Sanibel Scribbles

by Christine Lemmon

  “Te quiero Victoria de los Estados Unidos. Te quiero.”

  He hung up before she could get his phone number, and, once again, she had forgotten to get his last name.

  Awake, she didn’t care about time. She’d always have the next day’s siesta to catch up.

  Dear Grandma,

  You’ll never guess what time it is. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and being awake at this hour reminds me of the sleepless nights I went through after Rebecca died. I don’t know that I’ll ever hear from Rafael again, just as I don’t know that I’ll ever make it back to Tarpon Key. I might not need an island as remote as that again.

  Last night I had a nightmare. I was holding on for dear life to a raft I made myself out of a few logs and ropes. Of course it was dark out and the waves stood high. With my hands in the water, I paddled my way toward a little island but never made it there. Suddenly I saw Ben, as crazy as this sounds, bobbing up and down in the water. There were other men as well, men I once dated, and men I once left. I couldn’t see their faces or remember their names, nor did I care about them. I only cared about Ben, and I cried my eyes out seeing him in the Sea of Forgetfulness. Perhaps I made a mistake? Perhaps he didn’t belong there? I searched around in the water for Rafael and called out to him, but I couldn’t find him. I don’t believe he had been tossed in there just yet. Then my raft fell apart, and a big boat rescued me. Unfortunately, they were heading for the mainland and refused to take me to the island.

  My life is comfortable now, like a warm breeze blanketing my skin. I once lived inside pink walls that smelled of waffle cones.

  When the cone broke, I felt so cold. I wondered why anyone would ever want to leave a comfort zone. Now I find myself loosening the bedding at night so my toes can stick out. Yes, I feel confined when my toes can’t breathe. Anyway, now I value the voyages we take from one comfort zone to the next.

  P.S. Do you see my writing to you? Do you read these letters?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  VICKI HAD BEEN SWINGING in the white wicker chair on her porch for hours, listening to the water as it gently arrived on Sanibel’s shore. Her hair, now gray and somewhat purple, lent her a look of wisdom, like a seasoned woman who had sailed through life, through choppy water, through calm water, through storms and through sunsets. She could close her eyes and let herself sit in silent contentment, a woman who had conducted countless symphonies in life and used the silences to hear the music. She read the very last letter she had ever written to her grandmother, over thirty years earlier.

  Dear Grandma,

  Sitting here at the Lighthouse Beach inspires me in a special way. I sit here all the time. I am thankful to be living here on Sanibel Island and to be raising my babies here. Sometimes I miss my psychology practice, but I’m glad I have never missed my babies’ first steps or first words. I know I can return to work any time I choose, and I can work just a couple days a week if I like. There’s so much I once wanted to do in life, and now I just want to savor life. Have I lost my ambition? No, I don’t believe so.

  This is the last letter I will write to you, so I’m writing to say good-bye. You see, Grandma, I’ve been coming here to the Lighthouse Beach to write for a long time now and, well, one day, when I began a typical letter to you, I suddenly realized you had better things to do up in Heaven, so instead, I addressed that particular letter to God. Sure, I could have started writing, ‘Dear Diary,’ but I didn’t feel like locking my worries and dreams into a book. Diaries are too good at keeping secrets, whereas God, well, hopefully He shares some secrets with his angels, who then might want a project to work on.

  Grandma, I haven’t written to you since, and I’m only writing this time to explain why I stopped my letters to you. As I scribbled my dreams and goals to dear God, the results were powerful beyond belief. I felt such immense peace when I surrendered my life and all the things I wanted to do over to God and to His will. I am confident He reads what I write. I still write to God on a regular basis, often sitting at the Lighthouse Beach just as the sun wakes. Sometimes I scribble so fast and passionately that no person would ever be able to read my handwriting, but it doesn’t matter. God doesn’t check for grammar or penmanship.

  So Grandma, this is why the letters to you have stopped. I love you and always will and I know I will see you again. This is why I must now live my life. I must enjoy my time.

  P.S. Until we meet again!

  She could hardly wait for her company to arrive as she closed the last letter to her grandmother, then closed her eyes. She allowed herself to look back for a moment, but only as long as it took for a soft wave to arrive on shore, carrying treasures from the Gulf of Mexico with it, yet leaving that body of water behind.

  She opened her eyes and knew from the location of the sun that it would soon be time to plug in the string of miniature white Christmas-tree lights that decorated the porch and windows of her Sanibel bungalow. She wanted everything to be lit up and festive when they arrived.

  She walked inside and down the hall, framed with pictures of her children, fully grown. Noah, her firstborn, was now in his late forties and living in Ann Arbor, Michigan, of all places. This, she was glad of. He lived far from her, yet close to the world she grew up in, her old Midwest comfort zone. It had provided her with a wonderful place to visit several times a year, ever since he had started and graduated from the University of Michigan.

