Molland's Community

[Deb R.]

New member Mutt mentioned in another thread that he has been listenting to Mansfield Park on audio.  Made me try to remember if we have ever discussed JA books on tape.  I've got to say that it's never occurred to me to seek out any.

Mutt, what did you think of MP on tape?  Did you read the book first, or was this your first taste of MP?  Have you listened to any other JA books on tape? 

Anyone else have a go at this?

[Mutt]

MP on tape is different because it's a audio play, like it might have been made for the radio. I didn't expect it, and still I'm delighted; but it skips parts to keep it moving. The scene where Sir Thomas returns from his trip abroad, surprising the theater group, is a quick example. He greets his children and heads off for his room, and instead of encountering Mr. Yates rehearsal rigorously, that part becomes Sir Thomas leaves his children and immediately returns with Yates, bidding him adieu, which when I heard it, instead of regretting was was missing, I laughed with a big smile. I think that's how I felt (and it was only yesterday that I heard it). Another example would be where Fanny and Edmund are enjoying looking out the front window at the stars, and Edmund suggests that they would be better served by moving out onto the front lawn. Their play is interrupted by the Miss Bertrams and Miss Crawford singing at the pianoforte. The audio CD erupted into song - I'd say about 40 seconds of wonderful harmonies. I replayed it at least ten times. Or when they begged Fanny to take a part in the play because Mrs. Grant could not make it. It's a beautiful thing.  As you might guess, this is my first audio play. I'm so use to single readers.

Out of all the JA books on tape, except one, I read the text first. I was loaned an audio copy of Persuasion, and that was my first touch of that love. Then I read the book.  I need to confess that last year is the first year I've experienced Jane Austen. It's funny, I was just going to write that up to this point I only read fiction. I do believe these stories really happened.

With P&P, on my second go round, I went to the library and took out the audio CD, downloaded the text to my work computer, and had my Norton Critical Edition lying at wait on the night table. And right before I did all this I rented the 1995(?) film and watched it w/popcorn.  Now that's fun!  I worked everything together.

[Mutt]

::Thoughts as I eat my carrots and Blueberry Luna Sunrise::

The Library is wanting their "My Dear Cassandra (The Illustrated Letters)" returned. Sad day indeed. There was so much peripheral information that I hardly read any of the letters, choosing instead to spend my reading hours learning more of the history of her time. And I've completed the audio play of MP; that's gets returned today, too. I do have a question for you guys concerning the text, if you do not mind questions from a newbie. It's that open paragraph...

"CHAPTER I

About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon,
with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck
to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park,
in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised
to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts
and consequences of an handsome house and large income.
All Huntingdon exclaimed on the greatness of the match,
and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her to be at least
three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it."

I have wondered about this.


"The sun is shinin' down and
There's no one else around now
Wish you were here to hear me say
To say
This is gonna be my greatest day "

[Mutt]

Wow, I'm doing a lot of talking. Hope I'm not a borin'.

The audio CD is from BBC Radio Collection: Mansfield Park (2001), with actors Hannah Gordon, Jane Lapidary, Amanda Root and Michael Williams. It's a dramatization, a wonderful dramatization.


       I had to go back to the house one more time
       to see if the apple tree was in bloom,
       and if the sweet honeysuckle were still around.
       For so many reasons it's been on my mind.

       I left a message there for you.
       I built up cinderblocks off the ground
       and reached up into the raven black sky
       and wrote it on the face of the moon.

       I envy the moon.

[Deb R.]

No, you're not boring me at all.  I haven't listened to any JA audio books, so can't really comment.  But anything with Amanda Root has my vote!  And the idea of an audio play sounds so much better than listening to one solitary reader for hours and hours and hours.

The poetry pieces -- are they your creations? 

[Mutt]

We tend our garden together,
 grown at our wall,
 in our small patch of dirt
 outside our kitchen door.
 The sun has passed by
 and no longer bakes us down;
 you stand here in your verses,
 and I tend our ground:
 The daughter of Venus,
 the father of Zeus,
 we tend our garden together
 as we do everyday.

 I cut blossoms for our table,
 you read me your fresh words -

 "Dawn is like love.
 Hot will it blaze.
 I look to the East
 for its rising!"

 "Daughter, I am surprised
 you would read these words, revealing."

 "But Father, it is pass noon after all,
 the sun is retreating."

