Life, Etc. -- Two

          Megan took her coffee out onto the deck—her favorite place to watch the day begin.  Even during crisp mornings, she loved the contrast of the hot coffee warming her insides and the cold air against her face.

          Their living quarters were above the Book ‘n Brew—the name she decided upon when her architect thought a coffee shop an excellent addition to the bookshop.  Megan had some hesitations about living in an apartment, but the old brick building had such character, and with weeks of remodeling and refurbishing, the historic structure took on life and color and everything she’d hoped for.

          Emily opened the door from the kitchen.  “Mom, do I have to go to school today?  I have a headache!”

 

          “You can stay home when your temperature reaches 106 degrees and your left leg falls off,” Megan responded with a smile.

          “O, Mom, I never get any sympathy from you!”  Emily went back inside and soon Megan heard the bathroom door open and close.  Perhaps Emily was giving up easily this morning.  Although she really liked school, she hated early morning any day of the week.

          Megan went back into the apartment and headed for her bedroom.  Emily popped her head in to ask about a top she wanted to wear.  “It’s probably where you took it off after school last week.”  She now sympathized with her mother for all the hours she’d spent trying to get Megan to pick up after herself.  Emily just didn't see clutter as a problem.

She would turn 11 in February—goodness, how could that possibly be?  This beautiful, bright eyed and very sharp little girl was turning into a young woman—well, perhaps just an adolescent.  Since Megan didn't have good memories of her own teen years, she wanted better for Emily.

 

          The two met back in the kitchen to eat breakfast.  When Megan was married to Jonathan, even working full time, she loved cooking!  Italian was definitely her favorite—the sounds of the words focaccia, cannellini, crostini, ravioli, and fettuccine caused her to salivate.  The more Italian it sounded, the more often she found herself with a cookbook propped before her.  That was one thing Jonathan appreciated about her.  He loved to have his business associates for dinner.  Well, until he decided he liked his female associates more than her Italian cooking.

 

Currently Emily was going through a white food stage—mashed potatoes, white rice, white bread.  “Green” sent her ballistic, so that left out 90% of salad ingredients and vegetables.  But Megan continued to remind herself that she must pick her battles.  This morning it would be oatmeal and toast—she hoped that was white enough.

 

“Emily, do you want me to pack your lunch?”  Secretly Megan hated packing lunches, but that I’m-a-good-parent-for-asking feeling came over her when she made the request—always hoping Emily wanted a hot lunch.

          “No, Mom, I saw the menu for this week and I want to buy it.”

          “OK—Em, don’t forget to feed Muscato and Gilly before you leave!”  Muscato was Emily’s very sweet gray tabby.  Every night Muscato found his way under the covers up against the back of Emily’s legs.  They adored each other.

 

Gilly, on the other hand, worshipped Megan and never wanted her out of his sight.  Gilly’s name came from the Scottish word “ghillie” a fishing attendant.  His official role found him downstairs each morning greeting customers with tail wags and kisses for those short enough—a sort of greeter attendant.   He had strict orders never to enter the Brew area, and so far there hadn’t been any complaints from customers.  His reddish gold fur, black snout and the most gorgeous natural black eye make-up, along with his genuine love for people made him the favorite of all children and most adults who came into the shop. On more than one occasion, Megan did question her sanity for having a 70 lb dog while living in an apartment.  However she reminded herself at those times that his loyalty was far more than she’d had from any two-legged male—so he was worth it!

          After Emily left for school, Megan dressed for her day—a pair of black slacks and a mint green knit top.  She really needed to do some shopping—the local thrift shop had more to offer than Megan’s closet.  One of the reasons she loved Maple Village was its proximity to Eugene—only an hour away.  She enjoyed university towns—but her Shopping-and-Getting-Acquainted-with-Eugene Day had not yet fully materialized.  She tied her strawberry blond hair into a ponytail and called it “good.”  Time to get downstairs!

            To be continued...

Life, Etc. -- One

Megan grabbed her pillow and covered her head when she heard the alarm clock—No, no, it’s too early, she groaned to herself.  Last night, after helping Emily with her homework—which she’d put off until the very last minute, Megan had stayed up until after 2 a.m. looking over the publishers’ catalogs for the spring book order.  With little sleep and the order to complete, a long day lay ahead….

          Megan turned over, shut off the alarm and grabbed her old blue, fuzzy bathrobe.  The middle of October defined temperature change for the Northwest; especially in the mornings.  As she stepped from her warm, carpeted bedroom to the hardwood hallway, she cursed the cold floors.  Where were her winter slippers when she needed them?

