mysterious words:
Atlantis isn’t a myth; it’s a prediction
.
These two fellow travelers—the pencil scribbler and the blue-ink vandal—had become my reading companions, always present to share the
Beagle
book with me. Their snide, insightful comments leavened my own reaction to the many otherwise tiresome depictions of lizards and thistles.
In what was clearly a child’s hand, another penciled notation read,
Patterson says to start collecting flowers for my husband’s funeral someday
.
A squiggle of blue pen said,
Leonard wants me to pick some flowers for my dad
.
As if to illustrate these notes, pressed between the pages were buttercups. Yellow buttercups. Purple violets. Proof of long-ago free time and long holiday strolls and fresh air. Brown ribbons of ancient grass. A record of sunshine. Bits of physical evidence documented a vanished summer. And not just the colors of summer … here were the smells as well! Dried sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and lavender. Rose petals still pungent! These layers of paper and words had preserved them, like an armor. Each primrose and morning glory I came across I was duly careful to leave intact.
From her station at the stove, my nana said something, her words ending on a high note, a question.
I responded, “Excuse me?”
Taking the cigarette from her lips, exhaling a plume of smoke, she repeated, “How are you liking that
The Call of the Wild
?”
I looked at her, my eyes wide with incomprehension.
“The novel?” she prompted, nodding at my book opened on the kitchen table.
Obviously she hadn’t seen the cover closely enough to know its actual title.
She asked, “Did you read to the part where the dog gets himself kidnapped and took to Alaska?”
Yes, I nodded. My eyes returning to my reading, I agreed that the dog lived a very exciting life.
“Did you read to the part …,” she asked, “… where the collie dog gets took by Martians in a flying saucer?”
Again, I nodded, saying the scene in question was quite thrilling.
“And,” my nana prompted, “was you scared when the space aliens impregnated the Irish setter with radioactive chimpanzee embryos from the Crab Nebula?”
Automatically I agreed. I said that I simply could not wait for the film version. I glanced up just to check the sincerity of her expression, but my nana merely stood there, her dour peasant body garbed in the usual calico apron worn over a shapeless gingham Mother Hubbard, the latter liberated from all style and color by a lifetime of launderings. I made a mental note that this
Wild
book must be a real humdinger.
As she dipped a second taste from the bubbling pot, lifting the spoon to her pursed lips and blowing to cool its steaming contents, the telephone in the parlor began to ring. As she’d done countless times, my nana set aside her dripping utensils and waddled out the kitchen door and down the short hallway. The springs of the divan squealed as she settled herself. The ringing stopped, and she coughed the word “Huh-lo?” Her distant voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush, and she said, “Yeah, she went and grabbed the evolution book, all right. That Maddy’s a pistol.” Betweencoughs, she said, “Yeah, I told her about the island.…” Choked and breathless, she said, “Don’t you fret none, Leonard. That girly is more than ready to do battle with evil!”
Here, Gentle Tweeter, I turned a page in my
Beagle
book and discovered more ancient words. Handwritten down the margin in blue ballpoint pen, they said,
Leonard promises that one day I’ll raise a great warrior as my daughter. He tells me to name her Madison
.
DECEMBER 21, 9:05 A . M . EST
Now, Voyager!
Posted by [email protected]
Gentle Tweeter,
So it was, that summer of my exile to tedious upstate, that now-vanished sunny yesterday, I found myself standing at the fraying asphalt margin of State Route Whatever, the outer edge of six northbound lanes packed densely with horn-blasting,
Atlantis isn’t a myth; it’s a prediction
.
These two fellow travelers—the pencil scribbler and the blue-ink vandal—had become my reading companions, always present to share the
Beagle
book with me. Their snide, insightful comments leavened my own reaction to the many otherwise tiresome depictions of lizards and thistles.
In what was clearly a child’s hand, another penciled notation read,
Patterson says to start collecting flowers for my husband’s funeral someday
.
A squiggle of blue pen said,
Leonard wants me to pick some flowers for my dad
.
As if to illustrate these notes, pressed between the pages were buttercups. Yellow buttercups. Purple violets. Proof of long-ago free time and long holiday strolls and fresh air. Brown ribbons of ancient grass. A record of sunshine. Bits of physical evidence documented a vanished summer. And not just the colors of summer … here were the smells as well! Dried sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and lavender. Rose petals still pungent! These layers of paper and words had preserved them, like an armor. Each primrose and morning glory I came across I was duly careful to leave intact.
From her station at the stove, my nana said something, her words ending on a high note, a question.
I responded, “Excuse me?”
Taking the cigarette from her lips, exhaling a plume of smoke, she repeated, “How are you liking that
The Call of the Wild
?”
I looked at her, my eyes wide with incomprehension.
“The novel?” she prompted, nodding at my book opened on the kitchen table.
Obviously she hadn’t seen the cover closely enough to know its actual title.
She asked, “Did you read to the part where the dog gets himself kidnapped and took to Alaska?”
Yes, I nodded. My eyes returning to my reading, I agreed that the dog lived a very exciting life.
“Did you read to the part …,” she asked, “… where the collie dog gets took by Martians in a flying saucer?”
Again, I nodded, saying the scene in question was quite thrilling.
“And,” my nana prompted, “was you scared when the space aliens impregnated the Irish setter with radioactive chimpanzee embryos from the Crab Nebula?”
Automatically I agreed. I said that I simply could not wait for the film version. I glanced up just to check the sincerity of her expression, but my nana merely stood there, her dour peasant body garbed in the usual calico apron worn over a shapeless gingham Mother Hubbard, the latter liberated from all style and color by a lifetime of launderings. I made a mental note that this
Wild
book must be a real humdinger.
As she dipped a second taste from the bubbling pot, lifting the spoon to her pursed lips and blowing to cool its steaming contents, the telephone in the parlor began to ring. As she’d done countless times, my nana set aside her dripping utensils and waddled out the kitchen door and down the short hallway. The springs of the divan squealed as she settled herself. The ringing stopped, and she coughed the word “Huh-lo?” Her distant voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush, and she said, “Yeah, she went and grabbed the evolution book, all right. That Maddy’s a pistol.” Betweencoughs, she said, “Yeah, I told her about the island.…” Choked and breathless, she said, “Don’t you fret none, Leonard. That girly is more than ready to do battle with evil!”
Here, Gentle Tweeter, I turned a page in my
Beagle
book and discovered more ancient words. Handwritten down the margin in blue ballpoint pen, they said,
Leonard promises that one day I’ll raise a great warrior as my daughter. He tells me to name her Madison
.
DECEMBER 21, 9:05 A . M . EST
Now, Voyager!
Posted by [email protected]
Gentle Tweeter,
So it was, that summer of my exile to tedious upstate, that now-vanished sunny yesterday, I found myself standing at the fraying asphalt margin of State Route Whatever, the outer edge of six northbound lanes packed densely with horn-blasting,
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