Gray Winslo writings

09/19/2023

09/04/2023

Exactly!

Follow Occupy Democrats for more.

01/10/2022

PEASE GO TO "GRAY WINSLO" ... ALL NEW WRITINGS ARE THERE. THE BEST OF THIS PAGE WILL BE MOVED TO "GRAY WINSLO"
THANKS!! Gray Winslo

12/30/2021

please go to bottom of this page and read "A Single White Rose". It is my most precious pipe dream; and I know it stay a dream, never be real but in my mind and heart. Please.

12/05/2021

Ever struggle to go on? Low on life force? Search for love, find none, not sure what it is, never had it. Chasing pipe dreams that always drift away. Trust ill placed and broken. Searching for light in an endlessly dark tunnel. Is death worse than the struggle to go on? Thinking love is all around like water, and finding you live in a drought. "Why go on", I ask. "I don't know.", I answer. Broken trusts. Cold where there was to be love. I life time of not belonging. About done clinging to the dream of love. I want it so desperately I can't give up... can I? And to see the lights of the world snuffed out. The precious goodness destroyed. Why hope?

11/06/2021

"The Visitors" by Gray Winslo

The small TV studio hummed with barely contained nervous excitement, and fear, fear someone would screw up the most important broad cast in human history. The rural, small town studio normally handled local cable transfers from national cable networks to local customers; and local news programs. The reported on local weather, crop prices, changes in the school board policies, lost dogs, local high school athletics, etc. But this broadcast would be send directly to all national networks, for both air and cable broadcast, and sent on to international connections, and relayed to every country and every outlet around the globe. More people would see this broadcast than would see the sun in the next 24 hours. In the studio was a dull roar of frantic voices, people trying to appear calm, many with clip boards and pens, lists of "must do's"in the next few minutes. There was the slight but obvious smell of sweat, the sound of the HVAC system working hard before being shut down for silence for the broad cast. The Assistant Director, rubbing his forehead as though trying to wipe away a headache, was trying to maintain the Director's attention. The Director stood in front of his chair, trying to listen while pointing, shouting "Hey" to workers, and giving verbal or gestural directions. He was upper middle age an very experienced at running a TV studio, but this was different. It had to be flawless, and on time. Minute details and seconds were now more important than ever ... anywhere. This broad cast would be recorded and replayed countless times, hopefully for many years. About 25 feet in front of the director was a simple desk and chair. In the chair sat a young woman, Grace Ann Toss, reviewing her pages so notes. While it seemed she should be the most nervous, she wasn't, for she was the only one knowing what was about to unfold. She knew what to say to the world, she knew what the world was about to find out and the gravity and reality of it held her in place, gave her a settle peace. The asst director checked the time, gave a hand signal to the lighting engineer who flashed a subtle but obvious red signal thru the studio. The voices quieted, but the pace of shuffling bodies quickened; they knew they had seconds to have it all perfect. Two minutes later there was a longer, five second long red light, and all knew to get still and quiet. The HVAC shut off. Red lights went on over all the doors as they closed and locked. A pencil dropped and the director shot a look over his shoulder and everyone froze. The camera and camera man were poised 20 feet in front of Grace Ann. Grace Ann was still a seemingly calm, awaiting the director's 10 second countdown and that finger point that means "you're on!. A serious calm came over the studio as the director started his countdown, hit on "one" as the official second hand hit twelve, gave the "You're on!" point to Grace Ann, and she took a deep breath and looked into the camera. Most studio staff watched the camera feed on the many monitors around the studio. Grace Ann took another deep breath, gently laid down her notes, and began. "I'm Grace Ann Toss, from day one, a member of the visitor welcoming committee. The committee selected me to be the spokesperson. We, the committee have met with the visitors five to seven days a week for the last seven weeks. Our meetings have been five to twelve hours a day, averaging about ten hours a day.
We, the committee, have learned so much and feel we know and understand the Visitors' cause, purpose, experience and message. The committee has been meeting without the Visitors hours a day too, to discuss and clarify the visitors' messages. The world must know and believe that what I'm going to say is true, will happen and isn't negotiable. Humanity will be tested. It is a pass fail test. Failure would be disastrous, passing will lead us to greatness beyond our dreams. It's do or die. The visitors are advanced beyond our comprehension, technically, morally and socially. Long ago they discovered how to do interstellar travel, they discovered developing intelligent species and studied them. They found a large percentage of them failed to get past greed and hatred, and destroyed them selves, often takin other species with them. They studied this and decided to intervene in such cases for the betterment of the species and safety of others.
They’ve been monitoring us for a very long time, and from their experiences, know it’s time to intervene. That’s why they’re here.
Again, remember, these points are non negotiable. They see us as too greedy, too warlike, hateful. But they see some small societies as peaceful and caring so feel it is possible we as a species live better, live without hate and war. We just need guidance. So, …..
All of our war machines, weapons will be taken. They will disappear from where ever they are. This will begin after this broadcast. War ships, planes, vehicles will go away and any occupants will be safely left on land. Guns will go away. Don’t waste time trying to hide them.
Also, the visitors know as we do we use and waste Earth’s resources too fast for sustainability. They will give us temporary sources of electrical power and lead us to hydrogen fusion technology and an end to all fossil fuels. And part of the issue is the overpopulation of humans. The visitors will adjust fertility rates until our population is down to an easily sustainable level, and then it will be our responsibility to maintain that level. We must end tribal and race prejudice and hatred to survive.