  They spent their winters on Sanibel Island, then always visited Noah in early May. Afterward, they would drive to Holland for the Tulip Time Festival, in which she proudly wore a Dutch costume and scrubbed the streets in the parade. Wearing the wooden shoes reminded her of who she was and where she had come from. It still didn’t matter after all these years that her blood wasn’t Dutch. She had decided years ago to participate, to become a part of this comfortable town. This she had done and continued to do every year, scrubbing those streets with pride and passion, always dumping a cold pail of water on her husband’s head when he least expected it.

  With disposable cameras full of tulips and windmills and yellow sand dunes, she and her husband would then leave for Europe, where they spent every summer and autumn. She especially savored her time there because her daughter, Emma, had met a man while in Europe, and together they had made a home there.

  She always walked slowly down the hall framed with photographs, but she heard a bell go off in the kitchen—it had been about forty-five minutes so she knew the cake was done baking—and she bustled along because she didn’t want this cake to be overdone. She inserted a toothpick into the center. It came out dry, so she quickly removed the three nine-inch round pans from the oven and let the vibrant red cake cool on the counter.

  Then she walked over to the table and ran her hands over the white paper tablecloth and fidgeted with a bouquet of tropical flowers standing tall in their vase. She set two white candles in holders next to the flowers, then opened the drawer of a hutch and pulled out a box of crayons. She scattered the crayons across the center of the table and sat down.

  She did this every time she had guests. She would tell them to scribble things that they could do that would make their life instantly better, small things, like resting five minutes a day on a park bench where they could sit and think. They liked the activity and often said it changed the course of their future simply by altering their daily activities. It put things into perspective.

  She took a pound of cream cheese out of the refrigerator and began mixing it with three quarters of a pound of butter. She felt the tightness of her skirt around her waist and blamed it on all the olive bread she had enjoyed over the years. She never blamed it on the cake she was baking. She made this special cake once a year and never allowed herself any guilt. Sometimes a woman just needs instant gratification without guilt. As she slowly mixed in two pounds of confectioners’ sugar, she glanced up at her wedding photo hanging on the wall in the hall, and her wedding dress to this day still amazed her. She knew she had bragged about t
hat dress for years, but how could she not? Never had a gown been so perfectly designed to fit her body. Well, it wouldn’t fit now after years of olive bread, but it certainly fit back then. The fabric had felt so personal, comfortable, as if painted on with a silk brush. It made her smile, knowing she had made the right decisions concerning her Mr. Right. Now, hindsight offered nothing more than pleasant memories of life gone by.

  Once the icing in the bowl was smooth and well mixed, she added three cups of pecans then walked over to the crucifix hanging on a nearby wall and thanked God for the years she had lived, long past her naive fears of death. She knew that without the spirit of God in her life she would never have had the energy or courage to leave old comforts behind and enter new waters. “For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever,” she whispered.

  Just then, she could hear the cane of her husband as he made his way into the room. He walked slowly now, slower than ever. The arthritis in his knees and elbows only allowed him short journeys from the bedroom to his favorite chair on the porch or to the kitchen for home-cooked paella. Vicki loved taking care of him because he had always taken care of her. Always. Their age difference only mattered physically and had only started to show in the last few years because he had always stayed active, passionately becoming involved in life and its activities. His mind was as sharp as when they first met, and this was what she loved most about him. Besides, she had known he was older when they met. She knew it when they fell in love, and she knew it when she chose him for her husband. Back then, she knew much about him, yet so very little.

  “Dear, when will the Red Velvet Cake be ready?” he asked.

  “When Noah, Emma, and the kids arrive, sweetie. You can have some then.”

  A mischievous glint lit up his eyes. “There’s something I haven’t told you in a long time,” he said.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  He took her hand in his and kissed it. His words struck her like fingers gliding across the strings of a harp and they made the butterflies within her silently dance. “Just that - Te quiero Victoria de los Estados Unidos, te quiero,” he said quietly, and she realized his words were the symphony’s rondo, the one delightful theme she had heard all along, over and over again.

  She laughed. “I love you too, Rafael de España, and you just told me that an hour ago.”

  VICKI’S FINAL SCRIBBLES

  ON THE WHITE PAPER TABLECLOTH

  Live within the present.

  Find a domain and bring passion to your life.

  Anchor long enough to repair and refuel and make your way through dark waters.

  Celebrate life.

  Build your own fortress with walls made of boundaries.

  Surrender your dreams to God.

  Start fresh daily, adding beautiful colors to your plain white canvas.

  See something new out your same old window.

  Add laughter to your life.

  Discover an island where you can stop and think.

