Lessons in The Mansion of my Heart-3

Preface: I have been trying to revisit this for the last week, but it did not return until last night. I stopped thinking about the dream and just slept, doing a little breathing exercise to relax and fall deeply asleep.

However, Marcie did pop into a dream I was having about a hike in Humboldt County.

I was wandering around the forest above Humboldt State with some long-lost Zendik pals and my old dog Spot, which was weird but comforting, and I essentially knew I was dreaming.

Nom said, "Fen, redhead alert!" and I followed his finger, seeing a flash of red hair and some blue disappearing over a hill in a clearing.

We hiked out of the redwoods and over the little rise and Marcie was there, picking a little white gardenia from what looked like a hedge of them.

"Hi, hon," she said. "Try to come home. I am going to put some of these gardenias in bowls of water and put them around the house, then I want to work on the fence."

I nodded and she hugged me, a cool, almost cold kiss on my neck no less nice for the fell of her against me, and she was gone."

"Dude, that was your wife?" Dawna asked.

"Yep, that was her," I said, beaming with pride.

"Well, we're heading up the mountain, maybe you should head home?" she said, and she winked and wiggled a bit.

I blushed in the ears. "Yes, maybe I should."

Spot barked and ran down the hill ahead of me. I chased him then jumped, and soon was floating down towards Arcata.

And I awoke.

A question answered by an older poet

Someone at an Irish bar asked me a few days ago where Marcie's grave was and if I visited. I said, "She visits me!" At her quizzical look, I explained Marcie's cremains were in the house and slowly being spread over the world.

When I see this lass again, which may be far in the future, I will share this poem I found, which itself is Irish:

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there... I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow...
I am the diamond glints on snow...
I am the sunlight on ripened grain...
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you waken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of gentle birds in circling flight...
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry—
I am not there... I did not die...

Visits:Tea with Marcie

I had a little visit that I sorely needed.

I was inexplicably sitting at the Kensington Coffee Company in my slippers. I knew it was likely okay to do so, but I also knew it was not what I might choose, myself, to do.

I was also drinking tea. I noticed another cup across from me and I recognized the burnt red shade Marcie had always work to work.

It was the same, unmeasurable and unquantifiable presence I could not predict which washed over me next, and I knew by this that it was real. A visit.

I started straightening my clothes out, checked my face in the mirror and cleared my throat. As I started to roll up my sleeves, I felt hands on my shoulders and the light touch of a kiss on my neck.

"Oh, sweetie," she said, her lipstick and perfume (Fendi) mixing in my nostrils. "Don't worry about it, you look fine."

She sat and put her purse back down under her chair and smiled with that mischievous grin she had perfected.

She was beautiful, as if she could be anything less. But all her earthly charms, her glowing hair back-lit in the sun, her perfect skin and blue, blue eyes, all of them were on full display.

"I just had to come by and have you out for some tea," she said. "I love you."

She got up, leaned down and kissed my cheek and smiled. "I have to get back to work, but I will see you soon."

I don't know what her work might be. I do know I look forward to another visit. I'll keep you informed.

F.

On time and being

Sometimes, we had no time for each other. Those empty reaches of our love still haunt me, too. There was so much we could have done with it.

We had opposing schedules often. Sometimes, I would be in school and working while she held down her 9-5 or 8-5, even 7 to 4 schedule. These times were made even rougher by her and my need to run everywhere to maintain our harried modern life.

They feel so vastly squandered now. I should have insisted on a midweek, standing date. I should have demanded more than a meal and silence as I worked online and she watched TV.

I should have. There was no guarantee it would have helped, though. Not with Marcie. Demands were the easiest path to refusals with her, especially if they raised her ire or she felt there was a point to be made.

We did have halcyon days when my work was light and she could call on me to run errands. I remember working for the learning annex and running a check on all of their distribution boxes in San Diego.

It might take two days per week, and only a few hours then, unless there were problems. I wrote for the paper on the side from home. She could call and I would be off to serve, with joy and pride in it.

These were the days of our greatest romantic resurgence. It only ended with her disease.

"I love you," she said. "Things are so good right now, and i was very worried about you. About us."

She was smiling and covered in the summer sheets as the light of an early summer evening flowed in indirectly from our apartment window. But she was biting her lip.

"I know," I said. "I feel like we're back in our 20s again, meeting during the day for dates and at night for... this."

I smiled and she stuck her tongue out with a little near-silent "ha-ha" that was more likely at the top of the range of her voice than actually quiescent. We slid together and cuddled.

I was thinking of the times we had missed and sighed, squeezing her a little as she rested her head on my chest.

"I feel like I missed out a lot when i was working two jobs," I said. "I know we both did..."

