in a Strange Land came along when I was an adult--and I loved it. But at some point Heinlein's adult fiction took a turn. Still interesting plots, for sure, but the main characters began to seem all alike. Alpha males and perky yet submissive females. Lots of casual nudity, a touch of incest . . .oh, nothing truly awful, but kinda annoying. (If the male protagonist threatens to spank his girlfriend one more time . . .)

I found on rereading these two that my reaction was much the same that caused me to toss my James Bond books. I'd really enjoyed those stories fifty years ago but time, social mores, and I have moved on.

These two will go to the library sale. Job has an interesting, if confusing, premise, but it revisits so many old Heinlein tropes that it had me groaning. It does, however, have an fun take on the Rapture, Heaven, Hell, and various gods. (Who knew that Jehovah had a Jewish accent?)

The Door into Summer was written earlier, before Heinlein got so repetitive. (He wrote 32 novels and 59 short stories so one sees how this might happen.) It has a great twisty plot with corporate theft, the "long sleep" (suspended animation to allow the sleeper to skip thirty years,) and time travel which allows for the righting of wrongs. It was a quick fun re-read, but I don't foresee wanting to read it yet again. Into the library pile with it.

You can see why this de-accessioning is taking a while.

 

In Iris Time

 

Things Left Undone

I've wrestled my workroom into a cleaner, neater, more organized place. But in doing so, I've been confronted with an embarrassing number of unfinished projects. 

There are a bunch of quilt blocks that were demonstration pieces, back when I taught quilting at our local junior college branch. And there are leftovers from larger projects. 

Like these 9 large squares--leftover from my niece Amelia's wedding quilt. Well, hell, thought I. I'll use them to make a quick pillow cover for that pillow form that's taking up room on my cutting table.

And I did. And it felt so good to have finished something--and to be sewing again -- that I determined to do some more.

This was an easy one--a basket block with the handle and heart needing to be appliqued.

I'd forgotten how much I enjoy hand sewing.

Done! I'll put it with a few other red/blue/yellow blocks I discovered and maybe someday put them all together in a little quilt. Maybe. First I need to finish some unfinished quilts.

Like this one. I think I made the blocks in one of my classes, using fabric reproducing Civil War era colors and patterns. Unfortunately, I really don't much like the muddy colors which may be why I never finished quilting it.

All but one block were quilted and the binding was on, but back then I'd begun an ambitious scheme of lots of quilting in the borders. Now, older and wiser, I thought about it and decided it wasn't needed--the three layers were already stable with the quilting in the blocks. So I picked out the one line I'd begun (20 years ago,) finished the unquilted block, and pronounced it done. Now I just have to figure out what to do with it.

But it feels great to finish these orphans. And though my quilting isn't what it once was, I was delighted to find I could still thread a tiny quilting needle.

Now I'm working on a House block which I evidently had intended to embellish with embroidery. So out comes the long diused embroidery thread and hoop.

As I began work on the cross pieces in the windows, I thought ahead to doing some vines and flowers around the door, some shrubbery, smoke coming from the chimney . . . And then, I thought, maybe I'll embroider Home Sweet Home across the top.

Then I looked more closely at the piece. There, in faint pencil across the top, I'd already written Home Sweet Home--twenty years ago. 

Better late than never. 

 

Animal House

Cannoli helps Josie with her reading. The Babysitters Club is a big favorite.

Angeline is not impressed. She prefers T.S. Eliot.

 

1925 and Beyond

"Rainbow Fairies"  It's 1925 and my mother is seven. She's the tall one second from the right --- and I've unearthed yet another scrapbook in my workroom cleanup. My grandmother was a meticulous recorder, and I'm enjoying this look at my mother's past.

                        First grade-- look at the clothes and the Very Serious expressions. There are samples of my mother's schoolwork in each grade but I'll spare your those.

Wilson Junior High in Tampa, Florida. My mother's alma mater . . .and mine and John's as well. What's more, the same principal (Miss Bush) was still in charge.

Girls just gotta have fun--even during the Great Depression.

                                                                     

A Breathing Place

Find a spreading tree... 

Lose your Self in its branches...

Breathe deeply . . . Ah, peace!