  Think magnificent thoughts you have never had time to think and notice magnificent details you have never noticed before.

  Hop, skip, and jump toward goals, enjoying the process as much as the destination.

  Get to know yourself.

  Abandon comfort zones and discover adventure.

  Never rush any part of life. Savor it like a delicious meal.

  Indulge in fiestas but never lose your dignity.

  Get on with your life. Live life!

  Dance through life.

  Nourish the heart with red wine, olive oil, romance, and careful listening.

  When death comes around, stare it in the eyes.

  Do as you like in the silent moments.

  Remember the tulips.

  Just as their season of stardom comes

  and goes, you too will one day.

  RED VELVET CAKE

  The Bubble Room

  15001 Captiva Road

  Captiva Island, Florida

  CAKE

  3¾ cups self-rising flour

  2¼ cups sugar

  3 eggs

  1½ teaspoons vanilla

  1½ teaspoons vinegar

  1½ teaspoons baking soda

  1½ teaspoons cocoa

  2¼ cups vegetable oil

  1½ cups buttermilk

  3 oz. red food coloring

  ICING

  1 pound cream cheese

  ¾ pound butter

  2 pounds confectioners’ sugar

  3 cups pecans

  DIRECTIONS

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Mix all ingredients together and pour into three greased and floured 9” cake pans. Bake for 45 minutes to one hour or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out dry.

  For icing, mix cream cheese and butter until smooth. Add sugar and mix. When smooth and well mixed, add pecans.

  Yields one three-layer 9” cake

  SANIBEL

  SCRIBBLES

  READER’S GUIDE

  1. ISLANDS. Simon the dockmaster says everyone needs to discover an island. The island he refers to is symbolic. What does it represent? Do you believe everyone needs to discover an island of their own? What sorts of “islands” do you go to in your life?

  2. VESSELS. When talking to Vicki, Denver says the staff house is a harbor full of vessels and then describes the other characters as vessels. Did you find these classifications illuminating or limiting? If you were to classify yourself, what sort of vessel would you be?

  3. OUTLOOK. Vicki savors her view out a window at the staff house. What do you think the view out the window or the water represented to her?

  4. TIME ALONE. Vicki tells Ben, “A tulip needs morning sun to open. And as much as that tulip needs morning sun, a woman needs time alone. She discovers immense power from within, power she never knew she had, once she spends a moment with herself.” Do you agree? What sorts of things do women do when they’re alone and without their friends or family? Do they discover this power?

  Do you think women appreciate their own company and times in which they are alone? Why do you think women sometimes might feel uncomfortable being alone?

  5. JOURNEYS. At one point Simon encourages Vicki not to “underestimate the journeys you’ve been on. They don’t have to be geographical or physical journeys.” What sorts of journeys do Vicki and some other characters go on? What sorts of journeys have you been on? Do you agree with Ruth who said, “Often these journeys make up the women that you are and the ones you are becoming”?

  6. SIESTAS. In a letter to her grandmother, Vicki describes Spain’s siestas. Do you think siestas would work in America? Would you want them?

  7. SYMPHONIES AND SILENCE. The motifs of symphonies and silence appear in different parts of the novel. What do you think symphonies symbolize in different parts of the story? What is significant about the silences?

  8. MAKING TIME. Vicki promised that when she returned to the United States she would carry a blanket in her car at all times, and stop and sit in parks whenever time allowed. Oops! Time would never allow such a thing, so she would have to make time instead. And she goes on thinking of all the things she would make time to do. What sorts of things do you wish you had more time for? What is the one thing you think you could make time for in your everyday life that you aren’t currently doing? What would you scribble on a paper table cloth?

  CHRISTINE LEMMON is author of three inspiring novels – Sanibel Scribbles, Portion of the Sea, Sand in My Eyes, and the gift book Whisper from the Ocean. She has worked as an on-air host for a National Public Radio affiliate, business magazine editor, and publicist for a non-fiction publishing house.

  She lives with her husband and three children on Sanibel Island, the setting of her three novels.

  VISIT CHRISTINELEMMON.COM

  ALSO BY CHRISTINE LEMMON

  CHRISTINELEMMON.COM

  SAND IN MY EYES

  An Older Woman Growing Flowers, A Younger Woman Caught up in
the Weeds, and the Seasons of Life.

  PORTION OF THE SEA

  A Tale About the Treasures a Woman has—Heart, Soul and Mind—and the Struggle to Keep Them Afloat.

  SANIBEL SCRIBBLES

  A Story About a Woman’s Journey to an Island, and then Spain, Facing Mortality and Embracing Life.

  WHISPER FROM THE OCEAN ~ GIFT BOOK

  Treasured Quotations from Christine Lemmon’s first three novels. Hardcover.