"Shhh..." she hushed me, pecking me on the cheek and holding my hand in both hers, squeezing.

She agreed, by her squeeze, fierce and strong, but she never believed in crying over spilled milk, especially in the wake of joy.

And so, taking that cue from her, I will feel her calm reassurance and simple agreement, remember the smell of her and the joy of her when we had nothing but time for each other, and smile.

And, for now, I will "shh..."

A conversation

"You did not," she said.

"Yes, I did!" I insisted.

"Did you record it?" she asked.

I just smiled and she laughed. "Oh my god, honey, you are SO funny. Okay, let's see it."

I popped the tape in and on came John Gibson, talking about Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton.

"So, what do you think, people? I'll be back in a moment to take your comments on the air and hash it out with you, right here on MSNBC," he smiled, tossing some papers behind his shoulder and shaking his head.

She fast-forwarded until the transition screen appeared and played.

"So here we are again, people," Gibson said. "Tell me what you think. Is Monica Lewinsky going to testify and if so, what does this mean for Bill Clinton? Frank in Humboldt County, 30 seconds."

"John, I think she has good representation and if she doesn't, friends of the administration will be finding some for here pretty darn quickly," I said.

It drew a smile. "So you think that the Clinton clan will circle wagons with her? Pretty bold, Frank," he said. "Hey, how are things up there in Northern California? I had one of my first anchor jobs in Ukiah."

"Well, not bad, John," I said. "I love the rain."

"You'll love it up there, then," he said. "There's never a shortage!"

Marcie laughed and looked at me, shaking her head. "You liar," she said. "You like it until you get tired of it, then you get mad at it."

I shrugged as John continued, "So why do you think the Clintons huddle up with the Lewinsky clan?"

"John, it's the presidency," I said. "You don't blow that position for the whole party if you can help it, especially over a little blue dress. You get a lawyer, or even a few. And your spread them around liberally. Let's not dre4ss it up, you hos ethis fire down with cash."

Marcie, her broadcast experience in high school rearing up, shuckled, "Ho ho ho, careful honey!"

Gibson smiled and paused on the television, waiting as he shook his head for a good disarming comeback to occur to him. He looked up and smiled broadly, "So you don't let this incident stain an otherwise good record?" he asked.

"Well," I said. "Depends on who you ask, but I say 'A dry cleaner! A dry cleaner! My kingdom for a dry cleaner!' seems to lack a certain panache, right?"

He guffawed as Marcie held her hand over her mouth, eyes popped wide at my Newschat bravado, then looked at me.

"Point well taken, Frank," he said. "Let's keep it clean, then, right?"

"A bit late, John, but hey... there's always another dress... I mean intern... I mean day," I said.

He was silent this time for a few seconds, smiling and staring at the camera, almost incredulous. Marcie slapped me as she watched, wide-eyed, red as a beet. John changed the subject.

"So you're a student journalist up there in Humboldt?" he said. "You're a pretty funny guy and you have some personality, maybe I ought to watch out for my chair?"

"No, no, I'll get my own, John, when the time's right," I said. "Maybe I'll have an intern, too? Do you have an intern, John?"

"HA! No comment Frank," he said, shuffling his papers and smiling, laughing with nods, open-mouthed, silent.

"Wow, Gibson without a comment?" I asked. "Can it be?"

"It can, Frank, it can," he said, mirthfully, even. "Hey, I have to take more calls, but call back after the show. If you get down to San Francisco, I have someplace you might want to visit for some really good Chinese. The best ever."

"I'll do that, John," I said. "Great show, man. I'll see you on the tube or in the studio someday."

"I don't doubt it," he said. "I'll talk to you later."

I hung up on the tape and Marcie stopped the VCR. "You are so crazy," she said. "I am so proud of you. You were so funny and smart."

She hugged me and I noticed she was blushing. I kissed her forehead.

"So we'll go to the restaurant someday?" I asked. "I did call and get it after the show. I didn't record that."

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe we will."

We never did, but it was still a sweet moment. Her pride in me always made me feel like anything was worthwhile, even playing hookie from college for a rest.

We had stir fry for dinner. It was great.

Scullery Maid

Marcie was particular about her house. She might let things, say dusting the bookshelf, go. But others, like the kiycjen floor, she had to have clean.

She did not wear her sweats to do her housework. "Too hot," she said when I asked.

She wore her older long skirts, her worn out tank tops and her tight t-shirts that had faded or were stained. She looked very domestic, in a cute way. To add to the effect, she often tied her hair up in a mass on her head to keep it out of her way,

This was intriguing to me. She looked awfully cute down there, scrubbing the floor.

