Cozy

There's nothing sweeter than snuggle milk under our snuggle blanket on our snuggle couch as the sun is just rising in the sky through a cold and misty window. Just me, a sleep-sweet toddler, and non-stop cuddles for a half hour or so, until we're off to the races. I fear the day he's too old for this ritual. Another tidy way to sum this up:

Warm baby = best blanket.

Homemade

The Instant Pot, if you haven't heard, is the octopus of kitchen appliances, with seven functions in one like an army of arms steaming your vegetables, defrosting and baking your chicken, and perfectly cooking your pasta into one lovely dinner—all in under 15 minutes. It'll probably bake you a cake and frost it, too for all I know. It's truly a wonder.

I know I sound like an infomercial right now, and I expect I'll probably carry on like this for another three weeks (at least). But here's how how I went from kitchen drop-out to head cheerleader for the IP team:

• Last year a close friend of mine starts talking about some crazy kitchen trend. I ignore her. 
• She alerts me—via chat—that a pretty substantial Amazon sale is going on. She convinces me that despite recently dropping down to one income, my family should invest in one. She's very convincing. 
• I decide it will be a "Christmas present" for my "husband," which will justify its hasty purchase, so when it arrives in the mail I tuck it away in our basement. It's summer.  
• Our other close friend buys one at the same time, and from that day on, I hear nothing but nonstop IP recipe reviews from both of them. I feel completely left out, annoyed that the holidays are so far away, and based on the chatter, not entirely convinced of the investment. What was I thinking? 
• At last, Christmas Eve: when deliberating on how we'll cook the turkey, I resist a gigantic urge to give my husband his "gift" a little early, but am talked out of it (by him). I will regret this later.  
• Christmas comes and goes. I completely forget to wrap and give my "gift" to "Erin". It remains in the basement until sometime later. I'm thinking about Curry (as I often do) when, in a flash, I remember the Instant Pot. I yell to my husband that he has a late Christmas present to open! I don't even pretend like wrapping it is an option. 
• After a rather weak reception by said recipient, I spend the next 72 hours memorizing the manual, studying the IP forums, and cooking the next five consecutive meals in the IP. 

I'm happy to report that mashed potatoes, green beans, and steel coat oats have a thumbs up. For dinner tonight, I steamed kohlrabi, caramelized onions and mushrooms, and cooked a batch of wild rice to perfection. Hooray for gifts that are actually for yourself!

Family

When I was little, "family" meant my mom, dad, sister, and me. We were close. Maybe too close? We tolerated various members of our extended family—and occasionally enjoyed spending time with them—but for the most part we preferred hanging out together, laughing, eating, and watching movies. I didn't learn until many years later that my parents could be pretty overbearing and...intense, I'm told.

When I moved away, "family" became my tight circle of friends.We were also close...in pretty intimate and familial ways. We broke the rules, we bucked tradition. We established an anti-establishment spin on what a family could be. We vowed to find ways to stay close forever, and even raise our children together. I don't doubt that had we had more flexible careers and a property we could afford, we could've been mistaken for a Big Love commune.

But alas, New York is cruel to those with real estate dreams, and so our family became splintered the way families do when no roof can contain them. Couples welcomed bouncing babies and became threesomes. Some of those threesomes moved away, myself and my partner included, with promises to stay close. Weekly video calls became monthly phone calls. Monthly phone calls became off again on again chat rooms. Our bonds remain strong, but the tethers long.

Today, "family" has an entirely different meaning. Our circle is a lot smaller than I expected. But having weathered our respective blood lines, our far away and fickle friends, the ups and downs of a nontraditional relationship, and several moves to unfamiliar, sometimes unfriendly places, my husband and son and I are growing bonds that get stronger every day.

Someone made me smile

We decided, long before our children were ever born, to never lie to them.

This is a bit laughable as I look back on it now, as I probably tell tiny white lies every day: "I'm sorry baby, I can't play with you right now because Momma's working," I say as I click through Facebook to skim the news. Or, "Darn it, it looks like we're all out of cookies.... how about some cheesy broccoli instead?" [Note: I'm pretty sure Erin still abides by this rule, though I have no idea how.]

But as a couple, and for such a weighty construct as Christmas, how to handle Santa Claus has been a tricky and longstanding debate.

We aren't religious, so embracing the story of Jesus never felt right. And perpetuating the commercial hullaballoo of Santa Claus didn't appeal, either. Any fictional character or myth that requires a lot of elaborate storytelling or choreography to be convincing seems like a violation of trust, if not a complete departure from the basic tenants of physics, logic, and common sense. Our unusually perceptive son would be on to us before long anyway, so what was the point?

Yet, Santa Claus is an institution much larger than us. Who wants to be the assholes whose son ruins Christmas for everyone? So we compromised: we'd tell our son about "Santa," but it'd be Erin dressing up each year for a brief cameo. That way, Daddy being jolly old St. Nick would be true, while not confusing his more innocent classmates when Ash talks about the presents he got from him. Or at least, that was the idea.