 

Flipping on the coffee maker, she settled herself at the kitchen window that looked out over the maple, ash and oak tree tops in Clara Elsworth’s yard.  Their reds and speckled gold and brown tones were a witness to the onset of fall.  She felt fortunate to have such beauty without the demanding hours spent to create it.

          Megan and Emily lived in an apartment over the Book n’ Brew, a book and coffee shop she opened two years ago.  After her divorce from Emily’s father, Megan knew she wanted to get her then eight year old daughter out of Los Angeles.  Meandering around Oregon while headed to the San Juan Islands on vacation took them through Maple Village along the McKenzie River in Central Oregon.  Driving down the main street, lined with maples, Emily saw a restaurant sign, Granny’s Cooked Goose.  She laughed and excitedly said,  “Mommy, let’s eat there and see if they really have a goose!”

When they entered, a voice from the back welcomed them.  A tall, attractive woman about 60, her thick gray hair pulled back into a pony tail and held in place by pink rose buds—and somewhere out of sight, a rubber band, called out as she appeared,  “Hi!  Where are you folks from?”

“Los Angeles.  We’re headed to the San Juans for a short vacation.  We like the name of your restaurant and decided to stop.  Actually we’re also considering a move to Oregon.”  Megan felt a sense of comfort in this place—a hominess that she never felt with all the traffic and commotion in southern California.

 

“Well now, Maple Village is always looking for friendly people to be a part of our little town.  My name is Louise by the way.

“And I’m Megan and this is my daughter, Emily.”

“Before we talk more, I’d better let you decide what you want to eat—since that’s probably why you came in!”  Louise laughed.  Her jolliness reminded Megan of Ma Kettle from the old movies her grandmother watched with her as a child.

Megan and Emily ordered.  Emily nudged her mother under the table and cocked her head toward the waitress.  Megan smiled, “My daughter wants to know if you have any geese here.”

“Actually, there’s a bit of a story to that.  Let me take your orders and I’ll be back and tell you all about it, Emily.”

As they waited, Megan looked around.  The décor had an Old English flair--dark red drapes hung at the sides of the windows.  Small bouquets of red and yellow roses adorned each table.  Several old hutches in dark woods stood against walls covered with yellow rose wallpaper.  Pictures faded into sepia showing children and geese in various activities hung on the walls.  And here and there large wrought iron geese stood about the room.  She loved the atmosphere, plus the friendliness of Louise.

Megan ordered a salad and Emily a grilled cheese.  With the salad came a variety of delicate crackers—obviously home made.  What a treat!

When they were nearly finished, Louise approached their table.  “Emily, so you want to hear about how this place got its name?”  Megan was again impressed with this woman’s relaxed friendliness.  

Louise smiled and pulled out a chair.  “John and Rachel Baldwin arrived in the valley in 1842.  They were from the eastern seaboard someplace—I can’t remember now.  As the story goes, he started a cattle farm.  They loved the valley but Rachel missed maple trees.  Their family from the east sent them seedlings.  Thus began the maples.”

“What about the geese?” Obviously Emily’s focus was on her special interest.

“O, I’ll get to that.  The trees grew, and more and more people arrived from the east and loved the color they remembered so fondly.  When this area officially became a town, the people knew so much history about the Baldwin family and the origin of the maple trees, the name just naturally became Maple Village."

Louise went on with her history lesson.  The Baldwin family had five children.  They believed in teaching good work ethics, so they purchased geese for the children to raise and eat at Thanksgiving. 

 

“When this restaurant opened 30 years ago by a great-great—I don’t know how many greats—granddaughter of John and Rachel Baldwin, an old suitcase was found in the attic of the old homestead.  In it were stories on yellowed paper that told about the geese—actual day-to-day accounts.  Evidently one of the kids kept a kind of diary.  Some pretty funny stories about being chased up trees, nipped and scratched, and more than one story about the geese getting in the house and messing it up pretty badly.

“When this great-great-plus-granddaughter opened this place, she decided to name it Granny’s Cooked Goose.  So, Emily, no, we don’t serve goose on our menu, and there are no live ones running around.”  Emily sat through the story with a big grin, and clapped her hands when Louise finished.

“What a great story—and what an interesting history!”  Megan felt more and more impressed with how much she liked the atmosphere of this place.  By the time they left the restaurant, it was nearly 4 o’clock.  “I noticed a B & B when we first drove into town, Emily.  Would you like to stay a night?”

“Mommy, I’d love that!”

