“Let’s roll, dahrrrling!” Miss Hastings instructed, as she buckled herself into the familiar front seat. She lovingly patted the leather passenger armrest as though it was an old friend.
Sovereign Elementary School has 87 children, 18 from the combined kindergarten and first grade. The decibel level in the small auditorium was high where all 18 children were sitting cross-legged on the polished hardwood floor eagerly awaiting Miss Hastings and her dancing pet chicken Matilda. A black acoustic upright piano had been wheeled into the room and Miss Hastings began by settling herself onto the piano bench with a flourish and inviting all the children to gather round. Matilda squawked from her cage atop the piano and the children needed no further inducement to scramble forward.
Miss Hastings took powerful possession of the piano, banging out chords as though she was a maestro from the Metropolitan Opera and not an 87-year-old spinster with knobby arthritic claws.
“This is the story of the little red hen, DAHRRRLINGS!” she began, in her teaching voice. But then she burst into a sonorous alto, singing the words to “The Little Red Hen” from a green, oversized book, The Kindergarten Book. She indicated where the children were to sing along with her, and Lila joined in, quickly seduced by the uplifting sound of the music. They sang:
“Cut cut cut ca dacket,” – Said the little hen.
“See my little yellow chickens eight, nine, ten.”
“Cut cut cut ca dacket, Count them all again.
1,2,3,4,5,6, seven, eight, nine, ten.”
Singing is a physic with an invigorating effect on the human system, a dose of one-part celerity mixed with two-parts celebrity. By the time Miss Hastings had moved through the four piano pieces she had selected to play and sing, the children – as well as the adults present – felt as though they encompassed a chorus from heaven, specially gifted to share good cheer with the world. Matilda cackled and squawked along with the music, hopping about in her tiny cage in step with the tempo of each piece. The atmosphere was electric when Miss Hastings brought the final selection to an end with a thundering crash on the piano.
Lila’s heart leapt at the sound. Omigod, my heart’s on FIRE!
She pressed her hand to her chest to keep her heart from leaping out and dancing on top of the piano with Matilda.
Miss Hastings whirled around on the piano bench and cried: “Who’s ready for a parade?!”
Pandemonium broke loose as the children screeched and clapped and shouted their willingness to participate in the musical parade. During the last song, Mrs. Lakewood had surreptitiously wheeled in a three-tiered cart containing various musical instruments, including tambourines, cymbals, drum pads, whistles, kazoos and harmonicas. The kindergarten and first grade teachers had added armloads of colorful hats and scarves, and the children made a run for their favorite selection of both instrument and costume.
Lila, without any hesitation, donned her pink floppy hat and schlepped her bongo drum under her left arm in preparation for her part in the parade. Miss Hastings nodded decisively to Mrs. Lakewood, who released Matilda from her cage, to the delighted cries of the children. Unfazed, the barred rock hen hopped to the auditorium floor and paused expectantly at Miss Hastings’ shiny black pumps.
“Line up behind Matilda!” Miss Hastings instructed. “Line up! And … let’s have a PARADE!”
Miss Hastings lifted her legs high and began to march enthusiastically around room, thrashing her arms and jingling the tambourine high in the air. The chicken and the children lurched into a crescendo of musical noise and movement, snaking behind her in a long, strange string of youthful jubilation. Miss Hastings tossed sunflower seeds to Matilda, and the bird snapped them up happily and hopped along proudly like a Grand Marshall. Miss Hastings shouted out encouragement to the children – “Wonderful! Wonderful! Lift those legs higher! Sing, sing, sing, dahrrrlings!” – and everyone within hearing distance of the parade, including the janitor, fell into line singing, dancing, playing their instruments as though bewitched.
“Daadaa, deedum, dum; shake those tambourines and pound those drums!” Miss Hastings cried, wild hair flying everywhere. “Daadaa, deedum, dum, do-opp a DOO! SING, SING! and DANCE and Matilda will dance TOO!”
