This Month's Story
3 May ‘12
John,
It’s on the late side of the afternoon. It’s warm; 85 degrees. I’m sitting in the front porch’s shade drinking a mixture of Paul Newman’s Virgin Lemonade and tonic. The mixture pleads for some vodka, but I’m not allowed liquor and so I drink it straight. I’m alone. Stella has taken the truck to go to Latrobe to get some things we missed when we were there earlier. We had spent much of the day shopping and I had started to complain that I was hurting and Stella, taking the hint, drove us home.
Stella does all the driving now. I borrowed the truck the other day and narrowly missed another car at a stop sign so I’ve given up and let her drive. Last week, the visiting nurse told me that things will get better and that I’ll be driving myself in another two or three months. We’ll see.
The thing is that Stella, in addition to driving, does all of the hard things around the property; things that I normally would do. She does them and never says a word. I grit my teeth watching her, but I know that we don’t have a choice. If we want the things done, she must be the one that does them. But she never complains or even looks like she’s even thought about complaining. I guess I’m lucky.
It has been a long day. It started by Stella driving me to physical therapy at the local clinic; she stayed in the truck reading. When I tried opening the clinic’s front door, it got away from me. The guy right behind me caught it and saying, as he held it open for me, that the doors were a little heavy. Then he moved quickly around me and opened the other set of inner doors. It was a nice thing to do, especially the casual way he did it. I thanked him and went inside and for the next hour let the therapists see how many ways they could hurt me.
One sterling moment of the session occurred as the head therapist looked me over before they started their work. She looked at the scar on my neck and saw where they had cut away bone. She then got a plastic model of the spine and pointed to the bones. “See they cut away all of the neck bones below C2. If the break had started at C2, you would have been died instantly. You were very lucky.”
I just noticed that I’m truly alone. Holly has left me. Lots of times, he sits at the front steps when I’m out here, but now I see he’s got up and went somewhere else. He can be a bastard sometimes. I put down my book and stand up and look over at the Urchek’s field to see if I see him. A black cat in an amber shaded field of scrub hay is easy to see, but I don’t see him. There is a deer far off in the golden late afternoon light and I watch it for awhile, but finding this not too exciting, I sit down and pick up my book.
It’s John Grisham’s latest, “Calico Joe.” So far I think it’s up there as one of his best. I’m talking now as a fellow writer. Perhaps not in his class, but as a fellow technician, I can see the beautiful technical skills he brings to his writing. He is one of those great story tellers like Stephen King, but unlike King, Gresham’s stories have plots that rival in skill with his story telling ability. You get engrossed in his colorful ins and outs without realizing he is painting a picture for a plot ending that will leave you more than pleased.
I haven’t written much lately, I’ll probably start again this fall. I’m not really having a dry spell, but lately things have just gotten out of hand.
Holly is still missing and I look at the time. Its getting late. Stella’s gone to get some dogwoods at the Latrobe Loews. Earlier, when we stopped at the Greenburg Loews, they were out of peat moss. We did buy a dogwood there, but it was scrawny looking thing. Later, when we stopped at the Latrobe store for peat moss and she saw their trees, she wanted to return the runt we had and buy a couple of theirs. But then I said I was hurting and we went home.
It has been a long day. First thing I did when we got home was put my neck brace back on, take a oxycodone, and go out on the porch. Holly came out with me and we waited enjoying the late light until Stella came out with the drinks and some homemade apple pie.
We had Chinese for lunch: Fried rice and sweet and sour pork. We took a doggy bag and we’ll have it for lunch tomorrow. I don’t eat as much and have lost weight; I’m down to 185 (from 205).
The door thing didn’t stop at the clinic. At the restaurant, a women and her younger daughter stopped and held the door for me although I was a little ways back. They were chattering away at something and both smiled at me when I thanked them and they hurried on, still busy with whatever they were talking about. It was a casual thing, but still…
Stella came behind a little bit later carrying the doggy bag and four plastic containers of hot and sour soup. No one held the door for her. She smiled at me as she started the truck telling me that she would freeze the soups and whip them out for quick lunches when we were working in the fields. I let her go on and on about what we have to do with the grape vines in the pergola and the fact that we should look out for some climbing Peace roses to put on the north side of the new fences around the fruit trees.
Finally, I stop her and ask if I was starting to look old. She looked ahead for a long moment and then said, “Well, yes in a way. You walk stiff, sort of slow with your head bent. But Paul it has only been a little over two months! They just took the hospital bed away last week. Things take time.”
Still…
Stella’s back with the trees. I better go down and say something nice about them as she unloads. I’ll write something more exciting next time.
Paul
Early evening at Stone Hill
