One Time, One Meeting

I am cautious when it comes to dragging a foreign word or phrase into my writing or speech. The uncertainties of translation, literally and culturally, are obvious. 

Yes, cautious, with the understanding I eased--tugged--students for 3 decades through translations of The Odyssey and Candide and stories by Chekov. Unrepentantly. But save that history for another time.

Today, the phrase at hand is Japanese, ichi-go ichi-e. Translated as "one time, one meeting", the concept as I understand it calls for an awareness of the precious moment, one embedded in a chance encounter or unexpected unfolding. 

Through the front windows, I can see a healthy bunch of Mexican petunias flowering on the left and late summer knockout roses blooming on the right. Just a moment ago a hummingbird swooped in to sample the petunias' purple flowers. 

I have watched the scene play out many times this summer. The first time this year I duly noted the fly-in in conversations with family and friends. But, here's the question, did I just watch the moment between flower and hummingbird for the last time? Today? This season? In my life?

Of course, the basic action is one I have witnessed--you too, perhaps--dozens and dozens of times, but each time is that one time, maybe a last time. 

By way of examples, sunrises and sunsets or trees in full autumnal show or snow capped mountains are easily imagined. Pause, for a moment, and bring to mind the same notion when with another person. One time, one meeting.

To be present for another as if a singular encounter is to--well, is to cherish the moment. Such a way of being, of sharing really, must heighten the interaction. 

Laughing, crying, schmoozing, sitting quietly. Even the mundane, a discussion of a bill to be paid, whether children have finished homework, whose turn to let out the dog, the moment may be a last and so lasting in our memory. 

Think, an embracing, an honoring, a savoring of our moments with one another. Especially children. Always.

I am not sure I've quite captured the essence of this practice, but "one time, one meeting" for me resonates. I'll try to hold the thought.

The Box (F)

Daniel Grohs did as he was coached. Why quarrel? Write down the date, write down the action. His friend Stephen said the exercise would keep the ground beneath his feet settled. A reality check of a sort.

Friday, September 21^st, moved here to the farm.

Monday, October 22^st, brought Molly from the shelter.

Friday, December 21^st, received the shipment from Gamal Antiquities

Is that all, Daniel, he knows Stephen will ask in a tone as if their lunch together were a professional session. He always calls him Daniel. Never uses the diminutive that grad students seemed to savor. Dan, will you have 15 minutes on Wednesday? Thanks for the book loan, Dan.

Well, enough for now.

Being in Stephen’s office is the same as being in Daniel’s office at the university. His diplomas and certificates in between bookshelves, some seemingly ready to topple. Papers stacked in the two chairs in front of his desk. Magazines and journals stacked on the small table behind his desk. His desk covered with papers and post-its and pens and markers.

Daniel’s office too. Except Stephen’s framed membership certificates read American Psychological Society, and American Educational Research Society, and Society for Personality and Social Psychology.

Daniel’s one current certificate, from the American Association of Philosophy Teachers.

No, not current. Not there now, Daniel thinks. Ought to add that date.

Friday, July 30^th, finished—officially—at the university.

Daniel considered the need to organize his notebooks, his notes, his emails to himself. And the small ruled notebook in his hand. Blank pages, his musings to secure his personal happiness a la Smith beyond the reach of fortune. All will be well whether the world will see or not.

In 192 pages. Acid-free archival paper the information band read. The notice ended with the slogans “always create, never compromise”. Never compromise, an idea his students would have chewed on for an hour even in his intro course.

Daniel split the thin wrapper with his thumbnail and peeled it back. He crumbled it into his front pocket. The elastic place holder had a good snap to it. Opening the notebook to the middle, he brought it to his nose. A slow inhale. A smell, a freshness, faint but there.

Always create. Always?

