Noticed - A Girl's Remembery

It was Anne's idea to stop. We really had nothing better to do, so I pulled the car into the small gravel lot off Rt. 15 somewhere in podunk Virginia. Granny's Attic, read the sign. It was a little chintzy for my taste, but then, it matched the rest of the ramshackle shop that looked as if it had been a grocery/gas stop in another life.

Anne and I wandered in, browsing through the garage-sale clutter whose age promised treasure to the diligent seeker.

But the treasure was behind the counter, the girl in blue scribbling God-knew-what on a glorified legal pad. I approached with a question about something; she had a bit to say. Her youth was out of place here, but she fit somehow, a centerpiece in this crazy quilt of an antique shop, young and old at once.

This girl was different, innocent still, with a captivating sweetness that lingered, made me want more. She didn't see me, not really. She seemed unaware of my masculinity; her sincere demeanor was unaffected. I wasn't accustomed to that. Most girls... Well, most girls had their thing.

"Our two cats had 17 kittens between them; we're trying to find homes for them," she offered. Funny, how did we get onto cats? Fascinating simplicity... "You could come by our house tonight and pick them up."

Anne wanted a cat. Or two. I wanted to see this girl again.

----------------------------------

He did come that night, with Anne. I don't know if she was his girlfriend, his sister, his friend. Anne took two kittens, and he took a short walk with me, asking questions, studying me.

I thought little of it then. I was eighteen. I made phone calls to colleges in my quiet hours at Granny's Attic, when I wasn't rearranging the old treasure-junk so that it could be found. I wrote stories, dreamed, planned my future. I had a beautiful crush on a college freshman at church whose Southern-accent bass made my head spin.

I graduated and went to college that fall, completely forgetting about the mystery stranger who had come for kittens until I heard from the owner of the antique shop that he had been back, asking about me. Two, three times. Brought a guy friend with him once. He had left me a note with his phone number. Told me to look him up if I was ever in Charlottesville.

I never did. Leaving the story unfinished suited me.

I wonder what he saw that made him want to come back. I pull the memory out every once in a while, just for the romance of it. It's one of those female things, I suspect, offering a bit of mystery, making a girl feel like she is more than she knows, lending a bit of beauty to her self-story.

He saw me; he came back to see again.

Lovely, isn't it?

Inspired this week by Joelle's sweet post, Noticed.

----------------------------------

"Within the next month, what do you think about planning a night to spend with your sisters? ...We’re having our own Sister Parties! What about you? Want to giggle, eat, cry, whatever, and then maybe afterward join us for a little blog party?" - The Run Amuck: celebrating real-life friends

And seriously, you should check out another beautifully-detailed "Remembrancer" over at Stars in Her Fingernails(what I wouldn't GIVE to have this gal's writing ability!)!





(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

The Swing

This will be my last writing installment from my archives for a while, since I also have a birthday post to write today. I hope you've enjoyed the last several days of posts.

I wrote this story when I was seventeen while I was minding the antique shop down the road from our home. I used to work there in exchange for merchandise. I had a teacup collection I was building. My grandma read this one before she died; she teared up reading it, as I did just now, reading back over it. It is still one of my favorite stories.

She sat upon the wide plank swing that hung swaying from the tall oak tree that had been there for as long as she could remember. Her wrinkled hands gingerly clutched the rough ropes that suspended the worn wooden seat. Her eyes were closed. The breeze toyed with a strand of her silvery white hair, kissing her cheeks, then the back of her neck as the swing rocked back and forth. The creak of the old ropes played in her ears, reminding her of all of the times they had groaned out their rhythmic song in gentle cadence to her life.

Her lips curved into a gentle smile.

Her first memory of the swing came from her babyhood. Cradled on her mother's lap, she had giggled playfully at each push and sway as her father propelled it in its seemingly endless dance. Echoes of her mother's laughter paid court in her memory to her father's playful grin. She could still feel the tickles he had placed on her little-girl tummy.

Her next memory came when she was three years old, old enough to sit precariously on the wavering seat and cling tightly to the ropes by herself.

