The Fiction of Real Life

Standing on the tarmac at Munich, rolling
new words around my mouth. Hübsch. Süß. Liebling. Mein Liebe.
I like them all.
I’m not sure I like you as well, but your face
anchored by your tender mouth
floats beside me in the falling mist—
your smiles, too, rising falling rising—
a barometer ticking off the measure of my tempers.

In two days we never once
mentioned Grass, Heine, Hesse or the rest of
the 27 Deutsch writers I’d memorized
in alphabetical order
in order
to impress you

You were too busy searching for my heart.
Implacable American. (There.
I said it for you.)

I was too busy building castles.

Now the fairytale mist gathers into real rain drops.
You lean into my shoulder for warmth. Again,
your timing is off, for
I’m shivering with cold and isolation.
Your precise lips part and form the words to
the first American ballad you ever learned:
“Are you lonesome tonight?” you croon
in sweet imitation of the King.

©2006 E.M. Jeffrey

Name this place . . .

YEAH!

One person at a time, one bag at a time, one effort at a time . . . She's making a difference!

Warp - Installment #2

“Perfectly good!” Edgar sat up and leaned back against the headboard. “Darling, they were on their last leg, if you’ll pardon the odd metaphor. Those old shoes couldn’t hold air, much less water; your feet were coated in mud each time you took them off. It’s high time you had a new pair. I don’t need to buy your new shoes for you. You’re perfectly free to go out and buy anything you need and ’most anything you want!”

They’d had this conversation so many times in the past ten years that Edgar knew every dead end it held. He scowled at his wife’s slender back as she turned from him, scooped up the offending shoes and headed for the bedroom door.

She spoke as she walked. “I know, my sweet. I know we have plenty of money for these things, but I hate to throw it around. Who knows what’s coming further down the line? Maybe the kids will need help.”

Edgar tapped the paper with his broad fingertips. “Lu, the kids are provided for. Their kids are provided for. We’re provided for. This isn’t the old days, sweetheart. There was a point to all the scrimping and saving back then. You—we don’t need to do it now.”
Luella looked back from the doorway, her eyebrows lifted in an apologetic grimace. “I know, honey. I know I make you crazy by being so careful, but . . . I can’t help it. I grew up poor, and you and I started out poor. I don’t want to play that song again. Ever.” She disappeared down the hallway to the kitchen.

She’ll probably try to resuscitate her shoes, Edgar thought. He murmured, “But you’re living like you’re still poor, Lu.” He picked up the newspaper, willing away the unsettled feeling this talk always produced, and turned to the comics.

Warp - Installment #1

“Blast!” Luella sang out from the bedroom closet, loudly enough for Edgar to hear.

Edgar tipped the newspaper down, turned his head on the bed pillow and looked over his glasses at his wife. In the gloom of the unlit closet, she was a vague and harmless shadow. “What is it, dear? And why don’t you turn the light on?”

She stood still, hands on her hips, staring at the closet floor. “I’ve ruined my gardening shoes. They’re completely mildewed. I’m surprised we didn’t smell them before this. I don’t need the light, thanks.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet from now on. Hmmm . . . sounds like a book title, doesn’t it? Barefoot Gardening for Fun and Profit.”

With a monumental effort, Edgar Rawlins managed not to scream at the top of his lungs. “I suppose so,” he breathed, and pretended to return to his reading. He knew Luella’s need to pounce on ambivalent replies.

The hunter sprang. Luella stepped out of the closet and to the foot of the bed in a trice. In a composed voice that didn’t fool Edgar, she asked, “You suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet, or you suppose it sounds like a book title?”

Edgar-the-prey folded, laying his paper on the threadbare flowered comforter. “The latter, of course. I don’t expect you to garden in your bare feet unless that tickles your fancy, Lu.” He didn’t add that he remembered—with a pleasurable stir of warmth in his belly—when it had tickled her fancy (and his) to garden in her bra and cut-offs, racing for her shirt slung over a rose bush when unexpected company drove up.

There was no point in bringing it up, he thought. Nowadays Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in any stage of undress—not because her figure wasn’t still lovely (it was) and not because she was of above-average modesty (she wasn’t). Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in her ten-year-old Maidenform bra, graying and held together by two safety pins.

His wife smiled in embarrassment. “Ed, I know you’d buy me new shoes in a minute if I asked, but I’d hate to. I’d hate to be such a spendthrift. These were perfectly good until I ruined them . . . .”

Earth stewardship: the right thing to do

Today my youngest and I were chatting in the car about how easily people could save natural resources by making a few small, painless changes and maybe some bigger, sacrificial ones. The topic came up because I was drafting behind a semi for about 10 seconds before saying, "OK, we need to move now because this isn't a safe distance." That led to a brief discussion of wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-someone-invented-a-safe-way-to-draft-behind-trucks, which led to a likewise-brief discourse on how easily we can DO THINGS BETTER. Like . . . forgoing the repeat step in the shampooing process . . . sharing your magazine subscriptions among a group of friends instead of tossing each issue after you've read it . . . buying bamboo cutlery to carry around instead of accepting a handful of plastic cutlery at the drive-through . . . insisting politely to the store clerk that you don't need the soap bagged separately before being put in a larger grocery bag because (a) the soap is already wrapped in at least 2 layers and (b) you brought your own shopping bag . . . telling the server nicely that it's not necessary to refill your water glass each time you take a sip . . . using your worn washcloths and towels for rags instead of throwing them away and buying more paper towels . . . turning off the water while you brush or shave . . .

The Aerobic Mouse

There's a new dance sensation at my house. It's called "The Aerobic Mouse." Here's how it goes:

First, you stand at the kitchen sink stemming apples to put through the juicer. You hear a noise coming from under the fridge, which at first sounds as though it's a vibration caused by the loud garbage truck outside that's throwing trash carts up in the air. Then, you realize that the noise is more of a chewing/gnawing/ nibbling noise. Yeah, definitely not just a vibration.

Next, you dislodge the folded grocery bags that are stuffed between the fridge and the counter, watching for a small scurrying creature to come running out. When that doesn't happen and the noises (which are definitely chewing noises, you now realize) resume, you kick the front of the drip pan under the fridge. The gnawing stops.

Got all the steps so far? Go ahead and review them if you need.

Now, return to your position at the sink. Continue stemming apples and feeding them into the Jack LaLanne juicer on the counter.

Here's the bit of tricky choreography: Spot a furry flash moving from the direction of the fridge to the bottom of the cupboard next to you, then streaking back to the fridge. In broad daylight. Jump, scream and run into the living room holding a dripping apple.

Good so far?

Hours later--after your significant other has cleared away detritus from around the fridge and set traps--resume your apple juicing activities in the kitchen. It's dark now. Again, stand at the sink and place the apples in the juicer on the counter between the sink and fridge. Glance out of the corner of your eye in time to see the rodent run out on the same path, wave, wink at you about the traps, and run back to the nether recesses under the fridge.

The next day, add a new step: Move the juicer to a new counter so your back is to the fridge and you cannot see the mouse/rat/capybara without turning around. As you feed apples into the juicer, perform a brisk aerobic hop to discourage rodent incursions around your feet. Remind the creature loudly that this is, again, BROAD DAYLIGHT.

Variation: Add loud music to avoid hearing a trap spring.