Trouble was, we failed to work out the particulars. Last year it didn't matter: the kid was 7 months old and wouldn't have known Santa from a houseplant. I'd gotten a cheap costume for Erin online and it was no trouble to mildly bewilder our son when he was handed a ball by a strange man in a red suit. No biggie.

But this year, with a precocious 20-month old, the message really mattered. The sheer mechanics of this plan was worth discussing in detail, yet we completely neglected to do so until it was too late. Did we agree on leaving gifts out under the tree? Turns out, nope. Who was responsible for the goodies in the stockings, us, or Santa? Totally unclear. If Santa arrived at a time when Daddy was conveniently "in the bathroom," what's all this business about him coming down the chimney during the night? And who the heck are all those imposters at the Mall? There were answers for none of it.

We got so many things wrong that morning, including who, what, when, where, and why Santa is....yet when Kris Kringle arrived festooned with an obvious fake beard, no belly, and suspiciously similar glasses to Daddy's, (not to mention a"Ho, ho, ho" that bellowed in a familiar baritone), we still managed to completely dupe our son. When Ash looked nervous, we went as far as to tell him it was "just Daddy in a costume" but it did no good: as soon as Erin reappeared in Daddy clothes, Ash ran off to figure out where the heck Santa went. And has been talking nonstop about him and the globe he left for days now. All in all, the ruse was a roaring success. Once again, I found this to be the most amusing possible thing, and delighted in capturing it best I could. This is one tradition that promises to make me smile for decades to come.

Thankfully, we have a few more years to get our story straight. :-)

The night before

The night before Christmas, I can never sleep.

Part of it is my fault. I stay up too late puttering around, there's a myriad of things to do: last minute presents must be wrapped, the house must be rigorously cleaned (more than usual, for who doesn't want a fresh house on Christmas morning?), and as I've recently learned, there's no better time to prune the toys, as they'll never be missed once the new ones arrive.

But the late hour is often compounded by the fact that I've also probably stayed up late a night or two before that, for it's the holiday season and I'm prone to overextension. So by the time Christmas Eve rolls around I'm completely overtired, and when I'm overtired, I can't sleep. Throw in a little residual Christmas spirit from my childhood—where somewhere in my unconscious I have one ear cocked for sleigh bells on the roof and rustling under the tree—and I'm pretty much screwed.

Not in the morning, mind you. Adrenaline and my child's unadulterated glee gets me through that part, not to mention the excitement of presents and spiked coffee. But when the booze and caffeine wear off, and the work of the day begins (picking up the explosion of wrapping paper, starting dinner prep, corralling an overstimulated toddler) I start to fade. I have to will myself to remember that exhaustion is my number one trigger for anger snaps, so I voluntarily busy myself in the kitchen for an hour or two, doing my best to steer clear of anyone likely to provoke me. Because no one wants that kind of Christmas, least of all me.

But as dinner gets well underway, and my child becomes wholly occupied with his new amusements, a few glasses of wine later and I'm back to floating on serene contentment, loopy if not completely happy. My partner's holiday cheer has rubbed off, the day is deemed a wild success, and sure, maybe I'm a little tipsy, too. A delicious feast ensues, cleanup is put off till morning, and I'm primed for what I know is perhaps the the best feeling in the world: collapsing into bed, fully spent, on Christmas night.

Sparkle

On our Christmas tree each year since I was my own son's age there has been a tiny, nondescript ornament nestled in amongst all the blinkies and sparkles. What it lacks in pizazz, it makes up for in sentiment: it's by far my most most adored, cherished ornament, the one I pile all my nostalgia onto (trumping the handmade ornaments my parents made before they were married, the snowblob with my son's handprint, and the Walnut I colored with markers and put on a string on in Kindergarten) because it includes a most basic and treasured ritual: reading aloud on Christmas eve, from the tiniest of books, the Night Before Christmas.

But as we decorated the tree this year, for the very first time in my entire life, I realized that I can no longer even squint through glasses to see the tiny print. My son not yet old enough to read, this seemingly timeless tradition may have to end, or be severely compromised by allowing someone else besides me or my blood to execute it. Or relying on the likes of Google in an unfair assist.

So, I comforted myself by falling back on my second most favorite tradition: eating the year-old piece of candy I hide in my Reindeer squeezy-mouth ornament each season as we're packing away our Christmas decorations. Oh, and catching hell for it from my husband who thinks the shelf life of chocolate is like, an important detail or something.

This year on on its eve we'll read the Night Before Christmas even if I have to pull the words out from deep in my memory bank to do it. All the while, I'll try to remember that even the strongest of traditions die out with time. But like old bulbs on an ancient string of lights, they can be replaced with new ones that'll sparkle and burn bright for years to come.

