Wisdom in a Cup

I swear sometimes she steeped wisdom in that cup. Sipping methodically as she listened to the conversation. Never judging, always hearing the story, as if only the truth was spoken. It would impart upon the story teller the need to be honest. No matter how painful.

I’m sure that cup was full the day Maggie, her only daughter, told her she was with child. 

Fragile china, the cup had held the heat of whatever was poured, much like Ann McCabe, a reminder that forgiveness and understanding sometimes need to be steeped. 

Three Old, Wise, Men

They were far from the typical nuclear family in their day. And frankly, they didn’t care. What they cared about was that little girl. The three old men had taken on the duty of father, mother, disciplinarian. Carried with honor, they bore it together. And despite the sad turn of fate that brought them to rally around the child, there was much joy among them. 

Raised in the manner you would expect three men would. “No silly girl things.” Her words, not theirs. Ornery, perhaps crotchety to some, when it came to Jess, well, all bets were off. On that Christmas, when her small hand reached for the barn door to reveal her four hoofed present, I would be hard pressed to say who was more giddy, the little girl or three old, wise, men.

Purity and Richness

The spirit of the season lifts us all up each year. Whether we want it to or not, caught in the rush of the shoppers, the flush of a child’s cheek at the first glimpse of St. Nick, or the sound of laughter as snowballs from freshly fallen snow fly. All are caught up, lifted to the season, in our small town…except perhaps, for the Doc.

He hides it behind his supposed gruffness. Lets folks think it’s just his normal demeanor. But those of us who have lived around the old man long enough know that this season filled with the pure whiteness of new beginnings and the rich red of holiday happenings, well it’s not the norm. His white falls to a yellowed page and his red is one of loss. A secret lives on in him through every season, even this one. Maybe someday the purity, the richness will return…maybe.

Protecting the Light

As the fall sun dips low I’m reminded of the season years back, and the anguish it held. Seeing him sit there, baby in his arms, it warmed your heart and broke it all at the same time. That year was a nightmare and a blessing for that haggard soul. Like the early evening sky, the contrast was stark. There was as much darkness in those days as one could stand. Yet the child, like the sun reaching from the far horizon, shown a light of promise. The only light for many of us.  Now here she is home again, that light. And there’s a handful of folks standing watch, taking their turn, keeping her from the darkness. 

In the Fury of the Flour

If heaven was a taste…if heaven had a smell…it would be Hannah’s rhubarb pie. Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats the taste of that pie. Saturday and Tuesday, the two days of the week when all can be set right with the world with one slice of pie from Hannah’s. Now if you’ve never had the experience of this local Gracier establishment’s pie, well let me explain.

Imagine a buttery crust, light as angel wings, followed by a shot of tartness just this side of shocking, and finally the sugary sweet calm that comes with just a hint of whip cream. Lord have mercy! 

Now don’t get me wrong, all her pies are worth waiting for. But in the case of the rhubarb, there’s something…I can’t put my finger on.  Perhaps it’s the tartness of that ornery old bird that is the secret ingredient. Keep that to yourself, I wouldn’t put it past her to hold back on my slice of heaven if she caught wind of my observation. 

Trust me, I've seen the fury of the flour.

Sinners Can't be Choosers

Not one for formal prayer. I believe mind you. I just converse with God a little simpler than most. And plenty loud when need be. I’m not begrudging those who pass through the doors of their respective church. That fits them. I have what fits me. But when what they hear under the rafters doesn’t follow them into the street, doesn’t do much good…does it?

Jessica hasn’t crossed that threshold in a long time, at least from where I sit. But in the last few months, it seems to have called to her. Not the church, mind you, but perhaps the strength of those who pray within. Oh some folks find a grand difference between that faith and this belief. But when you bow your head, kneel, or raise your hands for an answer, it’s all to a higher power. 

The creak of that door signaled her arrival. It signals some pretty interesting arrivals at times. I always pray for those visitors. Sometimes that can be mighty hard to do. But sinners can’t be choosers. Can make the collar pretty tight  though.

Where there's smoke...

She had left the dance just before the exchange. The usual spark in her eyes had turned from mischief to flame, leaving behind enough heat to set those two off.

The sound of fist to gut is undeniable. I chose to let them have it out. They had danced around her like a couple of roosters for too long. A woman, and one as pretty and feisty as her is hard to come by.

The harvest moon glowed, lighting up the center ring. I thought he would take that Cassidy boy’s head off. But that well-mannered fellow sat Steven on his heels, in an exchange ending as quickly as it had begun. The oddest part was Steven, just standing in the dark, letting Matthew drive away. No one seemed to win, but it was clear, there had been a loss.