Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

It was raining as they pulled out of town, dispirited, dismayed. Bike engines thrummed; wheels skidded; they knew they’d never be this way again. And if no one ever whispered his name it’d still be too soon for them. How could he be dead? “Why so glum?” asked the stranger. They let their engines idle, walked awhile. “Didn’t you read? That guy they killed—they murdered—he was our friend.” “More than that,” said the other. “Jesus! He was gonna change the world and they blew him away.” “Why so glum?” asked the stranger and proceeded to change the world.

It was raining as they pulled into town. Bike-engines thrummed; wheels skidded; the entourage of hangers-on hung on and stopped beside him. Really the guys could’ve camped outside but they didn’t want to drown. So Peter and John were sent to look for a place. “How?” asked Peter. “Follow the watercarrier.” “Why?” “ ’Cause he’ll help.” They followed to a run-down house in a mud-strewn alleyway. “The boss needs 13 bedmats, space for a meal…” Then the stranger, watercarrier, led them upstairs. “Okay,” he said. “Just don’t wreck the place.” And next day, time and space and place wrecked man.

The sun was shining—perfect weather for a party. Jugglers juggled. Mimes mimed. Kids and kittens ran wild. Soldiers guarded the streets of course, with so many pilgrims around, but even they couldn’t dampen the spirits of the crowd. Dignitaries rode on champion steeds or marched with following cliques. Sometimes the kids said “Who’s that?” when their Mom’s said to cheer. Then there was the man on a donkey, his feet trailing the ground. Funny the way the Moms and kids went wild. We’d heard he was some great preacher, hero-style—looked like a clown, but you never can tell.

The sun was shining—perfect weather for a party. Jugglers juggled. Mimes mimed. Kids and kittens ran wild. Dignitaries drove past in black sedans with tinted windows. “Was that the Mayor? Did you catch the plate?” There was even a royal or two. I lifted my kid in my arms so he see could Prince Phillip wave. “Mom, what’s a prince?” A tiny car trailed the parade, driver going slow, passenger leaning low out the window-frame and smiling high. Don’t know who he was, but my kid said afterwards he was the best bit. I think he liked the car.

The rich man had vacation plans. The poor man lost his job. The rich man’s friends suggested help but he said not today. Then, while he enjoyed his island paradise, the poor man went to The Paradise instead. The rich man died and went to Hell. But the poor man lived so well, the rich man asked if someone could warn his friends. God replied, “If they’ve not got it yet, they won’t understand even if the dead rise to tell them.” So Hell grew hot and crowded. The needle’s eye shrank. And a mill-wheel sank in eternity’s dank depths.

There were rabbits in the meadow. “Can I chase them?” asked May, but “No way,” said her Mom. “Why not?” “’Cause it’s not kind.” May’s brother played football with her Dad while May went to pick flowers. Dandelions splintered streaks of sunshine in the grass. Then a rabbit passed too close. “Can I chase it?” She didn’t wait to hear, but followed it to the trees where it quickly disappeared. All that was left was a trail of warm rabbit “eggs” that May added to her flowers. “It’s an Easter Rabbit Mom,” she said. “He left his eggs for me.”

Too much to do, Jess takes children to school, shops for food, runs the dishwasher, rescues a spoon from the clattering disposal and collapses at last in a heap. No collapsing allowed, Jess shifts washing to dryer, reloads the machine, cleans the floor, sweeps the leftovers stored from the kids scattered meals, tattered heels, and then tries to relax. No relaxing allowed, Jess dreams coffee and fun and looks out at the sun—cut the grass, aching back but hurray the hot job’s quickly done. Sunlight and grass-seed and vitamin D… a coffee reward for succeeding, plus children for fun.

Hop. “I’m a bunny,” said Tom. Hop hop. “I’m a frog.” Hop, wriggle and squirm. “Look Mom. Now I’m a fish.” Mom wished he’d play more quietly while she struggled to clean the room. He's in the laundry. “Please.” “I’m a kitty,” said Tom. Hop. She fitted the gate to the bathroom door. “You stay out now.” But Tom just hopped the gate. “Horse racing, Mom.” Hop. “Not on the stairs.” Tom hopped. Mom caught. They hopped together to the kitchen. “Help me bake a cake?” Tom hopped on a chair—“Yes Mom”—leaning into the task. Hope hopped awake.

They say children forget, but I remember eyes gummed like fire, scents of washing, or spring in my nose, with knives underneath. The yellow when I saw it wasn’t sunshine, wasn’t my room. No strength, I couldn’t look round, wondered why was I hurt. Flesh lay still, dumbly opposing my will while dampness on my stomach spread the smell. I shouted help and babies cried. My tongue sucked, pressed on teeth that weren’t there. Then I was lifted, airborne, rag doll flopping, held under my arms. Eyes struggled to focus. Ears heard a whispering voice, “Poor baby.” I can’t forget.

Ted just didn’t like yard-work. But Mom just thought it was what sons do to help around the house, while daughters clean. She called it “chores.” What wouldn’t he give for soap-bubbles and fingers pickled in the sink? What wouldn’t he give for the dryness of house-dust in his nose? Out here there were spiders in the leaves and spider-silk breathed in with loamy air. The grass that jumped might have been a frog and a twig crawled away like a string… “Snake!” He screamed. Mom said it was only a worm because she hadn’t seen. Ted didn’t like yard-work.