This story is becoming too close to "The Day the Earth Stood Still", original version... see if your library has it; maybe on a streaming service... Please watch it. Peace. Gray

"The Visitors" is not yet finished.. but I'm working on it!

10/21/2021

Bluebird Curve.
Years ago, on my motorcycle, I was heading home on rt 1 east to Rising Sun. As I rounded a curve I saw an injured bluebird in the middle of the road. It was struggling, obviously injured, I assumed hit by a car. I turned around, rode past it, saw it again, and turned around again and stopped on the shoulder beside the bluebird. I took off my helmet, watched for a break in traffic, and went into the middle of the road, and gently picked up the bluebird. I knew it couldn't be treated. I took it to some tall grass that would comfort and hide it along a split rail fence. I gently laid it in that grass. I knew I had to leave it there, alone, to suffer and die. And I cried, I could feel it's loneliness and pain and couldn't do anything more for it. I cry now remembering that moment.
I ride that curve often on the bike, and every time I remember that precious bluebird and utter the words, Bluebird Curve in remembrance. Tears.

10/20/2021

As fall comes, temps will cool and colors will warm. In these tough times, show others your warm colors of empathy and compassion. Let the cool be a calm when you meet with harshness, nonsense or cold spirit. Remember; you may be the best of another's day. Peace.

07/28/2021

Please read the short story "A Single White Rose." .. scroll way down and find it.

07/05/2021

PATIENT GREEN.
Following are writings by, observations of, abstracts about a man in a mental facility. Does he belong here? Is he insane? Genius? You decide, for I don't know. I will continue to study him, but not sure I'll ever know for sure. The human mind is complex beyond our understanding; endless layers, each one pealed reveals more layers. Perhaps this study can bring understanding of / to others.
Dr. Swartz, PhD.

