Tales of Transitions and Chance Encounters
Today, I drove by a funeral procession and watched as the crowd of mourners departed one of the many tall-steepled churches that line our town’s Main Street. The Gothic chapel sits high above the village, and worshippers climb many steps to reach the stained-glass entry. On each of those bluestone steps stands a military member in full dress uniform, their backs erect and their arms raised in a stiff salute. An honor guard steadies the many flags against the heavy winds as a military band plays a sorrowful lament. Crowds of Christmas shoppers gawk and ask, ‘Who died?’
I once would have used an image from this striking ceremony in a story, but I’ve not been writing—and I miss it—the daily commitment that structured my day as I filled my mind with colorful characters and exotic locales. There isn’t time now for such pursuits. Other tasks fill the hours once reserved for storytelling.
It all started at the end of last summer when the idea came to me to sell my house. The property had become a burden I could no longer manage. Climbing tall ladders to clean the leaf-filled gutters was no longer possible, and the many acres of lawns and fields were not mowed. Mulching the gardens and weeding the pea-stone terraces had become dreaded chores. I began hiring people to carry out these tasks, which once were so pleasing but were no longer. I told myself I could not afford to hire people to do what I once did. So the idea arrived, suddenly and swiftly, to sell the house. I called a friend who recommended a broker, and the agent and I agreed on a price. Then, we waited for a clear sunny day to photograph the splendid views from the hilltop aerie I had designed and built seventeen years earlier. The pictures went online, and an open house was held the following week. That same evening, an offer was made—all cash— by an attractive couple: a sculptor and a textile designer. They bought everything—the furniture, the rugs, the lamps, the outdoor grill, the Adirondack chairs that dotted the fields.
And so began a months-long search for a new home, smaller, easier to care for, but hopefully one I would find as pleasing as the last. I rejected a ranch in the woods and turned down a fixer-upper on a lake. A roomy condo had too many stairs. Every house I visited had bare white walls lacking all decoration or personality. Not a bookcase to be found. Doesn’t anyone read anymore?
Through it all was the unpleasant feeling that I was making a mistake, that this move had been hastily arranged and was ill-advised. This fear arrived silently, crawling into my head, but soon this dissonant choir was all I could hear, and sleep became an elusive visitor. I fought off these malevolent voices, and luckily, I soon found a sweet, tiny house that silenced these wicked warnings—a one-story ranch perched beside a wide, vibrant stream that created a steady, peaceful thrum as it washed over pebbles and rocks and colorful stones. The music from this sparkling cascade was restful but also increased my desire to write, to describe the sound and the smell of this ancient water course. This unfulfilled desire caused a subtle pain within, like a rumbling stomach that skipped a meal. Fictional scenarios flooded in and out of my head while odd characters invaded my mind and insisted I pay attention and DO something with them, but there was no time. I had boxes to unpack and pictures to hang. Yet, I soon discovered that crafting a perfect paragraph provides far more satisfaction than furnishing a new home.
The funeral has snarled all traffic, and as I stare at the onlookers, I see a young man in ripped jeans on the edge of the crowd. He has bright orange hair and is tall, holding his right hand in a sharp, dignified salute. A tear slides down his smooth cheek, but I may be imagining that. He resembles a dear friend from years ago, an Irish actor named Joe, who lived in Paris and filled my mind with dreamy possibilities. We met at a popular London club called HEAVEN, and it was. Heaven. Two entire floors filled with randy males seeking excitement. I remember walking through a room packed with bearded men in flannel shirts. As I kept walking, I entered a brighter space with softer music, and here, the crowd was differently attired—smooth-cheeked fellows wore crisp collared shirts with Hermes ties. But as I continued, I discovered a shadowy lounge, menacing but irresistible, brimming with a sweaty, shirtless crowd whose tight leather jeans squeaked as they moved languidly from one possibility to another.
Joe came over and asked if I was lost. I shook my head, not understanding. “Your clothes, mate. Neither memorable nor reflective of any of the tribes present here tonight.”
I laughed at his observation. He is dressed to kill—trendy boots that shined beneath his rolled-up, button-front jeans, a vintage silk vest revealing his smooth chest, and a wide, welcoming smile above it all. We settled into an easy rapport, telling tales of our young lives with an enthusiasm that conveyed our interest in the other. The music was loud, the bass notes throbbing, and we had to scream to be heard, so I suggested we go to my hotel, whose bar was famous for an enviable collection of Scotch whiskeys. He smiled and nodded, but I couldn’t tell if he was saying ‘yes’ to me or the oak-aged alcohol. As I write this, I laugh, nearly able to smell the musky malt as it mixes with the sweet cologne that I have chosen for Joe to wear.
Yes, a writer gets to choose what his characters wear and how they smell, and by now, you understand that I have begun writing again. The movers are gone, the boxes have been emptied, and my hundreds of books have been placed on newly built shelves. I feel like a new man, making up stories and telling tall tales, yet only one of the preceding stories is true. Which? The funeral? Selling my house? Or meeting Joe?
Welcome to my blog; I apologize for the lengthy hiatus. To answer my question, the funeral was fiction, meeting Joe was mostly fiction mixed with memory, and of course, those who have been to London know that HEAVEN is completely real…and dreamy!
Lindsay
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