 You stand proud, white cap, white collar,
 gray long-sleeved blouse,
 tucked inside brown skirt with apron.
 Journal in hand, you smile.

 "Oh Papa, I am not bold, just hoping."

 "Your hope," I mention, "is not just in verse."
 "It's from tending our garden together,
 and watching our flowers grow."


Yes, they're mine, but only the last two.

And this one...


She walked through the green
dancing with the glimmer
she captured in her right hand.

No lonely hour
or darkened room
could diminish her reverie.

On evening shade with wild sensations
she opened her hand
and felt the ray of her friend.


I'm thinking of listening to the audio reading of Persuasion again. I found it moving. When I was recently listening to the reading of S&S, when Marianne saw Willoughby at the party, and she cried for him, I completely missed my exit on the expressway, and when I returned from my mind, for an instant, and at that instant, I didn't know where I was, I was completely lost...and it was chilling. I didn't recognize my surroundings. But then I did and it was thrilling. What a story.


"Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?
Have you not received my letters?  Will you not shake
hands with me?"

I was a goner!

"...as soon the carriage could be found.  Scarcely a word
was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street.
Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even
for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home,
they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn
restored her a little to herself."

I never had hartshorn, but I could have used some here.

[Mutt]

Persuasion

Last night I started reading Persuasion. This is my second go, and as I grow I seem to get more out of the story - I noticed that just from reading Chapter One; but I think I've found that to be true with all of her novels. On my first go round, every story I finished was "the best book yet". Mansfield Park was definitely her best story! I was quoting parts and re-reading parts, and re-living parts...and that movie! (1982). But then I watched the latest S&S film last Saturday night, and how could anything top that one. That's the best. Sense and Sensibility rules!

I have started my three prong attack on Persuasion! Book at home, audio CD in the auto, and e-text on this laptop at work. We shall see...  I plan on being thrilled to death (again).

The audio CD was a gift, and a second hand gift at that - no information on the discs. The narrator is a Katherine Byers (?) and I could not find any information regarding her career or even if I have spelled her name correctly. What I didn't notice during last night's read, but picked up in the car this morning, is that the whole first chapter is a narrative. No one speaks. Katherine Byers then starts her characters with Lady Russel followed by Sir Walter, nicely figured.

And that's as far as I got.  I do not mind reading ahead at work. No fear in being bored during my travels.



 It was a midland view with meadows and pastures, where hedgerows
grew to all their glory and led to the trees, tilting whisperingly
by the cool pool in the near corner of the greens. Above its high bank
a gnarled ash stood, shading the grasses that reached down to drink
from the water, shading the two of them as they sat together on a red
blanket with their lunch fare and novels. His novel was old and poetic,
her novel was new and horrific.

 In his hands he traveled far to see his later life, written before his
birth, wanting to save to his heart the reality Providence has laid out
for him, wanting to walk in the goodness that was shared with him.

  But she craved the particular evil details that flung out like seeds
for the ravens, like dice play for the devil, like the death breath in
a warm hallway outside the door which must never be opened, where she
would take her chances, even though Faith cried out loud, but not in
words, to warn her.

 Theirs was a shared passion, but they never spoke to one another about
what they read when they settled into their own special worlds, never
insisting on the other to join in. They were two opposite spinning
spheres, joined on the ends of the same line, a span across a center
point of love, so well balanced as to never fall in a lifetime.

 His habit was to read horizontal, face to the blanket, feet entwined,
hooked in embrace, lost in thought, but always in touch with the warm
breath of air that caressed his skin, and the touch of her perfume that
moved with the breeze as she leaned against the old tree, book in her
hand, her radiance growing with the tensions that tightened within her
pages; her legs touching his - a connection that flowed both ways. If
she twitched, he moved slightly; if he smiled, she breathed in lightly.
God could look down and agree: here indeed is one.


 The sun opened up as she laid her book on her lap, the strong rays
erasing the worried shadows that marked her forehead as she read. The
clouds parted, illuminating the tall tree and their little island above
the pool, giving back color to the picturesque beyond. It was a dear
vision she held, looking out from the high ground. The total of the
parish had swept into view, the sun now out in force again, and she
could see into the whole valley with its patchwork of farmlands, cut
straight and angular, green and sprite. Everything was refreshed and
new, cleansed from an afternoon spring rain. The sunlit curtain met the
horizon and the old forest with its distant trees, some much like a
wooden brigade of toy soldiers on the march, with their spears held
high, green caps and helmets with plume, marching away to secure lands
for Glory.