06/01/2021

06/01/2021

love

01/23/2021

Thorn
By Gray Winslo

The little town was quiet and peaceful surrounded by dense forests for at least a week’s walk. The town’s folk occasionally gathered to discuss rules, needs, trade, public welfare; and gossip, or course. Happy stories of generosity were politely passed around, relayed with polite smiles and gentle nods. A woman at town’s edge shared needs with a town’s man low on supplies because of a slow to heal injury. A child was rescued from the stream by a shopkeeper hearing the child’s calls for help. Such stories were passed along with smiles and mainly pseudo joy, as if such stories were a necessity of good people. But other stories got much more attention and pleasure. Told with forced frowns and pretend distain, it was an unspoken understanding that these stories made the blood flow faster. The old woman near town center harshly threatened to harm children playing near her garden. The young man repairing homes on the main path was stealing from his benefactors. A woman often seen socializing in town was “good friends” with others than her known accepted life mate. And so the town went on, unchanging, for as long as anyone could recall. Such gossip was the social vehicle of the town, a way for the folks to escape the toils of the day, the boredom, the stress of gathering all the things needed for them to survive. It was their primary entertainment. The stories were made up, told and retold, and replaced by new stories. A benefit of such gossip was that everyone know of them, everyone knew they were watched and unfortunately talked about, and everyone did their best to be good, honest, honorable, and to avoid any behaviors that invited town gossip. Usually little or nothing was done to punish those talked about. Usually the discussed offenses were petty, fairly harmless, and reversible if necessary. But then there was the story of Thorn.
Thorn had grown up a bit outside of the town, in wood’s edge, in a family of meager means. His brother did shoddy work and took home more than he deserved. His sister was frail, worked in the fields the best she could but was seen as not doing enough. The man of the house laid path stones as old ones became broken or dislodged or missing. He hated his work, complained of the stink, the endless hunting for good stones for the path and ate too much. His body suffered from the work, pained him, and kept him from doing all that he should. His woman did her best with what little she had to work with, keeping shelter, preparing meals, keeping the family together. And there was Thorn.
Thorn, even when young, was big and strong and liked to work hard. He started by gathering wood for the fire and keeping their shelter warm when it was cold outside. He taught himself to use an ax and a splitter. He traded split wood in town for things needed by the family. He would occasionally cross paths with a young woman, Treka, of a well off family. They would smile, their eyes would meet, sometimes they would chat a bit about the weather, the harvest, the coming season; but never did they gossip. Both sensed the other not liking the gossip, not wanting to hear it or speak it. The became close friends and later, lovers.
They joined and lived away from others to have their peace. They loved, laughed and enjoyed working hard. They build a nice home that was warm and comfortable. While Thorn was off cutting wood, Treka would gather and prepare vegetables from the garden for a meal. She could split some wood, and tend to the always burning fireplace. She would tend to their collection of animals as they supplied all sorts of goods. Excess meat and fruits and vegetables she would carefully hang over the smoky fired to be cured and dried for storage. She smiled as she worked. She enjoyed it and she enjoyed knowing Thorn would be pleased and appreciative and thank her with some special woodland gift; a pretty flower, a smooth, perfectly white stone from the stream, or a fun part truth, part fiction tale of the day in the woods, always told with excitement and wide eyes as they sat with their kneed together, facing each other, their eyes loving the other’s expressions of joy, excitement and love.
As Thorn cam home one day he whistled his love call to Treka and listened for the answer, a high, sweet voice of an angel. “Hmmm… maybe she’s busy inside and can’t hear me … I’ll get closer.” He got closer, paused and tried again, but still no answer. He panicked and ran to the house. Treka lie dead on the floor. A small table was on its side and she had bound flowers in her hand, flowers she’d bind with twine and hang from the ceiling for their aroma and color. He looked up to see one binding of such flowers hanging from the ceiling, but she always hung several. He realized she’d tried to pretty the house, lost her balance, fell and died as her head hit the stones of the fireplace hearth. He was gripped with disbelief, horror, pain, heartbreak, panic and realized it was done, there was nothing he could do but weep in the terrible agony of being without his love. He crumpled on the floor by Treka, held her hand, caressed her face, dripped tears on her; he was unable to think of anything else.