Sunday, December 23^rd The sun out, temps still above freezing in the morning, high this afternoon—probably 3-ish—48 degrees. Molly chasing around in front of the house. Again, Friday, September 21^st moved here to the farm. Monday, October 22^nd brought Molly from the shelter. Friday, December 21^st received the shipment from Gamal Antiquities.

Daniel shuddered as he read that last fragment. He put his pen in the book and closed it. He looked out over the terraced orchard of apple trees, now leafless. Several hundred feet below was the state highway and beyond that woods thick with pines and elms and maples, dogwoods in the understory, and pin oaks.

To the south, just before the road made a slow turn around the base of the ridge he now lived on, he could see the metal roof, and smoke rising from the chimney, of Mrs. Graylon Tate, his nearest neighbor.

“Guarantee, the Widow Tate will mind your business,” Harry Sims told him. Daniel chuckled at how old-fashioned the term sounded to his ears. In his head, he heard The Widower Grohs. The Widower Professor. Widower Dan.

Harry spent two weeks refashioning the drive from the highway to the cabin, turning it into a more gently sloped curve that would resist being impassible in heavy rains or snows. Daniel flinched at the cost of the new route and upgraded surface, the 1500’ priced at $7800. Harry’s final pitch was uttered emphatically. “Professor, my roads will stay roads long past the customer being here on this earth.”

Daniel opened the notebook. Don’t put your hand in an anthill. Don’t ask why ants, why they bite, why mounds, why your yard. Just don’t touch.

Montaigne would understand, Epictetus would approve. Molly came back up the front steps and hopped up in the rocking chair next to his. The other two chairs were on the other side of the front door. Here, their rockers were in the late morning sun.

Clicking the pen, in, out, in, out, he decided other matters pressed. Unlike Hemingway’s declaration, he was going to stop when he had no idea what comes next.

Inside, Daniel glanced up the refurbished stairs to the former loft that now was a large guest bedroom with a full bath. Other than the weekly dusting and vacuuming, he didn’t go up, all the spaces he needed now on the remodeled first floor.

As he headed to the kitchen, he shook his head a bit, remembering how heavy the box. Each step up taken carefully, both hands under the box. He set it upright as the arrow directed in the corner nearest the dormer. Sitting on the bed, he had studied the packaging, heavily taped ends, heavy staples to secure the box from top to bottom, about a foot by a foot by three to his eye.

Tears came. A little coffin. For a small body, in that small box. What could have prompted such a purchase? Daniel stood up and wiped his eyes with his t-shirt and, without a glance back, had closed the door behind him.

In the kitchen, the phone rattled on the granite counter. Daniel didn’t think to reset the alert sound after leaving the lawyer’s office two days before. The message was from Stephen—lunch tomorrow, usual from La Cocina, around 11:30? Daniel paused for a moment, then typed Okay.

Lyman 2018

 

 

 

 

 

       

 

Nellie Long and the Emerald Bird (F)

Nellie Long’s head popped up from painting her toenails. “What!” A cry of a bird. She stood up from the patio chair. There it was again. Kind of a ‘caw’ but way too loud for a crow. Kind of a ‘screech’ but not really.

She looked over to Uncle Seve’s yard to see if he was working in the garden. No. She set down her polish and walked slowly back to the gate. Nellie tried to keep her toes up off the grass and so she walked on her heels. Slowly. Very slowly.

When she got back to the old cherry tree, she heard the cry again. So loud. Right over her head. Looking up, she could see something like a shadow in the branches and leaves.

“What is that?” she asked out loud.

Suddenly, the thing above her spread out its wings. It was huge. Nellie ducked a bit. She had never seen such a big bird. Was it a bird?

Another loud cry, and off it flew. Nellie opened the back gate and tried to follow. Her steps were still short, toes lifted.

Now the bird seemed to be in the oak just beyond the wild blackberry bushes. Was it hooting? Not like an owl. Was it cooing? Not like a mourning dove. What an odd sound.

What a time for Uncle Seve to not be outside.