Tree

There's something unnervingly authentic about cutting one's own Christmas tree, though I can't say I'm entirely for it. It's a personal decision, perhaps, and one I think of in the same vein as hunting: assuming it's a healthy, sustainable population, which most tree farms are these days (and more so), taking the living out of another living thing is a perfectly respectable decision, if not the most ecologically and morally responsible, when you're willing to do the dirty work yourself. You know. Get muddy, curse the cold, question whether you really have it in you to look that poor thing in the soul before you cut its life short.You might even go to great lengths to repurpose all the usable parts: tree scraps become mantel ornamentation, dried needles become fodder for winter fires. Yet, every time, I think to myself: gosh, wouldn't it be easier if we just went to the Christmas tree store? Wouldn't it be better for Mother Earth, her trees in dwindling supply, to just opt for a fake one, like the Tofurky of the forest? I grapple with these questions each year as we trundle off into the woods, a waiting thermos hot chocolate my only conciliation, knowing full well our adventures in tree hunting are always more pain (in the rear) than cost. But I know the real reason we do it, and it's 100% selfish: the feel of the greenery when we touch it, the smell of it filling our house, the springy way it gives when our ornaments land. It's the very taste of Christmas—and it's delicious.

Gift

"Oh hey, can you stop by the post office and pick up that package for me?" he says as I'm running out the door. "Fine," I sigh, grabbing the USPS slip and ducking out, only an hour to run my errands during our kid's nap and not a moment to lose. I relish these outings and normally I'd try to stretch it out but today it's all business: bank, hardware store, TJ Maxx to return a sweater. Now add the Post Office. Great. "It's from my Dad, should be a big box," he says. Even better.  

I arrive to the post office and no surprise, a long line. What is a surprise is that when I hand over the slip the man doesn't go into the back room but instead reaches behind him into a small closet, and pulls out an envelope. A tiny one.

"Merry Christmas!"

The certified piece of mail has only two pieces of information on it, but it's all I need. 1) It's addressed to my husband. 2) The return address is from a popular tasting room we've been wanting to try. (Side note: guess where ladies? C'est Cheese!) Merry Christmas indeed!

When I get home, I casually drop the piece of mail in front of him, and try not to smirk. The look on his face, surprised and busted, is a little gift all it's own.

Winter

* Please note posts for December 20 - January 2nd celebrate the season! Reeves' AWBOD's prompts resume Jan 3rd.



Captain Obvious here! Winter in New York is, like, really winter.

(Side note: I feel the need to put a disclaimer here for those [ahem, Jodi] who have lived in places that crush New York's winter—aka most of Canada, Alaska, Siberia, Antartica, you get the picture—for you, this will read very silly. However, my point still stands).

Winter here is the way it looks in movies, the way it's taught in school (bare trees, cut-out snowflakes!), the way you can mark memories by what the weather was like outside down to the fiscal quarter. In the northeast, a year really feels like a year.

On the west coast, a year is basically a long stretch of a singular season, with only the smallest of deviations. For example, winter in southern California is uncomfortably hot, only to crank up to blazingly hot in the summer. In the Pacific Northwest, a pleasantly cool and sometimes wet summer turns into a grey and rainy winter, where your only weather protection might be an anorak and a pair of duck boots (most folks don't even bother taking off their sandals. Or putting on pants, for that matter).

Here I get to bundle up with proper hats and mittens, experience (and dread) long stretches of blistering cold, fight ice storms and snow storms, even blizzards—and it's a wild ride. But I really love being able to measure a year with nature's own yardstick. I like having an end—to whatever it is I'm feeling—in sight. Winter is winter in New York, and it's the winter-iest thing I know.

* Please note posts for December 20 - January 2nd celebrate the season! Reeves' AWBOD's prompts resume Jan 3rd.

The Tasty Spoon Diner

* Prompts in bold, week of 12/16-19

Dale Diggins sat at his regular spot at the counter and ordered the usual: salmon with green beans, mashed potatoes, and extra tarter sauce on the side. Given this was Nappanee, Indiana and the fact that Dale was dining in a rail car diner, it seemed improbable, if not geographically impossible that this was the very best dish on the dinner specials. But he'd sampled the entire menu several times over. Not to mention Dale knew a thing or two about quality seafood, having ordered fish in a candlelit restaurant in New York once—the trip he got to wave to Noreen on TV as he waited in the cold outside the Today Show, before she left him—and had dined twice in Chicago on business, before he got laid off.

Breakfast at the diner was a whole different story, though. Eggs were the star of the show, any way you wanted 'em, with a whole column of add-ons. His favorite combo was goat cheese and bacon. Carol said no one in the history of The Tasty Spoon Diner ordered eggs this way, in fact no one ever ordered the goat cheese at all, he was the only one. Dale enjoyed this fact about himself, that he was more or less the Anthony Bourdaine of Nappanee. A bit heavier around the middle and lighter on the hairline, maybe. But no slouch.

He was also the sort of man who didn't mind eating alone. Some folks cared a lot about that sort of thing, obsessed with appearances—but not him. Eating by yourself, especially at a table, was a sign of confidence. Especially today, of all days, his 59th birthday. He felt a special kind of freedom in this, the adventure of ordering anything he wanted off the menu, with no one to roll eyes at him from across the booth. He didn't even bother taking his jacket off as he ate, which would have driven Noreen nuts. He thought of ordering a whole second slice of custard pie, and maybe even a glass of merlot. This was his farewell dinner, after all.

