We have previously explored creative means for the avoidance of unpleasant intrusions in The Seated Dinner Party and The Cocktail Party. Today Houdini will risk life and limb on the high wire with off-the-wall ideas for other situations of entrapment.
Political and Fund-Raising Receptions
Large congregations include many “undesirables”. Caution is advised. Your dress will often attract these reprobates, especially if you wear tortoise-shell glasses or dark Hollywood shades. You will be mistaken for an Ivy League scholar or celebrity, but you can have fun in that pretense. They will assume you are “somebody” and will, like the leeches they are, attach themselves to you. The more outrageous you concoct some cockamamie life story, the more will be attracted.
But to escape, assuming you are tired of your dissembling routine, summarily dismiss these irrelevant, servile zeroes with a simple statement: “Excuse me, I must check in with my Secret Service Agent,” whispering that you are living under a witness protection program. This intrigue will raise your stature, and you will become immortal.
It’s hard to “work the room” effectively in large crowds, and time won’t permit you to work it one-on-one. Try the The Wink, Nod and Finger Pointing Method. Very effective. Catch their eye at a distance as you move Gatsbyesque through the crowd (this will be easy, since they will be doing likewise, “to see and be seen”, since it’s all about them and you, of course). Point the index finger directly at them, wink and nod…you both will be acknowledged and affirmed! For verily, you both will have received your reward.
This method will assure the avoidance of being cornered by some loser contaminating the light of your reflective glory. It will also rescue you from gossipmongers who spread malicious lies about having seen you consorting with such outcasts. It is tough to live this reputation down, so avoid it at all costs. Of course, should you feel particularly gregarious, simply station yourself by the bar, food table or, better yet, the exit door. You will be able to see everybody at one time or another, and if you’re at the exit door, they will be in a hurry to leave so there will be no linger-longer conversations.
The Unannounced Office Intruder
This is a particularly delicate situation. There you are, working away, or napping, or wrapping up to go home…and in they walk. They plop down on the corner of your desk, or in the available chair. They always have some joke or hard-luck story to tell you, both of which are boringly long. You daydream you had a Taser, or a 45 caliber, for them or yourself. But no, out of decorum you sit back and get dumped on. Solution, give ‘em the real long silent treatment… Utter no syllable.
Remember Negotiations 101? The first one to speak after a silence loses. They will tell you the story three times, and finally get tired of hearing themselves talk. Whereupon you exclaim with authority, “Well, so good of you to stop by. I was just leaving.” (The word “Well” always signifies that something’s over) Get up immediately, head to the bath room or exit door (you can always come back when they’re gone). Not particularly creative, but highly effective.
Airplane Encounters
Solutions are limited. You sit there, praying it’ll be your lucky day and some drop-dead good looking somebody will occupy the seat next to you. But No, as always, some bulging, unwashed airport roadkill in a tank top and flip-flops sleazes in, and conversation in Neanderthal grunts ooze from this abomination. You have three choices:
• First, fall asleep quickly. Cowards do this.
• Secondly, look the person in the eyes, sneer in disgust. Takes real nerve.
• Lastly, feign a virulent illness. The attendant will relocate you, perhaps to First Class with free alcohol.
Perhaps God orchestrates these unwelcome intrusions for His entertainment and our creativity. Long shot, maybe. Nonetheless, the unwelcome intruder, Mr. Not Enough Time, has crept into my space with his same old story… tick, tick, tick. And from him there is no escape!
Get creative, and let me know your success stories. I can’t wait!!!
Bud Hearn
February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Rush of the Gadarene Swine
“Write something that makes me laugh,” my wife said. “I’m sick and tired of the morbidly depressing news.” Moreover, she added, “If you don’t, I plan to stimulate things on my own by resuming shopping!”
This is serious stuff, not idle chatter. Women have reduced shopping down to an art form, and most husbands don’t take such threats lightly. No, she had my full attention now.
But some news just can’t be ignored. With the gadarene rush in passage of the “stimulus bill,” that 1,100 page government giveaway, humor is needed…as if such a massive social spending program that nobody bothered to read wasn’t a laughing matter in itself. Congress has continued its comedy act…surely there’s something mildly funny about even this.