Finally Nellie stood under the oak. There out on one of the longest, fattest limbs was—well, it was a bird. A great green bird. A great green bird with a bright yellow beak. A great green bird with a head of long pink feathers.

“Holey moley, guacamole!” She almost fell backward to the ground.

The great green bird flapped its wings and flew out of the tree and up to the roof of Nellie’s house. Nellie forgot about her toenails and ran after the bird.

There on the roof the great green bird spread its wings out wide. The sunlight struck the wings and like a great emerald fire the wings blazed up.

Should she get her camera? Should she get her mother’s phone? But she just stood there watching the bird hold out its wings.

“What are you?” Nellie shouted. Not that she thought the bird would answer her. But maybe.

The bird did seem to be staring at her, wings folded in again. The bird tipped its head, left then right. Nellie shook her head. Maybe she didn’t see the bird. Maybe it was all in her head.

The great green bird flapped its wings and leaned forward.

“Wait! Wait!  Don’t go,” she called.

Again the bird folded its wings and seem to stare at her.

I’ve got to get someone out here, Nellie thought. To see this bird. A real bird, green and sparkling, like it was on fire. An emerald bird.

Suddenly the bird came flying down off the roof and right over Nellie’s head. It turned and flew around the side of the house toward the front yard. Nellie ran to the side gate and out after the great green bird.

Around the corner by the garage she ran. “What?”  No bird. Gone. The great green bird was gone.

Now walking past the mailbox was a tall man wearing a cowboy hat.

“Mister! Mister, did you see that green bird?”

Nellie heard him laugh, and he took off his hat as he turned to face her.

“Antonio! What?”

“Well, good morning, Miss Nellie. Glad to see you again. Hope you are doing fine on this lovely start to the day.”

“Antonio, you are here?”

Again he laughed. “Well, yes, I think I am here. Yes, I am here. But, I must be going. You know how that goes sometimes.”

“But, but—the big green bird? I saw it. It was here. Now you are here.”

“Yes, a great green bird. Quite a thing to see. And, yes, I am here, but—“

“You must be going.” Nellie sighed.

“Right you are.” He smiled and put his cowboy hat back on.

Nellie folded her arms in front of her. “Will I see you again?”

“Someday. Might be any day. Be well, Miss Nellie Long.” And off he went down the street.

“Goodbye!” she called to him. Then, she muttered to herself, “I did see that green bird.”

Nellie turned and headed back to the patio.

 

 

Thursday Twofer: Angelou & Heaney

    Bird, Gone (for Maya Angelou)

the bone, 
scaffolding,
the flesh, 
a cage

uncaged thus,
then Bird soars,
below, 
the world atwitter

taken to wing, 
in silence, she says, 
so she, ascending, 
might hear the voice of God

     

Ladson 2014

        For Seamus Heaney

Above the vale beyond the meadow

where cows stand unattended,

clouds gather like sea foam wind sent;

the sun dimmed, the morning light

and headstones gray, one marker

targeted by boys to be berried;

they who are neither kith nor kin

keep stiller now, shushed by the parson—

quaint now in these louder days—

silenced they are without any knowing

that here may be penned a thousand songs.

Ladson 2013

SC Gub'nor to End Child Passenger Laws

Columbia (Iwitlessnews) The Right Honorable Henry Dargan McMaster, Gub'nor of South of Carolina, this morning urged the Republican legislative majorities to rescind all laws regulating safety seats and child passengers.

"Parents know best. Not much difference between 19 pounds and 21 pounds, and the children can't see as much of our beautiful Palmetto state riding backwards," the Right Honorable Gub'nor McMaster said. 

"In fact," the Right Honorable Gub'nor McMaster continued, "the whole seatbelt situation is an affront to personal liberty. We might roll those laws backward (sic) on that front as well."