Much later he realized he must follow the death custom of a passed love one. Custom was to dig a grave east of the house; east where the sun rose, where the loved one would see the first light of day, where the rising sun might encourage the spirit of the dead to rise again. He placed her in the grave naked as was custom, so the earth and nature would see her the way she was at birth and so reclaim what was theirs and release the spirit. Her treasures were placed on top of the grave for the spirit to pass through. In three days the treasures were brought back into the house in hopes her spirit would join them.
And so lived Thorn for many days, alone, finding some comfort in his hard work of cutting and gathering wood, leaving some in stacks down the path where others would find it and take it home, and leaving payment in some form for Thorn. Payment might be in tools, berries, seeds, ale or glass beads, the common currency of the land. Thorn would work till he could work no more and have to sit and rest and weep and cry. Thorn was big and his tears were huge, dropping and splashing on the forest floor between his feet. He could hear them rustle the dried leaves. But one day as he cried and heard his tears drop, he noticed the sound was changed, more rustling than his tears caused. He wiped his eyes doing his best to clear them, and studied the leaves between his feet. There was an unusual movement of the leaves. He furrowed his brow and steadied his gaze at the leaves. Something was in there moving. And he saw a whole leave slide aside and there was a tiny face! He stared in disbelief. There was a tiny face, and it was moving. And a tiny hand appeared, and the other arm as this strange tiny being climbed out of the leaves. It was female, with long dark hair. She was naked, but, had delicate wings on her back. He was frozen, dumbfounded. She moved the other leaves out of her way fluttered her winds and rose up to the level of his face, and said, “Please hold out your hand.” Without thinking he did as she commanded. She slowed her fluttering, and set her feet in his palm and tucked her winds together behind her. He stared at her in total amazement, frozen with wonder. She was no taller than the length of his hand. He looked at her in awe. She looked at him as if to size him up, deciding if he’s worthy of her time and effort. After some moments of this quiet staring, she said, “Thorn, I know of your pain, I have felt it since you found Treka dead.” He only heard some of the words as he was still taking in this vision. She said, “Thorn I can help you if you like.” He said, “How do you know my name? Who are you What are you?” She said, “I am Tia. I am the forest fairy for this part of the woods. I know you name, for I know all that goes on in these woods. All of the creatures and plants talk to me tell me what is happening all day. From the deepest creatures underground to the tallest trees, and the birds and creatures in the air and on the ground, they all talk to me.” He was still very still, trying to understand what was happening in his outstretched hand. He become conscious of her bare feet touching his hand but she was so light he barely felt them. He said. “Why are you here, now, in my hand?”
She answered, “The forest creatures, all of them, know you to be a good man, never cruel, only taking what you need, sharing your excess with others, giving seeds to the birds, sharing your home with the flying and crawling creatures.” He said, “Nature is good to me, I try to give back.” “You do.” She said, “And that nature has asked me to help you.” “How can you help me?” He said.
She answered, “I know why you cry, I know how your heart aches. If you are willing to try, and do as I say I think I can ease your pain.” He said, “I’ll do anything to ease the sorrow in my heart and mind. Tell me what to do.”
She said, “The work and effort will be yours, I only can give a tool to work with.” A slight smile came to his face as he said, “How? Tell me about it. I want to do it. I can’t stand the pain in heart.”
So, she explained, “I can give you the ability to have the most realistic dreams, dreams that you will be sure to be real. And with work and practice you’ll be able to have such dreams while awake.” He looked at her in awestruck amazement.
He asked, “Dreams about what” She answered, “What would you like to dream of? Treka?” He shuddered, was confused, thought hard, and then said, “No, not Treka. I know she is gone and it would hurt her spirit to pretend she’s not. I would dream of a woman that Treka would approve of.” Tia said, “So be it”
Thorn asked, “Now what”? Tia said, lie down for sleep, get comfortable as you would for night sleep. I will come over, and lie across your head. I will plant the thought seeds of your dream. You will grow those seeds how ever you wish, and change and prune and harvest those dream seeds as you wish. But that will take time and practice. And there’s a catch. To plant these dream seeds I will road through your mind and may see everything you’ve ever done or thought; even things you don’t remember.” Thorn thought for a second and said, “I have nothing to hide, no secrets from nature. Yes, please plant your dream seeds.” And he lay down in the soft leaves to sleep, and Tia fluttered to his forehead, lightly touched down and laid down across his forehead and entered his mind. She saw only pure thoughts, caring, honest thoughts. She planted the dream seeds deep in his mind where they would take root and grow.

