J. R.'s Words and Pages

The Works of Author J. R. Rauschert

You are here: Home / Blog

Loving Livy

by

Part One

Gloria gave him the look. “It’s been over a year now. Have you called her?”

Tanner hated the way the bartender’s glare could make him feel guilty. She seemed to see into his soul and, unlike most people with that ability, had no hesitation in confronting him. In reply, he shrugged as he studied his rum and coke.

“I don’t understand you. For several months you floated on clouds because of her and then you go and break it off.” Gloria shook her head. “She loves you, and I thought you loved her. What the heck is wrong with you?”

Unwilling to meet her gaze, Tanner ran his index finger around the glass. His words meeked out. “She’s only in her thirties. I’m almost double her age. It’s too much.”

“That’s silly, and you didn’t seem to mind at first. You brought out the best in each other. I saw how she looked at you, and how you couldn’t take your eyes from her.” Gloria nodded at the other bartender, who went to serve several new customers. “Never saw you so happy as when you were with her. Why throw that all away for something as artificial as age?”

Tanner coughed into a napkin not sure if he felt ill or regretful. “When she’s fifty, I’ll be seventy-five. Hardly fair to her, is it?”

Gloria’s brow angered. “There are plenty of people who have as much of an age difference. It shouldn’t matter, if you love her. I’m sure she agrees.”

He grunted in reply.

Leaning toward him, Gloria lowered her voice. “Happiness is elusive. You’re throwing it away.”

He squinted at her. “I heard people talk. Here, in this bar. ‘What’s she see in that old guy.’ And, ‘Sugar Daddy and Gold-digger?’ She deserves to be with someone to grow old with, not a person she’ll need to take care of the rest of her life.” With a disgruntled flourish he lifted the glass and emptied it with one quick swallow.

“They say, ‘Only the good die young.’ That suggests you’ll outlive her.” With her easy grace, she mixed him another drink. “Only fools and the jealous would have said anything about you two. Thought you knew better than to listen to idiots.” Gloria raised an eyebrow. “From what I have heard, she might have even more money than you do.”

Shrugging, Tanner glanced toward an empty corner booth. “That writer who comes in here, she’s one of them. Heard her talk about me having insecurities and trying to recapture my youth.” His tone turned accusative. “She was talking to you.”

Gloria inhaled as she pushed the filled glass toward him. “She did say that, but I knew she never pays attention to varying viewpoints. Bartenders listen. That’s what I did.  Served her wine and let her vent her complaints. She has plenty.”

“There have been others, as well.” His voice dropped as well as his prosecutor attitude. “They’re right. I’m too old for someone that young. I’ve even said things like that when I see mismatched couples.”

“You’re mistaken. Those customers were wrong.” Before she could continue a large party entered and Gloria went to take their drink orders.

 Tanner hardly noticed she’d gone as his mind filled with memories of those wonderful months when he’d felt alive and when every sunrise proclaimed hope. Livy had been the reason.

He’d given up on love before he met her. Once Alexa died, he believed he could never find anyone ever again. Certain she was his soulmate, his wife had been his prime reason for living. She bore him two children and created a perfect family. He chuckled despite his sadness. Perfect only in the relative sense as occasional arguments, rare disappointments and a few chilly times kept their relationship real, but compared to their friends, their marriage appeared ideal. It certainly had kept him content.

When she died at the tender age of sixty after a short battle with the big C, he was left alone in their large home and fell into an extended period of mourning, existing only to work.

Sixteen months later he emerged from the cone of misery and sold his landscaping business—their landscaping business—for a sizeable profit and dedicated himself to becoming a patron of the arts. His contributions helped the local theater company remodel their theater, and he became great friends with the artistic directors of the troupe.

During the production of a world premier of a local playwright’s work, he met Livy, and his heart reawakened.

He had loved her words, reading the script before the meeting. Upon seeing her he fell in love for the second time in life. She apparently did, too. For the next few months, they spent every possible moment together. Their coupling revitalized Tanner and inspired her writing.

Then doubts crept forward. People glared at his gray hair and wrinkles matched with her youthful face. He sensed the stares and the frowns. He heard the slurs aimed mostly at him and a few hurtful ones targeted at her. Guilt built inside of him and he asked Livy about it. She dismissed their comments by suggesting love trumped it all. He wanted to believe her.

Then, his adult-children and other relatives reacted with shock at his relationship with Livy. The words from his son, slightly older than Tanner’s new love interest, cut deep. “It’s crazy. What are you thinking? Are you an old fool?”

His daughter acted hurt and disappointed which shook him to his core. “How could you? She’s my age. What could she see in someone as old as you? Is this some warped attempt to be young again? You can’t turn back the clock!”

From his late wife’s best friend, Kali, came the most telling blows. “What an insult to Alexa? Have you no respect for her memory? This actress is a gold-digger, and you should know better. I’m ashamed for you, for your children. You’re twice this—this woman’s age.”

As hurtful were the jokes form his buddies, who chortled about her beauty and his antiquity.

The taunts convinced him to end it. Terminating a relationship—an affair—never happened smoothly, and he took the coward’s way by calling her from the airport. He announced it was over, and he couldn’t see her anymore. To drive home his point, he told her he needed to spend time with his son in Seattle and didn’t know if he would ever come back.

She tried to convince him to stay and offered to follow him to the Coast.

He insisted her doing so would only cause more heartache—for her.

She protested, but he countered by claiming the wonderful memories of their summer of passion had been just an enjoyable interlude in his life. It had been nothing more, but she had to know they had no future together.

She argued, tried to convince him loving relationships knew no age. When she insisted they meet again, he refused. This needed to be a clean break and seeing one another again would only make it more difficult. When she asked him if he loved her, he lied and declared he didn’t and never had.

Ending the talk, he moped for the entire flight. When he arrived out West, his son assured him he had done the right thing, the proper thing. Tanner didn’t know. But when Livy called, sent texts, e-mails, and even letters, it pained him not to reply. The break-up needed to be final. That’s what his son, his daughter, and Kali told him.