"I have very fond memories as a boy--maybe 5 or 6--of riding up front with my Daddy McMaster, leaning my arms on the dash, so I could see more of our beautiful Palmetto state," said the Right Honorable Gub'nor McMaster. 

"My Daddy and my Momma knew what was best for me. Didn't hurt me a lick neither. So I'm asking the legislature to move on this onerous usurpation of personal liberties here in our beautiful Palmetto state.

"Also, we have been losing too much by way of fees to South Carolina's boys and girls driving up to Buncombe County (NC) to get married. Therefore, I'm asking for a lowering of the legal consent for marriage to be dropped to 13 in our beautiful Palmetto state.

"Furthermore, we don't want to forget our friends in business and industry who give us jobs so we can live in such a beautiful state. So I'm asking our minimum age for full-time employees also be dropped to 13 so those fine married couples can provide for their families," said the Right Honorable Gub'nor McMaster.

The Right Honorable Gub'nor McMaster added as he left the podium that "Yes, we are considering Open Carry in all public schools this year.  Enjoy the rest of your day in our beautiful Palmetto state."

After the news conference The SC Highway Patrol, the SC Sheriffs' Association, the SC Police Chief Association, the SC PTA, the SC School Board Association, the SC Pediatric Alliance, the SC Medical Board of Examiners, and the SC EMS Association issued a joint statement urging the Right Honorable Gub'nor Henry Dargan McMaster to withdraw his proposals.

Like It Is (For Now)

Turning 68 I find to be extraordinarily (super) underwhelming.  Not like, oh, 10 or 13 or 16 or 18 or 21, maybe 30. I did flinch at 35, thinking a sort of midpoint being reached, but then I realized odds were my horizon may extend out a bit further. But you never know. 

Somehow I have come to believe 70 will bring a certain gravitas into the mix, but just 2 years to set aside my foolishness seems decidedly (super) unlikely. Truth: Perhaps I just like the sound of the word--gravitas.

Oh, becoming eligible for Medicare, that's a milestone.

I'm healthier now than I was throughout most of my 50s. Some of that is self-discipline, some is being away from the stress of my day job. Not stronger. Not faster. Not smarter. Healthier.

Kinder, gentler, too, I hope.

My attention span has withered significantly. Where once I would read nearly nonstop for 3 or 4 hours, now a single hour is a bit of a stretch. Fiction has all but disappeared from my reading habit. Why? Most of the time the novels are too long by a hundred or more pages. And I find I really don't care all that much about the characters. Live, die. Get a life, don't. So nearly all nonfiction these days for me.

Sitting through a movie without commercials is nearly impossible. I like the breaks. Get up, wander around, maybe go outside, forget the movie is back on. And don't care.

I like the sound of children playing better than--okay, it's a very long list.

Folks yapping about a life without regrets, well bully for them. I do have regrets, especially for hurting people. To me regrets are like scars. Nothing wrong with reminders of something gone wrong. Sure, sure, going forward, I hope not to generate new regrets. I'm trying.

I'm not a fan of the word wisdom. Let's dial back expectations of one another and allow that experience accumulates and may matter in some fashion along and along.

Understatement is undervalued these days. 

Irony, too, I suspect.

Way back in the day--half a century ago--on a birthday my friends and I would suggest that thoughts and reflections should be offered up with said special day. And I say now what would be the standard response back then: I got nothing.

Oh, more importantly, one more thing, the day after my birthday--August 12th--is World Elephant Day. 

Tug Baker and the Ginormous Surprise (F)

Tug Baker let his worm on the end of his line swing out to the edge of the lily pads. The morning sun was still lower than the trees on the shore, and a cool breeze blew in from across the pond.

Dragonflies landed and lifted off from the dock posts. Some geese honked in the distance.

Tug felt it was a great morning. To Tug it seemed like it was going to be his special morning.

Something grabbed his worm, and Tug easily hooked the little crappie. He brought it to the bank and unhooked the fish. Splash, back into the water.

