Painted Rock
Winter Season
Chester
Chester; Chet to everyone that knew him, had asked Oscar several times if he wanted to look around. His answer was always no. Chet would laugh at him for a moment and move on to something else.
Oscar’s thoughts turned to his friend for a moment. Chet was a wonderful friend and a great person. But Oscar had to admit that he was in awe of the man. He was everything Oscar wasn’t: strong, both physically and emotionally, handsome, charismatic, and just out right attractive.
It didn’t make him feel the least bit insecure to think of his friend as attractive.
Women flocked around Chet; women of all ages and sizes.
One night they went out for dinner. Their waitress was a beautiful blonde. She flirted with Chet all throughout dinner.
“She’s flirting with me. You try flirting with her.” He encouraged Oscar.
As Oscar watched her, she never made eye contact with him. She only looked at his glass. She didn’t even smile in his direction, even when she gave him his check. This was the case with 98.5% of all the women Oscar encountered. He didn’t exist.
He was more in tune with empty old houses than people. People, as a general rule were mean, cold, and downright nasty. These old houses couldn’t stump your guts out; rip your heart out of your chest with a single word; or leave you asking why? They had no expectations of you. Oscar sometimes felt he was an empty old house. The only thing left was a shell.
Here it was another winter and the little house was still empty. There weren’t any leaves on the maple tree by the front window. The walk way leading from the sidewalk to the front steps was cracked in several different places. Poor little house. It looked so alone.
Even though this little house seemed alone, Oscar loved looking at it.
Alone. He thought about that word for the longest time. ALONE. He hated anything to do with talking about being alone or being lonely. He was just now getting to the point where he could admit to himself that he was lonely.
Maybe that’s why he loved this little house. It looked how he felt: lonely, maybe even abandoned by society. This once loved little house was now a shadow of its former self. During its glory years, Widow Morrison gave birth to six children of her own, and raised three more. The story goes that a child was left on her doorstep. Plus she raised two children of a friend of her husbands that got killed in a mining accident. His wife had died during child birth to a third child. Which was common in those days.
But now the house was all alone. Only natures creatures kept it company. Along with the occasional visit from Chet.
It was almost as if the better part of the houses existence was over as well as his. The high light passed. The house experienced births and deaths. No births personally for him.
There were good times and bad. More solemn times though when nothing in particular was going on, life just flowed.
He tried to parallel the existence of the house to his own. He just knew in his heart that the house had lived a more colorful, more meaningful life than his.
The laughter of all those playing children came to mind. The smells from the endless array of food.
He thought now would be a good time to smile but what would be the point? Why smile, when the coffee table was covered with papers to grade. Indeed, why smile?
The only other thing he enjoyed more than looking at the house was winter. What was it about winter; the bitter cold, the snow, that made him so at peace? Winter by design is a cold and gray season. There are no leaves on the trees. No green anywhere; other than the few mighty pines. No blooming flowers. There is no other way to describe winter than just winter.
Quote: poetry
“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.”
Robert Frost
The Snake and The Rabbit
I was taken aback by his complement.
“When can I see her?” Holmes asked.
“Give us half hour.” He turned to me, “would you like to help?”
“I would be honored.”
“Dr. Watson will come get you.”
We moved her from surgery to a bed where she could wake up on her own. I went to retrieve Holmes and Hopkins. Hopkins stayed not for very long. Holmes and I sat there watching over her. I could bare it no longer. I had to ask. “Holmes, what were you so angry about?”
“She told me the odds.”
“Of this surgery not working?” He nodded his head. “And with the special gift that she has, you thought it would be a good idea to go halfway across town to get your ass kicked.” He stared at me as if I was the one that had beaten him in a street fight. Since I was kicking my friend in the teeth, I thought I might as well continue. “And furthermore, ‘what do you care?’” I raised an eyebrow toward him.
He lowered his head in shame, “not my finest hour.”
“No my friend. No indeed.”
I was almost asleep when I heard her speak, “where am I?”
“Hospital.” Holmes answered.
“Did it burst?”
I replied, “no.”
She moaned, “thank God.”
A gentle shake woke me. Vernet was standing over me. I noticed Holmes was asleep in a chair and Lizzie was asleep.
We walked down the hall. After we were out of hearing range, he spoke. “Dr. Watson, Ms. Parker has a long way to go. I have to tell you not what her body has been through. The healing process for her is going to be long. I am glad you are at hand.” We walked some more. “There is no reason why she should not make a full recovery.”
“I do worry about her.”
He put his hand on my shoulder, “you should.”
“Why would you say that?”
He shook his head, “I have no medical evidence to base this on. I have a bad feeling that I am unable to shake.”
“Maybe it has nothing to do with her.”
“Perhaps not,” he gave me a half smile. We walked back to our patient in silence.
As we got close, I heard Holmes’ voice. “Ara?”
