Writer, Author, Teacher
A collection of Short Stories for you to Enjoy.
Written by Marilyn Anne Pate.
Finding Emma Lucille *** Dear Mama, *** This year, as always, I began to dread Christmas. Everyone else was happy and excited. I was heavy yet brittle—a hollow, easily shattered ornament. For my family’s sake I went through the motions. What could I do to make this year different? I gathered what I’d learned of my mother and wrote the letter I’d promised.
*** Now that it’s on paper I find there’s a sense of knowing her in ways I never felt before. I just had to go inside myself, look at my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to find her. This year when I visited Evergreen Cemetery I took the letter and tucked it between her headstone and the poinsettias.
We stopped at the cemetery office for a map. The simple granite tombstone in section C, row 3, plot 9, with her name and 1909-1940— made her real. She wasn’t a dream, a dimly remembered story or a faded movie memory. I was five when she died.
I placed a pink poinsettia next to the stone. Had she liked pink? It would have gone well with her red hair. The pale, desert December sunlight dappled through old, grown tall elms. My heart raced and I trembled as a soft breeze caressed my wet cheeks.
My husband put his arms around me, "Lucille, this is your daughter. You would have been proud of her. You have three grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. They are loving, good, young people. We wish you could have known them."
As we walked to the car I thought of my long search for Emma Lucille. I decided to write her a letter.
You waved from the city bus as you left to go downtown to the parade celebrating the premier of the first movie filmed at Old Tucson. It was the biggest happening in our little city since the railroad came to town.
Aunt Winnie volunteered to care for three year old Freddie and me. "Lucille, you love movies and theatre. You’ll have more fun without your kids tagging along. Remember everything so you can tell us all about it."
That evening, as we snuggled on the couch, you told us about your day. "I saw Jean Arthur and William Holden, the stars of ARIZONA, in their Cadillac convertible move slowly along Stone Avenue. Stagecoaches and antique wagons, pulled by teams of shiny black horses, were filled with local dignitaries—even the governor was there. The University Wildcats marching band thrilled us and we cheered. Huge banners hung high across the parade route. Light poles were wrapped with red, white and blue bunting.
"Congress Street was blocked to traffic and covered with sand. An Indian village, half sized Presidio Fort, front only saloons and old time merchant shops lined Congress from Stone to Fourth Avenue The cool breeze, low clouds and slight drizzle didn’t dampen our enthusiasm.
"It was thrilling!! I can’t wait to see the movie. The premier’s price is too high. We’ll go in a week or two. I’m worn out. Too much excitement for one day," you said as you tucked us in.
No one knew that in less than a month you would be in a hospital fighting for your life. On that cool, wet morning, you caught a cold and developed pneumonia. Daddy’s mother, Grandma Mary, was called to come from the ranch in New Mexico.
On December 21st Daddy drove me to St. Mary’s Hospital. We passed through downtown where brightly colored lights adorned buildings and lamp posts. Shoppers gathered at the large windows of Steinfeld’s, Levy’s and Jacome’s Department Stores to admire glistening animated holiday scenes. Christmas carols floated through the frosty air. I was scared while everyone else was happy. Daddy was silent.
Because children weren’t allowed in hospitals unless they were sick, Daddy held me up so I could look through a window into your room. I saw you lying in a bed enclosed in white gauzy cloth that I believe was an oxygen tent.
I wanted to give you a kiss or hold your hand. Did you know I was there? Your eyes were closed. Your red hair spilled across the pillow—the only color in an otherwise white room.
On the drive home it started to rain. The desert dry windshield wipers stuttered and shrieked. Squeak, squeak, back and forth. Was it the rain or my tears that blurred the Christmas lights?
After you died, two days before Christmas, Daddy had a big fight with Aunt Winnie about a funeral. There were no services. It would be ten years before I was allowed to see your two sisters and my cousins.
Death was no stranger to Grandma Mary—a pioneer ranch woman who had buried many friends and kin. She and Daddy handled grief by ignoring it and getting on with what had to be done.
I wondered if any one else noticed you were gone. I’d hide behind the door, listening to the grownups, hoping one of them would say something about you. Perhaps then I’d know you were real and not a dream. I was surprised that others couldn’t see the cannon-ball sized hole where my stomach used to be. They should have been able to look right through me. My questions made adults uncomfortable so I stopped asking about you.
