Greater Love - J.B. Jones (e book reader for pc .TXT) 📗

routine part of his life, recently.  A few kids walked, often a bit unsteadily, toward their homes.  Now and again, cars would pass.  For the most part, he had the 2 a.m. streets to himself.  He used the solitary time to reflect, to plan what he could, to worry and to pray.

 

The money he had saved while working carried him through the first 2 1/2 months of his unemployment.  When being honest with himself, he allowed that he'd made some serious mistakes with it.  Despite turning 57 just a couple of days ago, he had not believed work would be too hard to find.  The economy in this area was thriving and his experience and work ethic should have made finding employ pretty easy.  So he'd pissed some of the savings away.  With the last of the money available to him, he bought a week and a half's worth of food for himself and enough dog food to feed Spring for the next couple of months. 

 

That was three weeks ago and his optimism had not borne fruit.  Hence, the hunts.

 

A strong moral foundation and a healthy dose of Catholic guilt (which had not gone away when he lapsed) prevented him from becoming a predator.  He could not sell dope.  The opportunity to buy liquor for underaged kids presented itself almost daily.  He turned away, not even tempted to give in. 

 

But you're turning into a thief, aren't you?

 

He sometimes wondered if he might not be insane on some level when this happened, but it did not stop him from entering into a conversation with his conscience. 

 

I'm not stealing.  I'm raiding garbage cans - big difference. 

 

Oh yeah?  Then why do you stop when you see someone? 

 

Bob Seeger answered that one, "...well, you used to throw it down but now you stop and think about your dignity..." and although his conscience shut up after that, he couldn't really say he felt any better.  He still hunted, though.

*****

 Spring's tail waved in wide, exaggerated swoops that made me think of NASCAR.  It was easy to imagine an enormous black and white checkered flag fastened to it, hear the crisp snaps and pops of the material as she rewarded the front-runner at Daytona or Talladega or Darlington.   

 

We made our way along a neat little street.  A few mature shade trees, homes and playgrounds for the chittering and engergetic squirrels that skipped from branch to branch, merry and daring, cast pleasant shadows over the sidewalk.  The dog came to an abrupt stop and her attitude changed to one more alert and businesslike. She shot an over-the-shoulder glance my way as if to say, "Shhhh.  They're close."  We watched two rodents chase after one another in a spiral that transformed the trunk of an oak into the equivalent of an animated barber pole or peppermint stick with far more muted colors.  Spring vibrated with predatory watchfulness, leaning forward, frozen into a stealthy pause.  In a flash as sudden as surprise, the squirrels clawed their way into the cathedral-like arc of branches above us.  Tail in motion once more, she approached the tree, planted her paws on the rugged bark and sniffed a bit.  Spring achieved whatever canine satisfaction scents bestowed and she led me on.

 

We turned up the short walkway to Mom's house. I released her from the lead and Spring snatched up a rolled newspaper, vividly colored ads wrapped in flimsy plastic. She walked to the entrance where she paced impatient figure eights. I veered to the tiny well-kept flower patch planted just outside the bay window and scooped a few errant and drowned oak leaves from the bird bath that a cast concrete St. Francis presided over then returned to Spring.  The doorbell rang with pleasant bird chirps.  I opened the door and announced, "Special delivery." 

 

"In the kitchen, baby boy o'mine.  Come on in." 

 

Springy squirted past me, trotted across the living room - Front room, dear. No pretensions allowed here, don't you know. -  and into the fragrant space beyond.  I laughed while closing the door and scoffed under my breath, "Baby boy."  My 57th birthday had come and gone.

 

I followed the animated click-scratch  sounds that dog claws make on hard surfaces with a smile, knowing what I was going to see before I even reached the kitchen door.  I was not disappointed.  I leaned against the jamb and watched as Mom, coated with flour almost to her elbows, a white stripe on the faded olive skin under one eye like some sort of tribal marking, held the dog's jowls in both hands, tugging Spring's head back and forth.  Both of them flashed brilliant smiles.  She praised the hound with effusive thanks for delivering the paper which sat, forgotten for the moment, under a chair pulled back from the table.  Spring ran in place and her entire body, not simply her tail, wagged in bliss.  She, too, had snowy white tribal markings on her face, ears and neck.