But Carol wasn't in today, his favorite waitress going on ten years now, as close to him as his own Aunt Gertie (god rest her soul). Fever of 102, Arnie yelled from the kitchen. Why tonight? Dale thought. Of all nights? Carol knew his plan, she'd even encouraged him to go. Cash in, tune out, quit yammering on and just do it already. And now she wasn't even here to send him off! How could she?

In Carol's place was a pretty young blond—tidy, thickish and a looked a bundle of nerves. Mid thirties? He could never be sure about these things, but he was certain he'd never seen her before. It looked like she'd never waitressed in her whole life. She stood, alert like a prairie dog, hovering near the kitchen. When Arnie shoved his entree on the line she spirited it over with two hands, no tray, and dropped it quickly to the table with barely any eye contact.

"Let me know if I can—"

"Sure. No—wait! Can I ask you somethin?"

Startled, she nearly tripped turning back around. Jumpy little thing.

"You new here?"

The waitress shoved a chunk of hair behind her ear and shook her head. "Just visiting my cousin for a little while, up from Toledo. Mr. Arnold said I could fill in."

"I come in here a lot, so I knew you were new. Ha! Get it? I knew you were new." She didn't smile back.

"How're you liking Nappanee so far?"

The girl, woman, whatever she was, looked like she was struggling to find the words. Was she tired? Distracted? "It's... pretty here." She hesitated. "A little boring, maybe."

He put his napkin to his lips, pushing away from the counter. "Huh. Yeah." How right she was. He nodded. "It is, isn't it? Boring, I mean. What's your name? I'm Dale. Dale Diggins."

"Joan... Durfee."

"Are you from Toledo originally? And are you staying long?"

"Not originally, no." She backed up a bit. "And not staying either, just passin through. Workin to keep busy, maybe pick up some shifts, blend in for a while. Few weeks maybe?"

"You on the lam or somethin?" Dale chided. "Listen, instead of that merlot—I changed my mind. I'd like one of those fancy coffees Arnie's got back there. With rum, or yeah, Irish Cream. Tell Arnie not to be stingy with the sprinkles, either." He smiled widely. "It's my birthday."

"Your birthday! Well, then." It was the first time she softened. "You got it."

When she returned with his two helpings of custard pie and the minutes-away promise of an adult beverage he replied, "So if you're only passing through, are you running from something, or someone?"

Her eyes flickered just once. "More of a fresh-start kind of thing, you could say."

"Now why would a pretty girl like you need a fresh start?" He knew he was being nosey, but hell, he'd probably never see her again. His flight was in a matter of hours. "Not to pry, of course. But I've been told by many sources that I'm an excellent confidant." He winked in her direction, but Arnie coughed in the background and he wasn't sure if she caught it.

"I really should get back to work. This is my first day on the job and Mr. Arnold is watching—"

Dale said loudly, "Arnie? Oh, poo. He's a teddy bear. All bark, no bite." Arnie never glanced up from the grill to throw him the bird. The old coot. Dale was certainly going to miss it around here.

He took a moment to look at her, really look at her. What was it about her? Her stringy hair and soft thighs, visibly doughy under dark fabric, weren't usually his type yet he imagined both of them, clinging and moist, in the tropics.

"So you're the adventurous type, perhaps? All the way from Toledo, huh? I bet you've seen some of the world."

She shrugged. "Maybe. Been to Mexico a couple times."

"Thought so. I can tell these things." Dale looked at her squarely. "I'm very sensitive. To energies, that is. They call it an 'aura'. In fact, I can see yours quite clearly. It's very bright."
 
She considered this, and him, for a moment. Maybe for the first time.

"Yep. I can always tell when someone has that little something, that spark. And I get it. For some people, maybe it's just that we have a little more—" he said this under his breath, glancing at Arnie who was blasting whipped cream from a canister, "savviness?—for us it can be hard to fit in around here." He smiled at her knowingly. "People can be very jealous. And retaliatory. I know from experience."

She glanced around the diner. There was an elderly woman eating a pork chop and a man, combing his hair, drinking coffee.

"That's seems like exactly it," she agreed.

He brightened. "Funny you should mention Mexico. I was about to head South myself."

Joan paused. "Oh?"

"Way south. Yes, siree-bob. Flying out tonight." It was too bad he had to tell all this to a perfect stranger, instead of getting a final pep talk from Carol.

"Everybody here already knows this about me—did you meet Jan and Carol yet?—but every year on my birthday, I treat myself to something special. A few years ago it was this coat," he petted it fondly. A thought crossed his face."Actually, starting tomorrow I won't even need this anymore. I was supposed to give it away but I forgot. Do you want it?" Dale pulled the heavy coat off the hook and tried to hand it to her. "It's worth good money I assure you—quality wool."

She shook her head. "I—no. I'm, I'm not hurting for cash. Just workin here for the experience, like I said. But it's 35 degrees, why are you giving away your coat?"

Dale, grateful for the opening, sighed for effect.

"The short version?  Let's just say last year for my birthday I bought my ex-wife a divorce. So this year, I'm cutting town and buying myself a brand new life."

"A life...without coats?"