No one allowed or taught me how to grieve. If only someone had said, "It’s all right to be sad. A sad thing has happened. Your Mama didn’t want to leave you. She loved you very much." Instead, I was told, "Don’t cry. Big girls don’t cry. It’s over and done with; water under the bridge. Smile. Be happy."
I swallowed my tears and smiled. My feelings were wrong so I stuffed them down into the big hole. "You are such a happy smiling little girl," grownups said. They didn’t know how I cried myself to sleep, the awful stomachaches and the guilt.
Grandma visited with a neighbor on the front porch while I played nearby, "Lucille had a bad heart. She shouldn’t have had children. I don’t know how she survived her birth. She was a big baby, nearly eight pounds. Then Freddie came along two years later."
It was my fault. I made you die. To make up for my wickedness I promised myself to take care of Freddie, excel in school and never, ever do anything wrong again. I became the family peacemaker and did my best to make everybody happy. I carried the burden of Grandma’s casual remark well into adulthood.
Daddy remarried when I was eight and we often went to the cemetery on Oracle Road to visit the graves of Mama JB’s father and sister. I knew you were there but I didn’t know where. I’d look furtively around hoping to find your grave. I never did. Then I went home and had a stomach ache. The years passed and my memories faded but in times of stress my need for you surfaced.
When I married, when our three children were born, when I graduated from college with my husband and our three teenagers cheering for me—I wanted, I needed you.
In my middle age I gathered my courage and set out to find you. The person to start with was your husband, my father. He was arrogant, bombastic and a shameless liar. His third marriage was a shambles. I saw little of him. I threw caution to the wind and asked the forbidden. Did he see any of you in me? What did you do for fun? How did you dress, walk, laugh? What had you looked like? I had no photos, no letters, no keepsakes.
"She was an excellent typist. I always thought you were more like me than her."
"I’ve heard she had a bad heart. What can you tell me about that?" I pressed.
"She was born with a heart defect. They called them blue babies. No treatment in those days. Her mother said she was surprised Lucille lived long enough to graduate from college. I didn’t know about her problems when we dated at Flagstaff. It wasn’t until we lived at Fort Grant that she complained. Altitude was too high," he said. "Think I have a box of pictures and a few of her things somewhere. Maybe out in the shed. Never knew you were interested."
On my next visit, he gave me a battered, dusty carton that had somehow survived the many moves of his mangled life. The pictures, letters, beaded purse, wristwatch, round rimless eyeglasses—common everyday things to anyone else, were treasures to me. When I perched the glasses on my nose and looked through them I moved into another dimension. You had worn them, looked at the world through them, wiped and cleaned them and put them carefully into their hard blue marbled case.
Art nouveau costume jewelry fell out of a decaying heart shaped candy box. When I cautiously opened my baby book and for the first time, saw your handwriting I came unglued. I wept. Torrents of long denied grief wracked my body.
Through tear swollen eyes I opened a frayed manila envelope. It contained typewritten stories. You liked to write! One was stamped and addressed to Collier’s Magazine.
I had always wanted to write but was never encouraged to follow my instincts. Your stories told me my father was wrong. There was a lot of you in me and there was nothing wrong or hoity-toity about wanting to put words on paper.
The pictures showed you wearing fashionable clothes. You were about 5’8” tall and slim. One set was taken of you wearing the Juliet costume in a college production of Romeo and Juliet.
From Aunt Winnie, I learned you wanted to be called Lucille instead of Emma. You were born on March 9, 1909 in Hot Springs, Arkansas, graduated from Phoenix Union High School and four years later, Arizona State Teachers College at Flagstaff, Arizona in June 1930.
Dad said, "We were married on June 15, 1932 in Gallup, New Mexico. The Justice of the Peace was celebrating his appointment and was happily tipsy. We were his first wedding."
Who else could I ask about you? Aunt Christine and Grandma Mary were gone. My cousins barely remembered you.
I struggled to find the essence of you. Occasionally, I caught a hint of fragrance, a trace of nutmeg on a glass of eggnog or an echo of laughter that was gone by the time I became conscious of it. I couldn’t capture and hold those elusive moments.
I wish I knew what your favorite perfume was, what your voice sounded like, what food and music you preferred. I looked at the pictures, the letters and stories and tried to wring some warmth, some scent, some awareness of you out of inert pieces of brittle yellow paper. I failed.