Something deeply embedded in my traumatized brain began to stir. Something vaguely familiar, slowly emerging and taking shape, came into focus. “Yes,” I shouted, “I see the Light.” It was from my sixth grade Sunday School class where the light shone, the fog lifted, and the perfect metaphor emerged for this debacle.
In these youthful Sunday School classes kindly, well-intentioned church ladies took turns pounding into prepubescent youth the fear of the fires of hell and other disastrous fates of life. I remembered the story of Jesus exorcising a host of devils from a fellow who lived in a cemetery on the outskirts of Gadara.
Now Gadara was a small city situated upon a steep hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee. In our times it would have been filled with gleaming white condos overlooking the coastline, where greedy Wall Street investment bankers and the Big Three crowd would gorge their bloated egos with the excesses of wine, food and golf, all courtesy of the American taxpayer’s “bailout” largesse. But in the old days Gadara prospered from another source … swine, animals engorged in preparation for the slaughter!
If memory serves me correctly, our Biblical Brother, Luke (Chapter 8: 26-39), recounts that Jesus showed up one day in this renegade region. He had no sooner noticed the fat pigs where the condos would someday be when he was violently accosted by a lunatic, a wild and maniacal man possessed with a host of demons. This fellow had perhaps been a politician, stockbroker or banker, seeing that he was homeless and lived among the cemetery tombs. Apparently his home had also been foreclosed some time earlier.
In those days swine meat, though tasty, was as forbidden as Apples-from-Eden in the strict kosher tradition. No self-respecting Pharisee would be caught with a fat-smoked Gadara ham, pickled pigs’ feet or slab of fatback in his lentil soup. But Gadara was not mainland Israel, just a province without scruples, where mammon and God were worshipped… in that order. As the story goes, Jesus exorcised the demons from this poor fellow and sent them flying into the nearest herd of swine. Immediately, the “Gadara swine” rushed violently down the steep slope and plunged into the sea.
This event caused a great stir in town, since their illicit cash crop was all washed up and the tax base destroyed. Apparently these Gadarenes had schemed up some nefarious black-market deal with the Meatpackers Union down in the Tenderloin District of Jerusalem…they were disguising swine meat as some kind of early-day derivatives and selling, at a premium, of course, their “bootleg bacon” to the highly respectable friends of the Bernie Madoff Tribe in Israel. (That Tribe, unfortunately has now ceased to exist, having merged with the Tribe of Ponzi, of Italian descent.)
Jesus was forced to leave and things eventually quieted down. The former lunatic moved back into town to prove he was no longer crazy. He publicly condemned the failed policies of the Democratic Party and registered as the Republican candidate for mayor of Gadara.
Soon the herds would be rebuilt and the mainland denunciations of having been swindled would fade into oblivion. Meanwhile, the “Gadarene Stimulus Bill” was enacted to avoid anarchy, doling out $13 per week to the jobless citizens. It would have to tide folks over until better times returned. As far as we know, the Gadarenes lived happily ever after, though poorly for a time.
Some now speculate that Rush Limbaugh also “saw the Light.” Reports circulate that He’s wandering wirelessly through Washington and relocating demons from washed-up politicians over to Congress. Some say. “Nah…but then maybe?”
Is there a point to this inanity? You decide, but the choices are simple: Just laugh or resume spending.
Bud Hearn
February 19, 2009
This is serious stuff, not idle chatter. Women have reduced shopping down to an art form, and most husbands don’t take such threats lightly. No, she had my full attention now.
But some news just can’t be ignored. With the gadarene rush in passage of the “stimulus bill,” that 1,100 page government giveaway, humor is needed…as if such a massive social spending program that nobody bothered to read wasn’t a laughing matter in itself. Congress has continued its comedy act…surely there’s something mildly funny about even this.
Something deeply embedded in my traumatized brain began to stir. Something vaguely familiar, slowly emerging and taking shape, came into focus. “Yes,” I shouted, “I see the Light.” It was from my sixth grade Sunday School class where the light shone, the fog lifted, and the perfect metaphor emerged for this debacle.
In these youthful Sunday School classes kindly, well-intentioned church ladies took turns pounding into prepubescent youth the fear of the fires of hell and other disastrous fates of life. I remembered the story of Jesus exorcising a host of devils from a fellow who lived in a cemetery on the outskirts of Gadara.