Apparently, though, she didn't feel cute. And as important as cleaning was, she didn't like humor to be injected into her routine.

So when I stood behind her and growled, "Yar, ye fine scullery wench, I've come for your booty," it is not surprising that she took some small offense.

She turned and looked at me from the kitchen floor, slowly, her face beet red and covered in sweat, the little sponge she insisted in using in place of a mop in her hand. She looked at me incredulously, then bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes.

I suddenly understood very clearly that this might not end well.

"Scull-a what?" she asked, tossing the sponge onto the ground and standing up. "What did you just call me? And you've for my BOOTY? My sweaty, unhappy, housecleaning, mad at you for not helping booty?"

I nodded and tried the cheeky approach. "Yar, I jave."

She gritted her teeth and pointed. "Get out. Now. Out, Frank."

She took my arm by the bicep and led me to the door, practically shoving me out. I stepped on the porch and she closed the door.

Then she locked it, and latched it, and then she bolted the window closed, too.

From inside I heard her say, "Why don't you go play pirate with your friends at the coffee shop and come back when you want to help out around here?"

I looked down at my jockeys and socks. No shoes, no pants, and a Soft Cell t-shirt. I knocked.

Twenty minutes later, we started the Domestic Duties and Roles war.

Marcie's kind of weather

As the days have finally begun to cool down here, i have reflected on Marcie's favorite weather. It isn't a simple matter to pin that down, really.

Marcie liked it sunny or partly cloudt, but avoided the sun. She liked it warm but hated when it was dry. Finally, she loved the rain, but only for a little while at a time, and then she preferred it to remain partly cloudy. She hated overcast days.

If you could give her all those conditions in a given week, she would be content.

She preferred her warmth, but there was one thing she looked forward to. Just enough coolness in the air to curl into or next to me, laying on the couch or in bed, napping or sleeping, draped on me comfortably.

It was a nice reason to hope for rain and a chill in the air. I always did.

First New Years

I half-carried her up the stairs as she laughed and giggled. She smiled and flopped back dramatically, arms out as her tequila-laced, Midori-sweetened breath rolled out at me.

"Oh yeah, I am so drunk," she said, closing her eyes a second.

She opened her eyes and grabbed my neck, nearly pulling me off balance as I negotiated the doorway.

"Bathroom," she said. "Bathroom!"

I helped her in and she looked at me ruefully as I waited to assist. I regretted being so sober but was glad to get her home safely.

"Go away," she said, closing the door and kneeling before the porcelain god and preparing for her purgative purgatory.

I heard her leave the bathroom about 20 minutes later and helped her to the bed, slipping her brown boots off and getting her safely set up on the edge of the bed.

"I love you," she said. "I'm so drunk."

Sometimes I was, too, and for all the same reasons.

Her Mp3 Player-The Smithereens 2

When I spoke of "Kiss your tears away," I supposed it was intended to be about me to her, kissing her tears away. But Marcie was layered and deep, and it is likely she felt the song encapsulated things we both felt.

She may have felt that sense toward me in the moments that came so slowly and yet inexorably, but I certainly felt them towards her in the moments that went by so quickly and so unmercifully.

But if that song was meaningful then Cut Flowers was even moreso. When Christina and Jane visited, we flipped through albums. In one of them we found my first flowers to her, a couple of roses. They were pressed and I remembered her putting them there.

I suppose she assumed they would remind her of me. Instead, they remind me now of how much she cherished everything. And the song? I'm sure you'll understand the connection beyond the simple titular accident.This selection is a feat of knowledge and intimacy only she could accomplish.

Cut Flowers
(Jim Babjak/Pat DiNizio)

Sentimental gestures never meant that much to me
But if I had her here today
I'd shed a tear for all the world to see

Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental ways
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days

A gentle girl who needed all the love I had to give
But I was blind to her and would not give
What she needed most to live

Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental ways
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days

Cut flowers pressed between the pages of a book she gave
 I go to her and say, "I'm sorry,"
Then I put cut flowers on her grave

Cut flowers sent to a girl with sentimental way
Cut flowers meant more to her on ordinary days


I know how very thoughtful and loving and very heartrent she must have been to listen to this and place it on there to ponder. I know it right now. But I also know I don't have to say I am sorry. Our regrets were thankfully resolved.

But wow, it is a beautiful song. Cut Flowers by The Smithereens.

RiverMannonite pt. 3

I heard the spite and hatred in RiverMannonite's voice and perused him as he arched at the neck to glare, his teeth exposed, snaggled, broken and multi-hued in his curled-lip sneer. He began to struggle, his odd clothes now very obviously (if filthily) revelatory.

