Tag Archives: family

The Blind Side Parables 29 – the Last Stop

by 

The weathered face tipped its hat, passed by. The conductor smiled, guy must have fallen off a lot of horses, He thought, watching the old cowboy stiffly clamber off the train.

The cowboy clutched the fleece collar tight about his throat as the icy wind slapped his face. He lit a cigarette, scanned the white world surrounding him.  The snow was gray, flecked with soot and ash, adding to the somber stillness of a sky reluctant to give up night.

He blew a cloud of smoke into the frigid stillness, damn, how could it be colder in southern Oregon than in eastern Montana.

Horns honked and lights flashed as the half dozen passengers who’d exited ahead of him scurried for their rides. He looked around, side tracks filled with empty boxcars, a neighborhood of vacant warehouses, a place prosperity had years ago passed by, like so many other dying towns.

hauling a beat up suitcase, he trudged towards the unlit station, plopping down on the sagging slats of an ancient wood bench.

He leaned back against the station’s peeling paint. Winter’s hanging on here too, he thought, looking up at icicles hanging from the drooping roof. . He stretched the leg that always ached when the temperature dropped and inhaled the cigarette.

His body shivered again. Damn, it’s cold here, and not a sign of life. He’d written, told her he was coming, but she’d not written back. He knew letters were out of style, had been for a long time, but he’d never owned a phone. It had been awhile, her wedding day, the last time they’d seen each other. A lot going on that day, they’d barely talked before the newlyweds set off for Vegas and he drove back to work in big sky country. 

He blew more smoke, chuckled, that pickup had died in Idaho and he’d had to hitch the rest of the way.

Something must have come up. Didn’t she have kids now, twins?

He propped the aching leg up on his suitcase, sighing with relief for the small comfort gained. He heard a familiar noise to the left. Another train coming, heading south.


Then he remembered her, saw her on that hot July afternoon, remembered chasing her on the beach, hearing her delighted screams as they splashed, laughed, as waves lapped around their bare white feet.

 He smiled, remembering catching up with her, both of them out of breath.

She’d looked up at him, thrown her arms in the air and simply said,

“Dad!”

He’d never forget the joy that one word gave him as he picked her up and hugged her, that last moment of happiness before her mother, his wife, had died.

***

She flashed through the station and burst out onto the platform.

It was empty, no one in sight, only the end of a freight train receding in the distance.

Damn! she cursed, stomping her boots on the worn wooden platform. the twins had been sick all night. Gary had worked an extra shift at the mill, they needed the money. He’d come in after midnight and collapsed on the couch in his work clothes, never uttered a word, fast asleep.

It was three a.m. when the girls finally dozed off. She’d crashed, slept right through the alarm.

She remembered the letter. He was arriving on the early morning train, the train that had passed through nearly two hours ago.

“Damn!” she cursed again, “why don’t you get a cell phone?” 

“You Barb?”

She looked down to see a boy with an armload of newspapers staring up at her.

She stared back.

“He said you might come, said you’d be a woman with pretty blond hair. here,” he reached out a hand with a folded piece of paper.

“Where is he? Where’d he go?” she replied, absently taking the note.

the boy pointed to the train nearly lost in the distance, “I think he hopped that freight.”

The boy went inside to load up the paper box

She stared out at the empty landscape, threw up her arms and screamed,

“Dad!”

the white paper floated onto the dirty snow.


Moral: Timing is everything


tio stib

My Dementia Diary 74 – We Never Had “The Talk”

by

Looking back on our life with dementia, I realize my wife and I never had “the Talk.” We never sat down, cried, agonized, shared our fears and feelings about the difficult road in front of us.

Listening to recountings of other couples on similar journeys, I’ve often heard about how they worked together to plan and prepare for the disease that was going to suck the life out of one of them. 

We never had these conversations, never made plans together, it just didn’t happen.