Now Gadara was a small city situated upon a steep hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee. In our times it would have been filled with gleaming white condos overlooking the coastline, where greedy Wall Street investment bankers and the Big Three crowd would gorge their bloated egos with the excesses of wine, food and golf, all courtesy of the American taxpayer’s “bailout” largesse. But in the old days Gadara prospered from another source … swine, animals engorged in preparation for the slaughter!
If memory serves me correctly, our Biblical Brother, Luke (Chapter 8: 26-39), recounts that Jesus showed up one day in this renegade region. He had no sooner noticed the fat pigs where the condos would someday be when he was violently accosted by a lunatic, a wild and maniacal man possessed with a host of demons. This fellow had perhaps been a politician, stockbroker or banker, seeing that he was homeless and lived among the cemetery tombs. Apparently his home had also been foreclosed some time earlier.
In those days swine meat, though tasty, was as forbidden as Apples-from-Eden in the strict kosher tradition. No self-respecting Pharisee would be caught with a fat-smoked Gadara ham, pickled pigs’ feet or slab of fatback in his lentil soup. But Gadara was not mainland Israel, just a province without scruples, where mammon and God were worshipped… in that order. As the story goes, Jesus exorcised the demons from this poor fellow and sent them flying into the nearest herd of swine. Immediately, the “Gadara swine” rushed violently down the steep slope and plunged into the sea.
This event caused a great stir in town, since their illicit cash crop was all washed up and the tax base destroyed. Apparently these Gadarenes had schemed up some nefarious black-market deal with the Meatpackers Union down in the Tenderloin District of Jerusalem…they were disguising swine meat as some kind of early-day derivatives and selling, at a premium, of course, their “bootleg bacon” to the highly respectable friends of the Bernie Madoff Tribe in Israel. (That Tribe, unfortunately has now ceased to exist, having merged with the Tribe of Ponzi, of Italian descent.)
Jesus was forced to leave and things eventually quieted down. The former lunatic moved back into town to prove he was no longer crazy. He publicly condemned the failed policies of the Democratic Party and registered as the Republican candidate for mayor of Gadara.
Soon the herds would be rebuilt and the mainland denunciations of having been swindled would fade into oblivion. Meanwhile, the “Gadarene Stimulus Bill” was enacted to avoid anarchy, doling out $13 per week to the jobless citizens. It would have to tide folks over until better times returned. As far as we know, the Gadarenes lived happily ever after, though poorly for a time.
Some now speculate that Rush Limbaugh also “saw the Light.” Reports circulate that He’s wandering wirelessly through Washington and relocating demons from washed-up politicians over to Congress. Some say. “Nah…but then maybe?”
Is there a point to this inanity? You decide, but the choices are simple: Just laugh or resume spending.
Bud Hearn
February 19, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Exit...The Artful Escapist
Death by Conversations…This is Part One of a micro-trilogy dealing with creative and decorous methods of escaping conversation with boring and socially inept persons.
These people are everywhere…maybe you are one. They are found at every social or public gathering. Often you have found yourself faced with the question, “How do I escape this insipid person?” Here are some novel methods.
The Seated Dinner Party
A very touchy and difficult situation. Pre-planning is warranted. Stealthily scan in advance the place cards of guests at your table. Without notice, switch them to reposition yourself, or punish a friend.
If your place-card ploy fails, use the “cold shoulder” approach. On your right is a pontificator of personal health problems. On your left, a deaf-mute, with bad table manners. You have two options: First, you can allow as how you don’t like the entrée, and pull out your brightly-wrapped tin of King Oscar sardines. Often you don’t even have to open it, for you will be given the cold shoulder by both. If pressured, go ahead and pop the top. Great respect follows this act!
Perhaps you find one of the two mildly interesting…then turn the “cold shoulder” to the other. The ignored one will persecute another guest…not your problem.
Bodily removal from the table is not easy. It takes special inventiveness. Aside from the usual crudities, like, “It must be the wine…Excuse me.” Or, “I must have swallowed a bone—I’ll be back if I live.” In either case, it will solve the problem and your prolonged absence will add drama to the table. No? Then try this approach: Pull your cell phone out, study it, and loudly exclaim, “Oops, trouble with the kids (or dogs),” and hurry from the table. This leaves the door open to return, or not.