 Wonderful modulations and indentations brought joy to the hills and
valleys that graced all the land, her land, and the land of her father.
Here and there, separated by changes only in color, were homelands
connect by lengths of roads, which she had traveled in her youth,
sitting on her father’s knee as he drove the buggy. In the near, she
could see fences and gray gates and sun burnt barns; out in the deep,
if she squinted, she could see the homestead silos and the far running
river. There are things familiar that bring unhindered happiness to
one’s soul. Here, in this landscape, to this midland born girl, is
where her joy lives. She picked up her book again, nudging his leg ever
so as she returned to her story. A breeze kicked up behind them and
drove out over the pool and hedgerows, rippling the farm wheat like
waves on the great sea. Two little white butterflies flew up from the
red blanket where they too were resting. She watched them as they were
caught in the currents.


“It could have been the power of images or the trick of the sun,” she read as she leaped
back into the abyss of her novel.

 Elizabeth leaned against a tree and shaded her eyes, as if to try to clear her mind. Her hunger
was getting the best of her.

“Is that a mountain lion?” she asked herself, squinting into the setting sun, feeling the last
collapse of her struggles.

 But what approached was a little wheat colored dog, in as bad of shape as she, astonished as
she, but with the same good sense as she: he wagged his tail in acceptance.

“Hello, little fellow. What a peculiar thing this is. Why, you’re just a puppy.”

 She bent down low and cuddled him up in her arms. “Why just a pup.”  And he kissed her face.

 In an instant, those five days she wandered the forest alone were forgotten.


 He sensed a change in her atmosphere, as a tree can sense tremors up
through its roots of its stability. A display of relief had quivered
the length of the vine, playing along its sinew string a love melody.
He could compare it to no other earthy sensation, this method of
communication. By the combinations of the nature of simple objects -
her leg and his leg - somewhere in the depths of her mind a translation
took place, and it was sent like a telegraph in a language only he
could read. In her world where sorrowful impressions were the normal,
this state change was quite welcomed. He lifted his head upon his
closed fists and enjoyed the moment.

 Such was the state of their tranquility, in their shared afternoons,
high above Biddeford, in the county of Coopers Hill.


 He rested his eyes upon the reflective pool and watched the black
finches bathe in the water. They would dip in the shallows, then dart
off to eat the coral fruit the hedgerows had spread out for their
enjoyment, and then return again to the pool. And as some wanted, those
finches flew up to the great oak that shadowed solo nearby, to form an
ensemble of the sweetest and the most delightful; their singing was
part of a duo of pleasures for him, he thought as he looked over at
her. Everyday for him was like this, this ensemble of choirs: the
finches song and hers.

 After watching for a while, he settled back in comfort and solitude,
settling back into the past.


 She clutched the letter to her chest. What pains has she produced. She stood at her window,
drowning in the noon brilliance that flooded her room. She bowed her head before Heaven’s
gate. She had destroyed it all. All was lost. Grabbing the edge of the velour curtain, she pulled it
halfway closed and peered down to the garden where her father and Kate were employed in
their afternoon cultivation.

“Oh, how I envy them,” she whispered.

Returning slowly to the edge of her bed, she unfolded the letter again.


My Dearest Elizabeth,

Please do not find me angry, only broken. My fate will be to love you as ever as I have loved you
from the fore. Dare I breathe again? but to remember what never will be. We were to flourish
forever.

My memory glows with sweet reflection, of all we were at the start, of what we became between
the seconds of time, and what you accepted upon my knee, upon my asking; and now you ask
me to accept this resignation? Your love has grown silent, as is your voice, as is your refusal to
be seen; yet my blood is still yours! my pledge is still yours! my breath is still yours!

This is how a heart breaks, yet it is only mine, my poor heart alone that is harmed. I fear the
worst. Your love is gone. And I am to leave.

I am closing Berwyn, Tuesday morning, and then I shall sail for Bristol, from there, then to the
Continent.

