THE EARLY RAIN

The air outside the window pane is brisk and damp. It hasn’t been like this for months, years actually. But suddenly everything is clean and washed, the rain was just in time. I think, “Floods always follow droughts.” But it may just seem that way, and it only seems that way when the rains finally come.

I taste the air, and it is loamy with the heavy fragrance of soil and sod and the washings from the trees, the dust that has accumulated for the past three years. The dust and the rain form a thin gruel – more discolored water than real mud, and it coats everything until it too is washed away – to the drain and then to the ocean. It gives me a sense of excitement; the world is not going to turn into a crisp, fragile pile of debris after all.

Seeds sprout suddenly from the soil; the seeds that have waited for months or even years. The seeds know that the rain will come again. They surge from the ground with such vigor that they move the soil up and out of the way, as if they don’t want to waste a minute or a second of this rare chance to be something, and they must beat their brothers and sisters who are competing for the limited light. They look exactly alike; the same size and shape and bright green. It seems that I could watch them grow it all happens so fast.  But they are too close, the way naturally falling seeds collect in the same spot. So many will die – too little sun, strangled by a brother, cheated of enough water. But it’s a numbers game – so much of life is. You roll the dice, you are the result of rolled dice, the numbers always win.

The sky takes on a special blue, different than the blazing summer sun that wilts and dries and chokes. This is a growing sun, with a special light that energizes everything it touches. But it is a false sun, one that brings things out too early, that jump starts life and in a week or two, the frost will come and most of these eager shoots will wither and die. But, perhaps there will be enough left over seeds to germinate following the next rain and the true warmth that will surely follow.  

THE LAST CARD

I set aside the last card and a feeling of increasing depression floods my mind. It used to be an uplifting event, kids then grandkids doing interesting things and achieving temporary greatness (at least to their parents and grandparents.) Taekwondo belts, swimming teams and school awards. Acceptance at prestigious or not so prestigious schools, graduations and jobs, marriages, divorces, children and more children and joined families.  I quickly forgot which children went with which parents or grandparents.

And I clean up the mailing list – changes of addresses, deleting Mr. & or a male first name. But that’s my task every year. Sometimes separating a Mr. & Mrs. Into two entries. And brutally deleting anyone who did not send a card or letter . . .

But this year the depression was greater than in past years. Cancer cured, but still recovering from the aftereffects, Cancer in remission, breast and prostate and colon and skin. Atrial fibrillation, but no mention of a pacemaker. A broken leg or hip. Recovering from the loss of a long term spouse. Trips, more sedate than in the past and moves some into “retirement communities.”

And perhaps the most depressing, a scheduled move for him, into a dementia facility in April, but he hasn’t been told about it yet.

How many stories are incomplete, untold, not appropriate for sharing I wonder. I know I didn’t talk about my new stent, a nice addition to my life acquired late in the year. There is no need to describe that, just list the many trips we took this year and my grandfather’s book of poems I’ve been involved in getting published, and all the other good stuff.

As I think about that, my depression slackens. A small smile eases onto my face and I begin to work on the plans for a trip next summer.

IT’S ONLY A VEGETABLE

My eyes felt tired, tight, the way they feel after doing a lot of work, or now, more likely a lot of play on the computer. So, I rubbed them, more than a little. It felt really good the loosening of the eyelids, the skin around the edges – the renewed flow of tears that was less than it should be; the cleansing and lubrication so I rubbed harder and moved my fingers in to stretch the loose skin.

Then it began, a slight tingle at first, a gentle itch, a teasing excitement. And then it began in earnest and the pleasant tingle changes to a burn, the itch to a roar of pain, the tease into a pulsing throbbing anguish and the change was almost instantaneous. I shut my eyes, no, that’s not right, my eyes slammed shut and I couldn’t open them. The pain reverberated around my skull. The pulsing searing pain took over my attempts at control. It rolled and bit at my eyes and eyelids and even the eye brows and the upper areas of my cheeks. I had no idea what had happened, Could it be the sting of a scorpion? Not a chance – the analysis, hah, analysis under the control of the intense rushing pain? Hah, both eyes were involved at the same time and to the same degree – further I haven’t seen any scorpions around here and how - - - this is stupid, I was way off base following this stupid train of thought.

I knew at once what it was. The two inch long, mid to dark green, waxy polished surface with the deep brown stem sticking out vegetables – yes that’s what they are vegetables, were the clear cause of this agony, vegetables! Can you believe it? I thought I might be losing my vision, my sight and it was a damned vegetable!