The Cocktail Party
You’ve been accosted by one with respiration de saumon, or respiration de vin. You know these folks: Mr. Fish Breath and Mrs. Wine Exhaler. These people like to invade your spatial comfort zone, mingling words with their malodorous mists. Escape seems impossible. Try this: Look into the crowd, raise your hand and wave wildly, while exclaiming, “Oh, Hi, be right over,” whereupon you utter a terse “Excuse me” as you slip the noose and disappear into the throng. Says Martha Ellis, the island doyenne, “it works every time.”
So you’ve found yourself in a crowd of men, who are discussing golf, fishing or other inane subjects. Take your drink glass, remark indignantly, “Is it you or just me that got the rot-gut liquor?” Or, with more class, look at your glass with a grimace, and announce, “I must have grabbed someone else’s drink,” and depart slowly, never to return until the conversation reverts to the Sports Illustrated issue with abundant photographs of beach scenery.
My wife’s favorite quick-escape route is to quickly interject in a conversation lull, “Interesting…hold that thought, I’ll be right back,” praying another Unfortunate will happen by and lend an attentive ear.
Sometimes it’s easier to escape if you’re with a spouse or friend. Lauren, a very cute friend, told me that before going into the party, she and a friend would have “code words or actions” that translate, “Quick, find the door!” Never fails, she boasts.
My preference? The “High-five” approach. As you enter, pan the room and see who and where The Dullards are. You can dodge them, of course, but social manners demand that you at least attempt to acknowledge their presence. So, you hustle by, perhaps even bumping them with your elbow. Give them the old “high-five” salute or perfunctory pat their shoulder as you rush past. It’ll solve a world of unnecessary grief, and they’ll never suspect your insincerity.
The evening’s over, and it’s time to leave. Goodbyes must be said to the host/hostess, and the quickest way out of the door is to break in line to someone who’s saying their farewells, kiss the hostess, pat the host’s arm and depart quickly. They will hardly know you’re gone, and will probably be relieved at your departure.
Many more allusive maneuvers exist. Practice these until you have them down perfectly. It will assure future invitations.
A manual of these creative solutions is being prepared, and I would be grateful for your input and suggestions of the “artful exits” you’ve used. Simply respond to this Absurdity. There will be a prize to the most creative of the replies, perhaps a banquet or some other recognition.
Meanwhile, avoid at all costs the salmon and spinach at gatherings…you know what I mean!!
Bud Hearn
February 12, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Not Enough Buzzards
Metaphors abound… vivid imaginations see them everywhere. I have one of these. Economic conditions and the current “Stimulus Package” greasing through Congress offer unlimited possibilities. Here are some thoughts for you.
They’re digging a very large and long ditch, or trench, outside of my office at the airport…it resembles a half-mile mass grave site and has attracted the interest of the local buzzards.
Newspapers across America announce the latest homeless, the economically dead...the foreclosure notices continue unabated. Local automobile importers have stored tens of thousands of new automobiles through the countryside along the coast. Nobody’s buying, nobody needs another car, and the bank loans have dried up, died. Local businesses have shuttered their doors. We cook our own burgers.
Who wants to buy stocks now? So, that marketplace has dried up as well, toe-tagged DOA. Forget the real estate market…it died 2 years ago. No sense to continue this line of thought, since you also know what has “died” and needs burying.
Hordes of black buzzards circle this construction work in anticipation of “something” that may be going into the ditch. These are intelligent creatures. While they don’t live on living things, they can sense when death is imminent. They have a keen sense of smell and are attracted only by the stench of carrion. And from the looks of things there’s plenty of carrion to go around.
George called me while I meditated on the abundance of buzzards and the gaping hole in the earth. We lamented on the demise of real estate and concluded if it were not already dead, the coroner was on the way. I asked, “George, why do you think these buzzards continue to circle my office and this ditch?” Quick with a reply, he said, “Bud, do you think there are enough buzzards to go around?”
I posed the questions to several friends. Lynn, a quiet, sensitive type, responded, “Buzzards represent the end of the line…do you think they could have a happy ending?” Why, Yes, I thought. The “end of the line” is a “happy beginning” for buzzards. They’ll be the last thing standing. She added, “As for the ditch, well, think landfills. What goes in them?” It required no answer!