Regard me faithful,
Kenneth


 The fireplace remained as cold as she, though the weather was near summer and the air spoke
of blooms and buds and heat. She stared at the framed silhouette that sat on the shelf above the
hearth; he sat for her on their occasion of engagement, and her father craftly cut the wood for
its display. Up until this moment, the shadow box had been alive and floating in the colors of
their future. She tried again to draw her eye into his image, but she was closed out. The surface
had become flat and dry, and blank. She had destroyed their balance, and she fell along with
their dreams. But if he was now broken, what can she be? Not broken, but with the same after-
effect. Dead, yes dead. This is how she felt. Lost, dead. She held her hands palm up and
listened and heard the sound of his footsteps from the engagement day in the garden - it had
the allure of a ghostly sound that haunts a great loss. How grand he had walked towards her,
and how nothing else had escaped them except his whispers, her whispers, a plea, a yes, a kiss.

 Elizabeth moved back to the window and watched the scene unfold again in the garden of their
triumph.

 “Like a bright star you are, splendor and pure,” he said softly to her, taking her trembling hands
into his. “Not in lone glory will you fly, if you will have me. Nature’s patient sleep will wake the
shores of matrimony and carry us on its sweet crest, if you will have me. Together in love’s soft
swell we will live…if you will have me.”

 And she did answer, “What I wish for you is to have all your dreams come true. That God will
watch over you your day, and grant you your heart’s desire, and everything in it to be in a
degree precious and pure, as my love is for you, precious and pure, as I am for you, precious
and pure. Yes, I will have you.”

 Her small figure stood looking out from the high crowned frame, and she watched his spirit cross
the courtyard and disappear into the sunlight beyond the two trees that grew at the edge of their
lot. She remembered the first note he sent back upon their engagement - a love note - one of
many he wrote in these six months - and her recall was like lace that tenderly weaved and
traced between layers of well worn memories.


                       If riches held its value in laughter and love,
                       its value would not hold up to the wishes you give,
                        so like a prayer you are to me -

                       like a song bird’s touch in the early spring morning,
                       as breakfast cooks in the downstairs kitchen:
                       French toast and bacon, hot coffee beckoning,
                       warm covers hugging, a loved one singing;

                        so like you to give so freely,
                        so like you to give so dearly,
                        so like you and the song bird in the morning.


 Father looked up. The movement of her drape, the sound of her soft sobbing, gave away her
station. He had yet to tell Kate; how disappointed she will be. She loved Kenneth already as a
brother, and the anticipation of the joy of his sisters was nigh complete. The eve of their wedding
was this Saturday, and Tuesday was almost half finished. They were working their garden
together, grown at the foot of a short wall outside their kitchen door. It was only a patch of dirt,
but it was as substantial as the house would allow, their property consisting of a small two
stories, and no room or means for a servant. The sun passed on by and no longer baked them.
Kate was the daughter of Venus and he was the father of Zeus, the difference in ages between
him and his two children was that great. He walked her over to the bench that sat below Eliza’s
window, where he spoke tenderly.

 “I will cut blossoms for our table, if you will read me your fresh words.”

 Kate stood there proud in white cap and collar, with a gray long-sleeved blouse tucked inside a
brown skirt with apron. Journal in hand, she smiled.

 “Dawn is like love, hot will it blaze. I look to the East for its rising.” And she looked at him.

 “Daughter, I am surprised you would read these words, revealing.”

 “But Father, it is past noon after all, the sun is retreating. Oh Papa, I am not bold, just hoping.”

 “Your hope,” he smiled, “is not just in verse. It is from tending our garden together and
watching our flowers grow.”

 “Do not worry, Father. My life is here. I have made no occasion or obligation to leave you.”

 She looked toward the front gate where two figures of trees stood as her sentinels. Someday
she will walked past them into a bright new morning of marriage and children. But for now, her
happiness walked along side Eliza’s.

 “Are we cutting flowers for mother, today?” she asked.

 “Yes, we will, dear Kate.”

 “Blessed one,” Kate said with a bowed head.

 He thought he heard the same from the opened window above.


 Father shifted to one side of the bench and offered the other half. When Kate settled and placed
her journal on her lap, he began.

 “Do you ever wonder why I appear so grandfatherly, while you are still growing as a child?”

 “But Papa, you are not old, just grayed sooner than should be.”

 He laughed at this sweet emotion. “No, it is true. I can be your grandfather. I am old. Yet you
and Eliza keep me young. And I promise I will not leave you out of weariness, for that you never
give. But my speedier journeys once made on wings and spurs, now take place with a slow horse
in a carriage. There is much I wish to tell you before I meet my Lord.”

 He wished in earnest for his Elizabeth. How hard it is for him to be both parents to the girls,
never having a sister to learn from, and having a father who left too soon to teach him his ways.

