Sunday, June 19, 2016

There’s More to The Story of Marymae

(1)
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs.  She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow.  Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.   
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark. 
We didn't stop to speak.  In fact, there wasn't even a  shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.  
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood.   She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley.  Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore.  That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself. 
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat. 
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything.   She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood.   No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her. 
Junie, who lives right across the street from her,  knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in. 
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.  
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning. 
"I watch her from my front window.  It's three times around the house.  Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop.  She was barefoot, no pink crocs.  Her head was down, cradled in her arms.  Her hair hung loose falling down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her.  "Marymae?" 
She picked her head up and looked at me.  For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying.  But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen.  I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft,  "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
(2)
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk.  Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up.  He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes.  She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door.  Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the squeak of a door opening.  I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog,  she wasn't outside.  I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a small compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes.   It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion.   Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie.  "Bad idea.  No.  Nope.  Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together when she interrupted me.
"Oops, gotta go.  The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say goodbye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself.  Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang.  I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the front door side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door.  "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon.  The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs.
"This is Cray," Marymae said.  "She's my son Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
(3)
Without thinking, I put an arm around Marymae's shoulder and ushered her into the kitchen.
"Sit down,"  I said, pointing at the table.  "I'll make us some tea."
She settled Cray down in the chair next to her.
"Cray, Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?"  I asked.
The little girl turned towards her grandmother.  "Can I?" She asked.
"May I?" Marymae corrected the child and then nodded.
I put the kettle on and then poured a tall glass of cold milk.
As  I busied myself with the drinks I began chattering.  I do that when I get nervous.
"It's a beautiful day today, isn't it?  Green tea okay?  Cray, how about a chocolate chip cookie?"
After getting everything onto the table, I sat down and poured tea for Marymae and me.
Cray made slurping noises as she drank her milk through a straw.  After a few sips, she took a tiny bite out of the cookie.
She was a stunning looking child.  She had her grandmother's bluest of blue eyes.  Her hair was light, almost white, like cornsilk.  I thought Marymae's hair was  probably that exact color when she was Cray's age.
Still nervously chattering, I asked Cray how old she was, what grade she was in, what she liked to do.  The standard questions one would ask a little girl.
Cray obediently and politely answered each question.
"I am eight and a half years old."  She said.   I'm going into the third grade in September."
She told me that she liked to read and climb trees.
Her grandmother glanced sideways at Cray when she talked about climbing trees.
"Grandma doesn't like me to do that," she said.  "You know climb trees."
After Cray finished her milk and cookie, I asked her if she would like to explore the toy room.
That's what I call one of the spare bedrooms in my house.  It's the room I keep all of the toys in for  when my own grandchildren come to visit.
Cray looked at Marymae.  "Is it okay?" she asked.
Marymae nodded and softly said yes.
Come on Cray, I took her by the hand and led her into the toy room.
When I came back into the kitchen Marymae's head was bowed, her hands were wrapped around her mug and she was staring into her tea.
"Marymae, I can see you are upset," I said.  "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
She looked up at me and said,  "You have such kind eyes,"  as if seeing me for the first time.
"I suppose I should start from the beginning," she sighed and then began to talk.  Her eyes had a far-a-away look as if she were reliving each moment.   I hardly uttered a word during it, holding my breath for fear that she might suddenly realize that I was in the room.

"I ran away from home when I was 14 years old.  Well, actually Charlie's father and I ran away together.  Paul was older than me.  He was eighteen at the time.  We were in love.  You know teenage love can be blinding.   I certainly was blinded by Paul.
My, he was handsome.  Tall, well built.  Paul's father, Enrico, ran a steady handy man business.  Paul and his two older brothers helped out.
Enrico insisted Paul was to be the first in the family to go to college.  Paul was smart and athletic. He had earned a full four-year academic scholarship and he made the baseball team.
We met the summer before he was to start his freshman year at an out of state university.  He was helping his father and brothers install a new roof on our home.
I know that it is cliche to say that it was love at first sight, but that's what it was.
I clearly remember that very first time.
I was sitting in the back yard on the old wooden swing.   Hmm, I haven't thought about that swing in a long time.  My dad made it.  He saw an ad in a magazine.  "Build it yourself" the ad read.  He sent away for the plans and it took him practically all summer to build the swing.
Anyway, Paul came into the backyard to get a ladder.    We each saw each other at the exact same moment."
Marymae stopped talking and sat there smiling slightly.
Just then we heard a crash and then a scream, "Grandma, Grandma," cried Cray.