Partly, that’s because one of my wife’s many endearing qualities is that she lives in the moment, and after the moment, the day, and after that, maybe the week. I’ve never known her to think much beyond that. I’m the strategic thinker in the partnership while she keeps me grounded in “be here now.”

Also, I believe that her dementia actually began affecting her quite some time before it became obvious to others. There were occasional episodes of memory lapse and emotional strangeness that were discounted at the time, but perhaps were early indicators of a lurking problem.

When we finally found ourselves listening to the neurologist telling us my wife showed symptoms of dementia, I don’t think she could grasp what the doctor was saying. Hell, she felt fine, life was good, so what if she forgot a few things.

That was six years ago. My wife and I never had “the Talk,” and what good would it do now? Yes, I do have an ongoing dialogue with the rest of the family about how to best care for the woman we all love, helping her to have. each day, a healthy and happy life.

She does ask me sometimes, when she thinks  people are talking about her, “am I crazy?”

“Absolutely not!”

tio stib

You might also enjoy: This Child Who Once Was Woman, My Dementia Diary

 

My Dementia Diary 43 – The Last Christmas

by

I’ve struggled with this post, started and stopped it many times, unable to create any sort of writing momentum. I sense this is the result of a month in Mexico, spending the Christmas holidays with my wife’s family in a world that is quite foreign to me.

I took my wife to her home town because I felt it might be the last Christmas she would be able to remember who her family was. It was a trip that had to be made. It was a trip I’ve avoided since I lost my sight as the world there is a blind person’s nightmare. It is not only a never ending physical obstacle course for the disabled, but it is also noisy, dirty, and unsafe. I spend the entire time there in survival mode, just trying to stay sane.

Needless to say, any urge I might have had for creative writing quickly disappeared. 

And so it went for a very long month. yes, the family was glad to reconnect with my wife, especially our two oldest kids. It was interesting to note how different family members interacted with her. I was impressed that her mother, normally quite loud and outspoken, simply listened as her daughter babbled on and on, repeating questions, often making no sense. Mom was simply happy to have her daughter with her. Our daughter, though, kept telling her mom to speak Spanish instead of gibberish. That wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t accept her mom’s dementia. 

After days of dragging us around doing errands and my wife getting upset with the continuing chaos, our son realized he was going to have to change his attitude and behavior with her. He’d finally grasped that his mom was no longer a rational, intelligent adult but a loving, open hearted four year old. Instead of trying to make his mom fit into his world, he would need to fit into hers.

And so, he just played with her.

That was the high point of our visit.

It has been several days since our return to the States. I didn’t realize how exhausting the journey had been until we returned home. I now have an even deeper appreciation of our simple, ordered life here.

I’m hoping the urge to write will reawaken again.

tio stib

You might also enjoy: My Dementia Diary 10 – Where’s the Spatula?, My Dementia Diary

Published on the Saturday Evening Post

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Surprise! I’ve received the welcome news that my short story, “Almost heaven,” has been published on the Saturday Evening Post. Wow! Makes an oft rejected writer’s day.

Here’s the link-

“Almost Heaven” in The Saturday Evening Post 

Good writing!

tio stib

 

Taxi School-Chapter 2

by

Introduction

Al McGinty, “Gint” as he is known to friend and foe, does not like change. He’s driven the same cab for thirty years, eats at the same cafe every morning, can’t say a nice word about politicians or lawyers, and worships New York City. He has a unique lifestyle, one true friend, Wally, and reads the New York Times each evening with a glass of brandy and a Cuban cigar. His is the perfect world.

But that’s about to change.

Gint is the main character in my novel, “Taxi School,” and you can follow Gint’s story as his life explodes and he is forced into one of Nature’s three ultimate choices-

Adapt, migrate, or go extinct.

I’ll be publishing a new chapter each week, hope you follow along. comments, on any line, are always appreciated.

tio stib

CHAPTER 2

“Jesus, Johnny, you got nothing better to do but read “Playboy,” blurted Gint as he burst into the office of Carlutti’s Car repair, “I can see you have a demanding schedule, but I need my cab, preferably today.”

ir.