"Better. A life without cares." He grinned. "Only white sand, blue water and Pina Coladas for me, my friend."

Joan relaxed even more. "And what white-sand, frosted-beverage beach are you headed to, Mr...what was it again?"

"Dale," he grinned. "Got myself a one way ticket to St. Thomas. The island, not the church in Hammond," he clarified.

Joan smiled, warming to him like melted cheese. From the kitchen, Arnie sneezed.

"Yep, gonna open a little restaurant, like a snack hut, right on the beach. But get this: it's also going to serve morning food, like breakfast burritos and the best egg omelettes you've ever tasted—other than Arnie's of course. I sort of got the idea--"

She drew a long, audible breath. "Unbelievable." She paused. "St. Thomas? That's exactly where I was headed. I've been wanting to vacation there since I was a little girl! It's literally where I was headed to next, was just waiting for a settlement to come through for traveling funds. Can't spend it quite yet. But wow, what are the odds, huh?"

"Is that so?" Dale couldn't believe his luck."Well then, I suppose you know that St. Thomas is a famous destination for snorkeling. You snorkel?"

Animated and buoyant, she seemed to be bobbing around him now. "I absolutely looove snorkeling! Learned when I was in Mexico, snorkeled all over the place. Along with how to make really authentic Mexican food, recipes for Margaritas, chimachungas." She paused. "Breakfast Burritos."

Dale stopped short. Overcome, he shook his head.

"Wow. Just—wow. Of all days to meet you." He paused, just slightly, and then added, "Mrs.--?"

She eyed her finger, slipping the band off as she said "Oh, no, not a 'Mrs'! I'm not married." She added, "Anymore, anyway. I just forget to stop wearing the ring."

"Oh?"

Glumly, eyes glistening, she looked from Dale, to the kitchen. "My husband got into a boating accident a few months ago."

Again, Dale could hardly believe his luck. "I'm so sorry to hear that."

She paused, then resumed composure. "Don't be. It was very tragic, I was a mess over it for months, but it's all over now. I'm just trying to move on best I can." She startled herself again. "Oh, and there's your coffee." Like a dart frog she jumped across the room but ambled back elephant-like, leading a cup and saucer topped with a speckeled bouffant of whipped cream Wryly, Dale could see Arnie watching them from the kitchen. He tried to ignore this.

Joan waited a beat before asking, "And you? If not a wife, are you traveling with anyone?"

"Nope. All alone."

They blinked at each other.

"Well, we sure do have a lot in common," She said. "We both lost spouses, we both love St. Thomas, we're both traveling alone..." She trailed off, but feigned precaution, "You're not a mass murderer are you? Some kind of stalker, like you've been following me around for weeks?"

Dale pondered this."Well, if you think about it, maybe I have been following you, for my whole life. And it just took up until just now to find you." He looked at her meaningfully, licking his spoon clean. "That's what some people think. Like those who believe in past lives think. Do you believe in past lives?"

"Hmm. Yes, yes I think I do."

"I just get the sense that you and I, we're so much alike. It can't be an accident." Dale suddenly furrowed. "Oh, this is terribly embarrassing, I really meant to remember your name. Did you tell me...?"

She tittered. "Don't worry, I practically forget it myself sometimes. It's Joan. Don't have my pin yet," she said sheepishly, fingering her broad, bare chest where a name tag would be, just above her breast. She let her fingers linger there. "But some people call me June." She lowered her chin. "Would you like to call me June?"

"June? Like the month?" He stuttered. "I'd love to. June's such a springy time of year!" It suddenly dawned on him what he needed to do. "Listen, June. I don't want to be too forward. But I feel like you and I have a connection."

She smiled, warmly. "Really? Because I was thinking the same thing."

He straightened a bit. "This might sound crazy, just plain insane. But would you like to come with me? To St. Thomas? Because I have an extra ticket."

June's eyes widened, if only slightly.

"I could really use the company. Not to mention I'll be hiring staff soon for my new snack hut, so you'd have a job. You'd be perfect for it. A real business asset.  Since you obviously get along great with people. And with me." He smiled.

June nodded carefully. "Why did you buy an extra ticket?"

"Well technically it's a 'use anytime' ticket, I can transfer names. It was just in case I needed to cash it in. For a way back." He tapped the table, knocking twice. "God forbid. Like an escape hatch...or insurance. But hey, who needs it? This is more important. Carpe diem!"

"Insurance?"

"Yeah, you know. Like an insurance policy on life, or plans, or whatever. That's what the ticket was for. But I'm over it."

There was a pause. June looked at him funny.

"Insurance, right. I actually know a little bit about that stuff. Got a huge windfall after my late  husband's accident." She leaned against the counter.

"You know, life insurance is so important these days, I highly recommend it. I don't know where I'd be without that little nest egg from Ron. Do you have life insurance, Dale?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe through my old company? Can't remember. So, like, you're going to be... financially well off?"

She checked her watch, and then looked at the door.

"Thanks to my husband's good planning, certainly. More than ok. We both will, if things... work out." She looked at him through her eyelashes. "When did you say your flight was tonight, Dale?

