Wheels of Time

Every time I drive by his house, I am reminded of time and circumstance, the sunshine on my shoulders, my camera clutched tightly in my fingers, and the newborn kittens peeking from the inky blackness of a dimly lit and cluttered garage. It was an invitation from an eighty-year-old stranger who saw me picking my way through wild-flowers and overgrown grasses to a find a different vantage point for photos of the California poppies, who then invited me beyond his white picket fence to access such views from his world. And it was just so. It felt like it was quite a forbidden and uncertain thing to go so boldly into a place unknown; to slide my fingers over the uneven latch, feel it catch, release, and then creak open, only to be greeted with the wariness of a large dog. I noticed all of those things immediately, my own awareness of how unorthodox and odd it was heightened and reflected from the glossy brown of a canine's eyes. Even so, as scattered bits of introduction and conversation began to build into more focused discussion, I felt the magnitude of the moment wash through me as the stillness and loneliness of the home seemed to enliven from another presence - mine. But not mine, really, just someone else's.

The front yard itself, was no more than unkempt grasses interrupted by the occasional dandelion or two; yet it was his veranda and backyard that stole my attention. A few rows of stately grapevines - their proud and aged dignity standing in sparse symmetry - were protected by the rusted watch of a rickety whimsical windmill facing west. I knew that stepping over the threshold into a domain nearly forgotten and seldom frequented by anyone else, was an event unto itself. And as I listened to his thoughts spill one upon another - eager, childlike, wishful and wanting - my heart tugged at his need and met it with the recognition and valuation I had long-before craved myself. It was as if his thirst for company was unquenchable while the neat rows of indiscriminate rocks lining the balcony spoke otherwise.

They were varied and unique - just as unique as the experiences he spoke of - but nevertheless abandoned and alone now, no more than offhand references to decades before when youth and vitality met with ego and glory and produced accomplishment. One lone animal skull - a fox, if I remember correctly - stood out from the endless rows of geological specimens; and so like the animal, somehow maintained its smug demeanor in skeletal form as a stark contrast to the forsaken, disinherited selves of the miscellaneous rocks placed before and ahead. It was as if that display summed up the essence of this man's existence: The world had been his playground and he had been sole designer, educator, contributor. He must have been very much a creature of solitude; he was a scientist, a thinker, and without a doubt one who had lost himself in endless days and nights of research. Now, he too, had become categorized, labeled, and subsequently forgotten upon the shelf that was his backdoor chair. And so alone.

Oh, he had so much to show me; and oh, he had such fascinating stories. This stooped creature of a man had been something - someone, with a title to match and a verbal resume that stood as valiant witness to his collections of things and as a sweeping cosigner to a recollection of more than just memories.

Sighs, it must be March...

Living Joy - This Carman Girl