In the following year on the day Tanner turned sixty-two, he hiked along the Pacific coast. No one celebrated with him as he shivered in the cool November breeze. His son, buried at work, suggested they could do something special on some Sunday. His daughter back in Michigan sent him a card and wished she could be with him, but couldn’t, as she tended to three healthy children and a man-child of a husband, someone who looked wise without understanding the meaning of the word.

At that point Tanner wanted to be alone. Alexa’s spirit, growing fainter with each passing year, still on occasion walked with him, and he remembered how she had always helped make sense of things. But at that point on his many solitary journeys, she remained mute, merely nodding her love and giving him as much comfort as a yesterday being could give.

Several times he imagined Livy watched. But when he turned to see her, she vanished. From friends back home he knew she had left River Forest for Toronto, where her latest play, one he had worked on with her, became a huge hit.

In quiet moments he often thought of her. Her appeal proved more than physical. An aura of vivacity and intelligence proved her biggest assets. Other men had to sense the same thing, but she, for reasons beyond his understanding, had seemed to focus on him.

Back at the bar, Gloria broke into his thoughts with a pat on his hand. “Do you know that she and I keep in touch?”

He hoped his second shrug convinced Gloria that he didn’t care. He did. “Yeah.”

“We talked yesterday. She’s back in Michigan.”

“Uh-huh.” Feigning a lack of interest, Tanner sipped his drink.

“She’s in Williamston, a small town near East Lansing. The professional theater there is doing her latest new work.” Gloria’s fingers drummed on the countertop. “Toronto wanted it, but she told them she wanted it to premiere in Michigan first. They asked her why. She said she owed it to the people who helped her get started.”

“That’s nice of her.” Williamston, being only two hours away, tempted him.

“She sounds great. Let me show you her schedule. It’s right here.” She pushed her cell phone toward Tanner. “I checked their website. Thought you might be interested.”

On the screen he saw she would be at the theater for the opening week showings. The first performance would be tomorrow night. With a heavy sight, he glanced at Gloria. “Wish her luck for me.”

“She’s staying at the River House Hotel in the town. Checked in today. Be there until Sunday evening when she heads back to New York.”

Tanner felt his head bob. “Making lots of money, I bet.”

“She is. Did you know, her other play, which opened in Toronto, that she just sold the movie rights to Hollywood. She’s going out there soon to write the screenplay. She has two new productions opening in New York. She’s doing great, at least, financially.” Gloria then excused herself to fill another set of orders.

Tanner did not finish his second drink but tossed a twenty onto the bar. Without another word he slid off his seat and walked out to the parking lot. Three minutes later he aimed his Subaru Forrester toward Williamston.

Part 2

The director shook his head. “She said she won’t talk to you until after you’ve read it. If you know her like I do, if you want a chance to tell her anything, read the damn script.”

Flabbergasted, Tanner looked at the script. “What the h—”

“Read it. She’ll be at dress rehearsal this evening. Be done about nine. If you’ve read, she said she’d talk to you then. If you don’t, don’t come.” The director held his hands with palms upturned. “She sounded serious.”

Two hours later sitting in a booth at the Red Cedar Grill, he nursed his third rum and coke and finished The Coupled. Convinced she’d created a masterpiece, he stared at the pages and wondered how she’d made the characters step out of the pages to perform the play in his mind. While awed, a large part of him felt violated. She had told their story, their love affair, added a final act, and made it all sound beautiful and heart-wrenching. 

“Did you like it?” Her voice cut through the haze. “It’s our story. Sad ending and all.”

She slid into the seat across from him. For a long moment neither spoke.

“It’s beautiful. Your best.” He fingered the bound papers. “Was I that dense?”

“Evidently. We’re not together.”

“Do you—?”

“Have heart disease? No, it’s beating fine.” She danced her fingers on the table. “And, no,  you do not have a daughter.”

“In the script, it all sounded—real. That part was all imagined?”

“I write plays, made up stories, for dramatic effect.” She looked toward the waitress and nodded while pointing at Tanner’s drink. “A little girl with you would have been wonderful.”

“I would have—”

“Resented me. Her. Us. No, you told me you didn’t love me. Remember saying that?” She swiped at a stray lock of dark hair from her face. It refused to cooperate. “If you didn’t want me, it would have been wrong to anchor you with a baby.”

“It’s not that at all. I—” He leaned forward, almost knocking over his drink. “I made a mistake, about us. For good reasons, because I never wanted to hurt you.”

“It would have been worse for a child to have a Father who only stayed out of obligation.” 

“That’s not true. I just didn’t want you saddled with an aging relic to take care of the rest of your life. It wouldn’t be fair to you, or to any child we had.”

“We’ve had that talk.” She shook her head. As the waitress approached with two rum and cokes, they remained quiet. When the server left, Livy squinted at him. “Why did you come?”

The question had tortured Tanner on the two-hour drive. No answer had presented itself, other than he wanted, no, needed to see her. He didn’t know if that made sense, but it had kept him driving over the speed limit. His voice squeaked forcing him to stop to clear his throat. “I came because, ahem.” He went on sounding less unnatural. “For you. To see you.”

“Curious to see how fat I’d gotten? To see if success went to my head and turned me into a spoiled witch?” Her words edged with ice, she darted the questions at him. “Hoping I found someone else? Someone younger? A better bedmate?”

Falling against the back of the pew-like seat, his face warmed even as he felt the chill of her anger. “I miss you. Since I …” He turned his head and struggled to find the words.

“Since you hurt me, you realized—what?” Her lips quivered and her body appeared to tremble. “That you’d tossed me away. Did you think no could ever love you—or should?”

 His heavy sigh settled them both. He took several deep breathes as she leaned back and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for him to answer.

“I am so sorry I ran away. In my head, I thought you’d be better off with someone your own age. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did. You were mean, cruel. I should never talk to you again.”

“Then you wrote—this. It’s amazing. You made me kinder, a better person than I am. I wish I were that man. You deserved him, not me.”