Well of course vegetable is a mundane, lackluster term for a jalapeno, but that’s what they are. I rubbed my eyes, this time being extremely careful to keep my hands away, I used the cuffs of my sweat shirt.

I kept trying to get my eyes open, I had to get to the bathroom to find some eye drops. I found a tissue and used it to sponge up the tears that were flowing freely down my cheeks. Time expanded – it seemed like hours, I could finally, barely open my eyelids a slight crack to see my way to the bathroom. I stumbled down the hall, and opened the medicine cabinet. Every time I opened my eyes, the waves of pain returned – stronger than before.

I enjoy chopping vegetables – I love to do a stir fry since it is based on chopping. So when I offered to help with the Chie Verde prep, it was more to fill my love of chopping than to actually help with the preparation of the dish that would be the entre, served to our guests the next day. If you take all of the seeds out, the chilies aren’t too hot, right? So you split them with a sharp knife and using your finger slip the seeds out and into the drain. Slice, slip and the chilies have been rendered harmless. I washed my hands, with soap, twice, okay? I understand these things. But I could feel the tingling on my index finger, slight, a light sense of thrill, just on the surface so I really knew that the soap had not been enough and I went about my business, until, until the dryness, the fatigue in my eyes caught me off guard and I succumbed to the desire to rub my eyes – and I did!

I don’t know how long the intense pain lasted; I can still feel it now, 24 hours later. I thought my eyes would be red and swollen, and they were – a little, a disappointingly small amount of swelling for the pain involved. I do enjoy the touch of the skin on my hands, the timid tingle that continues to land on my index finger. But now the pleasant sensation is followed by a memory of the blast of pain that took so long to recover from.

The Falls at Wailua

We walked along the sidewalk toward the overlook. Two women had set up a camera on a tripod and were preparing to take some pictures of the Wailua falls across the gorge. They seemed very comfortable directing the other tourists through their “set”.

We passed by and crossed the highway to look into the river valley beyond. I had briefly overheard them talking as we walked past, and the words and their implication started to come clear.

The younger woman who was in her late forties was operating the video, and describing for the older woman what to do and say. It became clear that the older woman was her mother; they looked alike and there is a familiar way that a mother and daughter work together when they are close. “That’s over 400 inches of rain a year.” The younger said to her mother who then carefully repeated the words. She moved to the railing, looked into the camera, and said them again while the daughter aimed the camera. The older woman was attractive, not worn down by the passage of years, but in my brief glance as we passed, I noticed something that at first I could not identify.

We returned from the lookout across the road and again passed through their camera angle. The daughter was giving her mother more lines, checking that she had them correctly and then focusing the video camera on her and “directing” her to recite what she had been told. This seems like it might have been abrupt or controlling, but it wasn’t. The daughter was at all times, in both her manner and her touch, caring and gentle and clearly loving towards her mother. It’s not easy to identify or describe, but there was a patience and a courtesy that encircled each move that she made, every tone in her voice – there could be no doubt about the relationship between the two women. And, the process was slow and had to be repeated often, but there was no shortness of temper, no expression of exasperation, the daughter was accepting, nurturing and loving in everything that she did or said.

The mother had the look on her face of someone who is slightly dazed; a little bemused, befuddled or confused at the things that were going. She wore a slight smile, a look that carries the slightest tinge of embarrassment, and a wonderment about why she should be embarrassed – she could remember a time when she would have been embarrassed by her limited ability to do what she was told, but she could only recall that feeling, she was not experiencing it now.

We walked to our car and drove away. As we looked back, the daughter was still working gently with her mother; she was taking as much care as a professional photographer and director would. It was as if the video was incredibly important, that it might well be one of the last, and it would be the memory of the older lady for all time.

At dinner in the hotel restaurant, we saw them again. This time, the daughter led her mother toward the exit. The mother carried a bag that was filled with gifts, and she was being hurried along. They disappeared from our view. I wanted to run after them and to tell the daughter what a wonderful person she was, how important what she was doing was both to her mother, and to herself. But more importantly to all of the people who saw the two of them together, caring for each other and caring about each other. But before I could move, they were gone from my sight.

Two of my posts have become books that are available at Amazon.com. "I Got Away With It - Perfect Crimes" and "Discovering Roots"