Gradually, I realized you have always been with me. You must have been there through those traumatic years of growing up. How else to explain my academic achievements, my spunk in defying my father and marrying the love of my life—all despite the physical and emotional abuse that filled the houses I lived in?
I catch glimpses of you in our three children. Kerry has a joyful laugh, a love of the theatre and a warm understanding nature that overlies the inner steel that has brought her to the top of her profession. Tracy is sentimental, caring and a great typist! She enjoys beautiful things and has a loving home and a wide circle of creative friends. Duncan has long lanky legs, a certain angle to his cheekbones and is a world class story teller. Our only granddaughter, Christine, is the image of you—the same cleft chin, the shy smile and the sober eyes.
Thank you for having the courage to give birth to me. I love you.
Your Daughter
My search was over. I had found Emma Lucille Jaeger McNeill.
Emma Lucille Jaeger McNeill
1909 - 1940
circa 1931 - 22 years young.
*********************
A more unlikely marriage cannot be imagined. She was born in Phoenix, Arizona, a fifth generation westerner. Her parents were college graduates and both had been teachers. Her father was raised Mormon, her mother Episcopalian. When she eight years old Marilyn was baptized a Mormon in irrigation ditch in New Mexico.
He was born in Manila, Philippine Islands. His parents met in Shanghai, China. His mother’s family was one of many who fled eastward from Siberia, to Korea and then south to China as the Bolsheviks overran Russia. She was educated in a French convent and apprenticed to a fashionable milliner. His father was put in an orphanage when he was ten, joined the Navy when he was 17 and was serving with the Asiatic Fleet. Terry was baptized in the Russian Orthodox Church amidst ornate splendor.
It’s a miracle they met, a wonder that they fell in love and thank goodness they did or I wouldn’t be here to tell you my story. I am their marriage and this year I am fifty years old.
While riding in the plush Parlor Car of the northbound Amtrak Los Angeles to Seattle Coast Liner, I was struck by the difference between this trip and the first train trip my people experienced. I was barely two weeks old when Marilyn and Terry shipped all they owned in boxes and suitcases aboard the eastbound Sunset Limited. I carried their dreams for the future. They boarded a coach, sit up-all-the-time car, in Tucson and headed for Pensacola, Florida. His mother had packed a box of food to sustain them on the three day, two-night journey. Food in the dining car was too expensive for a Navy Hospital Corpsman, E-3 and his new bride. They would do very nicely on $140.00 a month, thank you, but no extravagances would be allowed.
Now, on August 14, 2003, they enjoyed a private compartment, use of the exclusive Parlor Car and theatre and the finest meals served by gracious stewards. As the train gently rocked north toward Seattle and the Norwegian Sky Alaskan Cruise, I couldn’t help remembering my beginning and all that has gone into making me a strong, loving, adventurous marriage.
I was born on August 16, 1953 in Hedrick Chapel at the First Methodist Church in Tucson, Arizona. Marilyn’s father suggested that if she were intent on marrying that pip-squeak who would never amount to anything, why didn’t they elope? All the folderol of a church wedding wasn’t to his liking.
"I don’t want to walk down the aisle and give you away. It will appear as if I approve of this foolishness," he pronounced. He never just said anything. He pronounced he preached, he pontificated. It didn’t take me long to realize that her father was an unbalanced, bigoted, arrogant know it all. He required much patience on my part.
"If you won’t do it Uncle Perley will," Marilyn replied. She had foreseen this difficulty and had called her birth mother’s brother in law who lived in Phoenix. This enraged the father, as he didn’t like Perley Lewis (he was another pipsqueak). The father grudgingly gave in and he and Marilyn’s stepmother came to the church accompanied by her brother, half sister and stepsister.
Marilyn and Terry insisted on a church wedding because they were proud of their love and wanted to let the world know. They had been forced to sneak around far too long. They planned and paid for the simple ceremony. His parents were supportive and his mother made the white lace gown Marilyn wore. For a fee, the ladies of the church provided the cake and punch and served guests in the patio of the church.Thus I came into being. A young couple who had met and fallen in love while in High School were determined enough to disobey her parents, marry during war time and move across the country to start their life together. Neither knew what a difficult, daring, rewarding ride they were in for.
