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Deer in the sunset By Jim Barlow Friend Sully used to gather his clan after dinner to applaud the sunset and shout, "Author! Author!" like they were at a great theatrical event. So, one evening, we followed the sun west to Hamlin Beach Park. Our hybrid glided silently up to the deer near the road. They paused for a moment, regarding us as some kind of alien space ship isolated from the real world by metal and glass. Warren, my brother-in-law, Jean and I had some of Jean's gourmet meatloaf and baked potatoes before piling into the Prius to head to Hamlin. During the meal, we watched the hummingbirds at the window and a great blue heron on the creek. Funny how the hummingbirds look bigger than the herons when they are up close. Problems seem like that. If they are up close and personal. Discomfort overwhems mass slaughter. Sister Lois, a frail 81 was in the Jewish Home recuperating from a broken hip. She was scared, lonely and angry at herself for tripping on that throw rug. The fall produced words we didn't know she knew. Had she a secret career in the Navy we didn't know about? The staff advised it might just be a medically induced phenomenon so our vocabulary expansion might be limited. Her second husband, Warren, was a tall and strong but short on words. Thoughts flowed out in carefully measured phrases of sincerity rarer in today's society. His father had been a blacksmith with Buffalo Bill's cowboy and Indian touring shows. And, Warren, as a carpenter, had helped his father-in-law build our little house on the hill above the creek. He lived for fishing, family, dogs and the outdoors. Living was about action. Lois became more demanding as the years passed. To her, living was about being careful. Action and out-of-door events were a threat. Warren felt trapped. So he had secretly disappeared for six day for fishing in Quebec with one of his son-in-laws. We patently fielded the midnight phone calls from the Jewish Home. Now Warren was back and peace was declared. She forgot and forgave. The next day we visited Lois. She looked tiny in the bed. Full of apology. Her frail small hand fit in ours. The immediate is overwhelming to the elderly. The past becomes perfect. A way of connecting with youth and those we shared it with. "Remember the time you had that snowball fight with the kids across the street?" In the dusk we parked at lot number four -- our regular spot, and hiked to the hill overlooking Skanandario - the beautiful lake of the Iroquois. Now its waters and the sky filled with a rich range of colors. On the trip back we drove into a blood red full moon. Warren and we talked of war and peace, of 9/11 truth, of fishing and fools. Fights between nations and whole cultures where beyond our control. Somebody else's kids die. Our kids are grown and safe. In fact they are vacationing in Jamaica this very moment. "Oh John, bring us back some pictures of Dunn's Falls." The kids had earned the trip. Worked three jobs. TV sets going in every room even if no one is watching them. This week, Hugo Chavez got up in front of the United Nations and called the President of the United States, "A Devil." How dare he do that. Right or wrong, we trust him. He's our president -- or the best alcoholic we've got at the movement. We have the best country that was ever stolen. We have the best sunsets, the best looking deer and the best automobiles. Even if they are made in Japan -- the Japanese learned from some American named Deming. The latest news is that Chaney-Bush are sending ships and airstrikes to Iraq in time for our elections. Nuclear war is talked about. "Will make us safer," -- they say. As the sunset turned the road ahead blood red we drove back. A rising full moon lit the way. Our astronauts must have had a good view of our flag planted up there. Life is complicated. We envy the simple lives of animals. Perhaps Americans have already made that transformation... About the author: Jim Barlow is a senior member of the Society of Technical Editors. Retired. Organizer for Veterans For Peace. Educator for Braddock Bay Raptor Research. | | | |
First Person Archive Most recent: 2008 November October September August July June May April March February January 2007 December November October September August July June May April March February January 2006 December September Submit Your First Person Story A while back, we invited listeners to send us a short story or a poem about their homes for a feature called "Stories from Home." We're resurrecting this feature, but we're calling it "First Person" a place for you to give us your stories, poems, or short fiction. | |
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