Then Beth, a gentle child of art, has become an angry American. She said, “I’m sure the American public would love to revisit the Pubic Lynching and stocks of the Puritan era, burnings at the stake and the large scarlet letter “C” tattooed on the foreheads of all those who played a role in the greed and takeover of our happy planet.” Happy planet? ~ which galaxy? She needs to get out more often! She continued, “Any average citizen could stand up and say, ‘They stole my retirement funds, and the gallows floor would release with a THUD. My child’s college fund…THUD. My savings. THUD. My future, THUD.” Extreme, I thought, but it would send a message. Don’t mess with artists!
Frankly, I like the old method of duels, where grievances were settled with the panache of pistols, knives or swords. It would be pretty good free public entertainment on the order of the Roman Coliseum events.
America is “in the ditch,” if you will, just about everywhere. What’s not dead is fast dying. The “leadership” in DC is planning to plunder the treasure again…go to www.Senate.gov, or just Google “Stimulus Bill” and you will see firsthand that about 10% is “stimulus” money, the rest is pure pork!
But back to my ditch. The lines to my ditch may soon be long. What’s going into it? Why, everything that’s superfluous: worthless stock certificates, delinquent mortgages, jobs, cars, automobile companies, words of politicians, pallets of inflated currency, vacant houses and lots, and Starbucks, all for a start.
The condemned, those responsible for the carnage, the money changers, stock manipulators, politicians, candidates, televangelists and the other charlatans may soon be arriving by dump trucks with the remnants of their plunder hanging from their tattered Brooks Bros. suits. It will be too late to plead and beg…the bulldozers will be waiting and running!
I said this was all a metaphor by an inventive mind…but you must admit it sets an interesting pulp fiction scene.
Are there enough buzzards to go around? I can’t say. But for now, I’d just like to know, “Is the ditch big enough?”
Bud Hearn
February 5, 2009
They’re digging a very large and long ditch, or trench, outside of my office at the airport…it resembles a half-mile mass grave site and has attracted the interest of the local buzzards.
Newspapers across America announce the latest homeless, the economically dead...the foreclosure notices continue unabated. Local automobile importers have stored tens of thousands of new automobiles through the countryside along the coast. Nobody’s buying, nobody needs another car, and the bank loans have dried up, died. Local businesses have shuttered their doors. We cook our own burgers.
Who wants to buy stocks now? So, that marketplace has dried up as well, toe-tagged DOA. Forget the real estate market…it died 2 years ago. No sense to continue this line of thought, since you also know what has “died” and needs burying.
Hordes of black buzzards circle this construction work in anticipation of “something” that may be going into the ditch. These are intelligent creatures. While they don’t live on living things, they can sense when death is imminent. They have a keen sense of smell and are attracted only by the stench of carrion. And from the looks of things there’s plenty of carrion to go around.
George called me while I meditated on the abundance of buzzards and the gaping hole in the earth. We lamented on the demise of real estate and concluded if it were not already dead, the coroner was on the way. I asked, “George, why do you think these buzzards continue to circle my office and this ditch?” Quick with a reply, he said, “Bud, do you think there are enough buzzards to go around?”
I posed the questions to several friends. Lynn, a quiet, sensitive type, responded, “Buzzards represent the end of the line…do you think they could have a happy ending?” Why, Yes, I thought. The “end of the line” is a “happy beginning” for buzzards. They’ll be the last thing standing. She added, “As for the ditch, well, think landfills. What goes in them?” It required no answer!
Then Beth, a gentle child of art, has become an angry American. She said, “I’m sure the American public would love to revisit the Pubic Lynching and stocks of the Puritan era, burnings at the stake and the large scarlet letter “C” tattooed on the foreheads of all those who played a role in the greed and takeover of our happy planet.” Happy planet? ~ which galaxy? She needs to get out more often! She continued, “Any average citizen could stand up and say, ‘They stole my retirement funds, and the gallows floor would release with a THUD. My child’s college fund…THUD. My savings. THUD. My future, THUD.” Extreme, I thought, but it would send a message. Don’t mess with artists!
Frankly, I like the old method of duels, where grievances were settled with the panache of pistols, knives or swords. It would be pretty good free public entertainment on the order of the Roman Coliseum events.