"Come on, honey," her mother coached. "In, out, in out...That's it!"

She looked down in studious concentration at her chubby legs, willing them to move in synchrony to her mother's encouraging voice. The swing began to move on its own.

"I'm doing it, Mommy! Look! I'm doing it!" She leapt off the swing, the springtime wind tossing her dark curls as her mother swung her up in a flurry of giggles. The fragrance of honeysuckle perfume filled her nostrils.

During her tomboy years, she remembered swinging sandwiched between her brother's legs while he stood and pumped the swing with his much larger body. She had endured many taunts about not being able to fly as high as the boys, but she had ignored them, taunting right back. Boys didn't know anything anyway.

Things had changed for her when she was thirteen. She remembered sitting on the swing, rocking as gently as she was now, watching her mother, who was seated gracefully upon a homemade patchwork quilt.

She had come into her woman's time that day, surrounded by a golden summer afternoon. Her mother shared with her the joys and triumphs of becoming a woman, sipping lemonade while a lazy breeze cooled the rosy blush of her cheeks.

A cool, rainy autumn day from her fifteenth year darkened her memory. The swing had been wet that day, wet from the tears that heaven cried on her mother's account, tears that washed her own grief-stricken heart. Anguish tore through her soul, so that she could barely draw breath. Her mother would never share another memory at the swing again.

Then her father's arms, warm and comforting as an angel's, surrounded her slender shoulders. "Hush, darling," he whispered close to her ear. "I'm still here. Your mother wouldn't want you to grieve so."

They had cried together then, her father's tears mingling with the raindrops in her hair.

Years later, she had sat on the old swing, floating gently in the lilac-scented air of a June twilight. She stared tearfully down at the glistening crystal in the hand of the man she loved as he quietly asked for her hand in marriage. Her shimmering eyes and brilliant smile had given him all the answer he needed.

That first kiss beside the swing was one she never forgot.

"He's a good man," her father had approved later, as he softly pushed her to the sound of the familiar creak creak of the ropes. He had placed a kiss on her forehead, as light as the touch of a butterfly's wing.

Soon, it was her turn to cradle a child on her lap as her husband propelled the swing. His lighthearted laughter mingled with that of their daughter's in her heart, lingering like a never-forgotten melody in the symphony of her life.

It was she who had taught her little girl how to pump. Gentle springtime fragrances had been borne on the breath of winter's last wind while her daughter's tiny legs pumped back and forth, back and forth...She still felt the grip of the childish arms grasping her in an excited hug as the little girl voice cried, "I did it, Mommy! See! I did it!"

Her father died a few years later, finally going to join the wife he had missed for so long. She had rocked for hours on the swing, unseeing in her grief, only barely aware of her husband's support and love, and of her daughter's cherub face peering into her own asking, "Mommy okay?"

She remembered sharing her own story of womanhood with her little girl who was fast growing up, though now it was she who sat on the patchwork quilt and wondered at the miracle of her baby's transformation from awkward girl to graceful woman. She remembered her inner tears and her questioning heart as she thought of her own mother.

It was at the swing she had found her grown daughter crying from premature homesickness as she prepared to leave for college, and she had consoled her with a smile and a hug, masking her own pain, even as her father had masked his to console her when her mother had died.

"Hush, darling. I'm here. I'll always be here as long as you need me."

She had been crying inside.

Then it had been her time to tell her daughter, "He's a good man. Make him happy," as the strains of Mendelssohn's music floated to their place at the old swing just before her husband came to give their daughter away forever.

What bittersweet joy had swelled in her bosom at watching her child be joined together with the man she loved, to be one flesh forever. She said goodbye, knowing things would never be the same again.

Oh, she'd never forget the thrill of holding her first grandchild in her arms, gently rocking the swing, crooning a lullaby with the crickets and night birds for harmony. Fireflies sparkled around her, magically lighting the summer evening.

She had watched her grandchildren grow up around the swing, only occasionally having to break up an argument over whose turn it was, though swinging on the old swing was a coveted privilege. Their shouts of laughter and carefree games would forever replay themselves in her heart.