After she sipped her drink, lipstick glistened on the edge of her glass. Before replying she wiped it off with a napkin. “Gone. A smudge eliminated with a simple piece of cloth.” She traced the top of the tumbler with her index finger. “Memories don’t go away easily. My tears turned to ink. My pillow turned to paper. My misery produced the plays. Positive reviews.” She shook her head. “I’d give it all up if I could change what you did. I’d turn back the clock and have you make the right decision. But I can’t undo what you did. Wish I could.”

“I can’t either.” He slumped in his seat. “What happened haunts me, leaves me bereft of hope. All I can do is to ask forgiveness, for a second chance.”

For several moments she kept her eyes closed and breathed in and out with a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. When she spoke, it was with detachment. “I forgive you. But, no. No second chances. A hurt this deep cannot be cleaned away with absolution. We’ll go forward with the damaged souls. Now I need it to be over.” With tears in her eyes, she stood and walked away from him ignoring his calls to wait.

He caught up with her on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

She shrugged away from his touch. “It’s too late. The hurt is too much to risk anything with you again. I’ve moved on.”

He stepped in front of her and was grateful she didn’t push past. “Why did you want me to read the script? It’s about us. About what should have happened. Not the cancer. The staying together.”

“Yes, it is the way I wanted it to be. But you ruined it.” Her face contorted into fierceness. “I need to be done with you. This play is all I have left of you, of us.” She stepped around him. “Do not contact me ever again. I’m over you.”

Something in her tone and her demeanor stopped him from pursuing. He left town within the hour, never seeing the play performed. The two never talked again.

Six weeks later at her funeral he learned her cancer had spread fast. None of the treatments worked. Gloria had to tell him of her passing.

Asked to attend the reading of the will, it surprised Tanner to discover he’d been named trustee of the estate.

Even more shocking, at the attorney’s office the woman lawyer told him Livy had given birth six months earlier to a baby boy. It was his—Tanner had a son.

The Bridge

by

Without ever remembering who made the first move, the moment they touched, life changed.

With a breeze teasing their hair and the rippling stream singing love songs below, they surveyed the vista from their vantage point on the bridge. The valley’s verdant farms and vibrant forests stretched to the west beneath the cerulean sky dotted with puffs of ebony. Life flowed through them, and the call of tomorrow tickled their thoughts.

The span, an arched wooden walkway, connected two grassy knolls over Lincoln Creek on the perimeter of Travers Park, the largest nature-preserve in River Forest. The knotty-pine structure, a popular spot for lovers, had been recently rebuilt after the original one had all but decayed and fallen into the stream.

They had met one hour earlier during a workshop at a teacher’s conference on the campus of River Forest University. When Saige challenged a facilitator’s method—who harshly insisted no questions be asked until the end of the session, if time allowed—she had simply stood up and walked out of the room.

Luke followed. In his classroom, questions flowed freely, and he saw them as a sign of interest and learning. He had been drumming fingers at the didactic style of the instructor, who called his session, “Encouraging Independence.” The contradiction of it had made Luke temper his growing irritation with an ironic smile.

Hearing several gasps and a smattering of applause at her protest, he followed the rebel teacher into the hallway, and saw her disappear outdoors. She moved fast.

Outside, in the coolness of late April sunny afternoon, she leaned against a silver maple, her hand mimicking puffing on a cigarette. She started when he called out to her. Instinctively, she took a quick, tobacco-free puff. “What?”

“Hello.” He stood six feet from her, just inside the perimeter of the shade. “That’s probably the healthiest thing you can smoke.”

She held up her hand, and looked at the space between her first two fingers. “This is one of the times I wished I’d never quit. Still fiend for them, especially after listening to brain-dead lectures like that idiot.” She jerked her head in the direction of Astrand Hall.

“I thought you deserved a standing ovation, but no one else did, so I left.”

She cocked her head and examined the complimenter, who had dark glasses, sandy hair flopping over his ears, and the kind of easy smile attractive in strangers. “When he said thinking without knowledge is useless, that put it over the top for me. Thinking makes us seek information, and stretches our minds. He wants robots to download his brain into.”

Luke’s laugh built up inside of him, and emerged full and hearty. Seeing her frown turn into a grin of agreement, he relaxed. Maybe, she would be friendly. “Teachers like him make people hate school. He thought we thirsted for his wisdom, to fill the emptiness of our little heads.”

 She chuckled. “I’m Saige Wilcart. Teach over at Lincoln Springs Alternative. When my kids ask questions, even trying to bird-walk, I know I have their interest. Gives me a chance to redirect and show how much of life is connected. They get it, because they’re smart kids.”

“With those kids. Whew. Tough crowd!” In the stories Luke had heard about the alternative program, the small high school sounded like a hangout with no serious learning. According to his fellow teachers, the awful kids at LSA ran wild and terrorized the staff.

Her smile turned upside down. “Somedays. Not usually.” Her eyes sparkled, as if thinking of pleasant memories. “I like them. They’re challenged by obstacles, crazy families, and poor choices. Not bad kids at all.” She stepped forward and stood her tallest at his question. Her voice sliced the air filled with determined pride. “Throwaways. Their old schools didn’t give them what they needed. At LSA we believe ‘if a student can’t learn the way we teach, why don’t we teach the way they learn.’ It works.”

He leaned away from her. “Didn’t mean to offend you. People refer to you school as a—”

“Stoner school. Loser high. Hideaway for bad kids, trouble-makers, losers, druggies, delinquents. Heard it all.” Her chin raised, and her eyes burned lasers at him. “They’re kids. And I’m proud of them. All they need is another chance. That’s what we give them. We think of it as family. They want to learn, and do, once they feel safe and see we want to work with them.”

“I—I’m sorry. I only …” He looked down, feeling his face warm. Admiring the passion and vehemence for her school, he wished he shared her excitement about his. “Forgive me. I spoke from ignorance. I just heard—”

She shook her head, and her voice ground with irritation. “People who don’t know much think we let our students do anything. That we’re a joke. But, it’s a school with intelligent, caring teachers and students who earn credit. I love teaching there.” 