Thorn slept the rest of that day and through the night, nestled in the leaves, the warm furry creatures of the forest came and gathered and make a blanket over him to keep him warm. He slept the best he had since before Treka died. He had a faint memory of a dream of a woman, but could not recall any details. He felt good that day, worked hard and ate well, did the house chores and went to bed, snuggled down under warm blankets. As he drifted off to sleep, he saw the dream woman again, this time in more detail, and he could feel his mind adjust the details to his pleasing.
And so Thorn lived and worked. He came to be able to see the dream woman while awake. He named her Nicca, he talked to her, sang to her and told her all about Treka, and Nicca listened and was interested in his tales. Nicca in turn told stories and tales of the forest; which creatures gossiped, when and where the best berries grew, when the birds were very hungry so he could share some food with them.
Tia watched over him, made sure he remained pure and good to the forest, and without him knowing, helped him make Nicca as real as possible. To Thorn Nicca was a real as any other person. He depended on Nicca as his guide, companion, confidant, muse, friend, soul mate. But Treka was always his first and only love. Thorn and Nicca talked about that, and both were happy and content with the arrangement. They all lived long happy lives together.

7

01/23/2021

A Single White Rose by Gray Winslo

A single white rose lay on the small table by the door. He placed it there so he wouldn’t forget it. He was so nervous. He was sure he’d screw up something and make an ass of himself. And he couldn’t be late. He set his keys, wallet, cell phone, on the table by the door too so he wouldn’t forget those either.
He showered. As he shaved and fussed with his hair, he kept looking at himself in the mirror as if for the first time. He noticed all his imperfections that normally went unnoticed or didn’t concern him. Now they were magnified.
As he got dressed and the reality of it all slid to the top of his consciousness, a flurry of emotions came flooding in. Fear, regret, love, insecurity, panic. He asked himself, “What do I have to lose? A few hours time, the price of two expensive meals. A little self respect?” He admitted to himself that yes, he stood to lose these minor things. He was disappointed that this attempt at bolstering his courage backfired when he thought again about what he had to lose .. what was at stake. He could lose his dream, even if temporarily. He dared to dream of everything wonderful in the universe coming together in a relationship. That was what he had to lose; euphoria. But if he didn’t have it, how could he lose it? He could lose the dream of it, which seemed as disastrous.
It was some years after his wife’s death. They had a good marriage, but it wasn’t perfect. He never felt she “got” him … truly, deeply understood him. And he knew he never fully understood her. Either her wall was impenetrable or he just lacked the key. In a way, they remained near total strangers for all those years. But at least they functioned as casual friends.
So he had other visions when he answered the personal ad in the local paper. He wasn’t anxious to hassle with the on-line services but occasionally, just out of curiosity, he read the personals in the paper. “Female looking for mutual support” and an e-mail address was all there was. He read it several times, dropped his hands and let the paper crumple on his lap.
He rolled those words around in his mind for a while. Simple, short, few, but they had his full attention. He quietly contemplated what they could mean. She could be an old nut case wanting someone to take care of her. Maybe it was a broke gold digger looking for a bankroll. Perhaps a kindly, elderly grandmother type afraid of being lonely. Needing the hopeful dream of optimism, he admitted it could be an attractive woman his age, and in the same situation. What were the chances? Was it worth an e-mail? What the hell, right?