(4)
She was sitting on the floor, both hands holding onto her right ankle, a chair on its side next to her.  The little girl was crying, saying "Ow, ow, it hurts, Grandma, it hurts.  I want my daddy."
Puzzles and games were strewn all over the floor of the closet.   Marymae kneeled down next to Cray.
She gently took Cray's hands away to looked at the child's foot.  "It's going to be okay, Cray.  It's alright, it's okay."
I ran to get an ice pack.
When I came back into the room, Marymae was sitting on the edge of the bed with her granddaughter cradled in her arms.
I handed her the ice pack and asked, "Is she okay?"
"She'll be fine," Marymae said.  "Remember how she told you she likes to climb?  Well, apparently there was a puzzle on the top shelf that she wanted to play with.  I'd better get her home.   I'm sorry about the mess. "
"No problem," I said.  "You go, take care of Cray.  I'm always here if you want to talk."
Over the next four weeks, Marymae came by on Tuesdays and Thursdays after she took Cray to summer day camp.

Each time she came she told me a little more of her story.

"Well, Paul and I did run away together that summer.  We didn't get very far, though.  We had no car.  We hitchhiked and caught a ride over to the next town.  Between the two of us, we had $23.00.  I'm not sure who chickened out first, or I should say who came to their senses first, but Paul called his father from the corner phone booth to come get us.
My parents were furious,  I was grounded for a week and forbidden to see Paul.   But of course, over the summer,  we did see each other as often as we could manage.
In August, Paul went away to school as planned and I started high school in September.   At first, we wrote every day and called each other on the weekends.  He told me about the parties he went to, the football games and how hard college was.   By the end of the first semester, though, his letters were fewer and he usually had to cut our phone conversations short because he was getting ready to go somewhere or he had baseball practice or had to study."
"I think you can guess how the rest of the story went," she said.
"About a month before he was to come home for the summer, I got a 'Dear Marymae letter'.  I was heartbroken and moped around the entire summer.  But young life goes on.
He never knew about the baby boy I had to give up for adoption. "
Although I tried to remain expressionless, I'm sure my eyebrows raised a little when Marymae  casually mentioned a baby.   Or at first, it seemed a casual mention to me.   But I could see the pain in her face, the tears gathering in her eyes.
She looked at her watch.  "Oh, my I have to get going,"  she said.
I could tell that she actually didn't really "have to get going" but I knew that she needed a break before she continued on with her story.

:)





Tuesday, June 14, 2016

How Are You Doing, Really Doing?

It's been a while since someone asked me, "How are you doing?"  I don't mean the rhetorical "How are you doing"?   No, not the one that has become more of a greeting which most people respond to by saying, "Fine and you?"
Oh, sure there is always that person who takes the question at face value and proceeds to explain at length and in detail how they are doing.   But most of us understand what response is expected.
For a short time after my son passed away, I was asked the question quite often.  At that time,  I think most who asked me how I was doing were ready with an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on and a hug.
It's been over 4 years since Joe passed away and I rarely get asked,  "How are you doing, really doing?"
It seems that acknowledgment of my grief has been relegated to his birthday, the anniversary of his death and holidays, especially mother's day.
I guess most folks assume I am "Fine thank you," especially when they see my cheery Facebook posts or watch me smiling and joking on our "Sundays with Lynda & Ross podcasts.
And to tell you the truth if someone were to ask me, "How are you doing, really doing?"  I don't think I would be able to truthfully answer because, you see, it's been awhile since I've had the courage to ask myself that question.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