Luke thought about the teachers he worked with every day. Most of them complained about the school and their classes. Many of them sounded unhappy and discontented, not loving their profession at all. He never wanted to lose his spark, but saw few of the older ones still eager to teach. Would that happen to him? “You’re right about the things people say. Your students shouldn’t be labeled or dismissed. They deserve an education as much as anyone.” He meant it, too. Knowing nothing about her school other than gossip, he had judged the place. “Please, accept my apology for my assumptions.”

She tapped a foot, and crossed her arms, the imagined cigarette forgotten. “Maybe. It’d help if I knew your name.”

He slapped his thigh and shook his head. “Another sorry. Luke Zeier. Teach history at Richmond High. Third year there. See lots of kids who fall through the cracks. They could use a friendlier place like yours.” He hoped she forgave him. Her green eyes sparkled, and her long reddish locks draped over her shoulders. In blue capris and a loose fitting white blouse, he thought she looked at ease, despite her anger at the presenter’s message, and the foolish attitudes of people about alternative education.

 Nodding toward him, she took up the imaginary cigarette again. “I quit when I graduated. A present to myself, and to not be a bad example—to kids. Most of them smoke like fiends. When I get stressed, the urge is powerful. Pretending helps, and the breathing is easier now.”

Scratching his chin, he raised an eyebrow. “I see. It would frustrate me. I gave them up when Aunt Hennie—I loved that lady—died because of them. She made me promise to stop the Marlboros. It’d be wrong to start again.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I kno-ooow.” When she opened her eyes, she looked at her hand, dropped the air-fag, and stomped it out with a sandaled foot. “Saves me money, my clothes don’t stink, and no more burn-holes in my shirts. But still …”

As an easy silence enclosed them, Luke studied her. So many of the women he met had an uncertainty about them, as if they questioned whether they’d be discovered as incompetent or ugly on the inside. This reluctant ex-smoker had an aura of confidence which overrode any regret at giving up her habit. He liked too the way she met his gaze. “The session will go another twenty minutes or so. You want to go for a walk? It’s a beautiful area.”

She cocked her head, and looked over the questioner. He’d apologized for his assumptions, and understood about smoking. “I’d like that. Help get my mind off the asshole in there.”

Several trails wound through the hilly park and passing over the creek and bordered by the river. Shaded by large oaks, the longer path, which in the fall often lay littered with acorns and leaves, in this season was populated only by squirrels and runners. Luke had trained there often and knew the terrain well. But, sensitive to her unfamiliarity with him, he directed them along the more open way along the river. The path would lead them to the bridge with its view.

“So, what do you teach?” He asked, thinking it an innocent opening.

She frowned, her bright eyes turning dark. “Students. I teach students. About life. How to get along. How to become successful.” She glowered at him. “The subjects I teach are math, mostly algebra and geometry. At our school, we believe education is more than standardized tests.”

He gulped at offending her sensibilities again. Not wanting to upset her had become important to him, though she did seem easy to annoy. Something, above and beyond the conference presenter’s arrogance or Luke’s own comments, must be bothering her. People who snarled with little provocation usually had some big disturbance in their life. He wondered if she had relationship issues, or if someone had died. “I do, too. In my classes, I want my students to think both logically and creatively. The tests are a nuisance, and overemphasized. We have a lot of good teachers, and lots of teens who are invested in learning. I’m sure you do, too.”

She shrugged, and held her hands up between them. “Sorry, I get defensive. Most other teachers look down on our school and our staff. Do you know that a couple of elementary teachers thought I didn’t have a teaching certificate?” She grunted. “And I have two degrees in education! Honors college. And yet they think because I teach ‘those kids’ I can walk in off the street with no credentials.”

“That stinks. Too many people make assumptions. I have to work on not doing it.” A robin flew in front of them, and he pointed at it. “First one of spring is flying. Mom always said that meant it would be a good year.”

“Robins are a good sign; however we see them.” She stopped to look up into one of the tall willows along the banks. “I rescued one once, and then set it free when it recovered. According to research I did, most of them don’t make it through their first year. Winters are tough for them. But, a few live as long as 14 years.” In a gesture of prayer, she brought her palms together.” I always wanted to believe the one I helped made it.”

“I hope so, too.” They started walking again. With quick glances at her, he saw she wore little make-up—and didn’t need it with her smooth unblemished skin—and her verdant eyes appeared to search for the details in their surroundings. He nodded when she pointed at a turtle sunning itself on a log along the bank. “Good catch. I love it here. Ran along this path in high school.”

“Cross country? You grew up around here?”

“Yes, to both. Four letters, all as a harrier for Twin Forks.” He didn’t mention winning one tournament at this park, the only win ever, aided by his love and understanding for these trails. “Where are you from?”

“Alpena. Came here my last two years of college, and then got the job at Lincoln Springs. I’ve never been at this park before, even though I keep thinking I should check it out.”

“Great walking areas, excellent beach, and good boating. But, I don’t swim well, so I never do much here now other than hike the woods.”

“No more running?” She glanced at him with sad eyes.

“Screwed up my leg in an accident during college. Every time I run, it starts to ache, and I don’t want to deal with the pain. This pace is fine.” He rubbed his kneecap. “A little ice tonight and I’ll be ready for another few miles tomorrow.”

“What happened?”

“I used to drink. Thought I could handle it. Never drink and drive.” Since surviving the collision with the pole, he had sworn off alcohol and drugs. “Arthritis reminds me every day. Some life lessons come hard. Fortunately, I didn’t hit anyone except an unmovable object. My car did worse than I did.”

“Thank God.” She stopped and stood in front of him. “The kids have stories like that. Most have big mistakes in their lives. But not as lucky as you. They’re so young; their ‘accidents’ and ‘screw-ups’ follow them. Torment them.” Her hands danced in front of her torso, emphasizing her words. “They need understanding. That’s what our school does. Gives them an opportunity to start fresh, with no one judging them for their past mistakes.” With a pumping of both fists, she shuddered. “Everyone needs someone to believe in them.”