Johnny, a good looking guy with a tanned face and a full head of slightly grayed black hair, was not the least bit moved by his surprise visitor. He remained seated in his swivel chair, boots up on the desk. and raised his magazine for Gint to view.

the title read, “World Traveler.”

“Lulu wants to get out of town,” said Johnny, “and what Lulu wants, Lulu gets.”

“As well she should,” replied Gint, remembering that  Lulu had been the hottest chick in the old neighborhood. She still turned heads. Lulu and Johnny had been lifelong sweethearts.

“As for my demanding schedule, hell, Gint, your Checker cab is about the only automobile I can work on anymore. These days, car repair is all about computers, and I’m not going there. J3 loves that crap and he can have it.”

J3  was John Carlutti  the third, the youngest of the male Carlutti line to work at the repair shop, and the kid Johnny yelled at as he opened the door to the shop, over the noise of air wrenches and occasional curses, “J3, move your sorry ass and pull Mr. McGinty’s cab out front!”

Gint saw a kid with a mop of black hair and grease on his face look up from under a car hood, smile, then dash outside. then Gint saw something familiar.

“Hey, Johnny, isn’t that Joey’s cab?”

Yep, he left it here last week. Asked me to sell it.”

“What?” Gint cried out, turning to Johnny in disbelief, “he can’t do that!”

“Well, he sure as hell did,” said Johnny, “came by, said he was hanging it up, asked me to send the sale money to an address in California.”

Stunned, Gint sat in a chair beside Johnny, speaking softly, “we’ve been in the business together for thirty years, bought our cabs together. We’re partners, a team, the last two Checker cabs in New York City.”

“Not any more, Gint, now you’re a team of one.”

The office street door opened, and J3 stuck his head in, “here you go Mr. McGinty, thanks for using Carlutti’s Car Repair.”

Gint mindlessly shook the kid’s hand and walked out.

On the sidewalk, gint whistled once and Wally came bounding down the street. Gint opened the driver’s door and the two climbed in to the last Checker cab in New York City.

-to be continued-

You might also enjoy: Taxi School – Chapter 1

Taxi School- Chapter One

by

introduction

Al McGinty, “Gint” as he is known to friend and foe, does not like change. He’s driven the same cab for thirty years, eats at the same cafe every morning, can’t say a nice word about politicians or lawyers, and worships New York City. He has a unique lifestyle, one true friend, Wally, and reads the New York Times each evening with a glass of brandy and a Cuban cigar. His is the perfect world.

But that’s about to change.

Gint is the main character in my novel, “Taxi School,” and you can follow Gint’s story as his life explodes and he is forced into one of Nature’s three ultimate choices-

Adapt, migrate, or go extinct.

I’ll be publishing a new chapter each week, hope you follow along. comments, on any line, are always appreciated.

tio stib

chapter one

It was a dark Bronx morning, still more winter than spring, patches of mist swirling about glowing streetlights. The night’s rain glistened atop the line of vacant cars. With the exception of two figures ambling down the sidewalk, nothing moved. The four legged one lifted his leg on the chrome spoke wheel of a black SUV.  The two legged guy unzipped and pissed on the passenger door.

“Damn yuppies!” he cursed, zipping up.

The two strolled towards the corner and a flashing pink neon sign. The M & M Cafe beckoned.

Slamming the door behind him, Al McGinty announced himself. Gint, as he was known to friend and foe, removed his worn driving cap, smoothed his thinning hair, and hung cap and  jacket on a wall hook. Surveying the empty restaurant his eyes stopped at a lone man hunched over a counter stool.

Smiling, Gint spoke “what’s got the cops up before sunrise, O’Malley?”

The big man in the rumpled suit spun slowly on his stool, sipping his coffee before a grin appeared on his weathered face.

“Most crooks aren’t as lazy as you are, Gint, some of them even work night shift.”