"In a few hours. Midnight, actually. You wouldn't have much time to pack but you know, when we got there I could help you cover—"

"Don't worry, I don't have much. I'll be ready. Where should I meet you?"

"At the bus station—maybe catch a ride together?"

"Wouldn't it be better if we made arrangements for a car, Dale?" She dropped her voice. "It's more private. And more comfortable." She added, as if an afterthought: "And I think you're right about needing a few things when we arrive—on account of having such short notice. But gosh that's sweet of you to think of it." She continued, "Of course I'll pay you back, cover it all when my check comes in. But you know how insurance is...just heaps of paperwork." She was already gathering her purse, pulling off her apron. Dale looked over at Arnie, arms outstretched, indignant. Dale shrugged.

"Sure, if you need me to. I mean, there's probably a lot for you to consider before you—"

"No, I'm sure. Thank you for the invitation, Dale! You're absolutely right." Her eyes flashed, and she looked deeply into his. "We're a lot alike, you and I. We're...different from everyone else." She waltzed over to their coats. "It's like we both know exactly what we want out of life, you know?"

He had to hand it to this intoxicating, urgent, adventurous woman—she certainly knew how to get a man moving.

Too quickly, he stood up. "To da Islands, mon!" As he he righted himself, he realized he was a bit tipsy from his boozy coffee. "I dunno, Joan. I mean, June. I have this weird intuition...that we're going to start a really wonderful life together in St. Thomas. I can feel it. And I'm basically never wrong about these things." He wondered how long it'd be before they'd kiss. He hoped it was soon.

June gathered up a pile of her coat, his coat, and the saddle bag he had next to him, while Dale picked up his rain umbrella. He shook it vigorously,  "I'm done with you, old thing! Only Sunbrella's from here on out!"

He tipped a victorious, imaginary hat to Arnie who waved him off, exasperated. But as the kitchen door swung shut, Arnie yelled after him, "Good luck Dale Diggins, and good riddance to you!" Dale was happy to have heard it. He turned back to the door, where June stood waiting to take his arm. The whole aura thing, it didn't seem so bullshitty with June. There was a faint yellow glow around the outside edges of his eyes, getting wider all the time, a lovely shade. He felt like he could swim in it.

"I can feel it, too, Dale. We're just the sort of people who don't let anything get in our way, aren't we?  Nothing. At. All."

She hid the darkest of smiles as she led Dale Diggins out of the railcar diner into the cold autumn air, trailing breadcrumbs of scents like burnt coffee, bacon, fresh pineapple and whipped cream.

Ambiguous Love

I'm fairly confident
The Stars are competent
I'll find my Love and you'll be gone
Or it's you, and I got it all wrong

In the grandest way, we're nuthin big
Like dust on an ant, sittin on a twig
The tree don't care, it can't see
what the ant feels now, cuz its not meant to be

My love for you is like Shadows on the moon
It's dark as night and hidden from view
It's mountain peaks and craters too 
It's a sea of rocks and fields of you

Ambiguous love.... You're my ambiguous love

I can give you up,  I won't look back
You're a passing phase, the wane and the wax
But you set my clock, you move my tides
I can't shake your love, even if I tried

Secret lover you feed my soul
but I'm out of time, I don't feel whole
You're far from home, I'm out of signs
There's a lot to do before closing time

Oh my love for you is like Shadows on the moon
It's dark as night, hidden from view
It's mountain peaks and craters too
It's a sea of rocks and fields of you

Ambiguous love.... You're my ambiguous love

Our milky way... is far away
So you'll have to, do for today
I love your mind but I hate your smile
You move me deep, you make me wild.....

Oh my love for you is like Shadows on the moon
It's dark as night, hidden from view
It's mountain peaks and craters too
It's a sea of rocks and fields of you

Ambiguous love.... You're my ambiguous love

You're a burned out star, a rare oyster pearl
But you're the biggest thing... in my whole wide world.

The Ambassador

In the rugged seaside town they'd stopped in, The Rodd 'n Reel restaurant was the only game in town, or so said the gas station attendant a ways uproad. The only place to get a quality, if overpriced meal he said, and by a mile the only place to drink unless you made drinking your job. Tandy's across the river took care of that crowd but still, the Rodd 'n Reel was everyone's last stop because it was the the classiest joint and best watering hole in the whole Rogue River basin.

His cronies didn't realize this was Rupert's old stomping ground. This was the same coastal town his elderly parents had retired to, and where he'd spent nearly every summer vacationing for decades. He knew these back roads like he'd been sired here himself, knew the landscape and certainly knew Sam, the restaurant's owner and village patriarch. Back in the day Rupert would have recognized most of the staff and patrons too, but it'd been nearly a decade since he'd been to Gold Beach, let alone set foot in the 'Rod. It was only happenstance they were all there now—a miracle in fact, that his Harley-riding work mates on their annual motorcycle trip, this year down the Pacific coast highway, had decided to tuck into this, of all restaurants—based loosely on a townie's tip. But Rupert just smiled and kept that information to himself, letting his friends lead the way.