He seemed Amish, or perhaps Old Order in many ways. Certainly he was even if Otto wasn't.

He was not old and not young, but he was certainly not stoic or restrained, and one could only guess what he had left his community for, considering his tastes. Any of them would likely bring a shunning. Perhaps he had simply never ended his rumspringa.

Of course, there were other possibilities.

The security guards picked the man up and dusted him off, mostly just smearing the oily dirt on his dark vest. He looked away from me as one of them asked, "Do you want to press charges?"

Tori and the officers spoke and I wandered back to the store to report, knowing that, despite all of the "hubbub," Marcie would want the scoop. She looked up and shook her head.

"He's Amish!" I said in an exclamatory whisper. "HE called me 'English!' Isn't that crazy?

Her eyes were wide and she bit her lower lip. She nodded, "I knew it, I totally knew it. Didn't I say he was like Amish or a Quaker or something? I totally knew."

I listened as her mood turned and her smile grew. "He looked like someone from Witness or something when I first saw him," she said, leaning in close. "He has this really weird accent, too."

I nodded. "Yes, he does."

For weeks, I gathered information and shared it with Marcie, reading her bits and pieces of Amish trivia and tales when she came home. She was fascinated by Rumspringa and meidung.

Of course, fascination and imagination went hand in hand for Marcie, especially where odd people were involved. RiverMannonite was about to acquire a backstory.

And if the facts were not odd enough, the possibilities Marcie dreamed up were, certainly.

RiverMannonite pt. 2

Marcie was surprised to see me that Wednesday. I slipped off the 25 and wandered into the Mission Valley Center mall, watching her from across the walkway as she worked for a few minutes. I walked in and waited by the counter.

"Hi, honey," she said, annoyance painted on her face, but curiosity and concern in her voice. "What brings you here?"

I smiled and hugged her, but she let me know there would be no smooching in the store with a tight-lipped glare. She whispered, "Our regional manager is in the back with Amy. Knock it off."

I decided to pick up a candy bar and whispered my apology as I let her go with a touch of the arm. She watched then returned to the register and counting out Maia. I went to the candy bar area.

Skor, $100,000 bar, Payday. I remember thinking of how capitalistically named candy bars were. I also considered the "Toffee Fay, it's too good for kids" campaign, obviously designed to pique children's interest.

By the time I had thought over the social engineering behind candies, staring at each one and finding fault with all of them, I was no longer in the mood for a candy bar. I wanted a soda. However, I was beginning to regret my logic as critical thinking and political science classes as I considered the misdeeds of the various soda companies.

The door entry ringer announced a new customer and I looked up to see a dirty, thin man of perhaps 30 walk in, hunched and his face down. I looked to Marcie.

"That's him," she mouthed, pointing over her head as he walked, and holding her nose, then sticking out her tongue, then holding her hand to her throat and making a "choking face" to emphasize her point. She rolled her eyes and glared at his back as he made a beeline for the feminine products.

I understood. He stank.I don't know if it was her obvious discomfort, his sullen look, or my own simple sense of trouble-making humor, but I decided to join him.

I looked over my shoulder at Marcie and she covered her face, shaking her head.

I sauntered up to him. "Nice stuff, huh?" I asked.

He ignored me and stared, mouth a little agape at the Tampax "easy-applicator" tampon box he had selected. I picked up a package of "super duty" CVS-branded maxi pads and looked at them for a minute, shaking my head as if in agreement.

"These are for the real bleeders, aren't they?" I asked, showing him the box.

He looked at me with the stare of a man unsure. I showed him the package and he dropped the Tampax to take it, which I picked up and replaced on the shelf.

"Real bleeders?" he said. "These are for blood?"

His breath smelled like he had eaten swamp rat stew and his body odor was noxious. He read the label and turned the box. "Where?" he asked . 'Where does it say for blood?"

He put the box back on the shelf and looked at me as if I had kicked his dog. He spoke again, a distinct hint of German in his voice. "You are a liar."

"No, no," I said. "These are for women to wear when they have their monthly periods."

He walked to the back of the store with a wave of his hand, as if to dismiss me. He began touching the cheap bras and I shrugged, walking back to the front. Marcie looked livid.

"Frank, knock it off," she said under her breath as I put a diet coke on the counter. "I am so embarrassed. Just please go home."

She grabbed the phone and looked right past me. "Hey! You have to pay for that!" she said as he flew out the door, bra clutched in his hand, ignoring her. She spoke into the phone.

"A guy in a black wide-brim hat and a vest just ran out with a bra and didn't pay," she said. "Yes! YES! That's him. Oh, thank you."

She took my money and shook her head. "Go home," she said. "I'll see you later."