“I’ll never forgive you for that parking ticket, Lieutenant,” replied Gint plopping down on the stool next to the officer.

“Mother Mary, that was thirty years ago.”

“And you were so proud of yourself.”

“Hell, yes, my first big bust.”

The kitchen door burst open and a full figured  woman in a spotless uniform swept in with a steaming plate balanced on one hand. Embroidered above the left breast of her snug fitting blouse was the name “Midge.”

“Wally, baby!” Midge exclaimed, bending down to stroke the furry head of the mid size mutt sitting patiently at Gint’s side.

She continued, “how ya doing, kid?” scratching him behind the ears.

Wally bared his gleaming teeth in appreciation.

“God,” Midge said, “I wish I had those pearly whites.”

“I wish I had my breakfast,” said O’Malley.

The waitress arose and dropped O’Malley’s plate in front of him.

“Anything else?” she snapped.

“Coffee would be swell.”

Midge turned abruptly and headed for the coffee pot.

Gint, exasperated, let go, “and what about me, Midge dear?”

“Yeah,” replied Midge, not bothering to turn her curly blond head as she picked up the coffee pot, “what about you?”

“Now what are you mad about?”

“Gint, I’m always mad about you.”

“I knew it!” You’ve been in love with me since I first walked in here.”

Returning with the coffee pot, Midge retorted, “fat chance, the best offer you ever made me was a trip to Paradise, which turned out to be the Paradise Motel in Jersey.”

“You’d be better off running away with me, Gint, the lady can’t even boil an egg,” said the big bald guy who suddenly appeared besides Midge. “Mick” was written in black marker at the top of his apron, although this was hard to make out through a collage of stains and food fragments.

“Mick and me, together in paradise, that’s disgusting,” said Gint.

“It’s an oxymoron,” added O’Malley wiping up the last of his fried egg with a piece of toast.

“Too late now, boys,” said Midge, refilling O’Malley’s coffee.

“That’s right, guys,” continued Mick, wrapping a tattooed arm around his wife, “we’re selling out and going home.”

“Home? what do you call Brooklyn?” gasped Gint.

“You forget I was born in Vermont.”

“Yeah, and the smartest thing you ever did, besides marrying Midge, was leave. There’s nothing but winter and trees up there. Besides, it’s a foreign country and you don’t speak the language.”

“The kids don’t want this place, but the developers do,” said Mick, “we’re going to take the money and run.”

Midge poured a mug of coffee for Gint, adding, “besides, Gint, it’s getting old serving deadbeats like you.”

Midge winked at O”Malley, then bent down to Wally, “what’s it going to be, boy, the usual?”

Wally barked and showed his pearly whites.

Mick and Midge returned to the kitchen. Gint turned to O’Malley who had demolished his steak and eggs and was finishing off the hash browns.

“Can you believe it? What are we going to do without the M & M Cafe?”

O’Malley swallowed and took a sip of coffee, “not we, Gint, you. What are You going to do. In three months and twelve days, I’m retiring. Amy already has us a cute place in Florida near the grandkids.”

The cop  got up, put a ten spot on the counter, and slapped Gint on the back. “Remember that little job you’re doing for me today.”

Gint, still stunned by the M & M’s upcoming demise, answered, “yeah, got it covered.”

“Keep him out of trouble, Wally,” the cop said to the dog, then laughed to himself, “another oxymoron.”

O’Malley picked his overcoat from a wall hook and pulled it on as Midge reappeared with two steaming plates.

“Take it easy, O’Malley,” she said, putting one plate in front of Gint, then stooping to put the other at Wally’s feet.

“You, too, Midge” and O’Malley was out the door.

Gint looked down at his breakfast and groaned, “why is it Wally gets all the love around here?”

Wally, eagerly scarfing up his bacon and eggs, did not reply, but Midge answered, “he’s cuter than you and he never makes passes at me.”

Gint, still staring at his plate of soy eggs, plain toast, and a bowl of prunes, said”couldn’t you just forget my cholesterol problem and serve me some real food for old time’s sake?”