 “When I made my offer to your mother,” he paused and held her hand as he looked in her eyes,
“your mother readily accepted. We had the sweetness and desire of youth, and had the blessings
of her family and my father. Ah, my father whom you never met. I have mentioned little of him,
or of my mother. Today is the time for it.”

 “Should Eliza not be present for this?”

 “Daughter, this needs to be said in this special way. Do not be alarmed,” he added, noting
her distress. “I am not infirm or plan on being infirm. There are many years left for me to enjoy.”

 Kate relaxed and looked up to Eliza’s window, as her father began his history.


 “My father was born into wealth, yet second born, which kept his inheritance low, but not his
state; a fine gentleman he was.

 My mother, in difference, was from a long line of high rank and religion, and carried herself in a
comparable manner. Always a lady of immeasurable birth, yet not as propertied as she would
have wished. Her character, steeped in integrity, became a personage of importance to the
community. Extremely charitable except to one, and was one who not only greeted a curtsy with
a nod of her head, but also earned that distinction. And throughout it all, she ruled our home
with stick and thunder, and her drive kept our family together in high performance. Not an hour
was lost from me in asking for my mother’s blessing of our enjoiner, to bless the wedding of my
Elizabeth…which she refused. She said the girl was from a birth of no consequence. Not worth
anything. She would not hear of it.”

 “Just as what was said of Eliza,” he thought to himself.

 Kate felt him stop short, and then said to her father, “Mama was a great lady.”

 He laugh, cupping his chin in his hand and chuckled some more. “Yes, she was. Have we ever
met her match? Think about it, Kate. Have we? But my mother argued that she had no money,
no name, no importance. These things my mother valued. And no one else would say against it.
My father would not say it. I do not know how he felt. I would not ask him. I was ashamed, but
for my family, not for Elizabeth. Believe me, dear Kate, I have always seen Elizabeth in the best
way. What hurts the most was we were so close, and I watched her walk away. Elizabeth was
the prize of the world, and even more than that, I knew it on first sight: she was a princess,
standing in the market with a food basket, bargaining for the best price of bread, with fierce
determination, with victory in her hand. I saw totally my happiness. It was instant and forever. I
argued and my mother refused, and then Elizabeth refused. How fair would it be, she said, to
marry without the strength of both families, that I must see the difficulties this imposes, she said.
She refused me on second asking, and stopped my third, and we parted. I moved off to school,
but within a year and a half, I was called to return, to watch my father depart in peace. My
brother was away in service and it fell on me to take care of our estate and mother. I was the
dutiful son.

[Mutt]

 The bright air came in from the garden and filled her room with wonder. Grave and weighted,
Eliza found herself lifted by this story. How near its time seemed to her. She listened as father
spoke of the passage of his fortune, and the loss of family members, and the end of his next
twenty years, left only with his mother, and the shell of their estate. Yet throughout his life,
the greatest loss was Elizabeth. Then unexpectedly, his mother died and was laid to rest at the
Church. After the solemn service, he had the carriage take an unknown direction home, as he
needed to view other land to refresh his mind. At a radius of a mile distant, he came upon
Elizabeth, in black dress, standing next to two trees in a slight clearing. Immediately calling to a
halt, he threw open the door, leaped out, and ran to her. As astonished as she was, he was more
so: she was more beautiful than ever. She said she feared to be any nearer than this to pay her
last respects; here is where she felt safest - between these two guardian trees that still grow at
their front gate. As Spring and innocence renew life�s nature, so too did this innocent meeting
renew their love for each other. He held out his hand, and upon taking it, she was helped into
the carriage, and driving into town, they were married, and upon returning to this site, they
built this cottage, where he sits to tell his tale. His lasting lament was in the quick shortness of
their life together, and in how his uncles and aunts were gone, never to know the love of his two
daughters.

 Kate and father stood up quickly as Eliza ran into the garden.

 �Father!� she yelled. �Father, come please. Will you drive me into town, to Cork? Do you think
there is still time?�

 He walked up to her, and pull out his watch he kept in his vest pocket.

 �Yes, Eliza, there is time,� he said, touching its glass face. Looking up at her with a broad smile,
he said again, �Yes, there is time. We will make it.�


 He closed his book and sat up. She was leaning against the tree, and
her book had fallen closed. She was sleeping. How beautiful she was,
he thought, like sunlight reflecting off of a silvery waterfall. His
movement woke her and she smiled at him.