Blood pumped rapidly through Lila’s veins, as she pounded Amber’s bongo drum and marched along following the line of children. She sang out, “Daadeedaa dee dum, dum!” in a loud voice, completely unembarrassed. She was a child again, entranced by the undulations of the parade line and the marvelous harmony of the musical clamor.
How does she do it? Lila thought after 10 minutes, feeling herself tiring and running out of breath. This is why she’ll live forever!
Later that evening, when Lila tried to describe the day to Rebecca, she discovered that the event with Miss Hastings was almost too indescribable for words.
“It was the most magical experience I’ve ever had,” she declared. “Every care I ever had in life, every bad thought, every disappointment just completely disappeared! I was five years old again, but not only that, I was THE MOST SPECIAL five-year-old the world has ever known! That’s the feeling I got so I can’t begin to image how powerful it must have been for those kids who actually were five years old!”
“I wish I’d gone with you,” said Rebecca, enviously.
“Next time,” said Lila. “Next time—you go and take your special place in Miss Hastings’ parade!”
“But what if there isn’t a next time?” Rebecca worried. “She is 87-years-old, after all!”
“Oh, there WILL be a next time,” Lila vowed. “Even if I have to learn how to play ‘The Little Red Hen’ on the piano myself! The parade will go on!”
And do we know? Can we know? Of the wellspring of unconditional love to which the good-hearted old spinster returned again and again to seek replenishment for her own ageing spirit?
From which sacred waters did she drink to recharge those tireless batteries? From whence sprang her hopes, her dreams, her noble indulgences? Her love of children and chickens?
Might we lift the curtain of Miss Hastings’ girlish memories, the holy of holies, as fresh for her today as they were 70 years ago?
My pips, there are some places in this story where I fear to tread! And so Miss Hastings’ secret hope remains a sacred mystery to us all.
Chapter 19
Sooner or Later
Let me reassure all the lover of lovers (and we know who we are), that Lila has not gone the entire week without seeing Mike Hobart. Our handsome hero has stopped by the old Russell homestead most days on his way to his barn-building jobsite in Troy (or most evenings on the way home from it) in order to snatch a quick hug, a sweet caress, a reassuring word and perhaps a kiss or two, eagerly bestowed by his sweetheart. Lila’s kisses were dropped freely on his face and lips, much like the early petals dropped by the gangly wild cherry, offering not only some amount of immediate gratification but also the promise of many more soft blossoms yet to come. These were delicious moments for Mike and Lila, for the anticipation of seeing one’s lover is often as sweet as the event itself, adding a sumptuous sugar-coating to our ordinary, everyday lives.
Writing is not my vocation but a necessary and often burdensome part of my calling. Thus a cruel slave driver sits on my right shoulder constantly goading me to move forward with our little tale. (Poor Rebecca has been slaving all week to prepare for their Sunday dinner party). Fortunately, however, the sweeper of the skies and the keeper of my heart whispers in my other ear to proceed slowly; linger l-o-n-g in these moments of golden sunshine when love abounds like the song birds in spring, which are legion. Tomorrow will come with abundance, this Voice instructs; but these moments of blissful love are never long enough!
There is no question which Voice I will obey. And so we lovers of lovers will live vicariously through this sacred moment with Mike and Lila.
I suspect that cynics reading this will cry foul at my weak attempt here at a Time Out. These people know only too well that – sooner o
r later – when Tomorrow does appear for Mike and Lila, pain will mingle with their love to dull the shine much like rust mars the chrome on a new bicycle. But now, NOW is their moment of unending bliss! And the Voice to whom by sacred vocation I am called to listen has given me the power to pin this moment in time simply by the twist of a pen!
The spring peepers on Saturday evening were as charming as sleigh bells of long ago, reminiscent of incurable romance. The air was thick and warm, unusually warm for the time of year. And so the frogs – and the humans – were happy.