Amy came out and waved a hello to me as I started to head for the door. "Marcie, did he just leave here with a bra?"

Marcie nodded.

"Okay, that's it," she said. "He is not stealing from here again. You called mall security?"

Marcie nodded, "They said they know who he is and they know how he'll try to get away."

Marcie darted a glance at me and Amy shook her head. "Okay, well, I will be at Mall security."

I decided to follow her and see what could be seen, but it turned out I didn't have to go far, and neither did she. There he was, on his belly, two fat security men, one Black and one White, holding him down as he spit and struggled next to their parking meter cart.

The bra was a few feet away, on the asphalt, grimy. RiverMannonite looked up at me, hateful and angry, "Stupid English! Now look! Look what happened!"

Suddenly, much of this made sense. But there were questions, and as he was hauled away, I decided to surprise Marcie with the answers.

Characters: RiverMannonite

Marcie's proximity to the river would, she said, almost always create a "parade of urchins from crazytown." She said that lovingly, and she was generally not very concerned at the number of homeless and uncommunicative drifters who floated in and back out through the doors of her CVS store.

There was one exception. Marcie was not comfortable around one person in particular, though she was able to make light of him. I only saw him once up close.

She had been calling him the Riverman for a long time. According to her, this was the young man who had been in an altercation with Otto. He always wore the same thing.

She told me about him it in lieu of explaining why she was tense one evening. Of course, I knew he was the source of the tension within a minute, as she sometimes did not directly answer me when I asked what was wrong.

"SO, this guy came into work, and he's kind of one of our freaks. He has a black hat with a brim, a vest with hooks and a collar-less, filthy white shirt," she said. "He wears old-fashioned spectacles and he stinks. And he's perverted."

"Perverted?" I asked. Marcie was not one to pay too much mind, which meant he was a bad case.

"Yes, but not like a flasher or anything," she said.

"Does he ogle you?" I asked.

"A little, but that's not what's perverted about him," she said. "He does that to everyone. You'll think I'm crazy if I tell you."

I shook my head. "No, I think you'll be fine. Tell me."

She leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone. "Okay, so he comes in every once in a while and he walks around the store, then he goes to the women's section and looks at all the feminine hygiene products."

"Okay, so he looks at the douches and the napkins and tampons?" I asked, somewhat dismissive.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me a little closer.

"He gets off on it," she said. "I watched him stare... STARE at the Tampax  boxes one time for three hours, looking at the drawings. He started at the drawings on the maxipads, too, holding them in the light. He spent an hour smelling the box, looking at it, shaking it..."

I began to understand. "Wow, that's a little kooked."

She nodded silently in agreement. "He also plays with the cheap underwear and the bras we have in the back," she said. "And he touches everything. Then, he leaves really fast, every time, and he kind of gives me this nasty smile when he leaves. It's SO GROSS!"

I laughed and she began to crack up. "You know he's going to find a bathroom for a private moment," she joked. "Ohhh, seeexy... a tampon, oh yeah. Ha!"

The stress melted off her, but she was not completely relaxed. "He always smells like the river, too. The whole place stinks when he leaves like rotten water."

She started chopping onions and paused. "He gives me these totally nasty looks, too, when I watch him," she said. "It sucksthat he's started to come back in again. Ugh."

So I decided that I would have to lay eyes on him, and perhaps send a nasty look of my own his way. I would also find out there was more to this character than a fetish, homelessness and a lack of hygiene.

What a bummer, but also an opportunity

So, today Marcie received her renewal for a driver's license in the mail. I have come to expect the endless entreaties for aid from the animal charities, the cancer materials from Kaiser, the Komen information and the book clubs, magazine renewal appeals and requests from NetFlix.

How is it that the state cannot figure out she is gone?

It hit me very hard today to read their little reminder for her to send them money and renew her license. But then it struck me. I could have a nice, new copy of her license, renewed past her death, with a clear picture of her from a healthier time.

I just may do it and then write a report about it. It would help the state deficit, too, I imagine.

MumbletyPeggy (pt. 2)

The black veils rustled as the little figure turned to Marcie then looked away. Peggy muttered and made intricate  motions with her clawlike fingers in the air in fron of her, waving them at the rows of painkillers.

I stayed back and was going to go wait by Maia when I heard the mumbles.

"Oh, oh, oh no. Oh no!" she said, her voice low and her. "Oh what does she WANT?! Oh, dear, what does she WANT?"

I stayed back bnut just within earshot as I saw Marcie's toes lift... and fall. Lift... and fall. She waited, then spoke.

"Would you like a basket for your stuff so you don't have to carry them in your pocket, Peggy?" Marcie asked, looking smug and absolutely not in the least bit fazed as the gestures became more agitated and rapid.