Unlucky for them, it was peak happy hour and the place was bustling. The smell of brine and stale cigarettes, same as ever, nearly brought a tear to Rupert's eye, as did the low sea of table candles and neon runners along the walls, still tacky but cozy.

A bright-eyed hostess, probably a distant cousin or grandchild, smiled broadly as they entered. "Wow, what a crew!" She eyed them, dirty and leathered, and clucked sadly. "Sorry guys, but there's about an hour wait tonight, got a full house." She waved her hand at the main dining room, the one with the fishnets and window diorama, to show what they were up against. "But y'all can wait in the bar if you like!" His road weary friends couldn't hide their sighs, an eye roll. But there was no where else to go. 

"The bar it is," one of them conceded. They filed their way into the dark and festively lit interior, wearily removing hats and chaps. Rupert dropped back to talk to the hostess.

"Sam here?"

She stopped short, surprised. "Sam? You know him? Should be. Lemme check."

"Tell him Rupert Longburrow is here."

She seemed to have questions, but hesitated.

"Just tell him."

Rupert made his way back to the bar and ordered a Bulleit. The bartender was no one he recognized, but it didn't matter. Soon he'd be drinking on the house.

"Rupert!"

Sam was older now, maybe shorter too, with a gut. And his salt n pepper had faded into a dull silver.

"Sam! Old buddy!" They shook hands, and went into a hug.

"How's the family? Your Mom?"

"Still kickin."

"Little hellcat. Still drinkin too, I'll bet."

"Always."

Sam barked at a bar back to get more tables from the back.

Within minutes a full table was set up in the corner of the dining room, candles lit and and drinks poured. There may as well have been a red carpet.

"Heeey!" "Hoooo!" His normally grizzled buddies had totally lost their composure, waxing poetic.

"Rupert the Ambassador! Strikes again!" "Our boy!"

And so was often the case. If trouble brewed, Rupert was sent in to fix it. If a client requested the impossible, if reservations were forgotten, if there was an outside shot at box seats—their money was always on Rupert. He knew how to find and exploit the weakness or strength of any situation, how to grease just the right wheel. Rupert was their rabbit's foot, the bearer of good fortune, a Parter of Seas.

It was a knack, he had to admit. But like Moses, he erred on the side of quiet modesty; he never revealed his ways. Underpromise, overdeliver, he always said.

So what was his secret? Sometimes, just calculated luck, like this not-so-chance meeting of an old family friend. But mostly—and he was quite sure this was entirely it—he was just nice to people. He made eye contact, he remembered names. He didn't put people on the spot, tried to give folks the benefit of the doubt. He came up with reasonable solutions.

His friends, on the other hand, behaved like most modern humans: gruff, impersonal, blindly naive, and routinely, disgustingly pessimistic.

So while his road buddies may never know how this fortuitous table service came to pass, or nothing of the twenty years spent prepping for it, Rupert enjoyed the expansive wake of his unguided deeds and how they fell like loose diamonds into a well grooved and gravely path.

The witness

(Prompts 12/5 - 12/13)

Digital alarms were all the rage these days, or so his great granddaughter June had told him, perhaps not in those exact words, as she set up Leonard's cellular phone to wake him for his morning medication a few months ago. He hated it at first, this terrifying machine, but now that he knew how to shut off the alarm instead of hearing it wail for a half hour, it wasn't so bad.

That was until last week when June had mucked with it again. Now, though his grand daughter Wendy insisted it was lovely, he was convinced that birds waking into song was the worst possible alarm choice of all time. Any Joe knows that a building cacophony of birdcall rising into a fast crescendo was nature's fire alarm, a forest in distress. He preferred something more human and mundane, like the pulse of radar, familiar from his navy days, or the slow clang of church bells. These banalities tugged at consciousness, not railed against it. For the past seven days Leonard arrived not gently into the morning but on high alert, dreading the encroaching day. 

Which wasn't normal. Leonard was used to enjoying his life. And from he could remember, he'd led a a good one. But with dementia setting in, worse every day now, there were really only 3 or 4 things Leonard could consistently remember about himself: 

1. By most measures, he was very old
2. There was no cure for that, or any other thing he had
3. He could think of no goal, deed, or desire left to pursue that his body or mind wouldn't betray him doing

He'd seen it all before. Assisted living was a slow decline. Just a month ago now, food had lost all taste and now even cream cheese on crackers, his favorite, had lost all pedestrian appeal. His bouncing, healthy family, lapfuls of great grandchildren, had started to blur around the edges and he knew it. Not that he had a place among them anymore. He was a decaying body, a burden they entertained. When he wanted to stay positive he pictured June's face, the easiest to hold on to, a porcelain version of himself, all sass and pistols. 

After the morning's alarm, Leonard tried to settle his racing heart by reaching over to finger the large teddy bear June had left him last Friday afternoon. She said she'd found it in the attic in a pile of boxes, and Wendy remembered it'd been Leonard's when he was a boy. She thought it might help bring back some stories, maybe job his memory. They brought it to him.  