“Not a bad ambience, for chorus frogs,” said Hobart, drawing Lila down with him onto the wooden double rocker that Rebecca had found in the open chamber above the shed and Wendell had repaired. Hobart was showered and changed from his work clothes into clean jeans and a blue cotton T-shirt. Rebecca had cooked him an omelet and toast, and then shooed the cooing couple out onto the open-air farmer’s porch that graced the east side of the old Russell homestead.
Lila giggled. “You shouldn’t have told me to look up peepers on the Internet,” she said. “I thought they were romantic until I saw how ugly they were!” She chastely moved a respectable distance away from him on the newly cushioned rocker.
“You don’t like me today?” he asked, feigning hurt.
“Noo, silly; Rebecca might see!” Her hand couldn’t resist touching him, however, in order to reassure itself of his physical presence. Of their own accord her fingers buried themselves in the damp curls of his thick, blond hair. A sigh escaped her parted lips at the contact, and she leaned closer.
“Careful, Rebecca might see!” he mimicked. He grasped her wrist, turned it over and placed a light kiss on the sensitive spot at the base of her palm. When this mission was complete, he pulled her hand behind his neck and her slender frame followed in a complete surrender.
She cuddled against his steady chest. He rested his cheek upon her silky hair, breathing in deeply her feminine scent comingled with the sweet evening air. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said.
“Mmmm,” she replied, lazy, lost, content for the moment.
“Then Rebecca won’t be able to see,” he said, suggestively.
She giggled again.
“I love to hear you laugh,” he said, sincerely. “It makes me happy—to make you happy.”
She pulled away a few inches and smiled up at him. “Doesn’t take much for me, obviously,” she replied. “A few frogs and some moonlight.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Isn’t there some old fairy tale about frog kissing and princes?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, there once was a handsome carpenter that a wicked witch turned into a frog,” he began; “and he needed a beautiful young blonde to kiss him …”
“Blonde!” Lila cried, sitting upright.
Did I say ‘blonde’? I meant ‘redhead,’ of course,” he corrected himself. But he must still have been mistaken, because he metamorphosed into a prince immediately after the deliberate kiss of a hazel-eyed brunette.
“There,” she said, reviewing her handiwork. “My Prince!”
“Come back here,” he said, cupping her neck with his hands, and silencing her lips once again.
Dusk fell like dew. On the porch was the sound of soft sighs and murmurs. In the dining room, Rebecca clicked on a light over the table where she had left her sewing sprawled out before dinner. The bright light spilled out onto the farmer’s porch like a square yellow patch on a quilt, narrowly missing the two pair of entangled legs.
Startled, they broke apart. “Phew, that was close,” said Hobart, chuckling. “A little more to the right and Rebecca would have seen!”
“And I couldn’t care less,” Lila said, giggling again.
They lay back against the double rocker holding hands. Lila closed her eyes, reveling in her happiness. A surreal feeling of weightlessness filled her spirit. She was setting sail; they were setting sail, together, with an ocean of possibilities in front of them. She could be no place without him because he was the blue water beneath her and the blue sky above her. Now, she was skimming over the water effortlessly, as though her sailing ship had sprouted wings.
“Have you ever had the flying dream?” she asked, curiously, eyes still closed.
“I think I’m having one now,” he said.
“No, really?”
He was quiet a moment, toying with the fingers of her left hand abstractedly. “When I was a kid, I did,” he said. “Once or twice.”
“Tell me about it,” she demanded.
“When I was six or seven, I dreamed I was flying across the big potato field next to our house in Maple Grove. It was so real I could feel the wind on my face. I looked down to see where I was, and I saw a white, star-shaped potato blossom directly beneath me – I was looking at it from an aerial point of view, much like a bee or a butterfly – and the blossom had this enormous yellow stamen, I remember. It felt perfectly normal to fly. Then I woke up and discovered it was a dream. What a disappointment!”
“I can imagine!”
“How about you? Since you asked.”
“When I was little, I DID fly,” she said, firmly. “I know it. I could fly, at least until I was 10. It was a very powerful experience; I needed to fly away.”