The next day Megan began her research on Maple Village.  After several days riding the ferries to the various San Juan Islands and sleeping in quaint B & B’s, Megan and Emily returned to Maple Village on their way back to California.  Megan set up an appointment to view properties.  She'd already researched the school and the financial potential for a bookshop—and thus began her dream since childhood. Within six months, this picturesque town of 10,458 (until they arrived making it 10,460!) became their home. 

To be continued...

                   

Can you hear a pin drop or a heart cry?

I've been reading a really great book, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen--Staying Close to What is Sacred by Mark Nepo.   Granted, I haven't gotten far in it--one of those books that I take slowly and underline a lot! 

I think that on a day-to-day basis, most of us listen at a very surface level.  We easily get distracted by the many stimuli in our environment.  I have a friend who often asks me to repeat the first three or four words of a statement I've just made--she doesn't initially pick up until I'm half-way through.  Yep, I've been known to do that...

This author suggests that listening is about connecting with everything around us (not just people)--hearing the breeze rustling through the leaves; the sound of scampering animals in the forest; listening to the sound of waves on the ocean shore.  What are they saying?  What story do they have to share that we need to know?  All of this puts us in touch with our environment, which ultimately teaches us to take care of it because we're all intimately connected.

Of course, when we think of listening we most often think of people.  And the usual excuses for not hearing or not listening is:  But they're boring; they drone on and on, etc.  And, in some cases, that's true.  However, Stephen Covey suggests that "most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply."  I've been guilty of that as well.

I also know that it is a gift to the other person when I truly listen--listen with my soul--to what the words are telling me about them and their needs; about who they are at their very core.

Mark Nepo suggests:  To awaken our heart through the reverence of listening strengthens the fabric that knits us all together.

The world could sure use more of that now, couldn't it?  I have sooo much to learn... 

 

One Last Visit...

            I enjoy waiting in airports.  People-watching is a favorite pastime.  One usually hears more complaints about layovers spent in uncomfortable seats, listening to whiny children, and having bad food, but I sense I’ve been placed in a lovely, parallel world. 

Today is such a day for me.  As I look around I see busy people hurrying along, starry-eyed lovers, and excited children. What a cute couple with that adorable dog in its little case.  Maybe they’re taking the grand-dog to visit grandparents.  The lady in the burqa.  Does she wears it willingly?  Is it comfortable?  I see a flight arrival on Air Italia and watch nuns walk out into the concourse.  Aren’t those Italian nuns also wearing burqas? 

            I have a three-hour stopover until my plane takes off for Toronto.  I decide to get a bit to eat while I have time. 

            I no sooner sit down than I see a man walking towards me.  My heart does a flip as he stops at my table and asks if he may sit down.

             

            “Yes, of course,” I respond trying to keep my voice at a normal tone.

           

He picks up the menu and asks, “What are you having?”

I start to answer but my mouth feels dry.  I lick my lips and try again.  “I think I’ll have tea and a salad.”

“So you still don’t drink coffee.”

“Well, not in public places.  I want more flavored creamer than coffee and they kind of frown on that in restaurants.”  He smiles.  A nice smile.  I remember it well.

“So where are you going?”

“Toronto—I’m giving a workshop at a conference.  And you?  Where are you headed?”

“To parts unknown,” he says with a faraway look.  “How are the Girls?”

“They’re doing well, though they still miss you a lot.  Your name comes up easily and often.”

We order and there is silence for several seconds as we realize we're looking intently at one another.  "I'm so sorry--I was a fool." he began.

“And I—I’ve wished so many times the tapes could be replayed, the times relived.  I’m sorry as well.”

Our food comes.  As we eat, we make jokes about passing travelers and where they might be going.  On a honeymoon?  To a Republican rally?  No, it would be Democratic.   We laugh--we’d never agreed on politics.

He looks at his watch.  “Well, I guess I’d better be going.”  He reaches over and touches my hand.  The look in his eyes is warm and caring, but his hand feels cold on this sunny June day.

We get up and I start in the direction of my Gate.  Almost immediately, I stop and turn to see him one more time.  The concourse for the first time seems almost empty.  He is nowhere to be seen.

I look down at the hand he’d just touched.  I feel the tingle again.  We’d finally said goodbye.  And then I remembered--today was the 5^th anniversary of his death.

Tears, and a sweet remembrance...

On Sunday, several friends and I went to Camelot Theater in Talent to see Driving Miss Daisy.  Really well done on a small stage!  The acting was wonderful!!   But beyond that, I was touched by the entire play because it put me in touch with Mother and years gone by--cantankerous, insistent-on-her-way, and in the end, allowing a gentleness to come forth.  As I stood with others for the ovation at the end, it was good to feel my mother near.