 He watched her close her eyes as she leaned against a maple tree a few feet from the bridge. Nodding, he cleared his throat. “It’s good they have you—and the school.” Luke tapped his chest. “At my school, too many go incognito, or hide behind masks of anger or apathy. We—I—see them every day, and let them alone.” Their eyes met, and he sensed she listened to him with full attention. “Most of our students go through the motions of learning; a few excel. And the lost ones flail against the system, or fade into the hallways. Either way, we don’t have time for them. They’re too much trouble.”

She walked onto the bridge, and he followed. At the middle of the span she turned and faced him. They stood a yard apart. “Do you understand? They’re hurting, damaged. And you see how no one steps up to ask what’s wrong?”   

He stepped closer and nodded. “They get lost in the size of our school. We’re stretched too thin to individualize or intervene with every troubled one.”

“Unless they’re good football players.”

Starting to defend himself, he stopped with his retort frozen on his tongue. Last December the star of the basketball team had received special tutoring and extra time to redo several projects. No other students got that much extra attention. He doubted if a reserve player would have been treated as well.

She focused on his eyes. “I’m right. The jocks, and maybe the popular kids from ‘good families, are exceptions, aren’t they?” Her face contorted, as if ready to scream, or cry. “How are the outsiders, the rebels, the misfits treated? Not the same?”

Luke thought of one sophomore, a girl with short, chopped hair dyed some ghastly color. She drew bizarre pictures and grunted indecipherable answers when questioned. Reading one of her essays, he’d been struck by her deep understanding of the causes for the Revolutionary War. He wanted to talk to her about it, but she never came back to class. Later that week he heard she’d been suspended for getting caught with a baggie of grass. The police had been called, and she ended up on probation and transferred to the alternative school.

Sighing, he looked over the railing at the peaceful waters flowing toward the river some thousand yards ahead. “We push them out the doors, and hope—someone else will work with them.” He gulped, hating to admit this. “Those kids are tossed away.”

Her barely audible reply sounded far away. “I was.”

“How—?” His eyes searched for an explanation, but she shook her head with lips tightly clenched. Whatever had happened to her, she would not share—yet.

With a lowered voice, he wanted to sound as compassionate as she needed. “It’s wrong when we treat those kids differently. We should do better, and we should support your program better. We—I take teachers like you for granted. I’ll do better.”

Swaying at the apex of the bridge, she reached out to hold the barrier. “We all need to.” She looked down into the stream. “Too many people think we enable these kids, supporting their poor choices. We don’t. Every day we teach values, and promote smarter alternatives.” She took in a deep breath. When she exhaled she involuntarily whistled. “But sometimes, we just buy them time. Keep them in the system. That’s all some of them need—to outgrow the stupid mistakes of being a teenager. Why don’t people see that?”

He gently patted her shoulder, and she turned to face him. It surprised him when she reached up to take his hand. He liked the touch. “You helped me see that. I know you help them. You make a difference.”

Saige looked down at their hands linked together. “At a conference once, a motivational speaker, Larry Bell, told us something that troubled me. ‘Remember, on your very worst day, you are somebody’s best hope.’ It scared me.” She shook her head. “To think I, with all my issues and insecurities, could give hope to at-risk youth.” She squeezed his hand.

He pulled her closer. “He was right. These kids need adults to care, someone to be there. You help them. I’m proud of you.”

She looked up with her eyes moist and shining. “Let’s walk more together.”

“I’d like that.” Their fingers interlocked. “I’d like that a lot.”

Zina and Aragon

by

She had to hurry. Meeting with Rob at six, Zina had only a little time to apply her make-up before rushing off to the restaurant. With their reservations, they’d have time for a leisurely dinner before the movie at nine-fifteen. She’d been looking forward to this ever since last Saturday when he asked her at the party. Quite the catch, the handsomeness of Rob Quast made many of her friends airheaded. She knew several of them would cut off a toe to be with him. Smoothing her CALVIN KLEINS, she hoped he’d appreciate how much trouble she’d gone to for this date. Probably not, guys never believed it took so much time to get ready.

At the kitchen table she checked her phone, saw no new messages, and put the cell into her purse. Before she could zip the bag, she heard the whimper. “Oh no, Aragon. Do you really have to go?” She knew, but had hoped the puppy could wait until her housemate, Heather, got home—about the time Zina sipped the first of the Sauvignon Blanc she’d order. Aragon let out another muffled complaint. He needed out. “All right, let’s go. But be quick. I’ll be late.” She grabbed the leash and attached to his collar. The dog barked in eager anticipation as Zina thought about and rejected the idea of slipping out of the heels for her sneakers.

Knowing the yard would be quicker, Zina directed Aragon out the front door. As she took the first step down, the rain began. Large drops splashed against her freshly coiffed hair and carefully applied cosmetics. Zina winced. At that moment, Aragon lunged forward, and Zina felt the leash slip from her hands and she strained forward to retrieve it.

The next thing she knew she sprawled on the sidewalk with Aragon leaving her behind chasing something. The little dog darted across the street in pursuit of a racing squirrel. “Aragon, come back!” The rain and the increasing wind dampened the command.

Shoeless, she scrambled to rise, only to fall back in pain. Her muscles screamed injury. Pushing herself to a sitting position. Her expensive stilettoes off to the side. The aching ankle swollen. She hoped she only had a sprain. “Fuck!” The sudden shower had caught her unprepared. As the rain slapped against her face, mascara smeared ruining the meticulous effort and all the time in front of the mirror. Zina let loose with a string of profanities which would have shocked her Marine father. Now she might miss—or at best, have to ask him if she could arrive late—her first date with the best looking guy ever to ask her out. And what if she had to go to emergency? Stupid ankle. She reached for her shoes. “Damn it!” The right heel had broken! Her favorite pair—and most expensive—ruined. And it went with the outfit!