It was a grieving time again upon the death of her husband, but this time, there were only the ropes of the old swing to embrace her and tell her everything was all right with their never-ending moaning song. The sun blazed down in disrespectful contradiction to the rainstorm so long ago upon the day of her mother's funeral. She had lost all hope.

Then her youngest grandchild emerged from the house and ran to her.

"Swing wif gram-ma?" The childish lilt had given her a reason to live.

Now, she sat, swaying gently while the wind played with the wispy curls that still framed her careworn face. She opened her pale blue eyes. It was another spring day, and the world around her aged body was bursting with new life.

She rose and lifted the cane that leaned against the firm old oak and began to walk away. She looked back at the swing.

It looked forlorn, moving by itself in the wind.

Sadly, she moved slowly away from it, past the moving van parked in the gravel driveway, past the SOLD sign in the front yard.

She paused.

A car pulled up and a young couple climbed out. The young mother was carrying a little girl.

"Come on, Honey! You want to see the swing?" The young father asked excitedly, hunkering down to look into the innocent blue eyes of his child.

She followed the young family with her gaze until she felt a touch on her shoulder.

"Ready to go, Mom?"

Her own daughter was waiting for her.

She looked into the clear blue eyes so like her own and nodded hesitantly. "Yes, I think so." Her voice trembled with age and emotion.

She climbed awkwardly into her daughter's car, assisted by her son-in-law.

As they pulled away from what had been her home for so long, she looked back one last time, hoping to form one last memory of her swing.

The young mother cradled her child in her arms, laughing, while her husband tickled the little girl.

She smiled.

The Decision

This is a favorite descriptive short story of mine, written before I graduated from high school. I can never quite forget the feel of that wind in my imagination.

Cool autumn winds moan and keen wildly through multicolored trees. Showers of leaves find their whirling way to the ground. Slate-colored clouds scud across the horizon, darkening the landscape of a stately brick building and towering hardwood trees.

A slip of a girl huddles into her jacket, silently surveying the wind-tossed branches above her. Her own dark brown hair is tossed about in the many-breathed gusts, and her expressive brown eyes move as though following the unseen movements of the gale. Cheeks rosy from the chill air lend a sparkle to the eyes that seem old beyond her years, though she can’t be over sixteen. She begins to walk, silently, not seeming to care where she is going, or if she gets there on time.

A million thoughts whirl about in her mind, as wild as the wind that surrounds her. Pensive, she allows her gaze to roam her surroundings as she walks; wondering, waiting, watching. A decision looms in front of her, presenting itself in many options, and her soft brow furrows with confusion as she weighs them.

A drop of rain falls on her face, and a glorious smile forms on her sweet lips as she looks heavenward. A prayer forms on those same lips, and a peace lightens the careworn eyes. For a moment she allows herself to bask in the lightheartedness of a conclusion, then she turns and moves in the opposite direction, this time, a purpose firm in her heart.

The building in front of which she stood stands in silent approval, satisfied that it is still a place of serenity for a soul weary being. Its weathered spire reaches tall, and the bell begins to ring, sounding out a clear, noble melody to the world.
The wind whispers on its way.

My Father's Footsteps

I have to confess to omitting the final paragraph of this short children's story I loved writing. When I was younger, I had a habit of using a final paragraph to re-explain the obvious point of my writing, just to make sure my readers would get the point of what I had written. Now, it drives me crazy to read my own writing and tune out that conclusion every time.

So here is My Father's Footsteps, sans my prosaic conclusion:

The snow was crisp beneath my father’s feet, crunching rhythmically in the stillness of the moonlit night with that squeaky sound peculiar to a dry, cold snow. I followed close behind, not wanting to lose him amid the stark silhouettes of the snow-clothed forest. My own tiny feet vanished inside the footprints he left behind in the drifts.

He paved the way for me; all that was left for me to do was to step in the path that he had made. I could barely stretch my legs far enough to reach the next footprint, but he walked slowly, waiting for me to catch up to his lengthy strides.