Terry had rented an apartment over a garage in a nice neighborhood in Pensacola. There they began to learn what it was like to finally be together without sneaking around or worrying about what others thought. It was a long bus ride to the Naval Hospital, so Terry left at dawn. Marilyn was left alone most days. They had no car, no family, little money and in the beginning no idea how different they were—one from the other. They were happy. They learned of another furnished apartment near the Naval Station, in Warrington. By this time they had made friends who had vehicles, so the move was easy.
She spent her days walking the streets of the old city, visiting the local library (since she was an itinerant service wife she was denied a library card) and exploring the cemetery where moss covered stones named swashbuckling pirates from the 1700’s. She learned how to plan, shop for and put a meal on the table every night. She learned that Terry didn’t like liver, tongue or beef heart. He liked steak or roast and potatoes, spaghetti or fried chicken. His mother was not a daring cook so his tastes were simple. He ate, but never enjoyed tuna fish and potato chip casserole, stuffed tomatoes or hamburger cooked in a hundred different ways.
He learned to put up with the cap left off the toothpaste, to listen to her talk about things of no interest to him and how to please her with books and magazines from the hospital library. A carnation from the neighbor’s garden displayed in a juice glass, a walk on the beach at twilight, popcorn with friends while watching wrestling on a snowy screened TV was their entertainment. By January, most of the young couples were expecting their first child.
The wives bonded even more deeply and they became a support group long before support groups were popular. They were from New Jersey, South Dakota, Colorado, California and Arizona. Some of their marriages began to suffer. Alcohol, homesickness, time and disappointment took their toll. One by one the men were shipped to the First Marine Division. They would eventually go to distant places with strange sounding names; Seoul, Pyongyang, Chosun Reservoir. Navy Hospital Corpsman were sent to save Marine lives. Corpsmen were targeted by the North Koreans because the death of a corpsman demoralized the platoon. When a corpsman ran to aid a wounded marine he was easy pickings.
I celebrated my first year anniversary at a bonfire party on the white sand of Pensacola Beach. The group had dwindled and those left were uneasy about the coming weeks. Four births were expected by the middle of September, orders were coming almost daily. Where would they all be by the next summer?
My next challenge occurred on September 1, 1954. Our first child, a girl, was born. They named her Kerry Lyn. Kerry for Terry, Lyn from the end of her mother’s name. The child changed everything. Neither parent knew how to care for Kerry. She was a lot of work! Diapers were washed by hand and boiled in the stock pot, then hung on the line to dry. Marilyn nursed her, so only water and juice bottles had to be scrubbed and boiled. It seemed that she cried too much, spit up constantly and always needed changing. Sometimes they were so desperate for quiet they put her in the back seat of their newly acquired 1946 Chevy coupe and rode around town until she slept.
Orders came for Terry. Report to Field Medical Service School, Camp Pendleton, California. After six weeks of training he would be on his way to Korea. With a one month old child in the backseat, most of their belongings sold to pay for gas and one last beach party, my people drove west. Thus began the back and forth, the ups and downs of twenty years of service life; Oceanside, Kaneohe, Portsmouth, SanDiego, El Toro, Bethesda, Iwakuni, Yuma, SanDiego again and Yokosuka. The hardest times were the goodbyes that had to be said. It was hard for me to be in two places at once. But I managed because they were loyal to each other and to me. Letters, photos and children’s drawings flew across the miles of months. Along the way two more children were born. Duncan (named for a favorite cake mix) in San Diego in 1957 and Tracy Anne(named for a favorite actor) in August 1960. Each joyful homecoming was followed by readjustments. Daddy was home again and the children had to share Mom with him. Mom couldn’t serve hot dogs and macaroni every night.
As for me, I was growing in love and understanding. It wasn’t easy to always put the children first. But my people loved them and learned that love shared is love that increases by leaps and bounds. During those years he applied for a commission in the Medical Service Corps and was selected to attend Officers Candidate training in Newport, Rhode Island. It was called Knife and Fork School.
That was a hard six weeks for Marilyn. Tracy was less than six months old, the car was in the shop being repaired after a freeway accident, and the enlisted housing they lived in was being emptied in preparation for remodeling. Few families were left, but the authorities said she could stay for the six weeks Terry would be gone. Tracy developed bronchitis, Marilyn had no car, most tenants had left and Marilyn had no sleep for three days. Finally, in desperation she called a civilian doctor who was married to a high school friend. Stu made several house calls, calmed Marilyn’s fears and earned her eternal gratefulness. He wouldn’t charge her a cent.