 

"Coffee's on the stove, no maid service in this house, buster," she said when she caught sight of me.  She went to the sink and washed up, shook the excess water off and grabbed a dish towel to finish drying.  At the fridge, she poked around until she found a soup bone, waved it at the dog a bit and Spring followed her to the little landing by the back door.  Mom gave up the bone and Spring's gnawing and crunching became the backdrop as I finished pouring a mug and held up the pot to inquire whether Mom wanted a warm-up or not.  She shook her head, filled a bowl with some water for the dog and delivered it.

 

We hugged and then sat at the table.  A salt and pepper shaker set, tiny male and female figurines, one clad in black tux and the other in a flowing white wedding dress, held the same place of honor on that table that they'd assumed the day she'd received them as a wedding gift some 70 years ago.  We sipped and then she gushed, "Well?  Tell me everything.  What's new?"

 

"Ah, same old, same old.  We were in the neighborhood and Spring wouldn't take "no" for an answer and here we are."  The air in the kitchen was a pleasant hodge-podge of fresh air from the opened window and screened back door, what smelled like her signature spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove, something subtle probably coming from the tiny herb garden basking in the Fall sunshine on the window ledge.  Though I tried to control it, my tummy growled. 

 

She got up and rummaged around in one of the cabinets, came out with a package of cinnamon rolls.  She put a few onto a paper towel, tossed them into the microwave, set the timer and looked at me over her shoulder.

 

"You eating?  Your face looks a little thinner."  When it dinged, she piled the pastries onto a plate and set them between us.  "Eat, kid, eat."

 

We both took one and nibbled.  She glanced at the clock hung over the sink, a copper teapot with a face that featured round cartoonish eyes and rosy cheeks over a pleasant smile.  The hands showed it was just a bit after two. 

 

"No luck finding work, yet?"

 

I shook my head, winked, and commented, "This too, shall pass.  Right, Lady?  Tell you what, though, I've started writing again."  I felt a little sneaky distracting her this way.

 

She glowed.  Her eyes lit with pride and pleasure.  As much as anyone, I owed what ability I have to scribble stories to her.  She taught me to read before I ever set a foot inside a schoolhouse.  I took to it like a duck to duckponds and never looked back.  It was she who encouraged me to begin to write my own stories in an effort to practice the penmanship that routinely got me the lowest marks I received in any grade school subject as a kid.  To this day, I can barely print legibly and don't even remember how to write in cursive. 

 

She exploded from the table - and that widened my eyes considerably.  It's not often one sees tiny octogenarians erupt into whirlwinds.

 

In no time at all, she returned,  and with a smile as penetrating as summer sunshine.  She plopped a portfolio into my lap and squeaked, "Go on!  Open it.  Open it, honey."  She shivered with unchecked and rapturous anticipation.

 

I smiled back, but with a look of confusion in my eyes;  looked down at the binder in my lap.

 

"Oh, you!"  She snatched it away,  opened it on the table and began to fish things out of it, sliding each item over to where I sat, stunned.  "And don't spill coffee on any of it!  These are my keepsakes."

 

In that bulging folder was everything I had ever written in my life, it seemed.  There were adolescent-composed paragraphs written on the type of note paper that had dashed lines bisecting solid lines, a graded copy of a story I had done for a fourth grade Scholastic Book Club contest with comments from my teacher and it was attached to the issue of the magazine it had been published in. Kid-made cards I'd spent hours at the kitchen table creating for assorted occasions like birthdays and such. There were the poems that I had crafted for another competition that had also been added to a local library-spawned publication.  There were book reports, science fair project notes and text, compositions, short stories, every letter I'd ever sent home while in the Marines, each article I'd done as a combat correspondent.  She even had copies of all of the pubs I'd done as a technical writer.  I smiled with warmth and fondness when I remembered it had been easier to provide copies of this stuff than fend off her constant nagging.

 

She came over and hugged me again.  "And I don't have to tell you that I want your new stuff, too."  She picked up the ad paper from under the chair and mock-threatened me with it.  "You aren't so big I can't beat your fanny, boy.  Don't make me do it,"  and tossed the paper onto the counter.

 

Mom took the top off of a pot and stirred the spaghetti sauce.  Without looking at me, she said, "Now, tell me what's wrong."

 

Spring let out a loud sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imprint

Text: Jeffrey B. Jones
Images: Photo Credit, David Niblack, Imagebase.net.
Editing: J.B. Jones
Publication Date: 10-19-2014

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
There are messages that have shaped lives in the most astounding of ways. Here are some of my favorites: 'Action cures fear.' 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.' 'Love is a many-splendored thing.' 'I have a dream.' 'Your attitude determines your altitude.' 'This too, shall pass.'