The Beavs

Dear Happy Homemaker,

I am beside myself with anger in livid color!

My pet beavers, Leva and Tuu, have occupancy of the master bath, their aqueous home being the not small Roman tub. Being the literate and clever cleavers they are, Leva and Tuu went through my entire collection of ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST and HYDRAULICS FOR DAILY LIVING and conspired to render them into a dam spanning the estimable breadth of said Roman tub.

What shall I do?

June


Dear June,

Send the Beavs to college. Get new magazines (back copies are pricey but eminently obtainable).

Rather than allowing yourself to get bent all out of shape and giving these rascally rodents the business, I'd recommend that you should see the aqueous humour in this incident fraught with mandible mirth!

Eddie Haskell, er, Happy Homemaker!

Danny Boy

I have been given the moniker Danny Boy, though when signatory in frequent matters of a somewhat official nature, I flourish a splendidly looped Daniel Boyd-Blatherstone. Citizens of the colonies - typically awed even by ersatz royalty - are loath to exhibit outwardly their enchantment with the Crown and feign to deny it. I admit, however, to being a cheeky bloke of no especial renown, unless you count an arm unmatched for roll tossing among my peers. On many a painful occasion of ribald hilarity, I have lobbed a stale petit pain at a cheerfully accommodating chum, only to have an hysterical nanny take me by the ear and toss me unceremoniously to the kerb. All is fair, I suppose, in lob and war. My society became less in demand, particularly due to these scrappy luncheon escapades, when it was only the domestics and we. Sympathetic, and in no-wise innocent-bystander friends were summarily overruled by parents given to put implicit trust in the lies of their help. My compatriots-in-crime chafed, their pleas and pleases trodden upon by unyielding familial tyrants, they who had apparently forgotten their own youthful designs in mischief and mayhem. Time has passed since those wobbly days of infancy - days of carefree abandon. Needless to say (but I shall say it, nevertheless), I am now a strapping youth of no mean aspect, a paragon of grown-up-ed-ness, displaying more than a trifling modicum of emotional maturity, which is an arguably singular personal trait for one who remains rather youngish in the matter of chronological age. I am the oldest person of my age with whom I have the pleasure of being acquainted.

A SAHARAN SOJOURN

I have made a gentle landing in the midst of French West Africa, the land of my forebears. As the companion of my mind, Gaspar, plays ever so sweetly upon his apricot pipe, I follow along with words unuttered to this ancient song of the pharaohs. He provides me solace and companionship as I pick my way through the sands of so unforgiving a Saharan tableau. There is no reason to fear a sojourn of indeterminate length, however. I am certain of success as I follow the sun to White Algiers. The elements - certainly hostile toward most manner of men - have never impinged upon the realization of any of my objectives. My current pilgrimage is toward the discovery of the principle wood whose melancholic, heart-rending magic my grand-pere conjured each day at Sun's zenith so many years ago. The people of his village (will I truly ever discover its location? I have no map, only the leading of my heart) were said to have been transformed by this wailing sortilege. Surely, they have passed; I will speak with their children. Such events are always emblazoned upon susceptible hearts and minds ... As I make my way through the scorch of desert by day, I envision an oasis that promises relief from Sahara's devastating and torturous blaze. Simoom is my companion of the moment; Gaspar has not left me entirely. The soft wail of the duduk has, for the moment, been stilled. Parched lips do not for an excellent embouchure make.  Simoom. My beautiful, sleek cat of the Stone Castle. She is white like the sands, tawny like the sands. She is burning and solitary like the sands. Simoom saved my life ... It is once again that I set foot upon the sands of my beloved, killing Sahara.   Was it I who chose such exquisitely brutal a landscape, this ancestral home of countless generations past? Surely not; in fact, I possess little knowledge whence I came. I have traveled far and am weary. Fatigue, however, cannot prevail against the exigency of learning who I truly am.   Contemplation upon the draw this infinite expanse has had upon me since my petitesse causes my endlessly inquiring mind to boggle. An unseen but inexorable purchase sets talons upon my vulnerable heart; that stoic logic which begs my return to reason and abandonment of this folly is impotent in face of my yearning to discover the key to my family's arcane issue. It will not relent.   I must see this through, no matter the outcome ...   It could not possibly have been a more arduous journey, this traverse across a diabolical union of both shifting sands and searing winds. We have been sucked dry. Hoppie, my faithful four-footed beast of burden and enduring companion, suffers less from the near-complete desiccation that succeeds in withering my own liver. Water has become the most precious but rarest of commodities.   We seek shelter. We seek water. Many a phantom mirage has loomed up before my scorched eyeballs. An optic message relayed to a mind weary and anxious for any shred of assuagement is entertained, however transparently suspect my logic has become. I find a disconcerting comfort remembering the song of the pharaohs that Gaspar used to play upon his apricot pipe. It is a dirge that haunts this broken man, a derelict whose termination perches ominously upon the illusory desert horizon.