Cautiously, he composed a short, somewhat cryptic e-mail. He wanted to sound interested but not desperate. He didn’t want to give an age, but didn’t want to sound like a teen, or “elderly”. The more he thought about it, the more doubts he had. So many times he almost hit the delete key. “What do I have to lose.” He thought. “If not now, when?” “Gotta get my feet wet.” “This will be a humiliating disaster, but it will break the ice.” Maybe I’ll learn something this time that will make the next time better.” He pushed on with a silly feeling. Was he relieved to finally be making a move? He knew he was excited .. but why? To be moving forward? At the positive prospects? He kept coming back to ‘What do I have to lose?’.
His e-mail said little, just that he saw the ad, was interested, hinted at his age, and that he’d be willing to meet. Later the same day he got a reply. He tried to overanalyze the short reply time. The answer was as cryptic as his. Basically, it just asked if he’d be interested in meeting for dinner.
“OK, now … do I let her pick, trying to be accommodating and risk seeming wishy-washy? Or do I put on some bravado and set the details? First rule I must adopt is honesty. No put ons. I’ll offer her the choice.”
This almost junior high type game playing was a thrill. He was flirting! And for real for the first time in decades. He was starting to feel truly desperate … his heart and brain felt young again. He rationalized his decision by imagining he would learn about her from her reply. What if she said, “Lunch at McDonalds”? Or “Happy hour at “The Hole to Fall Inn’? “What hell, what do I have to lose, right?”
Within minutes her reply came. Uh-oh … was she a desperate old spinster, waiting like a spider for a fly? He chuckled to himself, he could stomp a spider! Ha! The reply was minimal, “How about Rusty’s at 6 on Tuesday? A Single White Rose”
Rusty’s. A little hip, kinda quiet, good wine bar, decent menu, fair prices, mostly deuce tables, some booths for four. The front looked like an Irish pub, lots of glass in small panes, tables next to the glass. A bar down the side, more small tables in a couple areas in the back. Geese, this could mean anything .. just glad she didn’t suggest a disco. And the last part … her avatar? “Her imaginary name? Or a way of identifying each other and left cryptic to see if I would get it? I’ll go with that.”
So, there he was, nervous, anxious, fearful, happy, tense, relieved, all at once, trying to get ready to be suave, sincere, handsome, rugged, polished, brilliant, down-to-earth, accessible, a good listener, witty … oh, yeah, be honest, no put-ons. “OK, she’ll get just me.”
A Single White Rose, keys, wallet, cell. OK, I can do this. He left early to allow for traffic. There was none, so he parked and waited, heart and imagination racing. He imagined every scenario, every type of woman. At this point he was beyond fear and well into nervous laughter. He figured the vast odds were she’d be middle aged or older, a widow, some close by family but wanting someone to cut the grass, change the oil and clean off the roof. I could to that and be happy, right? What have I got to lose?
With a minute to spare he crossed the street and approached the front of Rusty’s. He could see people inside, and started to scan faces, wanting to check out all the female faces, and look for a Single White Rose. He paused at the curb, hiding his Single White Rose, trying to gain the advantage of “first sight”, like that’d make a difference. He saw some women, most paired with a man, some small groups standing at the bar, but no one caught his eye. Maybe he was early, she ran into traffic, or maybe she chickened out and stood him up. “Maybe we should have exchanged cell numbers. Oh well, too late for that.” He went in, feeling as if every eye were on him, checking him out, seeing all of his flaws like red flags waving on sticks above his head. He had to tell himself to breath, in and out. He could now see more of the tables and people. A face caught his eye, he studied it a second and he chuckled to himself, “yeah, right”! An angelic face, somewhere between 15 and 30. Sitting alone, very much at peace, she looked like a college art major, maybe into photography. Something calm, peaceful, cerebral, safe, intellectual. I always enjoyed trying to tell about a person just from their appearance. She appeared to be dressed business casual, her clutch and a shawl across the small table. “If only I could be her age again, to be able to go ever and hit on her, to just spend a few hours