I didn’t have much time to look around as we trod through the deep snow, so I was surprised when my father stopped a few steps ahead of me.

“What—?“

“Shh.” My father stopped my rather loud question with a quiet whisper.

At the excited tone lacing the whisper, I hurried forward in puerile anticipation, my eyes glowing with expectation. “What?” I whispered this time, enjoying the secret that seemed in the silent glow of the cold night to be exclusively ours.

My father took my little, mittened hand in his large, leather-covered one, drawing me into the circle of his arms. He reached around me to point into a meadow ahead of us.

I gasped in quiet astonishment, and my free hand flew to cover my mouth, lest my minute noise should startle the vision in front of my widening eyes.

A deer was picking its way across the unbroken snow of the meadow, which was surrounded by forest that stood in stark black contrast to the blue-white of the new-fallen snow. The deer itself was but a moving shadow, gracefully sketched against the snow-palette, filled in with the lightest strokes of charcoal.

My nose began to tickle from the prickly wool of the mitten beneath it.
I sneezed.

The deer jumped, its quiet serenity shattered by the sound of my irreverence, and in a flurry of snow and legs, vanished into the forest at the other end of the meadow.

My father chuckled. “Come on, little one,” he beckoned, standing again to walk in the same direction the deer had taken.

Too excited to even chatter about our special experience, I followed again in mute trust, wondering what else my father would have to show me as I walked unseeing, trailing in his footsteps.

And then he stopped again, this time in the center of the meadow.

This time I was silent in spite of the questions exploding in my mind as I searched in every direction around me for a glimpse of what it was that my father was seeing. Seeing nothing, I looked questioningly up at his face. He was smiling at me.

He lifted me up in his arms and directed my questioning gaze to the heavens, which were ablaze with the light that was reflected in the millions of shimmering crystals that blanketed the ground around us. I stared in unspeaking awe at the tiny points of light that paid court to the stately moon, who posed surrounded by a misty glow, beaming benevolently at his subjects far below.

My father set me down and we began to walk again, back into the darkened forest on the other side of the meadow. After the brilliant light of the skies, I felt afraid at entering the gloom again, so I drew closer to walk steadfastly in my father’s footsteps, knowing that my father saw things that I didn’t see, that he knew things I couldn’t yet know.

After a while I began to notice as I had not noticed before that the silver rays of the moon penetrated deep into the forest, etching patterns on the snow beneath the trees. Finding the footsteps wasn’t hard at all!

My father stopped again. There was a drop-off into a ravine ahead of us. To me it looked like an abyss too wide to dream of crossing. The snow had piled in the bottom of the creek-bed, deceptively sealing the thin ice beneath it.

My father lifted me in his arms again, and stepped across with ease, carrying me safely to the other side of the cliff, which just a moment ago had seemed unattainable to me. He set me down again and I looked back, shaking my head. It didn’t look so big now that I was on the other side.

My father was several steps ahead of me when I turned forward again, and I hurried tiredly to jump from one footstep to the next in order to catch up with his strides. Soon we emerged from the forest and my father stopped again, this time to carry me, for I was flagging. It was from his arms that I saw where he had been leading me.

Our home was waiting for us only a few steps ahead. The windows glowed with light that pooled in rectangular puddles on the snow, filling the silver of the night with a warm, golden glow.

(image from sxc)

From An Unwritten Story...

Summer and Justin are my two favorite novel characters right now. Perhaps it is because I haven't developed them beyond recovery. There is still hope for reality in their story, as opposed to the two novels I wrote in high school. This is an excerpt I didn't remember writing, when the words and character came together perfectly in the description.

Meet Summer, through Justin's eyes:

Summer. Her very name evoked memories he couldn’t afford. Her eyes held the sparkle of sun on water, the excitement of children on the Fourth of July, the gasping awe of the best fireworks display he’d ever seen.

She was as alive as a summer day, holding a glow that wasn’t quite sunlight, that glow that once made him leave his books behind and disappear into the regions of his boyhood with the treehouse and the creek, the fort, and the baseball games with his dad.