 �Is it time?� she asked.

 �Yes, it is.�

 They stored their plates and the red blanket in their basket, and
carefully placed their novels on top of the pile, before closing it.
Walking down the sudden slope, they stepped close to the bank, and then
passing under the great oak, listened as the finches sang their adieu.
The high grasses did not hinder them, for the path they struck was well
worn with love and boots. How tender their day had begun, and how
tender it was now ending. The road laid before them like a sweet dream.
But this was no vision. Their joy and happiness was as sweet as their
matrimony was real.

[Mutt]

 

I'm half way through the audio Cds of Persuasion, with a different copy on order from the library. I want to see if it is indeed a different recording than what I was given by my friend. Oh what fun this will be if it is. I've seen two different version of Persuasion in film. The last one was the shortened film on PBS. It was too short.  But next week, and I can't wait for it, I've ordered an audio copy of Lady Susan, without absolutely no clue what this one is about. I checked the description on Amazon, but as soon as they said epistolary I stopped reading! I've read Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded ~ Samuel Richardson, and I know what fun this type of story telling is for me. I completely enjoyed Pamela. So this next audio Cd will be Lady Susan, and then I will have to read the text afterwards.


Just me talkin'.

Mutt



The Infinite

 I sat across the table staring into her deep green eyes. She seemed content, certainly she
was talkative.

“You should see how they despise you,” she added with a laugh and her long slender
finger. “You have been the pin that pricks constantly.”

“But you aren’t laughing because you agree with them?” I asked, fidgeting with my
napkin, folding up the corners and replacing it back on my lap.

 Our waiter saw my actions and assumed it was a call for more wine. “Another port, sir?”

 Thirst and hunger were the clothes I wore. “Yes, please, and another glass of champagne
for her. And more rolls, quickly. Please. Hot rolls.”

 I followed him with my eyes to the kitchen, but my mind wandered out the front
window, out into the snow covered street. Oh how I hate her family. There were the
incessant nieces and obligatory Aunts and the moon faced nephews and the drunkard
Uncles and the tumble of too many cousins, some related in mysterious ways, some
related not, but always in present form family. The only member I enjoyed, and did so
immensely, not counting the girl who was buttering her roll sitting before me, was her
hapless father, a man of broken dreams and lost ideals and overwhelmed history. A man
without hair. For reasons I wouldn’t admit to, I identified with him and sought him out at
every ancestral event. He was a lost joy. I fought for him at every dinner. He was the
retired general and I was his aide-de-camp, rallying against the hands that would strip the
last crumb from his individuality. Oh how they hated me with a smile. Oh so polite, oh so
scheming. Oh they told all right, told all of it to the girl of my dreams, knowing full well
the message would get through. She was my angel that came down from heaven. She
held my heart in her hands, even though I was never quite sure she didn’t side with them.
Such is love.

“Herbert!” her mother had yelled at her father. “Don’t you remember I am the
granddaughter of a magnate? Why must you always disagree with me?”


“I don’t care if you’re the granddaughter of a magnet!” Her father answered back in the
midst of a full tabled family commotion. “Our son is not getting a car for Christmas. We
cannot afford it!”

 I had dropped my knife on my plate by accident at the precise moment of the collective
inhale of the family. Like search lights at a prisoner camp, all eyes fell upon me with
precision. Her father leaned over and touched my arm.

“Thank you boy,” he said with the pale smile of a condemned man. I felt the same smile
form across my face and I fought it tooth and nail. Standing up, I pushed my chair
backwards, happily  knocking into the pile of little ones who had crept closer to watch the
kill.

 I pulled at both sides of my hair, not in sympathy with my bald soon to be father in law,
but because he could not, and I knew he would if he still could. I wrestled my hands
through my mane, and had at it with my sideburns until everyone quieted.


“Please,” I implored. “Must this man suffer at every celebration? I swear it’s your life’s
goal to torment him. If the man says no, for gosh sakes, it’s no.” And when my soon to be
mother in law injected with her four leaning sisters, I raised my right hand swiftly high.

“I am soon to be the owner of a new car. Instead of trading away my beloved that sits
outside at the curb of this joyous house, I will give it to junior…”

 The tide broke! Junior and his flood cried out in chorus while the grand Aunts and
superior Uncles beat on the table with their fists, wailing to be heard. The little ones
pulled at my arms and kicked at the back of my knees, hoping to down the captive. Father
struggled to restore order, shouting up at the ceiling, tugging at his head in memory of
what once was. I looked down at my gravy and realized I still hadn’t eaten a bite.