Marilyn had always said that someday she would go to college. With Terry’s support and encouragement she began when their youngest was five. It took her nine years and five colleges to earn her BA. It was a proud moment for me when she walked across the stage at Sophia University, Tokyo, Japan and accepted her diploma. The three teenagers and Terry clapped and cheered. We all went to a small celebration dinner at the Officer’s club in the historic Sanno Hotel. General MacArthur had used it as his headquarters during the allied occupation after WWII.
When the time came for Terry to change his lifepath, he retired from the Navy. We returned to SanDiego and he went back to school and earned his second bachelors and a master’s degree. They never argued about money because there wasn’t enough left after paying the bills to fuss about. After Terry retired their income was cut in half. He received a stipend from the GI Bill and Marilyn worked as a substitute teacher. Differences of opinion about the children’s behavior caused strain on me. Marilyn swore she would never parent as her father had done. Terry believed she was too easy on the young ones. Kerry graduated from High School and wanted to marry her high school sweet heart; Duncan loved the beach and was an avid surfer at the expense of his school work; Tracy was a competitive swimmer who had to be driven to swim meets all over Southern California. Between school, work and children there wasn’t much time or energy for me. I wandered lonely and alone through weeks and months. When would they remember that I was important?
It wasn’t easy, but we survived those turbulent years. The children found their own ways and continued to love each other and their parents. Eventually Marilyn and Terry both taught school full time in the San Diego Unified District.
After twelve years they got itchy feet. Thank goodness they shared their needs and plans with one another so that I survived. The children were gone, the dog died, they bought property in Lakeside Arizona. With the help of a contractor they spent three summers building a chalet style cabin on the land. After three more years of summering in the cabin they found it increasingly hard to leave in August and return to the city. Their teaching jobs had turned into less teaching and more and more disciplining. Boat people from South East Asia flooded San Diego while integration programs, including busing caused havoc in neighborhoods and classrooms. Their jobs were juggling acts with no end in sight. They quit.
Thus they began the rebuilding of me. They added to the house, she taught part time in the local schools, he did custom carpentry for businesses and homeowners. They became part time Rvr’s and traveled the west stopping in small towns, national parks and wide spots in the road. He became an avid fly fisherman, learned to tie his own flies and build his own rods. She started weaving and eventually taught it at the community college. While he fished she searched out little libraries to find locally written books about the area. She wanted to write and began attending classes. Her writing teacher both scolded and encouraged her. They had time for me and I flourished. She gave him a dog for his birthday. Windy-of-Rim-Road, a liver and white Springer Spaniel, was a noble soul who shared and enriched our lives for twelve years.
My people were changing as the years passed. Her hearing grew muted and things were not always understood. "Where did you put my hammer?" became "What's all that clammer." Her father who was by then on his fourth wife, made demands on her that were unreasonable. She began to realize that she became physically sick when she was around him and went in search of help. With Terry’s encouragement she attended meetings of Adult Children of Alcoholics, a twelve-step program. She learned that while her father wasn’t an alcoholic he was a Rageaholic. She learned how to politely protect herself from him. Use the answering machine. Never answer the phone until you know who’s calling. Don’t allow yourself to be emotionally ambushed. Her growing self knowledge made things much easier for me—not to mention Terry.
The years pass, the hair grows sparse and grays. The knees stiffen, the eyes weaken and water while the mind grows clogged with modern technology. Yet, through it all they have learned to depend on me. To those who ask "How have you managed to survive for so long?" I say, "I look back with wonder and joy. We three were blessed with good health, a sense of purpose, ambition and direction. They know there is a God, a power greater than they and that most of the time they are not in control. My two are as different as storm and sunshine but they love. They love each other, their children and life. Each marriage is different, each finds its own way. We have been lucky, we worked hard and were determined to see it through (Some say we are stubborn)".I am the safety deposit box of all their precious memories, of loving children and grandchildren and a soon to arrive great grandson. Sometimes there are quiet moments like this one on the train when they hold hands and bless the day they defied her parents and created me—The Grandest of all of Terry and Marilyn’s Great Adventures.
*********************
My cotton blouse sticks to my back and sweat drips down my cheeks. The muggy, oppressive weather of Japan in July will not deter me from my outing. I’m desperate for quiet and solitude.
In my shoulder bag I carry my wallet, tissues and lunch. My skirt pocket bulges with a handful of smooth stream pebbles. I usually bring a camera but not today. I want to be here enjoying the sense of this holy place—its views, its sounds and fragrances and not worry about focus, composition or flash.