America is “in the ditch,” if you will, just about everywhere. What’s not dead is fast dying. The “leadership” in DC is planning to plunder the treasure again…go to www.Senate.gov, or just Google “Stimulus Bill” and you will see firsthand that about 10% is “stimulus” money, the rest is pure pork!
But back to my ditch. The lines to my ditch may soon be long. What’s going into it? Why, everything that’s superfluous: worthless stock certificates, delinquent mortgages, jobs, cars, automobile companies, words of politicians, pallets of inflated currency, vacant houses and lots, and Starbucks, all for a start.
The condemned, those responsible for the carnage, the money changers, stock manipulators, politicians, candidates, televangelists and the other charlatans may soon be arriving by dump trucks with the remnants of their plunder hanging from their tattered Brooks Bros. suits. It will be too late to plead and beg…the bulldozers will be waiting and running!
I said this was all a metaphor by an inventive mind…but you must admit it sets an interesting pulp fiction scene.
Are there enough buzzards to go around? I can’t say. But for now, I’d just like to know, “Is the ditch big enough?”
Bud Hearn
February 5, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
A Single Yellow Rose
She knew he’d leave again. He did so each year. But he never left without the assurance, “I will return”. A single yellow rose sealed his promise this year.
On the day he left, December 21st, the island was brutally cold, a stark reminder of his departure. Palms and pines shivered in the humid chill as a north wind howled across the island, accentuating the sadness she always felt when he left.
Why must he always leave at the onset of winter, she wondered? She had asked this question often, receiving only the singular answer, “I must go…I have business elsewhere.” What could she say, much less do? Since late summer she had seen his mood swings and detected his longing for another journey. It was the detachment often seen in the restless.
She knew it was not possible to hold a lover, especially one whose essence suffused everything with beauty. No, for lovers, like memories, or children or joy, can only be embraced loosely. They must forever be free to come and to go. And if nothing else, he was a free spirit, moving upon the sun and wind to places undisclosed to her.
In his absence she clung to his promise. What was so special about a single yellow rose, she wondered? And why did only one appear continuously on a particular shrub near a certain swimming pool? Many varieties of roses and other flowering shrubs bloomed on the island in winter. Why not these as symbols of his promise? Intriguing, she thought, but concluded that a single rose sufficiently embodied his essence.
This unique rose bush produced only one yellow rose at a time. Strange how one would bloom and die, and another immediately appeared in its place. The rose bush was never without a single yellow rose. The winter sunlight magnified its reflection in the slight movements of the pool’s water, casting its dancing shadow upon the stucco walls of the house. Seeing it always gave her a sense of his presence.
She mourned his departure for several weeks, yet the small but daily tasks of living dulled the sadness of his absence. There were always things to do, especially since the days were shorter and time moved more slowly. And yes, some days teased of an early spring, when the sun shone brightly and warmed the air. But she knew it was too soon for his return.
Winter had its own special romance, she thought. There were days when the beaches were pristine and the ocean waters were calm as a lake. The sands were awash with shells left undisturbed, the children of summer having departed long ago. The sea gulls were now the regular beach crowd, each standing on one leg in the quiet lapping of the surf, gawked at by the Canadian “snow-birds” escaping the harshness of their own winter.
Island winters have a special rhythm. Spectacular sunsets settle over the green-brown marshes. Geese and storks wing silently across the orange flame over the tranquil estuaries. Small, indigenous birds, house wrens, chickadees and nut hatches mingle seamlessly at bird feeders with their migratory kin, the goldfinches, buntings and cedar wax wings. Small critters scurry in search of meals while deer feast nightly on the best of the island gardens.
Then there are the haunting night mysteries: the eerie sounds of falling leaves, mournful hoots of the owls and the wind’s murmur through the moss-bearded ancient oak and cedar trees. It reminded her of the spirits that had occupied the world long before she had been born. At night the moon and stars seemed to be holes of light punched in the sky’s deep blackness amid barely visible streaks of jet contrails.
As the days lengthened, she became more anxious for his return. Still, she found solace in the omnipresence of the single yellow rose that clung to the thorny branch. Forever faithful, she reminded herself…somehow it was always there. How thoughtful he was.
January and February came and went, and the brief hard winter was nearly over for another year. The days became longer, warmer, and her yearning for his return grew with intensity. She knew in her heart that he’d soon return, fulfilling the promise he had always kept.