Marcie stepped back and grabbed a blue hand basket, then held it out, its two handles open. "Just put them in there and you can carry this while you shop for all your things," Marcie said.

Peggy's hand clenched into a crooked, aged fist and then her fingers flicked and shook as she made repeated grabbing motions in the air.

"So she so she so she so she does, does, does that she does, and she knows, knows, knows." the croaking voice, clearer and older now, crackled. "Fine."

Her gnarled talons, now clearer still as she turned to Marcie, flicked in unison, then her left hand snaked into her dress and the other shook and waved up and down a little. A box of Advil rattled several times, two or three in the air above the basket, before she dropped them in it.

Marcie handed Peggy the basket and Peggy took it and marched away, her veils clinging to her face a little as she walked rapidly down the aisle. Marcie waited and watched in th mirrors, then changed lanes to the snack aisle.

Marcie watched her like a hawk. The woman wandered the aisles and threw random items into the basket, her hands each time making a pattern of passes and gestures in front of the shelf before dropping the items in.

A cinstant stream of gibberish punctuated by her stream of thought in words poured forth:

"Msh mup mup mup Mup MUP!

"Whir whir whir whir whir whir whir were not whir word."


"Where did she go where did she go where did she go? Go go go?" she said. "No. No. No. She didn't go, she didn't go."

Whenever Peggy noticed Marcie watching, the babble took on a different tone and Peggy would make wild, lingering ritualistic gestures, occasionally freezing her hand in some contorted state and turning back to the products.

Marcie looked over at me and shook her head, then turned her attention back to Peggy.

"Are you ready, Peggy?" she asked. "Should I help you carry your stuff?"

Marcie walked down and Peggy handed her the basket, loaded with yarn and candy and various  medicine and drugstore items. Marcie waited and put out her hand.

Peggy reached into her clothes and produced a container of Maalox.

Marcie sighed, putting it in the basket and putting her hand out again. Peggy this time produced a large bottle of Centrum vitamins, a small stuffed Winnie the Pooh car mirror hanger, and a silver-topped ball point pen.

"Oh, that's all, all all," she muttered. "Smumf smuf smuff smumf."

Marcie gestured for Peggy to go to the front counter ahead of her and the crone's wobble turned into a rustling, off-kilter but high-speed stagger. She walked right past me, past the registers and to the door.


"No, I don't, I don't, I don't," she said as she turned and this time flicked her hair and veils off her face, revealing her angry snarl of a visage and raising her hand, which slipped and flopped and grasped and made fists of itself at a fever pitch.


Her free hand flipped her veils away from her shoulder and she opened her left eye. She appeared to be aiming, but then I noticed her right eye was closed as if sewn that way, and the skin there did not frame a socket so much as sag and pool atop the cheekbone.


"Mmmm, mmm, mmm you," she said as Marcie came and stood next to me, staring at her dispassionately. "You you you you YOU! MMMM! MMMMMFSH!"


Now both her hands flipped and clawed at air in intricate patterns that had to be killer for any arthritis she may have suffered, but she persisted and her face twisted into a grimace and a one-eyed squint.

"Huu- UH!" she said, then slipped through the door, pulling her veils back down as she mumbled off into the mall, her voice fading as she went past the store glass. "She, she, she she does and she knows, and mmm mmm mmm..."

I turned to Marcie and she closed her eyes and shook her head, then sighed. "She is so crazy," she said. "If she didn't shoplift every time, almost, I would enjoy watching her anyways."

Marcie looked at me as I stared at her and rolled her eyes, then mocked Peggy's hand movements, closing one eye. "I, I, I have, have have, have to put it all back, back back!" she said, exasperated, then turned and got to it as I guffawed.

MumbletyPeggy

I went and visited Marcie at CVS several times, all but two of them completely against her will. Nevertheless, her coworkers were nice and she admitted years later that she enjoyed my visits.

One of those visits was more than a little entertaining. It happened to be one I was invited to conduct. Marcie and I were going to head to the cafe by May Company and enjoy a lunch, then after her work day ended see a movie.

We needed no movie that night.

I was engaging Marcie in very light banter, whiling away time in the near-vacant store as she tended the front counter. Her eyes locked and then narrowed and she looked past me as a hunched, black-garbed figure tottered in.

"Smsh mup rummum mubbum mum," a distinctly female but whispery voice said, the sounds wafting out from under multiple veils of black lace under a wide-brimmed hat. I saw no face.

Marcie watched and made eye contact with a coworker named Maia, who came to the front and took over the counter. Marcie slipped out from behind it, eyes locked on the slow, unsteady figure as it lurched and hobbled into the aisles.