Special thanks to M. Balzac, Ms. Currier and Grand-Pere for their inspiration.

The Sea and the Sky

The Sea is my mother, my father the Sky. Both are eternal and vast, each in their way. As I rise slowly yet inexorably from my mother's protective embrace, I reach toward Father, my life-giver, now become my mentor. He draws me up as spiraling vapor whose aspect is phantom-like yet, nevertheless, possessing true substance.

Under the aegis of Sky, I will harness my chariot to Sister Wind and travel Earth's four corners, showering my bounty upon her children. They will laud me; they will offer me prayerful thanks. However, I will look upward toward Father and downward toward Mother, seeking their approbation.

It is they who have given me life and continued existence.

Praise must be directed accordingly ...

Polly: A Beautiful Soul

Polly had wasted too much time being beautiful. In soliloquy she ruefully yet sincerely admitted as much. The salivating wolves about town managed to pucker up sufficiently and whistle, but it wasn't Polly's brains that the fellows were whistling at. Polly's pulchritude made her a target for mere, curious stares of disbelief amongst bashful boys; however, for Canis Lupus, the hapless maiden was true quarry.

 

This young and genuinely sweet lass lost hope of ever finding a companion who looked inside the person in order to view and appreciate that one's heart and soul. Soon, however, kindred spirits would serendipitously cross paths, and restoration of faith in one's fellowman would occur.

 

A kindly Mr. Kitchen and a luminous Josie would bring succor to a soul famished for simple but joyous friendship.

 

She could not have made a more simple request: kindly let me alone. Of course, Polly was far too polite and cultured to speak her mind. Her thoughts never formed into any wordy protestation that should actually escape the lips. Rather, when accosted by garrulous old men or biddies, she would find herself seized by a trifling indisposition, most likely triggered by some innate survival instinct. Consequently, by the mere lowering of her eyes, she spirited herself away to an imagined location of tranquil repose. Perhaps she might avert her glance to a object of feigned interest in the middle ground. The harmless but unwelcomed interlopers ceased to exist.

 

Polly hated rudeness most passionately and knew that these kindly old folk were, in general, of cheery and lovely disposition; however, as you and I both know all too well, some people are quite unaware of the tempest brewing as they noisily and lustily chat one up no matter the "weather."

 

Those closest to Polly were ever aware that the tragic specter of Polly's childhood lay subconsciously but anxiously in wait, struggling once again to break free of Polly's fragile will and enshroud her with a resurrected, crippling sorrow. These dear people - surrogate mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters - surrounded her with every care and protection humanly possible; yet, there is only so much one can do for the youth who despairs over her irretrievable losses.

 

Charles and Wilma Dexter-Hayes had brought three beautiful children into this world: Billy, the eldest, Polly, the middle child, and, nearly ten years after the birth of Polly, Rosemarie.