In fact one of Leonard's first memories was with this bear: he'd sat on the floor in a pale green room, eye level with the stuffed animal, and his infant self examined its plastic nose, the embroidered mouth, and luscious brown fur as it probably was in those days though Leonard struggled to fill in the details. But he did remember how tall the bear seemed then, how it stood on hind legs and reached  arms out in a protective hug, his jolly friend.

The bear's fur was now comfortably matted, innards dense and lumpy, nearly a century old. Leonard couldn't quite believe it was here. Do not fall in love with any one ritual, he'd been telling himself, it doesn't matter how you go out. But when the bear showed up last week, the only remaining witness to his whole entire life, it wasn't hard to hear the quiet knock on deaths' door. 

On good days he fantasized about driving four miles out of town where the highway ends, where you had to go east to the river or west to the city but in his mind's eye Leonard would choose neither, entering the woods and peacefully falling off a branch, birdsong in his ear. But his legs were spindly, he was barely mobile and less so everyday.

He figured sleeping pills were the next best thing, and so for six months he'd skipped doses and stored them in the bottom of a tissue box, his aides none the wiser. From the first hour of Leonard's birth he'd been bullheaded and in death, too, he was resolute: he knew what he wanted. Quit-while-you're-ahead, while he still had stories. While he could still picture June's face. 

Today was Wendy and June's weekly visit but this time they brought the babies and Joe and great uncle George too, his younger brother. A full and boisterous house. The plaything stayed propped on the bed and they all cooed at it, regaling him with stories of their own adventures with Brown Bear, who'd made naps, night, and eventually growing up easier for several generations of Feldmans, despite intermittent shelving. 

Leonard did what he could to appear lively, to hold court, to hold off the blur. He said goodbye to June last, held her tightly in tangled hands, and told her that Brown Bear could be hers if she wanted him. Stubborn as always, she assured him that she was too old for stuffed animals, but sweetly she patted the doll's head as she left anyway.   

When the last guest had left, Leonard left his door ajar and settled into the conclave cave of his bed. He pulled out a fresh trash liner and set it next to him in case he woke up, if the job needed finishing. Nothing worth doing is easy he'd just said to June not an hour prior as she struggled to crank open his window. Because, he had to assume, his room smelled of death.

Leonard slid the handful of pills down his throat with gulps of water, and fingered Brown Bear's familiar, dusty pelt. He relaxed into the evening by recalling adventures spent with this loveable, furry comrade-in-arms, his omnipotent protector, history come-to-life. He listened for, and then heard, real, honest-to-goodness birdsong, not fast and rising but slowly over an hour, the kind that peppers the evening, that signals a beautiful sunset. Overcome with sleep, Leonard finally dove headfirst into a field of memories, dense and vivid as poppy's.

The map of a daydream

If daydreams had maps, there'd be no need to get lost in one.

What washes to shore

After a storm there are broken trees but a breaking light
Wind wipes clean the desert floor, but only after a dusting blight
The aching grind of time rewards age with wisdom, the foresight
To know that shipwrecks can make their way back to shore as treasure
That havoc in the stratosphere might below, brighten the weather
That a rotting muck will one day bloom and offer life, give flight
There are many ways the world gone wrong can turn itself right.

It was her mother's recipe

It was her mother's recipe, lauded far and wide among family and friends, talked about at dinner parties, denied to others when asked. When it was time to pass the treasured recipe down there was much fanfare, the secret finally endowed to the precious chosen with obliged anticipation, the proper reverence. Yet when presented, this scrappy thing from decades prior... it revealed itself to be clearly cut from a plastic bag of Tollhouse chocolate chips. So much for proprietary.

And when her secret was discovered, there was only one thing left to do: recopy the recipe into a faded notebook, burn the evidence, and start baking legendary pies.

The Silver Ring

Adam was upset. "But we said we wouldn't!"

Jane knew she'd gone back on her word but right now she didn't care. It was done, bought, sized. But Adam wouldn't let it go.

"No, I said I wouldn't wear your ring. And that you're under no obligation to wear one yourself."

Adam pleaded, "But then, why?"

"It doesn't matter why—"

"It does matter! This was what we chose, exactly what we said didn't want to participate in. What do you need to prove? And who do you need to prove it to? You don't need some kind of lame validation."

Superficial symbolism of a tired patriarchy or not, wearing or not wearing a ring just seemed like small potatoes now. Jane was exhausted.

"It's just....easier."

"Easier for who? You mean easier for other people."

"So what if it is?"

This is what Jane knew he'd never understand. That this wasn't about him, or them as a couple. Worn on just the right finger on just the right occasions, this was a gift to herself, a favor, always about other women, and always about other men. She wanted it to squash unnecessary questions, to avoid awkward conversations, to repel and yes, to protect. She imagined this simple, no frills silver ring as a force field, just the right whiff of conformity, a white flag that when raised said to the opposing army, "We are the same. There's no need for conflict or uncertainty here."

Yet Jane knew that, in time, when she did wear the ring, it would barely get noticed, particularly to Adam who seemed to care so much now, adamant, yet wholly unburdened. It would soon fade into the background, this object, this conversation. At the end of the day, she knew that however small, this tiny slip of silver was big enough to shelter them all.