“What are friends for?” answered Midge, watching Wally lick his plate clean, “besides, those old times have finally caught up with you.”

Yeah, thought Gint, they certainly had.

-to be continued-

Hotel Hypothermia

by

it was a trip mistaken
for a family vacation
a time so cold
my bones grew old
bundled up in layers of clothes
all that showed my bright red nose
even when I went to bed
I never shed a single thread
I wonder how eskimos have sex
queried my now recent ex

pounds of fat fell off of me
as I shivered constantly
take a shower?
I think not
in water that was icy hot

and when at night I had to pee
a new resolve came over me
as toes touched the icy floor
I hurtled towards the bathroom door
and in a fit of urgency
dropped my shorts
but woe to me
the thing that used to flow so free
had shrunk down to
a tiny pea

and so it went from day to night
with not a hint of warmth in sight
until we had to say goodbye
a moment when I nearly cried
afflicted now with freezer phobia
I bid adieu,
God Bless
Hotel Hypothermia

Tio Stib Signature

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Sophie’s Last Stand

by

I saw the post just before the ancient Land Rover plowed through it. I’d been distracted, yelling at people to get out of the way, while jamming my foot on the brakes that were not there. I suppose that the fact the Rover was going backwards added to the confusion. Unable to find another usable gear that morning, I’d decided to drive the old wreck down to Sophie’s Stand in reverse. Yes, Sam had mentioned there were no brakes because the Rover never went fast enough to need them. If you wanted to stop, just take your foot off the gas and let the beast roll to a halt. However, this logic did not include the small downhill dip I encountered approaching the stand. In addition, Sam neglected to say that the steering gearbox was stripped, resulting in multiple spins of the wheel before the Rover began the slightest turn. Between driving backwards, stomping on non-existent brakes, madly turning a wheel that wasn’t connected to anything, and screaming my head off, I hadn’t noticed the onrushing post.

Crash!

Maddy, Sam’s affectionate name for the Rover, origin unknown, annihilated the helpless post and proceeded unabashed as calamity erupted behind me, or, perhaps more correctly said, in front of me, as I’d been traveling backwards. Vehicle and driver, admittedly a gracious label for my role in this disaster, stopped abruptly when confronted by a wall of unyielding cacti, slamming me against the steering wheel. A burst of steam blew out from under the hood and Maddy’s motor coughed twice and died.

Dazed, I felt my body gently shake. One eye opened and looked left to see a head of frizzy white hair and beard glowing in bright light.

“You alive boy?” said the talking head.

“of course not, you old fart,” I heard my mind say, quickly losing respect for Saint Peter. Then I heard another thought, “shut up fool, it could be that other guy welcoming you.”

“Boy?” said the old, browned face as kind arms shook me.

Damn, I thought, recognizing Sam, now aware that I had a lot of explaining to do.

Kaboom!

My head jerked round to source the noise. Behind me, a cloud of dust rose sleepily up to the blue sky. The scene below, however, was anything but peaceful. It appeared a tornado had torn through the hut. Mangled fruit and vegetables and broken souvenirs were strewn amidst a pile of flattened building materials. What had once been Sophie’s Stand was now a roadside garbage dump.

In the midst of this chaos, only one thing still stood vertically. The sign, “Sophie’s Stand,” was newly planted in the pile of debris. Looking at me sideways, Sophie’s painted face smiled between the two words. Then, with a death shudder, the sign surrendered to gravity and slowly fell atop what had once been a thriving business. A wisp of dust spiraled heavenward.

“Jeez!” I whimpered, wondering how I could have done all that by merely knocking down one post.

“So sorry,” I heard myself mutter.

“It’s nothing, boy,” said Sam.

Nothing! I thought. Nothing! I’d just destroyed what had been Aunt Sophie’s life for over forty years. I pushed my face back into the steering wheel and cried.