This Is What Happened Next - The Story of Me and Marymae

(1)
Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs.  She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow.  Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.   
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark. 
We didn't stop to speak.  In fact, there wasn't even a  shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.  
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood.   She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley.  Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore.  That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself. 
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat. 
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything.   She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood.   No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her. 
Junie, who lives right across the street from her,  knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in. 
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.  
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning. 
"I watch her from my front window.  It's three times around the house.  Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop.  She was barefoot, no pink crocs.  Her head was down, cradled in her arms.  Her hair hung loose falling down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her.  "Marymae?" 
She picked her head up and looked at me.  For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying.  But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen.  I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft,  "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.
(2)
Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk.  Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up.  He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes.  She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door.  Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the squeak of a door opening.  I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog,  she wasn't outside.  I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a small compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes.   It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion.   Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie.  "Bad idea.  No.  Nope.  Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together when she interrupted me.
"Oops, gotta go.  The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say goodbye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself.  Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang.  I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the front door side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door.  "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon.  The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs.
"This is Cray," Marymae said.  "She's my son Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.
(3)
Without thinking, I put an arm around Marymae's shoulder and ushered her into the kitchen.
"Sit down,"  I said, pointing at the table.  "I'll make us some tea."
She settled Cray down in the chair next to her.
"Cray, Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?"  I asked.
The little girl turned towards her grandmother.  "Can I?" She asked.
"May I?" Marymae corrected the child and then nodded.
I put the kettle on and then poured a tall glass of cold milk.
As  I busied myself with the drinks I began chattering.  I do that when I get nervous.
"It's a beautiful day today, isn't it?  Green tea okay?  Cray, how about a chocolate chip cookie?"
After getting everything onto the table, I sat down and poured tea for Marymae and me.
Cray made slurping noises as she drank her milk through a straw.  After a few sips, she took a tiny bite out of the cookie.
She was a stunning looking child.  She had her grandmother's bluest of blue eyes.  Her hair was light, almost white, like cornsilk.  I thought Marymae's hair was  probably that exact color when she was Cray's age.
Still nervously chattering, I asked Cray how old she was, what grade she was in, what she liked to do.  The standard questions one would ask a little girl.
Cray obediently and politely answered each question.
"I am eight and a half years old."  She said.   I'm going into the third grade in September."
She told me that she liked to read and climb trees.
Her grandmother glanced sideways at Cray when she talked about climbing trees.
"Grandma doesn't like me to do that," she said.  "You know climb trees."
After Cray finished her milk and cookie, I asked her if she would like to explore the toy room.
That's what I call one of the spare bedrooms in my house.  It's the room I keep all of the toys in for  when my own grandchildren come to visit.
Cray looked at Marymae.  "Is it okay?" she asked.
Marymae nodded and softly said yes.
Come on Cray, I took her by the hand and led her into the toy room.
When I came back into the kitchen Marymae's head was bowed, her hands were wrapped around her mug and she was staring into her tea.
"Marymae, I can see you are upset," I said.  "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
She looked up at me and said,  "You have such kind eyes,"  as if seeing me for the first time.
"I suppose I should start from the beginning," she sighed and then began to talk.  Her eyes had a far-a-away look as if she were reliving each moment.   I hardly uttered a word during it, holding my breath for fear that she might suddenly realize that I was in the room.

"I ran away from home when I was 14 years old.  Well actually Charlie's father and I ran away together.  Paul was older than me.  He was eighteen at the time.  We were in love.  You know teenage love can be blinding.   I certainly was blinded by Paul.
My, he was handsome.  Tall, well built.  Paul's father Enrico ran a steady handy man business.  Paul and his two older brothers helped out.
Enrico insisted Paul was to be the first in the family to go to college.  Paul was smart and athletic. He had earned a full four year academic scholarship and he made the baseball team.
We met the summer before he was to start his freshman year at an out of state university.  He was helping his father and brothers install a new roof on our home.
I know that it is cliche to say that it was love at first sight, but that's what it was.
I clearly remember that very first time.
I was sitting in the back yard on the old wooden swing.   Hmm, I haven't thought about that swing in a long time.  My dad made it.  He saw an ad in a magazine.  "Build it yourself" the ad read.  He sent away for the plans and it took him practically all summer to build the swing.
Anyway, Paul came into the backyard to get a ladder.    We each saw each other at the exact same moment."
Marymae stopped talking and sat there smililng slightly.
Just then we heard a crash and then a scream, "Grandma, grandma," cried Cray.