Tug put a fresh worm on his hook and again landed the bait next to the lily pads.

While Tug watched his bobber, he noticed a little wave out in the middle of the pond. The wind wasn’t strong enough to make that wave. He took his eyes off his bobber.

Now something really was making waves out in the water. The waves were large enough to come into the lily pads and to make a little splash on the shore where Tug was standing.

Weird, Tug thought. Maybe a turtle. Maybe a beaver.

Okay, now the water was rising up as if something—a submarine—no—a rocketship—no. What in the world was under there?

Suddenly the water rose up four feet, no five, and there in front of Tug was a ginormous catfish. Not large. Not huge. Ginormous!

And it was swimming now right at Tug. He dropped his cane pole and stepped back. Should he run? Should he call for help?

On the catfish came, at least 10 feet from the water to the top of its back. Right up to the edge of the lily pads, it swam.

“You, boy, who said you could fish this pond?”

Yes, that’s right. Hard to believe, but that was the ginormous catfish talking. To him!

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” the catfish roared. “You see any other boy standing here?”

“No. No, Mr., uh Catfish, sir.”

“Hmmm, Mr. Catfish, I like that. Sir, I like that too. Perhaps you’re not just another one of the boys throwing hooks out into this pond.”

Tug stood still, looking at this massive fish.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Tug. Tug Baker. Uh, sir.”

“Well, Tug Baker, I’m feeling kind of nice today. I’m feeling extra large today. I think I’m going to do you a favor.” The fish pushed forward so his head was on the shore.

“You want to take a ride?”

“A ride?”

Yes, a ride. Climb on. Here let me turn sideways. Get on up.”

Tug reached up and started to climb. The catfish used a fin to boost him up. And off they went. Fast!

Tug held on with his hands and squeezed his legs into the catfish’s back.

Zoom, they swam on the surface out to the middle of the pond. The catfish turned in great circles that made the waves race to the shore. The catfish splashed his tail and water shot up over his back and Tug.

Now Tug didn’t know how long they rode around, but it seemed like a long time, but it seemed like a short time too. The catfish swam straight in to where Tug had been fishing, slammed to a stop, and Tug went head over heels, splash.

Soaked. The ginormous catfish laughed and turned away.

“See you later, boy!” and it disappeared into the pond waters.

Tug picked up his pole and walked up to his house. His mother saw him coming in dripping wet.

“Tug Baker, how in the world did you get so wet fishing?”

“Well, Mom—“

“And don’t tell me some fish story.”

Tug looked at his mother and then shook his head. “Never mind.”

 

 

 

The Van (F)

Sondra Hull marked herself Safe.The first call came from her sister, Janice. “You’re safe?  You weren’t there?”

“Yes, I’m safe. I was there. I was right there.”

“You saw it?”

“I saw it all. They all went in in front of me.”

“In front of you? What—“

“I was the first car to stop before the bridge. I mean where the bridge was.”

“Oh my god, Sondra. Like right there?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god! Do you want me to come over? Are you okay?”

“I’m making tea.” In front of her on the dining room table sat her cup from Turkey, the one Gary picked out as a true antique.

“For god’s sake, Sondra. Tea? Tea?”

“What should I be doing?”

“Why aren’t you hysterical?”

“Should I be? Hold on, the water is ready. I don’t know what I am.”

“Sondra—“

“I should call Mom before she hears. Let me call you later.”

“Oh my god, Sondra. Okay, okay. I so thankful you’re alive. Call me. Call me soon.”

“I will.”

Sondra poured the hot water into the pot and set the lid down gently. Call Janice back and what? Recount the cars slamming on brakes and skidding down the slope into the canyon. The truck in front of her flying into the air. The silver Toyota van that just sped by her before sliding into—what would be the word. Gary would say into the oblivion.

Mom. Mom would be hysterical. She closed her eyes.

She dialed. “Mom, mom, I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Hear what, sweetie?”