“No problem son,” said Sam, his arm comforting my shoulders, “here, try this.”

I turned my head to see Sophie’s big, brown eyes looking at me. Her bright smile and curly black hair lit up the label of the bottle Sam held. “Sophie’s Best,” it proclaimed, and from all I’d heard, it was the best home made hooch in these parts. Folks were known to drive for hours to by her magic brew for it was rumored to cure everything from infertility to constipation.

I grabbed the bottle and took a deep gulp. What the hell, I thought, it was the least I could do for an Aunt whom I hadn’t managed to visit for nearly ten years and then missed her funeral. Now, to top off my sins, I’d destroyed Sophie’s stand.

I took another drink, my insides warming, my head beginning to disconnect from the disturbing reality surrounding me. Not bad, I thought, taking another swig of “Sophie’s Best,” as I was led to a plastic chair in the shade of a large palm tree.

Self pity soon dissolved into a drunken stupor and I found myself staring at an empty bottle. Raising it skyward I saluted. “Damn fine hooch Auntie!” I exclaimed.

Sam pulled a bent plastic chair beside me and plopped heavily onto the seat. He raised another bottle of “Sophie’s Best,” saying, “to Sophie,” then proceeded to drain nearly half the contents, before passing the bottle back.

A crowd of people had magically appeared and were combing the wreckage for anything salvageable. I started to say something about looting, but Sam spoke first.

“perhaps this is for the best,” he said, “Sophie always wanted to give everything away.”

“Maybe so,” I quickly added, pouring down more of Sophie’s elixir to drown my guilt.

“Sophie liked you,” said Sam, as I returned the bottle. “You’re the only city folk ever came to visit her.”

“That’s nice,” I answered, trying to convince myself that seeing her once in ten years was a good thing.

“We had a good life, me and Sophie,” reflected Sam, as we watched hands picking through the carnage.

I remembered the visit, years ago, when I’d first met Sam and Sophie, drawn by some unknown urge to know family, not to mention the need to escape town and an irate girl friend who’d just thrown me out of her apartment.

I took another drink and recalled looking up as she’d hurled my stuffed walrus down on me, prompting the thought that our relationship had lost its sparkle and I needed to move on.

Several buses and many miles later, I was dropped on an empty road in front of Sophie’s stand. A young girl arranging fruit looked up at me.

“Sophie?” I’d asked.

She pointed up the hill and I started walking, suddenly aware of fresh air, filling my lungs. I marveled at the flights and sounds of bright colored birds. Turning down a dirt path, I entered a green tunnel of branches and leaves. In the distance was a small cottage.

as I turned down a well trod dirt path covered high overhead by a canopy of vibrant green

A cloud of butterflies descended on me, floating, fluttering, circling, then drifting away as I entered a clearing. Nearby, a dozen trees hung heavy with ripe fruit. Beyond, a garden stretched in neat rows, filled with plants of all sizes. Watching over all this were two empty rocking chairs under the deep, shaded, cottage porch.

I heard singing and looked into the garden. There she was, bandana tied around her mop of black hair, bent over her plants, filling her apron with the joys of harvest.

“Aunt Sophie!” I cried out hopefully.

The singing stopped and the stout woman in the calico dress stood up and turned around. A smile exploded across her face.

“Lordy?” she blurted, dumping her bounty into a basket and rushing to embrace me.

Sophie had introduced me to Sam, her man. I never knew if they were married in the eyes of anyone but themselves and it didn’t seem to matter. What I did know was that they were partners, friends, and playmates. I could still feel the buzz I got just being around them and their zeal for life.

I took another belt of “Sophie’s Best” and smiled, yes, I thought, that was a great time. I passed the bottle to the old man sitting silent beside me.

“What do you think Sam?”

I turned to see a cluster of men behind us. Sam handed the closest man the bottle and looked them over as the hooch was passed from mouth to mouth. I found myself slightly miffed as I was really beginning to enjoy “Sophie’s Best” and didn’t feel like sharing, but decided that being the cause of the mess in front of us, I’d best be quiet.