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 12

            The summer months went quickly.  Millie hosted friends from university years who loved the plays and musical productions in Southern Oregon.  September brought new classes which she enjoyed taking--an opportunity to meet people and keep her brain alive.  Being a teacher for so long, Millie always combined fall with new beginnings.

            One Thursday afternoon in late October, Sara called.  “A bit of a surprise for you, Millie.  This morning, a couple invited me to join them while they ate breakfast.  I asked questions, as I always do, about their careers.  The man said he’d been with the Southern Poverty Law Center before he retired.  Of course, I asked him if he knew a Robert Robbins, and he said he did.  He told me the last information he had was that Robbie had purchased property on Orcas Island.”

            “You mean, Sara, that Robbie could be just hours north of me?”

            “I know it seems incredible!  I’ve done a bit of research on the internet, but so far can’t find out anything more.”  They chatted for another 10 minutes and hung up.

            Millie was determined she would not get excited.  She’d lost sleep on numerous nights over the last few months and that didn't play well with her moods or energy. 

            Warm autumn weather lasted through the middle of November.  Millie was beginning to put together her Thanksgiving menu—inviting friends was something she looked forward to each year.  She was also expecting Sara later in the day.  Better get some last minute tasks done.

            An hour later, with a glass of wine in hand, Millie sat down to await Sara.  Just then Gilly began his usual bark-greeting.  Millie’s reprimand couldn’t be heard over the noise of the dog.  She stepped to the front door to yell for him to be quiet, when she saw a car she didn’t recognize.  Just then she noticed movement coming from around a tree.  She saw a man, but because of the sun, his face was hidden.  Then all at once Millie knew.  “Robbie?”   

            A deep voice came from a distinguished looking man, “Maybe I should have called,” followed by a big grin—the same beautiful smile.

            All Millie could get from her mouth was, “Oh Robbie…” as she walked over and put her arms around him.  “I can’t believe it—after all these years.”  They just stood there each looking into eyes that brimmed with tears—yet neither were embarrassed. 

            “So Sara must have located you.   I can’t believe it.  I just can’t believe it.”

            “Yes, I’m thinking you have a really persistent friend.   When I first talked with her, I couldn’t imagine that you were so close!  And then she thought we needed to surprise you.  And that’s about it.”

            Millie figured the story was much more complicated than that, but it could wait.  They had so much to catch up on.  So much time had passed.  So much had happened in each of their lives….    At that moment, she thought of Price Pritchett's words, "Change always comes bearing gifts."   Yes,  we can be friends now--openly, publicly--no longer hiding, no longer Black and White.

                                     The End -- Or Not... 

                         

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 11

            “Hey, Lady, you don’t look the worse for wear!”  Sara laughed as she saw Millie enter the kitchen the next morning.

“I can’t believe there’s not a hint of a headache.  I don’t remember when I’ve had so much wine!”

They both turned as the sound of voices could be heard from the reception area.  “Let me take care of those check-outs.  This may be a busy morning.”

“Sara, I do plan to leave today, but let me help you this morning.”  Sara had a staff, but during the busy season, extra arms came in handy.  Millie dusted and sanitized and washed bedding for the next few hours.

She loved the way Sara had so carefully decorated each room.  Themes dominated the décor—Victorian, traditional cottage, sea coast, sunflowers, shabby chic, Tuscan—and each space with its own unique view of the surrounding landscape.  Helping Sara gave Millie an excuse to enter these restful spaces.

Now back in the kitchen, “Thank you, Sara, for all your listening.  I’ve never shared the Robbie part of my past.  I don’t want to drop the idea of connecting with him, if that’s even possible, but I feel so much better now than when I arrived yesterday.”

            “Millie, I feel privileged that you told me the story.  AND, I really appreciate your help this morning.   Why not consider staying and working full time?”

            Millie laughed.  “You do understand that my enthusiasm for said work comes because it’s a temporary, volunteer position, don’t you?  If I had to do it everyday, I’d be your number one slacker!”

 

            “I keep thinking those ideas will surface for me—that I’ll get tired of all this work and just want to step away from it.  And it’s true I hire more of it done all the time.   But I just love the people and their stories—honeymoons, secret get-a-ways, families—everyone has a story, and they’re all so interesting.  My life would be dull without hearing their tales most every day.”

            “You’re just so great with people, Sara.  This is where you belong.  Thank you again that I could unload my woes on you.  Maybe I’ll never find out what happened to Robbie.  I have lived this long without knowing, so I guess I’ll manage the rest of my life if that’s what's to be.”

                           To be continued…