Do you want to know the rest of Marymae's story?

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

No, Not Mañana

It's Tuesday.  Tuesday is the regular day I post on my blog.  Actually, this post makes it two Tuesdays in a row, so I would say that makes it regular.

I've been having a lot of fun with our YouTube podcast, called "Sundays With Lynda & Ross".  In case you missed the latest episode, you can find episode 8 here.
Ross and I do not take this podcast or ourselves seriously.  No, not at all.

For me, although the filming is enjoyable and I get a kick out of watching us on "TV",  I find the  process of editing and enhancing the video to be a creative endeavor.  I discovered a good amount of free downloadable background music available on YouTube.  Another toy for me to play with.  

Temporarily my iMac is set up in my dining room.  I call it the studio.
It takes me hours to process the film and it doesn't always go smoothly.
For instance yesterday, I started working on the raw footage at around 3:00 in the afternoon.  We usually record for over an hour and I've been steadily trying to get the finished video down to under 20 minutes.   So most of what we record winds up, as they say, on the cutting room floor.

Anyway, yesterday evening at about 8:30,  after 5-1/2 hours of working on the video, I was ready to begin the export from iMovie to a file on my hard drive.  I clicked on the export button and got an error message.  A vague error message at that.   I was very upset and extremely frustrated.

Ross heard my "oh, no!"   He told me to close up shop.  "Work on it tomorrow," he said.

But I couldn't let it go.  Why?  Because that's the way I am.  I can be a bit obsessive, especially when there is a puzzle to solve.

I won't go into the gory details, but suffice it say, I didn't give up until I fixed it.  That was at 1:30 a.m.

As I said to Ross this morning, I wouldn't have been able to sleep if I hadn't gotten it to work.

By the way, this latest video is under 10 minutes, <patting myself on the back>.







Friday, June 3, 2016

Continuing on - And Then… The Story of Me and Marymae

Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs.  She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow.  Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked Sunnydog, a big old fluffy golden retriever.   
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house and Sunnydog would bark. 
We didn't stop to speak.  In fact, there wasn't even a  shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.  
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood.   She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley.  Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore.  That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself. 
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat. 
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything.   She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood.   No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her. 
Junie, who lives right across the street from her,  knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in. 
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.  
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning. 
"I watch her from my front window.  It's three times around the house.  Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop.  She was barefoot, no pink crocs.  Her head was down, cradled in her arms.  Her hair was loose hanging down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her.  "Marymae?" 
She picked her head up and looked at me.  For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying.  But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen.  I wondered why I'd never noticed them before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft,  "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.

Sunnydog was getting restless, tugging to get on with his walk.  Marymae clicked her tongue and Sunnydog's ears perked up.  He went up to Marymae and began licking her toes.  She giggled.
I said, "I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, you can always knock on my door.  Anytime. Really.
Marymae looked up at me and smiled weakly.
"Thank-you," she said softly.
As I turned to walk away, I heard the sqeak of a door opening.  I looked back and Marymae was no longer on the stoop.
The next three days, when I passed by Marymae's house on my 6 a.m. morning walks with Sunnydog,  she wasn't outside.  I missed waving to her.
Junie called me.
"It's been three days and Marymae has not been outside doing her "three times jaunt".
Junie was a little compact bundle of a woman with short curly brown hair and large hazel eyes.   It seemed that some part of her body was always in motion.   Her voice was high and squeaky and she talked in fast spurts.
"Have you gone over to her house?" I asked.
"Oh, no," said Junie.  "Bad idea.  No.  Nope.  Not a good thing to do."
I started to suggest that maybe we could go together, when she interruppted me.
"Oops, gotta go.  The guy is here to fix our washing machine."
Before I could say good-bye she had already hung up.
As I went about my day, I kept thinking about Marymae.
I admonished myself.  Stop it! You have become obsessed with this woman!
Just then, my doorbell rang.  I laughed and thought, Wouldn't it be funny if Marymae was at my front door?
I peered out the frontdoor side window and saw Marymae standing on my porch holding on to the hand of a child.
I opened the door.  "Come on in."
The child, a little girl, had her long blond hair tied back with a pink ribbon.  The ribbon matched her pink sun dress and pink crocs.  She had the bluest of eyes.
"This is Cray," Marymae said.  "She's my son, Charlie's daughter."
"Cray will be living with me for awhile," her voice cracked as she tried to hold back a sob.