The morning of March 20th began with a brilliant sunrise and the warmer southern sea breezes. Verdant new life was everywhere, as flowers exploded in bursts of color. Something about it told her that maybe this was the day of his return. In the yard by the pool, where a single yellow rose had bloomed all winter, was the rose bush, erupting profusely with lush yellow roses... his arrival bouquet!
So here he was again, ever true to his promise. He, the Vernal Equinox of Spring, had returned home to her, his mistress…she, this elegant island of coastal Georgia.
Bud Hearn
February 2, 2009
On the day he left, December 21st, the island was brutally cold, a stark reminder of his departure. Palms and pines shivered in the humid chill as a north wind howled across the island, accentuating the sadness she always felt when he left.
Why must he always leave at the onset of winter, she wondered? She had asked this question often, receiving only the singular answer, “I must go…I have business elsewhere.” What could she say, much less do? Since late summer she had seen his mood swings and detected his longing for another journey. It was the detachment often seen in the restless.
She knew it was not possible to hold a lover, especially one whose essence suffused everything with beauty. No, for lovers, like memories, or children or joy, can only be embraced loosely. They must forever be free to come and to go. And if nothing else, he was a free spirit, moving upon the sun and wind to places undisclosed to her.
In his absence she clung to his promise. What was so special about a single yellow rose, she wondered? And why did only one appear continuously on a particular shrub near a certain swimming pool? Many varieties of roses and other flowering shrubs bloomed on the island in winter. Why not these as symbols of his promise? Intriguing, she thought, but concluded that a single rose sufficiently embodied his essence.
This unique rose bush produced only one yellow rose at a time. Strange how one would bloom and die, and another immediately appeared in its place. The rose bush was never without a single yellow rose. The winter sunlight magnified its reflection in the slight movements of the pool’s water, casting its dancing shadow upon the stucco walls of the house. Seeing it always gave her a sense of his presence.
She mourned his departure for several weeks, yet the small but daily tasks of living dulled the sadness of his absence. There were always things to do, especially since the days were shorter and time moved more slowly. And yes, some days teased of an early spring, when the sun shone brightly and warmed the air. But she knew it was too soon for his return.
Winter had its own special romance, she thought. There were days when the beaches were pristine and the ocean waters were calm as a lake. The sands were awash with shells left undisturbed, the children of summer having departed long ago. The sea gulls were now the regular beach crowd, each standing on one leg in the quiet lapping of the surf, gawked at by the Canadian “snow-birds” escaping the harshness of their own winter.
Island winters have a special rhythm. Spectacular sunsets settle over the green-brown marshes. Geese and storks wing silently across the orange flame over the tranquil estuaries. Small, indigenous birds, house wrens, chickadees and nut hatches mingle seamlessly at bird feeders with their migratory kin, the goldfinches, buntings and cedar wax wings. Small critters scurry in search of meals while deer feast nightly on the best of the island gardens.
Then there are the haunting night mysteries: the eerie sounds of falling leaves, mournful hoots of the owls and the wind’s murmur through the moss-bearded ancient oak and cedar trees. It reminded her of the spirits that had occupied the world long before she had been born. At night the moon and stars seemed to be holes of light punched in the sky’s deep blackness amid barely visible streaks of jet contrails.
As the days lengthened, she became more anxious for his return. Still, she found solace in the omnipresence of the single yellow rose that clung to the thorny branch. Forever faithful, she reminded herself…somehow it was always there. How thoughtful he was.
January and February came and went, and the brief hard winter was nearly over for another year. The days became longer, warmer, and her yearning for his return grew with intensity. She knew in her heart that he’d soon return, fulfilling the promise he had always kept.
The morning of March 20th began with a brilliant sunrise and the warmer southern sea breezes. Verdant new life was everywhere, as flowers exploded in bursts of color. Something about it told her that maybe this was the day of his return. In the yard by the pool, where a single yellow rose had bloomed all winter, was the rose bush, erupting profusely with lush yellow roses... his arrival bouquet!
So here he was again, ever true to his promise. He, the Vernal Equinox of Spring, had returned home to her, his mistress…she, this elegant island of coastal Georgia.
Bud Hearn
February 2, 2009
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