As she pushed herself to her knees, she knew she’d have to change into something else. Maybe the short green skirt and flowered blouse? First she had to get Aragon. Hobbling to the curb, she called for him again. As she scanned the park area, a rental truck roared past, hit a spreading puddle, and sprayed a cloud of water over her. “Shit!” She kneeled in the soaking grass, shook an arm in the direction of the disappearing vehicle, and allowed herself to cry. Forcing herself up, she tentatively retested the injury. It wouldn’t take much weight, but she believed it needed only a wrap and not a cast.

Balancing on her left leg, she continued looking over the neighborhood. No sign of the pup. “Aragon. Come home, boy!” Disheartened and soaked, the pelting rain weakened her hopes and she realized he had not yet figured out what “home” meant.

As she reached for her cell, she remembered it sat on the table next to her purse. Now, unless a miracle happened, Zina would have to wrap the ankle, call and ask for a “raincheck”—he would probably never want to go out with her after this—and then hobble out to find her two-month old pet.

Damn squirrel. It had dared Aragon to give chase. When the rains came, the pup had set off in gleeful pursuit of the maddening rodent, who frolicked with laughing tail swishes and chattering chirps near the big oak across the street.

Zina had responded instinctively, swiveling to give chase, forgetting about her heels and best outfit. Rushing had doomed the effort. Her skin stuck to the denim, her shoes unwearable, and her confidence shattered, she wailed for Aragon’s return.

As soon as she got inside, she dialed Rob’s number. Following her worried explanation, he replied, “It would have been fun. I’ll call you, sometime.” He hung up.

“Bastard.” She sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. “Your loss.” She knew he’d never call again, even though, despite her anger, she wanted him to. He had such great eyes, and would be great as arm-candy. Maybe, he would call?

A shiver brought her back to her living room standing over the little puddle formed by drips from her clothing. Heather would make a stink about ruined carpet and probably blame Aragon. Poor pouch. “Omigod, I gotta find him.” She raised both hands in frustration at her forgetfulness. At that moment she noticed she broken an expensive polished nail. “Shit!”

Twenty minutes later, dressed in old jeans, a tee, a windbreaker, and with her ankle wrapped securely, Zina stepped back outdoors, this time in sensible shoes. As well as she could, she hurried to the street, checked for speeding trucks, and hustled across to the park. Following the path where she last saw the runaway, she kept calling his name, and scanning the area. A scary thought raced through her mind. What if Aragon had gotten hurt, or had died? What if someone puppy-napped him? He looked adorable, and acted so friendly. Who wouldn’t want the little bugger.

Thinking back to the day she got Aragon made the search all the more desperate. Holding him had made her feel almost whole again after the last break-up. Having all but decided she faced a life of loneliness, Aragon had come into her home and lifted her spirits, returning smiles to Zina’s existence. He needed her, and adored her. Almost as much as she needed and adored him. Pets can help like that. He made her happier, more content, which showed in her demeanor and how she acted. Zina believed her improved mood helped get Rob to ask her out.

Which meant if something bad had happened to Aragon, would she spiral downward again? Knowing her patterns, probably. She had to find him! The rains picked up force, and the wind whistled through the wet limbs overhead. Autumn approached, and the hint of leaves changing color could be discerned with proper imagination.

Hair blew across her face, and she felt the dampness of the strands lash onto her cheeks. She had to squint against the increasing force of the storm which insisted she find shelter. But Aragon had to be saved. Or did she need it?

No sign of him. Ahead of her the park restrooms might offer temporary reprieve from the force of the downpour. She hurried to it, slipped on the grass and landed on the lawn ten feet from the latrines. Her whole side felt wet and miserable, her hopes of finding her dog crashing, and her ankle questioned her sanity at being out in this weather.

She half-crawled, half stumbled past curtain of rain cascading off the roof to the shelter of the overhang. Leaning against the brick wall, she shook her head. “Aragon!” Certain her scream would be lost in nature’s assault, but in desperate hope for a miracle, she repeated it.

“Is this Aragon?” A male voice made her jump.

She turned to see someone holding her pup, wrapped in a blue jacket. “Aragon!” She took him into her arms and hugged him, clutching the dog and the jacket close to her chest. Aragon licked her face and nuzzled her. “Omigod! You’re safe.”

“His leash got caught. In the chain-link fence.” The speaker pointed toward the softball fields. “I would have tried to find who he belonged to, but the rains convinced me to wait.” The young man smiled, suggesting what-else-could-I-do?

Hanging tight to her dog, Zina took a moment to look at Aragon’s savior. He stood no more than an inch taller than she. With broad shoulders and a gently rounded paunch, he looked thick and strong. His eyes sparkled even in the shade of the shelter. He reached over to pat the dog’s head. Aragon nuzzled the hand, and gave it a lick.

“Thank you for finding him. I love this puppy.” With her voice shivering in sheer delight, she kissed the fuzzy face of her pet. “You worried me so. Taking off after that awful squirrel and—”

“I lost a dog once. It got hit by a car. Worst day of my life.” His eyes closed for a moment, and he let out a long sigh. “At times like that we feel guilty, responsible. But, dogs like to chase other animals. Their nature.” He shrugged in a happens-to-the-best-of-us way. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I hope not. Stupid me. Hurrying. Had a big date, so in the rushing around . . .  ” Trailing off, she should be eating her entre about now and beginning the second glass of vino.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. He’s okay. You’ll be extra careful from now on, I’m certain.”

“I will be.” She realized Aragon tried to climb toward the young man. She tilted her head. The fellow understood, taking the animal in his arms, and the pup lavished him with doggy kisses. “He likes you a lot, more than most. I thought he only loved me.”

“We got to know each other during the storm.” They looked around, the rain had lightened and the wind had abated. “I work with animals.”

“Where?” She noted he had a warm smile.

“At the Clinic. I’m in the Vet School at RFU. Usually work with horses and cattle, but some with ones this size.” He buried his head in Aragon’s fur.