I'm homesick for the dry heat and deserts of Arizona and New Mexico. The thrill of being accepted at Sophia University has turned into the drudgery of twice weekly, four hour round trip train rides from Yokohama to Tokyo and back. The rigorous Jesuit scholarship standards are exhilarating and challenging but wearying. I’m tired of being a Navy wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister and a friend who juggles it all. Friends tell me I am so competent, smart and organized! They don’t know how hard I work to seem to be all those things.
I cherish my husband and three children beyond measure. We are proud to be a career Navy family but it was easier when our children were younger. Now they are teenagers struggling with simultaneous culture shock and adolescence. Terry and I work hard to give them the values they need to stay out of trouble. Drugs, alcohol, dance clubs and pachinko gambling are readily available on D Avenue in Yokohama. A neighbor’s family was sent home because of their teenagers’ drug use.
I worry about my father. My step-mother committed suicide three months ago. He wrote that I shouldn’t travel to Tucson for the services. I couldn’t get there in time so I grieved alone.
Some friends drink too much. Liquor is cheap and easily available at the PX package store. Out of fear and boredom, they flirt and fool around with men, married or single. We live in an enclave of regimented familiarity surrounded by a culture that intimidates while it entices. Since we all have maids we don’t have the daily tasks and chores to help keep us grounded and busy. Bridge, cocktail parties and shopping with the same, small group week in and week out deadens common sense.
It’s hard to stay on track when you never know when your husband’s squadron will be sent into combat. It’s even harder to realize that he may not come back. The Viet Nam war drags on. My husband is an administrator at the Naval Hospital in Yokosuka. His job is to keep the hospital clean, safe and ready for the wounded. Many patients are not only physically wounded, but are angry, hostile and stressed beyond human tolerance. They have seen more than their souls can accept, so they lash out.
I feel guilty taking this day for myself, but I must center my soul or I won’t be good for anyone. Mura-San, our maid, said, "The shrine is very old, Mama-San, only for women. Go, be quiet and alone." She gave me a railroad map, written instructions, lunch and the stones. "You will see where to put them. Each one is a prayer."
At Kamakura I change to the local narrow gauge line. Several stops later I get off the electric train near a tiny, traditional village. Signs guide visitors up the hill to the Shinto Shrine.
The stairway is made of moss encircled stones. The cupped steps speak of the thousands who have climbed here. Child sized stone statues are evenly spaced up the sides of the steps. Their ancient age is shown by their eroded facial features. Each one wears a new red fabric bib tied lovingly around its neck. Women come here to pray for healthy children, or to remember children who have died. They give thanks for happy marriages or ask for blessings on parents in their old age.
At the base of each statue is a mound of river stones. As I climb I place a stone at each effigy and begin to feel less burdened in body and spirit.
Velvety, emerald moss covers the north side of trees, walks and benches. Half-way up the hill I rest on a bench. Sunlight dapples through the dense tree canopy. The soft, ripe fragrance of camellias and azaleas coax me to notice their reds, pinks and purples.
The quiet embraces me. The only sounds are the murmuring voices of women. There are no tourists, no guides calling to their groups or children giggling. When the breeze is right I hear the faint hum and click of the train at the bottom of the hill.
The silence is a positive soothing sensation. It eases my tense neck and shoulders. I am massaged by the heavy warm air.
I climb to a clearing in the side of the hill. The tiny shrine is open in the front. Each paving stone in the courtyard, leading to the altar, wears a frame of green moss. In the center of the enclosure is a large round brass cauldron. Pilgrims light sticks of incense sold by an old woman sitting beside the shrine. I hand her forty yen and hold four sticks to the flame of her candle. I picture each loved one’s face and say their names--Terry, Kerry, Duncan, Tracy--as I press the sticks one by one into the sand filled cauldron. I clap three times to attract the God’s attention.
The smoke and aroma of the incense captures and carries my worries up to heaven. I hear only the whisper of pilgrim’s voices and the clicking shuffle of the wooden geta the kimono clad women wear.
I find a bench near a brook that tumbles down the hill and open my lunch. I sense I’m being watched. I look down at the emerald moss covered rock at the end of the bench. Two glowing, golden eyes, each smaller than a lemon seed, watch me. Out of the emerald moss, a green gecko emerges. He’s the same color as the moss and I wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t opened his eyes and begun his daily push-ups.
