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Wood Winds of Summer

I was up with the dog at 5:30 AM. Even then I knew there were not enough hours in the day to accommodate my schedule. The morning had barely begun; already I was feeling pressed for time and out of sorts. Perhaps it was the heat, that persistent rush of summer that moves too quickly, the season gone before you know it.

Whatever had gotten under my skin, certain tasks couldn’t be ignored. I turned up the road to the tower, one of the dog’s favorite spots for his morning constitutional and mine for the view of the lake and the bay beyond. The emptiness of the parking lot surprised me on such a brilliant summer morning. The dog roamed the circumference of the lot and wandered the edges of the woods. “Get busy,” I urged him, impatient with the day slipping by and all I had to do. The chug of an engine broke the solitude. A van pulled slowly up the hill. The grey-headed driver pulled carefully into a corner of the lot. The dog made one final circle and trotted to the back of the car. I lifted his aged hulk up and in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the van driver emerge and place a tan box on the hood of the vehicle. Breakfast, I wondered? Then I thought no more about it and jumped into my car, headed for the heart of my busy day.

The engine purred. With the windows up and the AC fan on full blast, I was well insulated from the outside world. But just as I put the car in gear, I heard something. Something special. I glanced at my radio. It was off. I lowered one window and cocked my head. The noise was still unidentifiable. A neighbor’s radio? I pulled slightly forward and glanced back at the stone tower that stands guard on the hill above the lake. Through one of the deep-set, open windows of the stone edifice I spied a silhouette, arms bent and raised. A flutist. If the notes had a color, they would have been sterling, a cascade of music from a silver-haired Rapunzel in the tower.

For a brief moment, though not nearly long enough, I paused my harried schedule. The notes shimmered, softer than the air itself. I might have stayed longer. I might have listened then applauded or hiked up the spiral staircase to meet the musician. But there was something intensely personal about the music. The flutist performed deep within the thick, stone walls; he did not ascend to the viewing platform above. Unable to bring myself to interrupt, I offered silent thanks for this unexpected pleasure. I gathered the notes as they fell then took them away with me.

I carry them, still, for those days when life grows foggy, for when the view from the tower is dull with haze. Then I can climb the hill again, peer up to the tower window, and let the warm and silvery notes float skyward toward where they came.

Death on my doorstep

Death has never been invited to my home. Not that he hasn’t come and gone; I just have never offered an invitation. I know he’s in the neighborhood. I’ve seen him lurking.

I see him in the morning when my dog rises with a struggle, his back legs splayed and sliding on the hardwood floor. But then my 13-year-old puppy grabs a stick and gallops, albeit a little awkwardly, and Death is nowhere around to see his joy, to hear his excited bark, and laugh at his silly grin. I glimpse Death now and again when my happy-go-lucky buddy and I go out for a joy ride. Always the best co-pilot, it’s been months since my guy rode shotgun in the front seat, ever watchful of the road. He is safer in the way-back of his beloved truck. In his usual seat, he might fail to note my blinker or fall if I break unexpectedly in traffic. Over he would go, his balance no longer sure and steady. I see Death in the evening shadows when I coax my dear boy up for one last walk before bed. And I hear Death rustling impatiently in my puppy’s bed in the dark of night, leaving the warm, fuzzy blanket all askew in the morning.

I know Death is near, but I am not ready for his company. Surely we have a little time left. Time to walk a soft, sandy shoreline; to chase a new crop of bunnies, bunnies much too fast for an old dog to catch but that smell just as good as always; time in the office to greet clients and customers who have seen him hard at work since he was the tiniest of pups.

I have met Death’s terms before. Then, there was no choice to be made; Death’s demands were greater and could not be ignored. I’m not sure yet when he will be invited to this final celebration. I know I can’t keep him away forever. But I know that when I wake in the early morning and my dog and I go out into the dewy grass, when the day is new and fresh, I know we have more time. When my dog thumps his tail in greeting, when he kisses my hand, when he snuggles into my lap, all 72 pounds of him, he is so warm and full of life… we have a little more time.

Ladies Who Lunch

Well, we had lunch. And I’d like to think we could be called ladies. The full appellation, however, might be a stretch. We do not primp or fuss before, or during, our time together. It is almost certain that at least one of us is wearing the same outfit as that last time we met. And we (at least I) snort when we laugh. Don’t ladies who really lunch cringe at the thought?

We pick up where we left off, be it weeks or months since we’ve seen one another. There is an understanding between us like no other women we know. Blessed to have survived the years, we are even further blessed to spend time together. We are uniquely individual, yet we are almost one unit, these ladies from the Class of ’75. What one can’t remember–and there is much that we can’t, now that we’re of a certain age–then another does and fills in the blanks.

Ours are low maintenance, high yield relationships. They were forged so long ago, we can’t recall a time without one another to lean on, having outlived jobs and husbands and houses and even parents–too many parents now gone but not forgotten. Our histories have been intertwined since birth or at least before puberty. We shared a childhood, a school, a town. Together, we’ve cried and commiserated. We hurt. We heal. We lunch. Isn’t that what ladies do?

A Pet Peeve

Any business person who takes more than two working days to return a phone call should not be allowed to use the term “professional” anywhere in their resume.