Should I go on?


Thursday, June 2, 2016

The Story of Me and Marymae

Still in her elegant silk pajamas, every morning at 6:00, Marymae would walk all the way around her house three times, padding through the wet grass in her pink crocs.  She wore rose red lipstick and lavender blue eyeshadow.  Her snow white hair was perfectly pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
Every morning at 6:00, I walked the dog.
Marymae and I would wave to each other as I passed by her house.
We didn't stop to speak.  In fact, there wasn't even a  shout of "hello" or a "good morning".
No, only a wave.  
It was our morning ritual, Marymae's and mine.
Marymae was new to the neighborhood.   She moved into the Hutchinson's house after Cara Hutchison ran away with George Hurley.  Tom Hutchinson, Cara's husband was so distraught that he said he couldn't bear to live in the town anymore.  That's when he sold the house to Marymae.
The day Marymae moved in, I was taking the dog for his afternoon walk and I stopped to introduce myself.
You know we had the usual new neighbor chat.
I said, "Welcome to the neighborhood, if you need anything, I live three doors down."
Now that I think of it, I don't recall Marymae saying anything.   She smiled, nodded and then waved to me as she got on with her move.
Marymae became the talk of the neighborhood.   No one in our Tuesday morning coffee klatch knew anything about her.
Junie, who lives right across the street from her,  knocked on her door a few days after Marymae moved in.
"I asked her to join us on Tuesdays, but she never responded," said Junie.
Junie told us that Marymae smiled and nodded as she took the basket of muffins Junie had baked.
"She didn't even invite me in," Junie said.  
Junie was the one who told us about the "three times around the house" jaunt that Marymae took each morning.
"I watch her from my front window.  It's three times around the house.  Always three times," she said.
Yesterday morning, at 6:00, as I approached Marymae's house, I saw her sitting on her stoop.  She was barefoot, no pink crocs.  Her head was down, cradled in her arms.  Her hair was loose hanging down around her shaking shoulders.
I walked up to her.  "Marymae?"
She picked her head up and looked at me.  For a brief moment, I became distracted by her eyes. The rims were red, from crying.  But her eyes were the bluest I've ever seen.  I wondered why I'd never noticed that before.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
Her voice was soft,  "I am so very tired, she whispered."
She was clutching a wrinkled piece of paper.

To be continued?


  





Tuesday, May 31, 2016

The Stranger in Aisle 7 of The Acme

"They" say if you make your commitment publicly known you're more likely to follow through.
So here it is.
I commit to blogging on every Tuesday.
"They" say all you need is the first sentence to get you started.
Well, looky here, including this one, I've already got five.

Since I've finished the A-Z challenge, I'm back to my old pattern of writing whenever.  And to tell you the truth I miss writing.

Too bad "they" haven't invented a way to record thoughts.  You know the ones that pop into your head and you think, what a great idea. Then suddenly, without a bit of grace, but with a worrying amount of brute force, another thought bullies that shy brilliant one out of the way, silencing it perhaps forever.

As I go about my day, my constantly noisy brain chatters away.  I pay close attention to the chatter. I know that to be true because the stranger I may have noticed in aisle 7 of the Acme becomes the main character and that brief obscure random encounter becomes the convoluted plot of some of my most bizarre dreams.
I suppose if I were a real writer I would carry a notebook around with me to capture those rare precious gems.

No, I'm not going to publicly commit to that.

Thank you for your support.
See you next Tuesday.