The words became clearer but no more sensible as we got closer.

"So she so she so she so she does, does, does, goes there, she does, yes, yes, yes," the woman said under her masking veils. "I know. I know. I know."

I looked at Marcie, who stood with one arm under her breasts and the other propped on its hand, playing with the curls by her ear as she watched intently.

"Who is..." I started to ask, but her hand stopped me cold.

She leaned in close. "That's Peggy," she said, quietly. "She's a regular but you have to watch her or she leaves without paying. She hates me because I watch her the whole time and I make her show me ID when she writes her checks."

Peggy had offended Marcie by screaming bloody murder when she was caught leaving the store with unpaid-for goods. She made good, but a security guard had yelled at Marcie for stopping Peggy and bringing her back in by the arm.

"Everybody was looking at me and thought I was totally abusing her," she said. "And that's just too bad, because I don't care what age you are. Nobody shoplifts from me."

But her actions had ended with her boss allowing the woman to return. That did not mean Marcie let her get away with anything. In fact, Marcie was now even tougher with Peggy.

"I do not like her," she said. "So I just watch her and let her get pissed off at me. I don't care if she doesn't like it."

Marcie cut off the conversation and marched forward as Peggy pulled a large container of Advil off the shelf and into her many layers of clothes. She smiled and turned her head a bit, looking down at the woman.

"Can I help you with that Advil, Peggy? Do you want to know how much it cost?" she asked.

And that's how the MumbletyPeggy game began.

Remaking the Bed

Before Marcie passed, I had been suffering in the bed. No in the way you might infer I intend to convey, but in regards to comfort. It was a strange thing to have a disagreement on.

It started two years before she passed, and it was a seriously bad item to discuss.

"The bed is tilted," I said. "I hate my side of it, I feel like I am going to roll off."

She huffed a little and looked over as she hospital-cornered the sheet and shook her head. "We can't buy another bed," she said. "It's not crooked, you're just crazy."

"I swear it's off a little," I said. "There's a serious slope on the bed. I feel like I am going to just roll off and I wake up all night worrying."

"Whatever, Frank," she said. "But for me, this is just your latest crazy obsession with something. If it isn't the television having a hum in it, which I don't hear, then it's the phone being hot or the water being metallic. My response is the same."

I looked at her and shook my head. She was just not interested.

"You're crazy, you're obsessive, and I love you, but please, don't drive me crazy with this, okay?" she asked, holding my hands in hers and pouting a little.

"K, fine," I said. "But why not change sides and you tell me?"

She glared. I had asked her to change sides on the bed and the universe had just gasped in horror.

"That is my side of the bed and I cannot sleep on yours, it doesn't have a window and it's by the door, which I totally hate," she said. "Now stop it."

Of course I mentioned it every couple of weeks when i would slip into bed. It remained that way until the week she took to a new bed in our living room, a hospital bed, whereupon I slept nearby on the couch.

For the last 9 months I have tried to sleep on our bed and have finally found that her side of the bed is flat and comfortable. The mystery of my still-sloping side remained that. Finally, today, the mystery was solved.

Perhaps I had been so fat the mattress flattened under me? No, I flipped it often. Perhaps it was the floor? No, I checked it with a level. Perhaps the underlying box spring was propped?

I have flipped the king-sized mattress a dozen times. This time, when I did, it became stuck on the light fixture. I looked and saw, wedged up on the base of the box-spring half of what was my Marcie's side, the headboard side of my own box spring, its base overlapping by a centimeter.

Only the top was wedged up, hidden against the wall and under the mattress and obscured by the foot, which was not wedged. The box spring eventually settled normally at the foot of the bed, the distance and weight allowing it to look well-seated, preserving the mystery all that time.

I took it all apart and found out the frame was bolted narrower at the head end. I fixed it and popped everything into place.

As I slept in it this week, I remembered asking her in those final weeks, before she was hospitalized and when she was just tired, whether she felt a slope. She had to use my side, as it was closer to the bathroom and easier for me to help her out of bed.

"Frank!" she growled through clenched teeth, fiery and beautiful and sick but stubborn. "There is no stupid slop on the stupid bed, so just drop it and move on! I asked you not to drive me crazy about this and for two years it has been your thing. Now knock it off!"

Thoroughly chastened, I kissed her on the cheek and nodded. I was happy. She had not been so animated in two weeks.

She called me back when I left. "Frank, I love you," she said. "I'm sorry I yelled. It does feel lumpy, but it doesn't feel crooked or anything, okay? I am sorry I called you crazy."

"Okay, sweetie," I said, hugging her."

And that was fine.

She said, "Okay, you can go now, I need to sleep. Good night."