“That’s great. How’d you decide to do that?” They stood closer now, both showering the happy canine with attention, and he reciprocated with wet tongue and excited saliva. “Isn’t that scary, working with big stallions and—bulls?”

“My great-grandfather had a farm. I loved spending time out in the barns.” He stood taller and his eyes brightened. “Milking and feeding his Holsteins. Made me want to work with them, and be around them. So that’s why.” With a gentle tug he extracted his jacket from around Aragon, and scratched the dog’s ears. “By the way, I’m Ron, Ron Waggoner. Pleased to meet you, Miss . . . ”

“Ohhh.” She brought a hand to cover her mouth and most of reddening cheeks. A fear descended over her. She wondered how bad she must appear. In old clothes, with her hair unbrushed and her face unmade—other than the remnants of her earlier efforts which by now had become muddled and messed—she knew she looked like a slob. “I’m Zina. Nice to meet you.” She nibbled on a knuckle. “Sorry, I must look awful. In a panic, I went out—”

“Don’t feel bad, I’m in wet clothes, too.” She tried to interrupt him, but he held up a finger. “You’ve got a great dog, and that says volumes about what a good person you are. No reason to apologize.” As her eyes widened, Aragon gave a happy bark, glancing from one to the other. “I think you look fine, and have beautiful eyes.”

Surprised by the compliments, her gaping mouth received a generous slurp from the dog, who took turns licking the two faces. “But, I do clean up really well. I do.”

“I believe you.” He nodded. He held his hand out to see if the rain had ended. “It’s stopped. How about, you and me, and Aragon, going to get pizza? I know the owner, he won’t mind a Shitzu.”

“Like this?” Zina had a thousand alibis competing for her tongue, but held them under wrap when she heard his reply.

“Like this. Just the way we are.”

The end

Travels

by

Elaine and I have been busy in our retirements. There is an old cliché which goes, “How did I ever have time to work?” The silly comment feels true for me.

We do a lot of different things. In the last few years we have spent major amounts of time on the road. A month out WEST seeing several National Parks was a fantastic journey, with memories we will relish as long as we’re on this good earth. Ten days in Hawaii checked off a major item on our “bucket list,” but created more wants, as in wanting to go back time and again. We also enjoy so much about our great state: the lakeshore, the water falls, the forests. Michigan is a water-winter wonderland. Retreated trips to Saginaw, Indianapolis, and Gambier (in Ohio) have involved visiting relatives and allowed us to see great nephews and a great niece perform in a variety of theater productions.

We also love the Broadway Series at Michigan State every year. We have season tickets to the productions at the Williamston Theater, and think their professional theater is a treasured gem. On our calendar we plan several concerts every year at MSU, including the professors of jazz and numerous classical concerts. We love being part of the Spartan musical culture. For the first time last summer we went to the Sparrow Miracle Network/MSU Marching Band concert and loved it. A great cause abetted by fantastic entertainment.

Keeping in touch with friends is proving difficult, as it is hard to work out schedules. The social media is not the same, for us, as being together. We’re old-fashioned enough to prefer talking and dining together. Messaging and texting is nice, but not enough.

My writing takes up a great deal of time. As a world class procrastinator, I have found it helpful to go to several writing workshops, where the expectation is a writer brings something to share each time. Those deadlines keep me hopping, while I also go through the arduous task of doing a final edit on my fourth novel, Remember Now. It should be ready to submit to publishing sometime in the summer.

I loved my career at Holt Alternative/Holt Central High. Working where my students kept me fresh and alert. I met so many remarkable young people. I treasure them all. The staff I worked with inspired me and helped me maintain the little bit of sanity I have. You alternators are great. And being a member of RATS, our local group, was fun and enlightening as we shared our experiences at our schools. The Michigan Alternative Education Organization gave me a network of bright and positive educators who I relish as much as when I was an active member. Thank you all.

All that being very true, I will share a little secret. I love being retired even more. Elaine and I spend several hours every morning talking and drinking coffee. We have a beautiful yard, four great pets, and a host of wonderful memories and numerous dreams for our tomorrows.

There are aches, and pains, and down days. Those are part of existence. Good times far out weigh the bad ones. Great moments soar and excite us. Life is good.

 

Indianapolis Library

by

April 30, 2016.2

At the Indianapolis Public Library for the afternoon. The capitol city of Indiana is one of our favorite cities. A great sports town (NCAA tournaments, Big Ten Championships, and Pro Teams), it has an active downtown, numerous good restaurants, and walkable downtown. Today, we took our niece to study at the main branch of their library, and decided to stay to write, read, and browse.

We came to the Hoosier state yesterday to see our great niece and great nephew have major roles in their school’s production of Anything Goes, an old Broadway musical. Both of the teens have considerable talent, and displayed it with their performances last night. What makes the visits so special, is that the kids and their mom are positive and pleasant people who are a joy to be around.

Late April, Indianapolis is a couple weeks ahead of Lansing in the blossoming of spring. Sitting on the second floor, we have an overview of green lawns and trees, bustling streets, and skyscrapers only blocks away. In the middle of the city surrounded by books, learning, and Saturday’s families, we have found a quiet spot to observe and bask in the warmth of knowledge.

I’ve always liked libraries. With little reading material in the farmhouse, the set of encyclopedias more than doubled the family stockpile of books. What came before the nineteen-fifty-seven World Books consisted of my father’s old eighth grade textbooks, an ancient dictionary, and the family Bible.

The small one-room library at Trinity Lutheran thrilled me, once I learned to read (only in 1st grade, but I picked it up with ease). A few years later, from hearing someone at school, I learned about the Bay City Sage Library, and after some youthful cajoling, got my mother to drop me off their while she shopped. Three stories of books, magazines, and newspapers! I understood what heaven might be like.

Reading proved to be the best way to discover the world. With my parents mired in old ways (their church did not allow women to vote in church elections until 1957) my life without reading materials would have been limited to church, school, and euchre. Television, certainly, brought an element of the outside world. During the early years, limited choices and a father’s control of what we watched kept the walls high and the exploration limited.