“The 285 bridge collapsed.”

“Oh, no! That’s terrible. How did you hear—on the news, I guess.”

“I was there, Mom.”

“No, no. No! There? What there?”

“I was the first car to not go over, over into the river.”

“Oh—oh, Sondra—I can’t….” Her mother started crying. “Oh, my girl, my precious girl.”

“Mom, mom, I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“You’re home? You’re alone? When will Gary get there? Does he know?”

“No. I don’t know. Janice called. I haven’t called Gary yet.”

“My god, Sondra. You could have—I can’t even—“ Again, her crying was audible.

“Mom, I’m home. I’m safe. Let me call you back later. Call Dad.”

“Yes, yes, I will. Oh god, Sondra.”

“I’m okay, Mom. Call Dad.”

“Call Gary.”

“Yes, yes. I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, Mom.”

Sondra poured the hot tea into her cup. She closed her eyes. Nothing. She shook her head. She heard no one screaming. Windows were up, air conditioner running hard. They must have been screaming. And cursing. And praying. Did they have time for prayers? Again, she gave her a head a shake, as if a clearing away. A slate to be wiped clean.

She took a slow sip after blowing gently across the cup. Outside the summer sun was mid-morning bright and the crape myrtles were blooming.

Call Gary, need to hear his voice, let him hear my voice. She set down the cup and looked at her phone.

Sondra drew in a deep breath and pushed the cup away from her. She leaned forward so her forehead was resting on her folded arms. That van. Was that a mom driving? That van, that van, that van. Oh, god, that van.

Lyman 2021

 

 

Patience

Is a virtue. Is a virtue?

In two weeks, two of my younger neighbors will begin 2nd and 3rd grades. Nothing extraordinary in those two levels, but their beginning catapults me back to turning 26 and accepting a position as a 2nd/3rd grade teacher because of an overflow of students in a Baton Rouge elementary school.

Yes, I was finishing a degree in secondary ed at LSU, but, hey, the job was certainly more lucrative than driving as a courier for a local bank. And was kind of, sort of, related to my intended future, a high school English teacher. Sort of, kind of.

By the way, my schedule was adjusted to accommodate my student teaching spring semester--mornings with 7- and 8-year-olds, afternoons with 17- and 18-year-olds. Interesting teaching day.

Now how patient was I that late August when my new charges filed in that first day? Oh, I'm sure somewhere there's a spectrum for measuring patience, but I'm guessing my threshold was not much more than middling. 

I won't belabor the point, but the simple act of my young students changing from one task to another slowed me way, way, way down. Does slow and steady win the race? Oh, we were slow and steady. Some children slower, some steadier, to be sure. 

I adjusted.

This growing season includes tomatoes and cucumbers, which I share with neighbors and family. New to the rotation at the request of the rising 3rd grader are sweet potatoes, Beauregard. and Mahon Yams (Not yams, but sweet potatoes). 

The 90-day growing cycle in a container has met with a mixed response. Yes, she notices the vines growing up the fence. Yet, no obvious action like the cucumbers and tomatoes, and so not so impressed. That waiting thing, you know. And I can make no guarantee about what we'll find when we harvest the crop. 

Just be patient, I tell her.

I haven't told her about the Chinese wisteria a niece of mine seeded--in a pot no less--which may take 10 years to flower. My niece was 11 at the time and now is fifteen and taking her driver's license test soon. She may be 21 when the first spring blossoms appear, nearly half a lifetime for her. 

By the way, Chinese wisteria vines spiral clockwise and the Japanese type the opposite. What Southern Hemisphere wisteria might do, I can't imagine.

But, we wait. 

Another month on sweet potatoes. Another 6 years, perhaps, on the wisteria.  How each will turn out remains to be seen. We face the unknown, the uncertain, and the waiting. I am good with that. 

Maybe ultimately patience, then, is rooted in another trait. Faith.