 

Polly's frail emotional state was due in large measure to heavy and tragic losses - losses greater than any naturally affectionate family member should be expected to endure. Both the youngest and the eldest children predeceased Charles and Wilma at the midway point of their otherwise happy domestic life. Hardly had the family come to terms with the devastating blow of losing the plump and golden-haired toddling babe to a childhood illness than the nineteen-year old Billy was killed in a freak accident while hiking a mere distance from the family home.

 

The unspeakable loss of a precious little one who adored her and a big brother who protected her was, of itself, sufficient cause to unhinge this devoted young lady. Here, though, is the rub. Charles, ever the stalwart gentleman - in every sense of the word - turned dark inside, as though he were a light switched off. He ceased virtually all communication with Polly and her mother, but for a few grunts or gestures to make known some mundane matter that his stricken soul refused to conjure up verbally. Wilma, scarcely able to deal with the loss of her babies, suffered a complete collapse of mind and spirit. Accordingly, she was taken in by a kindly maiden aunt who, despite her age, was in robust health and sensitive to the plight of her ailing niece.

 

Polly's world of loving and being loved came to a severe and abrupt halt.

A Captive Audience of One

Since that "incident" several years ago, I've been unable to rise from my bed without someone's helping me. This bitter reality of helplessness very often overwhelms me, not infrequently to the point of tears. Mary and Jo are such sweethearts to visit me and offer whatever help they can. It's their company that I crave most of all, though I do appreciate the treats they always bring, including books from the local library. I love books, rarely ever bothering to turn on the television. My landlady kindly had cable put it, thinking it a means to keep me entertained and, well, to get my mind off ...

 

I hate "going there," as they so commonly say. Dwelling on what happened does me no good, no good at all. Then, please, someone tell me how to turn off the nightmare of events running over and over again through my tired brain. The trite but still painful question that everyone asks is - they think I'm out of earshot, but I'm not - "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Don't get me wrong; the outpouring of love and sympathy from kith and kin has been my salvation. Of course, I'm disabled FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. Why am I the one who survived?

 

I need far more than momentary distraction to escape survivor's guilt. In my literary travels, I allow my imagination free rein. However, my past life and what I read often combine in my subconscious mind. Over that I surely have no control. For example, I see myself traveling untold miles to reunite with my family after so many years apart. When I step off the train, my son and my husband smile widely as I step down to greet them. My son's little arms reach up to me ... then the loves of my life vanish before me. Especially in dreams do actual events become jumbled, yet the cutting, profound pain of loss that attends awakening is all too palpable.

 

I said I didn't want to go there.

Where is the night nurse? She's late.

 

 

I guess I could call the agency to learn what's holding up "Nurse Jane" this time. Patience is a virtue I've never had. A reversal of fortune doesn't necessarily bring along with it a new and improved outlook on life. You know, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, or some such. Au contraire, bitterness and anger got in the way of every decent emotion and positive thought I had troubled deliberately to cultivate. Mind over matter ... someone told me it doesn't matter.

 

Looking out the window - it's to the left of my bed and affords quite a nice view of the bay - I imagine myself the character Johnsy in "The Last Leaf," waiting to succumb to the inevitable. One by one the leaves drop to the snow-covered lane below. My life and my fate are bound up with the last remaining leaf ... do you see what I mean? I get caught up in the story, becoming the central character and booting the real heroine off the stage. What effrontery!

 

It's getting dark and I can tell from the swaying of the eucalyptus trees outside my window that a stiff wind is coming in off the bay. The two-story house next door does not block my view of the sea as it is set back a bit. What I can see is partially obscured by that little stand of trees. The gentle back-and-forth motion of those graceful eucalyptus causes the light pouring through my window to cut in and out. Hypnotic. Comfortable. Warm.

 

Coming to, after a brief snooze, I throw a casual glance out the window and, even as I relate this, a shiver goes down my spine. I am unable to catch my breath. What is that on my neighbor's roof? Dark though the sky has become, there is no mistaking what is there. I am frozen ... its unearthly stare is fixed on me.