Novels didn’t have those shortcomings. I read (devoured) The Three Musketeers, Black Beauty, Kidnapped, Grimm’s Fairy Tales (at least the junior editions), and more. By seventh grade I read adult works by Lloyd C. Douglas, Thomas B. Costain, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Samuel Sheelabarger, and Alexander Dumas among others. My imagination soared, and I even started writing my own fiction. Characters created in my head became part of my circle. (A fellow writer has a tee-shirt emblazoned with a saying appropriate for me, then and now. “Some of my best friends are fictional.)

In high school I discovered The Lord of the Rings trilogy and fell even more in love with story-telling. Frodo and Sam, Bilbo and the rest lived inside of me. Even rereading the books in my fifties, and again in my sixties, I thrilled at the adventures and the challenges the intrepid hobbits and friends faced. The creativity of the tale amazed me, as the author wove life lessons into the saga.

I also worked through War and Peace, after failing to be able to finish it in eighth grade (the complexity of the story and the multitude of characters overwhelmed me). Tolstoi stood as a virtuoso, deserving a spot on the Mount Rushmore of writers.

The love affair with reading has continued. One college instructor described Fitzgerald as brilliant, Hemingway as a genius, and Faulkner as god. Their books lifted me, taught me, and changed me. Over the last few years John Irving, Wally Lamb, Jane Smiley, Margaret Attwood and Scott Turow have taken turns as my favorites. I don’t know if I have one now, there are so many I need to explore.

We live in transitional times. Over the last years, bookstores, video stores, and other traditional places have decreased or all but died. Libraries exist that have no physical books in them! I am getting old.

But the idea behind libraries will only cease when we end these beings called human. It is in our DNA to seek knowledge, to explore, to discover. In whatever way one carries on the quest for understanding, it is vital that we continue to absorb ideas and knowledge. Life is about learning, and growth, and becoming the best we can be. Let us all move forward into the wonderful worlds of tomorrows yet unknown.

 

 

From the Clutter of J. R.’s Mind

by

Rafeal Sabatinni opened his 1921 historical novel, Scaramouche, with a sentence I have never forgotten: “He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.” I read his swashbuckler sometime in my teens, and have always wished I could have penned those words. It’s a wonderful way to look at existence. Life is often so hard to understand, it is best if we can participate in it with a good sense of humor and a positive outlook.

As a dreaded optimist, I see the glass—while the whole issue would be settled if they chose a smaller tumbler—as half full. Possibilities surround us, if we seek them out. Sure, bad things happen all the time. My life has had a plentiful share of health issues, money problems, family drama, stupid politics, and idiotic self-directed decisions. At times, life fit Richard Farina’s 1961 book, Been Down So Long, It Looks Like Up to Me, a title I’d have liked to have written. (If you’re counting, that’s two admitted cases of foolish jealousy marring my reputation as Mr. Doesn’t-Know-When-Not-to-Smile. Also, isn’t it impressive to make two literary references in the opening paragraphs? It isn’t, damn.)

Crap happens to all of us. At times, life drops it from the clouds. Fortunately, being a country kid, both my wife and I grew up on dairy farms, I learned early that manure made good fertilizer. Bad things make us stronger—unless of course they kill us, and if you’re dead, you probably aren’t reading this.

Numerous clichés promote perseverance as a key attribute in success. “Tough times never last, tough people do.” The little train believed “I think I can,” and did. Rocky Balboa, the icon of never quitting, said it’s not the number of times you get knocked down, it’s about the number of times you get up.

Words like those come easy; the trick, though, is in the doing. It’s not easy bouncing back from adversity. When terrible things hit, the inclination for many is to hunker down, build walls, and avoid people. I saw my Mother do something like that. She lived in the safest cocoon she could, wanting to stay in her circle, hating travel, and not wanting to know about the world out there. Distress as a young girl handicapped her, and she never got past it, like most of her siblings did.

She lived in fear, a terrible way to live. Always greeting guests with kindness, she maintained a veneer of smiles around others, but deep inside she trembled at changes, shrank from stepping outside her comfort zone, and wanted her children to avoid challenges. I went to college and forever after, even though being only eighty miles away, heard about being “the one who left us.”

I loved Mother, but early on I realized living in dread restricted life too much. Her example scared me into developing a different outlook. I did not want to stay within the walls of no-risk, which happens to many when bad things in life happen. I wanted to be like Scaramouche.

A lot of others do not like seeing other people be upbeat. It irritates many. As a world-class annoyer, I accept being a bad singer and worse dancer, doing both activities as if no one listened or watched. A multitude of former students will attest that my gyrating and honking fell far short of artistic efforts, but they remember they laughed, and I did, too.

Robert Fulgham wrote, All I Really Know I learned in Kindergarten. That’s true of me—and I never went to kindergarten. Never. Explains a lot, doesn’t it? But he also wrote an essay about how children change from ages six until their teen years. He asked little ones if they could sing, dance, draw, make up stories. All the little kids raised their hands and acted excited about doing these things. When, he asked a group of teens, none of them indicated they could do those things. How sad. We limit ourselves. I can draw stick figures, I can sing off-key, and I can dance—I call it dance—to the sounds of music in my ear or in my head. Doing those things may not be artistic to most, but thy make me feel good about life. My dancing and singing also proved wonderful threats for non-cooperative students. (Not willing to work, okay, how about I sing to you, dance too. No, J.R., I’ll do my assignment. Worked every time.)

Life is full of challenges some call obstacles. I could fret about it all, wring my hands in despair. Frankly, when I worry my stomach hurts. When I don’t, life is happier. And, I like to be feeling good. Despite all the wrong things in the world, I hold out hope that we can overcome, and make things better. I believe in the possibilities instead of fearing the worst. It works for me.

And please know as motivational speaker, Larry Bell, told an audience of teachers, “Remember, even on your very worst day, you are somebody’s best hope.” You are.