“Think you can still fly away, my darling chickadee? There was a time when you wanted to fly away from me!”
“That was instinct; self-preservation on my part,” she replied, honestly. “But now … now you’ve got me eating out of your hand!”
“More birdseed, my Matilda?” said Hobart, leaning over to nuzzle her neck.
“Mmmm,” she replied. “That 50 pounds of bird seed was a neat trick!”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he said, with some satisfaction.
“Oh, it worked alright!”
Rebecca suddenly switched off the dining room light, and the porch descended once again into darkness. Hobart shifted his 6-foot frame to a more comfortable position on the wooden rocker. As his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he automatically scanned the 10-acre eastern field, where green grass was being transformed into fluid patches of black water by the slow-moving, cloud-induced shadows of the evening. “This is about the time last year when we first saw Tinkerbell in the field,” he remarked.
“TinkerBEAU,” she corrected, following his gaze. “I’m starting to think your fabled white deer doesn’t exist. Rebecca and I look for him every evening.”
“You doubt me?” he asked, in mock disappointment.
“No, no, I don’t doubt you,” she assured him. “But Tinkerbell is keeping a pretty low profile these days. We’ve seen plenty of other deer in the field, but no white deer.”
“Patience,” he said. “If Tinkerbell has survived the winter, you’ll see him here, first.”
They rested in peaceful silence for a few blessed minutes. Hobart spoke first. “Say, did you ever have the kissing dream?”
“The kissing dream! How silly! I never heard of it.”
“It goes something like this …” he said, bending his head toward hers.
When their lips met, Lila experienced a translocation of the order of the universe, as though time turned like the tide and began to churn backward. She felt as though she was gaining life by the second, by the month, by the year – as though the antique clock on the mantel in the living room had slipped a cog and was running counter-clockwise. She lost herself in the timeless eternity of his kiss. When he breathed in deeply, she entered his spirit upon that breath and once inside became unable to tell where her Self began and his ended. There was no boundary between them, no bones or skin or sinew like a rock wall separating them. There was no mistrust, only perfect confidence in one another. He loved her; he respected her; he cherished her. What more did she need? Was not this the very embodiment of life?
When temporarily sated with kisses, they lay back against the wooden rocker, his arm tucked protectively around her shoulders. “I could sit like this forever, looking at the sta
rs,” she said. “I love how they twinkle!”
“There’s Venus,” said Hobart. With his free hand he pointed out the radiating white planet. “And Mars … Wow! You can really see why it’s called the Red Planet, tonight.”
Lila followed his direction, and saw Mars throbbing with a reddish orange color. The sight of the Red Planet intensified her senses, as though Mars was mirroring her own throbbing emotions and desires. “I’ve never seen a planet so red before!”
“Strange, isn’t it,” he said; “to think how many billions of people over the years have looked up at these same stars and planets?”
“Makes me feel small in a way, but also somehow connected to a much greater whole.”
He kissed her fingertips one at a time; soft, sensuous caresses. “You are my whole,” he whispered in her ear.
Her heart imploded with exquisite pain. “Oh, oooh!” she cried, raising her lips to seek his once again. “I so need you!”
“Shhhh, I’m here, darling,” he said, confidently claiming her breath as his own.
Time continued to roll backward. This provident fluke of nature forestalled Tomorrow, creating for our lovers that sense of unending present bliss.
Cynics, who feel the pain of tomorrow much like the arthritic feels a coming change in the weather, know that this rapturous moment won’t last; for nothing lasts, they say, not even true love. Tomorrow will come – sooner or later – bringing with it heartbreaks of unexpected pain, grief and loss.
But this moment of unending bliss is not lost; never lost! For we keep these sacred moments in our hearts and souls; do we not, my pips? We carry memories of former rapture with us into our daily lives to ward off despair, hopelessness and grief much like soldiers carry religious tokens into war or pilgrims tote relics along the dusty road searching for hope.
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