 Mother stood up, and like the minister who rises to give the blessing before the marriage
is complete, we all sat back down in silence.

“Thank you for your most generous offer. We accept.” She bestowed it with a gracious
sweep, while somehow attaching to it a most secretive and grimacing glare, which she
sent along to Father. I swear I was the only one who had seen it happen, except for my
soon to be father in law. I think I will always love this man.

 And now we sit together, green eyes and I, waiting for more cold wine and bread, and
I’m wondering if things will always be this way with her family, and I’m wondering why
I was chosen for this torment.

 Somewhere in heaven an angel had arranged the whole affair.

~ fin

[Mutt]

   Lady Susan has arrived yesterday at the Library   When I arrived yesterday at the Library I found the Library closed and the parking lot torn up...water main break. Rats! The sign posted said whatever books are due today, they are now due tomorrow.  That would make today a good day for me. No books to return, the Library opened, and Lady Susan to pick up. I wonder what it's about. I'll put the Persuasion cds aside. I still think Persuasion is the best book yet. I left off where Anne is thinking cousin Elliot isn't all that.


Tend My Garden -

 The shower turned off as I passed the closed bathroom door. It’s not like we’re some young
married couple on our honeymoon anymore, but I do miss seeing her in the morning. I paused
outside of what used to be, holding my cereal bowl, I’m always with my cereal bowl, and leaned
into the door. The steam breathed out sweetly and I breathed in the ginger-lace shower gel she
now wears every morning. I got to pick it out at the bath and body just last week. I know she
wrinkled her nose at it, saying she’d never wear something like that, but she’s a good sport,
buying it for me. Such a carefree and happy couple we’ve become. But I understand. This isn’t
about me at all, is it. I got so damn mad at her because there was nothing I could do about it.
Thank God, it was only that. Just a procedure. Nothing big. Just a bit of her gone. She’s a
trooper, I tell you. A regular good girl. But I was so scared. That’s just me talking. I understand.
But damn, it was terrible. That’s all I can think of? Terrible? How do I talk to her?

 Like yesterday when the doctor removed the stitches. I was no help.

 Oh my brave, beautiful little girl. But it’s over. It really is. They said there was not any sign of
cancer - Cancer, jeez, stupid silly me, thinking about how I felt, about all the changes for my life,
like that matters. Nothing matters but her. I understand now. She’ll be surprised when she
comes downstairs. I put up flowers on the table, got the toast ready, already been outside
watering the plants. Almost let them die, so much has been neglected since. But it’s over, ain’t it?
Nothing else to do.


“Sweetheart?” she asked through the closed door.
“I hear you eating out there.”

 The thought of not hearing this voice again.

“Could you come in here?”

 I put my bowl on top of the hamper and ran a hand through my hair. Can’t believe how white
my hair has gotten. Why am I thinking that? I nudged the door open, stepped around it, and
closed it behind me, keeping the heat in.

    What does a man say when only his heart knows the words?
    How does one free his soul and offer it to another?

    Do I tell her I love her?
    That it looks like the weather won’t be gray today?


 She’s standing there sweetly, wrapped in the powder blue bath towel she bought at Carson’s.
Simple and sad, my brave one.

“Do you want to see it?”

 There was hardly room for two in here. I’m so stupid. Could I be anymore nothing than I am
right now. Her skin glistened with the steam, and her hair was combed back, wet and slick. I’ve
always loved this look, but then she puts it up real nice for me, and I love that, too. Everyone
says we’re a great couple, simply made for each other. She was from the north side, and I was
lucky enough to fall asleep on the bus, missing my stop, well, missing all the stops until I ended
up kicked off the bus at the end of the line in her neighborhood, standing at the bus stop with no
money left to return back home, with, she told me later, the longest face she’d ever seen on a
human being before, and she lent me the money, but only after I promised to ride with her a
way, she was going that way, she said - and you know what, she never got off the bus and I
never returned to my old life - haven’t thought about that first day in what…thirty years, oh how
could it be that long.

She loosened the grip of the towel and left just enough above the left breast exposed. I could
see the stitch marks, and the rainbow bruise, and what wasn’t there anymore. How could they do
this to my girl. Oh, my baby. I leaned forward and lightly kissed her scar.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”


~ fin