I love that, even as the end approached, she felt it more important to stick to her guns than placate or indulge me overmuch. She had such a strong and stubborn spirit. But she was not remorseless in it. I know she realized I had been putting up with it a long time.

I think she was secretly pleased that I would when she found out, and that's fine, too. I would have put up with even more to lay next to her, this was just a little proof.

Mischief from an earlier time

"So what's up, Mr. Francis Stanley Pruett?" it read, her soft, elegant cursive out of place on the carefully folded notebook paper.

I looked over at her and listened as Ken Norton, our speech professor, droned on about persuasive and forensic speaking and the subtle difference between snooze and bore. I smiled as he scanned the class's eyes, including mine, then took my pen.

I scribbled as he took the chalk and turned his back.

"You know what's up," I replied, replicating her secret triangle perfectly and tossing it, letting it skip off her book and bounce off the wall into her lap.

She took it and read, then rolled her, eyes, looking at me and shrugging as if to say, "No I don't."

It grabbed my crotch and made a pained expression, then, making sure Ken was busy, let my tongue hang out of my mouth as I stared blankly at her and rocked my hips.

Her eyes went wide, her ears reddened with her cheeks and she bit her lower lip, glaring as if to say "stop" as I fluttered my eyelids in mock ecstasy. I heard the chalk hit the tray and returned to my note-taking posture.

"And Frank, if I were to say that enthymemes were employed..." he asked, his hands on his hips.

"We would be talking about a forensic speech in which certain key elements were left implied," I said.

He smiled, and I realized he was just asking his go-to student, not really after me, but Marcie smiled when he turned away again and pointed, mouthing, "ha ha," and squinting with her tongue at her teeth as if having a little laugh.

I smiled and listened to Kenn for a bit, then started to fold a piece of paper when the original hit me in the head.

"Everyone was watching you," she wrote. "Do something else."

I smiled and wrote back, "Sure," then folded it all back together.

I also finished my own little magic triangle and wrote, "So, what's up, Miss Marcelyn Ann Stoddard?" I tossed it back to her when he turned for a bare second, then waited. Ken started writing on the board and I stood, looked at her and thrust my hips before sitting down.

The classroom rustled a bit and Marcie hid her head in her book, her ears beet red. Ken stopped and turned. The chuckles subsided and he smiled as I adjusted interestedly in my desk.

My own came back and read.

"I have a bottle of wine for our picnic tonight... or not," she had written.

We drank it at the break, sharing only a few sips with out classmate, a Texan who had given us all a harrowing story of eating pork and developing worms in her brain.

How do you not give someone like that something to drink? Even if you're a bastard, she is bound to tell you something amusing.

It didn't matter at the time. We decided to finish class drunk after downing the whole bottle in 30 minutes.

It was the best day in speech class... ever.

Where I run

Running has become my balm, my healing motion, my security blanket. I run like a fool, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I can start a run in a thoroughly depressed state and will finish it in a tired but elevated mood every time.

I have been running in my little neighborhood since before Marcie passed on and have built my distance from 2-3 miles all the way up to about 8, pushing to 13.1 every two weeks and dropping back down (to build speed) until I peak up again, adding a tenth or two each cycle.

Usually, I just run a little loop through places that I have walked with her. I am going to make little tours of our neighborhood, adding places to visit and some sound files. My hope is to let people walk in our footsteps a little and give them things to discover on the way.

You'll know when it happens, of course.

For now, here is my running path, replete itself in Marcie's walking haunts and as-yet unlabeled kitty pal stops.

Her Little Ways: That quiet whisper

Not every special moment in my time Marcie was some gigantic occasion or breakthrough event. My tendency, I believe, is always to reflect on those things I know were grand and now will simply not be. But I often miss, as I have noted, the little things she did even more.

If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.

Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.

I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.

"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."

I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.

If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."

She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.

Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.

There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.

It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.

I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.

"Honey, come look at this..."

I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.

"Honey, come look at this..."

I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.

Then I saw.

Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.

Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.

He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.

All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."

So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.

Pictures from the patio garden

I took a few shots of the patio garden and a few of the yard in front. Keep in mind that when Marcie and I moved in, the yard was all rocks with a layer of cloth underneath. It's now almost overgrown, cloth be damned. The larger plants on the porch are up for adoption, and I have good cilantro seeds to send out.

Tanya helped me repot most of these plants when Marcie was very ill. We arranged them to give her a nicer outside view from her hospital bed.



Just let me know what you want and such, and I will send it. Those are jalapeño plants, by the way. If they or the tomato plants bear fruit, some will be reserved for seed and I can send some out from that as well. Let's hope they make it.