In fields of green, green grass and weeds and flowers and whispering seeds, well-watered land, he lay with hands in sand and blackened clay. The fibrous strands of roots were prayer-mats swathing holy ground, and branches swayed above, hiding the sun. Yielding his place, runaway slave, he listened for the waves. His roving eyes gazed for the boat—another long days’ journey, still not safe—then looked at weeds, three-leaved, held in his palm. The clover’s three-pronged hope inspired: a Father’s promise, Son’s protection, Spirit’s strength to cope. Then Patrick strode, one more day's marching left, and sailed for home.

The sun was bright, the season light, the people filled with joy. Wars had been fought and won—a new age begun. So now the government strolled the streets to the place where governments meet. Now they’d discuss how the needs of the poor could be fit to more important wants and desires. Politics. Politics. War’s easier, he thought, but when you’re a Caesar you do what a Caesar must do. Then others seized his robe and tore him down. They thrust him through with swords till he lay bleeding. One last friend—et tu Brute—cast the last blow.

“Will you march with me?” Caesar asked. Brutus stepped to his side. “The rabble,” said Caesar, looking round at the crowds that followed. “See how they run, in need a guide.” “The pomp and circumstance.” He observed the marbled senate hall, the waiting senator’s flocked “Like a bride for her groom.” “How true,” said Brutus, hand on his old friend’s arm, guiding his path. “How true.” They laughed at an old man’s wrath, and feeble woman’s angry prophesy. The black widow spider skittered away to the shadows where night-webs grew. She knew and waited, like a bride for her groom.

“Four strong winds that blow lonely.” He’d tasted them all, sand and salt, with dry mineral sting. But the fire in his eyes burned for things he had done and “The good times are all gone.” “One day they’ll sing.” He dropped his guitar, took the gun hanging low on his hip, weighing steady like music and strong like chords of a song. “One day.” And the wind-devils floated like nymphs to his end. Beating hooves of the sheriff’s fine steed were his drums and the sun lent a singer. Now he’s bending the trigger. He's bound for moving on.

The taxi was stuck, so they bundled out with clown-suited babe underarm. The bobble-hat bulged beneath red hood and he felt like a doll would, rigidly stiff in his Mom’s arms. She wobbled while Dad paid what they owed. “Sure you’re okay?” “It’s not far.” They strode over unseasonal snow. Then she slipped towards the black-iced ditch and baby slid under her arms; she saw his small red kayak floating away and screamed for help. With black coat billowing her husband leapt to their aid. Then, “Sure you’ll be okay?” the taxi-driver asked. She answered no, climbing safely back inside.

The professor ducked under the counter with his soft drink carefully cradled so not a drop spilled. “Nice job,” said his wife, brandishing the wine-bottle on her way to the deck. “Like to see you do that maneuver after you’ve drunk some glasses of this.” Candles flickered in the evening air, and the scent of hyacinths almost made him sneeze. He’d sworn he’d rather eat inside—March really isn’t spring—but she’d insisted. Candles flickered, and in the kitchen, the counter-top, left open, crashed suddenly closed. No worries; professor and wife had other maneuvers in mind. Their dinner grew cold.

Zebedee cat was a very fat cat with a long swishy tail, black fur and three stripes on his back. Zebedee cat was a very fierce cat with sharp claws and super-swift paws. Zebedee cat was intelligent and lived by the furnace but always pretended he really lived outdoors. Zebedee cat caught mice so Mrs. Mason gave him food. Zebedee cat caught fleas so Mrs. Mason wouldn’t let him inside. Then Zebedee cat caught kittens, safe and warm, tucked away by the fire. Mrs. Mason hugged “him” and got “him” spayed, then shared the kittens out with neighbors and friends.

The scent of new-mown grass and lawnmower oil. The sound of traffic, dogs that yap somewhere, she’s not sure where. Birds shriek anger at her noise, but hey, she’s silent now, and squirrel paws pit-patter in the bush. The warmth of sunlight; wonders if she’ll burn her nose again and feels annoyed; it’s only spring, too early to be hot. Her shadow drips its struggle on the wheels. The feel of metal sliding, tries the screwdriver again. Then stops… Sound of walking—man and dog; “D’you need a hand?”—of talking—man and woman let the green grass grow again.

“Windy outside,” they said. The dog nudged their feet beneath the loaded table. People were eating. She needed the door. “Windy outside.” A rush of birds arose bourn by her barking, wings flapping like leaves. “Windy outside.” But the wind outside has no eyes nor claws nor wildly waving tail. The squirrels in the trees looked down while the dog raced madly around. “Windy outside. Close that door.” The dog ran out to frighten high-blown threats, then barked to come in. “Noisy outside.” Spring leaves fall softly down like petals on snow. “But quieter now.” And the wild wind blows.

She walked those steps each day with sinking tread, climbing to work on the spongy, broken, old. She knew the dull gray mud that filled the gaps, the grass, the flowers; knew to avoid the tangled briars and ragged raging rose. Sunshine or showers, she walked this way, eyes downcast, cold and closed until one day, one tiny faded blade of green arose. She watched the plant daily until it bloomed, a sparkling yellow crocus, and she smiled. A squirrel ate it and a bird complained. But skies were blue and eyes were open again. And her footsteps grew light.