 

Its eyes - fitted into huge sockets within a gargoyle's head - are red-hot coals. My mind, my heart, my soul are seared by what is about to become, in a matter of swiftly passing moments, an all-consuming conflagration. That considerable distance of seeming, relative safety from rooftop to bedroom affords me no consolation.

 

Strangely fascinated, I emerge from the initial state of shock and, by rapidly increasing degrees, find myself helplessly captive to full-blown horror. The immediate impulse in any ordinary emergency sort of situation is to reach for the telephone, punch out the requisite 3 digits and then anxiously await the arrival of the community's finest. I, locked into the creature's horrific stare, am incapable of movement. Of rational thought. Of coming to my own defense.

 

Terror has never been so delicious ...

 

Entrancement and enchantment each work their singular charm upon me as four eyes remain set in a fixed stare. Outwardly I am silently screaming, my head exploding and letting fly like shrapnel innumerable questions that have no possible answers. And inwardly? Dare I permit my glacial heart to melt at the unimaginable prospect that, perhaps, this otherworldly entity is my dubious savior?

 

Is he reading my mind?

 

I'm sinking ever further into this conflict of strange emotions, a  tide of angst over which no straight thinking could hope to prevail. My mind says run for your life, though that, of course, is a physical impossibility.

 

My foolish heart quietly insists that there is an unseen beauty in this being whose aspect defies all human description. Most would declare this a beast. Regardless, his presence would doubtless cause a brave man to faint. As I am really no beauty myself, I find it, in the beneficent Law of the Cosmos, unfair to consign any of the Great Spirit's creatures to the prison of human bias. Isn't it too ludicrous, that I, a captive audience of one, should render such pious judgment?

 

Released momentarily from my inward stirrings, I focus once again on the creature's face. His eyes ... they are no longer red but turned the color of the sea. Cool. Calm. Serene.

 

Is this chimera - whether real or in my brain - reading my mind?

 

Certainly my heart has not hardened in fear or revulsion. I know that the creature reads my heart, if not my mind. A gradual but, nevertheless, astonishing transformation occurs before me, so clearly visible despite the physical separation that maintains between us. The absurdly misshapen is metamorphosing into a comely form that commands my unbroken, wondering gaze. Scales of a peculiar geometric form fade into the pink smoothness of human skin. A warm glow surrounds what was only mere moments ago a horror of the darkest grotesquerie. What could only have been construed as his mouth has taken the shape of beautifully formed and sensuous lips. While otherwise stock-still for these fleeting yet intolerably protracted moments of physical modifications, my beast has become beauty.

 

Released from an appearance of suspended animation, my beauty begins to move but in an incredibly drawn-out slow motion. Slowly, very slowly, his right arm rises from his side and reaches upward toward me, his hand extended and beckoning. That mouth, those lips quiver ever so slightly ...

 

Beauty smiles at me.

 

 

 

So long immobile but for brief moments up with "Nurse Jane's" assistance, I feel an unfamiliar restlessness in my lower body. My mind and heart coax me arise and seek what awaits outside the barrier of glass.

 

It is no longer a matter of wishing, hoping and fighting long-entrenched despair. A power beyond all that is humanly possible - even in the most extraordinary of circumstances - seizes hold of atrophy and regenerates what was once officially declared dead. In spite of myself, I arise from my imprisoning bed and, as if it were a completely normal occurrence, glide over to the French windows. I do not touch the handles yet, in the manner of a dream, the doors open before me.

 

Standing upon the balcony, I observe with the utmost clarity the pure magnificence of celestial beauty. My mind no longer questions the why, the wherefore nor the how ... My heart says I must follow its direction:

 

                        
I could never lead you astray ... 
Something wonderful awaits you. 
Return to your room, stand before
Your mirror and close your eyes...