flirting with her, imagining she was actually interested in me.” He felt such a fool. OK, back to business .. where is my Single White Rose woman? He kept his Single White Rose hidden, wanting to see her first without being identified. “OK, I’ll walk around the place, if she’s not here, I’ll wait out front for a while, and if she doesn’t show up in a bit, I’ll have a wine, and call it a night.” His casual wonderings between tables brought him behind the young imagined art major. She was petite, her shiny auburn hair curled under and resting on her shoulders. A fashion designer maybe. Her soft, delicate hands were evidence she wasn’t a potter or painter .. or brick layer! Ha-ha. “Maybe I’ll ask her what she does, and risk getting slapped by her or punched out by her husband as he returns from the men’s room.” His fantasies flushed his mind as he walked past, his head almost spinning … OK, get real.
“Excuse me.” he heard from behind his as he passed her table. Oh, now his imagination was racing at light speed! He thought, “Are my pants split in the back? Am I trailing toilet paper? Have I stepped on her toes?” He didn’t know what to expect as he turned around and looked down at this seated young lady. What he saw was a Single White Rose held up to the tip of her small, up turned nose, in hands like fine porcelain. Her eyes smiled impishly as if playing a joke or successfully cheating at poker. He was stunned. He slowly brought his hand around and mindlessly held up his Single White Rose, like a school boy demonstrating he had the requisite pencil.
“May I sit down?” he asked, his manners purely on automatic.
“Please” was the reply from those impish eyes.
Was this some kind of cruel joke? Was she holding the Single White Rose for her mother who had to use the rest room? “Is this a joke?” he half blurted out, but as nicely as he could muster. She looked genuinely hurt and said, “No … why?” He felt bad he’d had been unsociable. It was certainly his misunderstanding, not hers. Surely. He apologized and explained how he came there that night to be with a Single White Rose. The impish eyes returned, and studied his face carefully. With obvious interest she said, “What’s your name?”
He said, “So, do you know who I was e-mailing with?”, still convinced this was either a joke or a simple misunderstanding. The impish eyes smiled more brightly as she said, “Well, I suggested to only one person to meet me here, tonight at six … Single White Rose”
He was speechless. This was absolutely too good to be true … unless there was some catch. That was it … there must be a catch. What a strange position to be in; too perfect to be true, too perfect screw up with a bad showing. What to do next? “Just be honest.” rang in his head.
“You are beautiful. I don’t think I could dream up a more perfect fantasy. You can’t be half my age, you have the face and hands of an angel. Do you understand my concern? Why me? There must be a catch.”
“Oh, there’s a catch, a huge one.” Her mischievous eyes turned more serious, matter of fact, her face almost business like. She caught a waiter’s eye and asked for a glass of chardonnay, her eyes questioned me for my drink choice. I stammered out, “Merlot”, barely breaking eye contact.
Our eyes were locked for long seconds, each questioning the other. This was turning into a bizarre, wonderful, fun, scary, mysterious situation. And he was still trying to fully comprehend the perfection of her face. That perfect combination of child like features, a womanly glow, a mature depth of expression, the ability to look like a serious adult one second, a mischievous teen the next. Yes, she was up to something, but what? He couldn’t help but trust her, that her heart and intensions were honorable. Then he saw her expression change, almost imperceptibly. It showed fear, not of him, but of something from which she wanted protection.
They sipped their wines, made a little small talk about the décor, the menu, etc. He had to ask, “So what’s the catch?” This time she didn’t look scared. She said, “I’ll make you a deal. Buy me dinner, we’ll have a perfect couple hours getting to know each other while not talking about anything of consequence, and then we’ll answer all of each other’s questions. Deal?”
“What do I have to lose”, he said with an intrigued grin.