“Well,” sighed Sam, “this was Sophie’s place to serve the world and now she’s gone. Seems it’s the stand’s time to go too.”

There were anxious looks between the men, throats cleared and feet shuffled in the dust.

After a long, awkward silence Sam realized the real issue at hand. He looked up and smiled at the men.

“Youall afraid I’m gonna stop making “Sophie’s Best,” he laughed. “Well, I reckon I’ll keep that going until I join Sophie at the pearly gates.”

Then he spoke sharply, “but no way I’m gonna rebuild that damn stand by myself!”

Hands shot up and voices called out.

“No way Sambo!”

“We’ve got it brother!

“No worry man!”

“Vamosa hombres!”

I watched in amazement as a transformation occurred. The sad faced group of apologetic men and mob of pilferers became a focused army of workers sorting re-useable materials from the fallen hut. Squashed produce was tossed back in the bushes to rot into organic oneness. A flatbed truck arrived and before noon what had been Sophie’s Stand was loaded up. Gears grinding, the truck lurched forward.

Finishing our third bottle of Sophie’s Best, Sam and I Threw our chairs on the truck, and followed the community parade.

In an earlier moment, Sam had decided to relocate the new stand atop a nearby hill. Here the caravan stopped and waited as Sam surveyed the setting. He slowly turned around and smiled.

“Nice view,” said Sam, “It’ll do!.” Then he crossed himself and emptied his bottle of “Sophie’s Best” on the ground, holy water anointing the sacred place.

The crowd cheered. The work began.

Sam and I reclaimed our chairs and placed them in the shade of a towering coolibah tree. Sam produced another bottle of Sophie’s Best which we drank watching the flurry of activity on the stage in front of us.

While it can be justly said that most of the world’s problems have been caused by misguided men, I had to admit that when guys get their act together, they can do a helluva lot of work in short order.

Every one seemed to know what they had to do, and while the men put things back together, women showed up with baskets of food and even the children helped where they could. There was laughter and singing, and people seemed genuinely happy. By late afternoon, what had been piles of reclaimed materials had become the newly arisen Sophie’s Stand. Women and girls were soon stocking fresh produce.

Ladders were leaned against the front of the hut and men replaced the sign under the edge of the tin roof. Sam spoke to a young man who climbed a ladder with a brush and can of paint. Carefully, the artist added a word to the sign above Sophie’s smiling face.

“Sophie’s Last Stand” the sign announced. Sam grinned and the people clapped in approval.

At that moment, I saw a lone figure coming up the road. Getting closer, the form became a young boy dragging something. Shortly, he appeared in front of Sam and set his load on Sam’s knee.

It was a signpost. Atop the pole was a board with one word painted on it.

“Almost.”

Next to the lone word was a number.

“2.”

I remembered the story. Sophie had told it to me as we sat on those rocking chairs the day we’d met. Seems she and Sam had been enjoying the wonder of life one evening rocking on their porch and she’d said,

“Honey, this is about as close to Heaven as I’m gonna get.”

“Amen, momma,” replied Sam.

“”I’m almost there, baby,” Sophie concluded.

The next day Sam had shown up at the stand with a new sign and planted it facing the road.

“Almost 2)

Now, Sam put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and smiled. Then he and the boy dragged the sign next to the new stand and two men began digging. Soon, the sign was proudly resurrected.

Sam spoke to the artist who started to paint over the number “2.”

Wait!” I heard myself yell.

It was time for me to make a stand of my own.

Beside Sam and the sign, I raised his arm with mine in triumph.

“Almost” had a new resident.

There was applause and cheers and a few hats flew into the air, then people went back to their daily lives. Cars began pulling up. People entered Sophie’s Last Stand seeking fresh fruit and vegetables, some local hooch, and a friendly smile.

If you ever feel like you’re in Heaven, look around. Perhaps you’re almost there.

 

tio stib, 2015

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