 

It is still too much to believe that I arose from near total incapacity, hastened to the windows and beheld what dreams are made of. I've cast off all doubt regarding the validity of miracles in modern times. And Beauty - whether angel, alien or demon - convinces me in my heart of hearts that, truly, something wonderful is about to happen ...

 

Returning to my wardrobe, I momentarily close my eyes. Somehow sensing a subtle change in the direction put upon me, I open my eyes and look into the full-length mirror. I see only myself, no reflection of the room at all. There I stand, tall and erect, as in my vibrant and athletic youth. Now, however, it is as an assured, mature woman. Radiant. Smiling. Possessed, so it would seem, by an inner confidence emanating from my every pore. Behind me I sense a warm and comforting presence. It is he. The aura surrounding his now invisible self does not compete with my inner glow but interplays with it, creating a show of light, not of spectacular brilliance, but of undulating waves of luminescence.

 

My pounding heart fairly leaps from my chest. In the mirror are the likenesses of two men, one younger, one older. My brain must be playing tricks on me. I gasp. The older - a handsome man of not quite middle age - is clearly my husband, Jonathan. Who can that younger man be, who so resembles Jonathan? Is this father and son? No, it cannot be. Both Jonathan and Quentin were killed in the train ...

 

It was a lifetime ago.

 

I feel the gentle touch of a hand upon my shoulder. Rather than startle me, this tactile sensation calms me. As tears stream down my cheeks, I hesitate to confront the dream-like reality that remains unaltered as the mirror's reflection. I lower my head, overcome.

 

Beauty speaks barely a whisper into my ear:

 

                               
Look again. There is nothing to fear. It is your husband
Jonathan and your son Quentin. They've come to take
you home.

 

Looking up once again into the mirror, I smile through my tears and gaze upon the beautiful countenances of father and son. My husband. My son. They reach toward me, bidding me follow them. I step closer toward the mirror ...

 

                                                                            
The bed that Sarah Gardner had languished upon for so many years is now empty. The eucalyptus continue to sway gracefully, their gentle susurration filling the former occupant's room through open French windows.

 

                                   

                           

OUR LIVES: Don and Betty

That delightful pair were actually friends of my parents since college days, back before the war. They had books and coffee and cigarettes in common. Arguments over what current author was making the greatest impact on impressionable American youth could go on way past midnight. Sometimes at their home, sometimes ours. I clearly remember falling asleep on the huge brown davenport in their L-shaped living room. It was in the ell that Betty had the ever-present workmen install floor-to-ceiling fitted bookshelves. She generously lent dozens of books to my mother and - get this - to Stan. He would tuck himself cozily away in a little nook between the old upright Chickering and the potted Kentia, reading this, reading that and reading the other. Don't forget, I was the one asleep on the big D! Hardly something to brag about.

That only scratches the surface of their relationship. When my parents "got religion," the two couples spent less and less time together. Nothing as bad as a rift or such: NEVER DISCUSS RELIGION OR POLITICS! Politics, maybe. They simply drifted apart. I was doing my thing - cars and watching the waves at our coastal retreat, and Stan was doing his - daydreaming, reading and painting scenes of the gentle Pacific. This under Betty's watchful and loving eyes and her expert tutelage. The two flourished and basked in mutual admiration. Mom and Dad trusted their friends implicitly and never let religion divide them.

I don't think the Hendersons went to church. It simply was not discussed.

From Mars, With Love ...

 

Does it not stand to reason that the destruction of one's home should prompt one to seek out new worlds? The Metalunans did so eons ago, yet the attitude displayed toward their newfound hosts, while not entirely benevolent, was closer to humanistic than that shown us miserable humans by the Martians. Why do I refer to ourselves as miserable humans? The decimation of the human race by an alien force cruel and invincible has given rise to such sentiments of despair. The degradation that precedes the most unspeakable of protracted life-terminating procedures would make the tortures invented by human history's most notorious villains appear little more than those devised by schoolyard bullies.

 

I regret that I have survived the initial attack.