A mother hen and her brood scurry across the courtyard. She clucks and hurries the chicks into the shadowy underbrush. The gecko freezes until they pass and then resumes his up and down exercises. This is his timeless, magical, mossy world and he has welcomed me. With all of its beauty, pain, love, sorrow and joy, this is my world too. Solving all of my teenagers’ problems is impossible. I will not fret about my father who is marrying again. He’s always done exactly as he pleases. I’ll ask my friends to talk to the Chaplain. I can’t stop the Viet Nam war. Loving my family and friends fully will happen only if I love myself enough to, now and then, fill up my own cup.
I’ve traveled countless miles and walked down many paths since that day.
When the world threatens to overwhelm me, I close my eyes and am there in the green gecko’s world. I share a quiet, small moment with him and in my heart feel the peace I found there.
*********************
This morning the air feels softer. Maybe the rain will come today. Yesterday I saw a flock of white sky sheep grazing in their blue meadow. We who live here in the White Mountains of Eastern Arizona wait every summer for our monsoon. We wait shrouded in a still, heavy quiet. No birds cheep, call or caw. Insect sounds are conspicuous by their absence. The weeds along the road droop into the powdery dust. Windy-the-Wonder Dog, in his hot brown and white Springer Spaniel coat, lies panting on the porch.
An open door swings and slams shut. I go to the window and look out between billowing curtains. The pine branches are dancing, the potted petunias bow and bob, the oak leaves twist and rattle against each other. Windy moves to the edge of the porch deck. His fur is ruffled by the breeze. He raises his head and sniffs the air. Does he smell a hint of rain?
The sky fills with gray, white and dark blue clouds. I hear thunder rumbling faintly in the southeast. Shadows disappear. The sun is covered. We have waited for so long. It is mid-July and the rain is overdue. The forest, the animals and dry dusty birds are all thirsty. Children and adults alike are dry nosed, itchy skinned and chapped lipped. We wait for the relief of summer rains---our monsoon.
Thunder sounds louder as I go out and sit on the porch to watch the show. The birds display excitement by calling to one another. The red headed woodpecker cries, "It’s coming, it’s coming!" Blue jays gather at the bird bath and chuckle as they dance from one foot to the other. Ravens swoop and glide on the blowing, rising air currents. Hummers zip around even more swiftly than usual.
The temperature drops five degrees in ten minutes. The breeze freshens and cools. I hear a distinct roll of thunder from the north. I haven’t seen any lightning yet. I hope we get rain before we get too much lightning. Fire danger is extreme. There have been fires down on the reservation. Several days ago I walked over to the rim and looked south toward Fort Apache. In the far distance I saw slurry bombers dropping pink foam, from tanks that hang from the underside of the planes, onto billows of smoke. The dog reacts to the thunder as the claps become louder and almost constant. He lifts his ears, cocks his head to one side and looks quizzically at me. We wait together. It is getting cooler by the minute. There are goosebumps on my arms. I smell the rain. The wind blows the wet, earthy scent over the miles. It must be raining up at Sunrise, on Mt. Baldy or over near the White River.
The light is distilled through the merging, darkening clouds. It is as if I see the yard through a series of camera filters. For a minute everything looks yellow, then blue and now gray. A strong gust of wind scatters pine needles and cones down onto the deck and blows the rubber foot mat out into the yard. Windy and I wait. I sit with my arm around his neck and whisper into his long floppy ear. “Will we have to water the garden today, after all ? Is this another false alarm?” He leans against me and groans with pleasure. He just likes me to take time out of my busy day and sit on the porch with him.
A sharp clap of thunder rolls over the Mogollon Rim. Another rumble answers from the west. Has it passed us by? Out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash and then hear a loud, close clap of thunder. The rumbling is continual. The sky is inky black. The first fat drop splats on the deck. It startles Windy and he jumps up and moves over under the roof. Other drops fall and the rain becomes a sheet of wonderful wetness. I raise my face and put out my hands to feel its blessing. The monsoon is here! I hear the drumming of the rain on the roof, the yard and the road. Windy and I go inside to watch and listen at the open window.
The pine trees twist and bow as they sing to welcome the life bringing water. "Come and wash our branches. Come and clean our trunks. Come and quench our thirst. Thank you, Brother Rain."