They discussed the menu choices, found many things to laugh about, ordered their meals, chatted and sipped their wine. There was slow music playing, the small dance floor had room, and he asked her to dance. Her face lit up, her eyes said “yes” before her voice delicately said, “Yes, that would be lovely.” He was feeling like a million bucks. She waited as he stood, moved behind her, and slid her chair back as she stood. She stood, he offered his arm in his best chivalrous fashion, she delicately slid her hand inside his elbow and rested it on his forearm as lightly as a feather. They walked to the dance floor as one, turned and faced each other and embraced as if they had done this often. The feel of her close, the pleasant smell of her hair, her subtle perfume brought the wonderful feeling of endorphins, of euphoria, of longing for this moment to last forever. He held his cheek against the top of her head as she leaned her head to rest it on his shoulder. He hadn’t felt this for a very long time, and he did not want it to end. And he sensed she too longed for this time to go on, as if she hadn’t felt this safe for a long time. She seemed totally at ease and comforted as she leaned into him.
But the song ended, they eased back from each other, gathered their composures the best they could, and returned to their table just as their salads arrived. They enjoyed discussing world politics, discoveries in science, various cuisines. They avoided anything downbeat or personal. They both knew there would be time for those after dinner. They had a wonderful time talking, listening, giggling, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. He wanted to hold her close again and for a long time.
The dessert menu came and he was tempted to order a chocolate mousse for the extra time it would give me to enjoy being with her. But he knew I had to learn of the “ huge catch”. Apple pie ala mode, it was.
Before he could ask, she said, “After this, lets walk down to the park near the beach, find a good place to sit, talk and watch the surf.” All he could do was respond with a nervous smile. He felt so close to a dream come true. Would the “catch” end this dream in a few minutes?
She excused herself to the ladies room and he left plenty of cash on the table to cover the bill and a good tip. They walked out arm in arm as if they’d done it many times. He got a strong vibe that she liked him and wanted to be with him. He hadn’t had that feeling for way too long.
They walked down the sidewalk in the balmy night air to the little park with benches that faced the beach. Other couples had already taken most of the benches, but they found one for themselves. They were both fearful of the discussion to come but also hopeful. They sat down, he pulled her close to lean on him a bit and they sat in silence for many minutes. Finally, he said, “So, what’s the catch? I can’t stand the suspense any longer. I have to know if this dream is going to end or go on.”
She said, “How blunt can I be?” She sounded like she wanted to be blunt and get this out quickly and get it over with little extraneous verbiage.
He said, “Be as blunt as you want to … or need to.”
With only a second of hesitation she said, “I might die in a few years.” Without thinking, he pulled her a little tighter, a little closer. Again there was a pause. He wanted reassure her he was there to listen, and said, “Go on.”
“There is a gene that runs in my family. It causes a rather fatal type of leukemia. I have the gene. Dr.’s say I have a 75% chance of the gene expressing … and an early death due to leukemia.”
He felt a chill go down his spine as the reality settled in. In a few seconds he hugged a little tighter, then raised her chin so he could look into her eyes and said, “I thought you said there was a catch?” and he smiled a smile that told her he would accept the challenge and be her support to what ever degree she wanted. “But why me? Why an old fart?”
She said, “I can’t trust a younger man who might bolt if and when the going got tough. If I’m going to commit to a man, I need to know he is fully committed to me. Before I can feel love or passion, I must have security, support, unwavering commitment. If I live to see you get old, I will care for you. If I get sick I need to know I’ll have someone to … see me through it.
He looked into the stars, out at the sea, and again deep into her eyes. “And what if I go first. Then what will you do?”
“Maybe I’ll be old enough to be past danger and still able to find another.”
She made him feel so secure, so comforted, so at ease that he was able to cogitate on all the possibilities, all the new possible realities to come.
He gently laid he hand against her cheek and ear, felt her silken hair and her smooth cool skin. She laid her small hand across his forearm, felt its warmth and strength. They sighed together and languished in the comfort of each other, the easy sounds of the waves, the steadiness of the stars, the coolness of the breeze, and the pleasant smells of sea and restaurants.
In a very matter of fact tone he said, “Shall we live at your place, my place or somewhere new for both of us?” She snuggled closer, wrinkled her nose, smiled and said, “I think a new place would be appropriate. Something new for both of us, don’t you think?”

Many mostly joyous, happy, loving years passed. But all good things must come to an end. As the gathering of friends paid their final respects at the grave and started to move away to go one about their days, the last at graveside said, “You all go on. I want a moment alone with my love.” Turning to the grave and kneeing in the grass, alone, made the finality of the moment all too real. “Oh, my love. You made me live. You made my life worth living. I can’t imagine living with more or losing more. Now I will live for and with your memories.” A trembling hand wet from tears laid a single white rose upon the grave.