 

I haven't much time. Conflict is on the horizon, moving ever closer toward us. Our being a peace-loving people does not mean that we are weak and ineffectual. Yet, by comparison to the powers that are to be, we shall constitute their easiest prey. We are no match for their kind. What is this alien force - so fearsome and implacable - that marches in relentless asymmetrical rhythm: triplet, crotchets, quavers, crotchet? I shudder that such uncommon and foreign a meter should, nevertheless, bring NEMESIS unfailingly to his quarry. Perhaps I ought not to register any surprise at all. My only palpable emotion at this time is convulsing fear - an unholy terror that engulfs every delectable morsel of many a quivering corpse. Corpses lusted after by a famished Martian megalopolis squatted illegally upon Earth.

 

An angry red dust that enshrouds their military machine has reached us, parching our throats, infiltrating our lungs. The carrying wind is bitter and cuts deeply to the core. The descent and ascent of their chromatic war chant fills me with horror as I contemplate the formidable and merciless aspect of these damnable creatures, they who advance slowly but deliberately toward the termination of our race. I hear the brassy salvos of their ordnance. Yet again ... the protracted cacophony of mechanized warfare. NEMESIS is angry. There will be no mercy shown toward our weak, human ilk. He is red. He is MARS, THE BRINGER OF WAR....

 

Why these war-beasts have kept me on I haven't a clue. Perhaps my ruddy complexion is a reminder of the basic hue of a home deserted yet scarcely forgotten. I cannot by any stretch of the imagination - and there's been a great deal of such "stretching" lately - attribute to these coarse and loathsome creatures any delicate sentiment characteristic of our gentler race. These Martians are scorpions - they are malefactors to the most extreme degree.

 

Upon first sighting of the alien beings, we humans found ourselves both inescapably transfixed by their revolting semblance of a face and, subsequently, retching with violent abandon, overcome as we were by their unimaginable hideousness. My viewing INVADERS FROM MARS when a child could not have prepared me for what started out as a little boy's nightmare. Now-extinguished friends had earlier tossed off the initial radio contact from the Martians as a higher power's benign interest in an inferior intelligence.

 

Such fatuous naivete has cost us dearly.

OUR LIVES

Our paths should not have crossed. Not at this time. Not in this place. He had been in Paris (no, not that Paris), and I was headed for The Sound.

The water was a bit choppier than usual. I had forgotten to take the requisite Dramamine. Those who know me well know I can't even manage a carnival ride without major nausea. So it's no surprise, then, that I "went by rail," the old ferry bobbing deliriously like a cork. Am I digressing? The paths that crossed. Yes ... never would've imagined....

The other green passengers and I finally made it to shore. Shaken but safe. The waves were merciless and we nearly took out a section of dolphins before mooring. I was never so glad to hit the shore, and hit it we did. Once on the dock, I dodged the hustle and bustle as best I could, but how do you stop a tidal wave? I simply wanted to get to Town, flag down a cab and get to the old Henderson place and settle in with Betty and Don. They would be glad to see me, I them. It had been too many years.

I got jostled - not the usual or expected jostled - so abruptly that my grip fell to the splintered deck and I lost my balance. Before I completed my tumble forward, I felt a firm clasp on my shoulder. Suspended animation, the descent abruptly arrested. As I regained my composure and a measure of dignity lost, I turned around to thank the stranger who had stopped my fall.

It was no stranger ...


It was Stan, my younger brother. We had neither seen one another nor even talked to each other for the last 5 years. The parting had been acrimonious, to say the least. I was his hero, his mentor in all matters, and he didn't accept my reasons for leaving home. But that was then; this is now. We looked into each other's eyes for what seemed hours, oblivious to that hustle and bustle surrounding us. Neither of us uttered a sound, perhaps each in his own way afraid to be the first to give in (you know, a guy thing).

I knew in the next few moments, however, that we both were home ...

Tears were streaming down the face of my big and tall little brother.