Her voice was a whisper, “Sherlock.”
“Forgive me.”
Vernet and I stood in silence, not wanting to interrupt.”
“I always do.”
“I am such a fool.”
“Why did you do that?”
There was a moment of silence. “You have always been in my world. I have known that you were alive even though we were worlds apart. For a moment, I saw my world without,” he stopped.
“Sherlock,” more silence. Vernet and I just looked at each other in sadness.
“You may ask Watson, a fortnight before I got your package until here recently, I have been…..”
I could hear a smile in her voice, “an emotional wreck.”
“Are you upset with me?”
“Never.”
At that moment, Mycroft came running down the hall. Poor man was red faced and out of breath. “Dr. Watson.” I know he was trying to scream but the poor man was panting. Once he reached us, he stopped; bent over at the waist, panting. While Mycroft stood there gathering himself, Holmes tore back the curtain. The look in his eyes; I will never forget that look as long as I live. It was a mixture of sorrow and anger. Even as his face was blackened from a stranger’s fist, it was his eyes that spoke to me.
“Brother mine,” he patted Mycroft on the back.
One look at his brother, he shuttered. “What happened here?”
“A lack of judgment.”
“Indeed.” He stood upright. “I am myself.” Sherlock removed his hand from Mycroft’s back. “How is she?”
Vernet answered, “she is fine. As soon as she is able to walk on her own, I foresee no reason that she cannot go home. Whenever she is ready,” she smiled. “We have no intentions on rushing her.”
Holmes and I would take turns watching over her. I had returned one morning to find him lying in the bed next to her; facing her, sound asleep. As I sat there with the morning edition folded on my lap, I watched him. I saw not the grown man that chased problems. The man that solved cases with sometimes inhuman abilities; I saw that unsure little boy in the painting. The sketch of four friends playing flashed across my mind. I never pictured Holmes as a child. He was not the kind of person that I ever imagined playing for the sake of playing. However, he did. He did play. Not so much Mycroft at his side but Lizzie. A child; so full of energy and life that it flowed out of her in waves. I saw that in her painting. The timid, shy Holmes got caught in the current. He never tried to fight it. He let it take him and throw him at its will. The facts stated that her will and his were on the same path until he proposed. As I sat there and thought about all the things she had said to me about Holmes, I was beginning to understand why she chose a different path. His was a household name. He had written pamphlets on numerous subjects. Would he have done that if he would have married? I knew not. Though, she was positive, he would not have.
Lizzie started with wiggling her toes; working her legs as she lay in bed; only after did she progress to getting out of bed. In two weeks, we were all back to Bakers Street, safe and sound.
East Bernstadt Jungle
My last weight loss journey; lunch time
I used to walk on my lunch break. It’s no fun walking by yourself. Now that the weather is getting cooler, I might start back. Maybe go to the dog park? I’d be burning gas to get there. Plus, how sad would Cheekie be if I went to the dog park without him?
I could go home on my lunch break. Again, burning gas to get there. Then I’d have to take Cheekie out. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been gone 30 minutes or 3 hours; when I come through the door, he wants to go out. And I understand that. He’s a house dog. Outside there are smells, grass under his paws and sunshine. Sometimes, he can go out in under 10 minutes. Other times, he wants to waller in the outdoors as long as I will let him.
We get 2, 15 minute breaks. I used to walk on my breaks with a co-worker but she got fired. 😢 This is the only place that I’ve worked where we are encouraged to take our breaks. Looking at names and numbers all day long will make your head hurt or spin.
Back to the lunch question, it’s difficult to balance the feeling of ‘this sucks’ to ‘how much gas did you burn to do this’?
Sometimes I run errands on my lunch break. But not often. Other times, I just sit in my car (to get warm) and read.
9-20, went walking on my lunch about 20 minutes. Hotter outside than I’d thought it would be. I have no desire to smell like sweat at the office. 👃
Winter Season
The Morrison House
Oscar was lounging on his couch gazing out the window at the cold landscape in front of him. A sudden pop from the fireplace brought his attention back into the room. Back to warmth and reality. When he gathered there wasn’t any danger from the fire, he returned his gaze back outside.
Laying here on the couch permitted him to do his favorite thing in the world. Across the street from his house was the Morrison House. It had been empty for a good forty years. Widow Morrison passed away when he was a small child. He didn’t know her but my how his aunt grieved over the loss of her dearest friend. There was always a wreath on his aunt’s front door until she passed away some eleven years later.
Every now and then the Morrison family came back for a visit. A day or two here and there. When he was ten, the whole clan came in for a family reunion. What great food. Food he could only remember the taste of.
The five acre field around the house was a tent city. There were a couple R.V.’s but what he remembered best was the sea of multi-colored tents. Children were running around everywhere and most importantly, playing with him. By far it was the best summer of his life.
Now, those days were gone. No one had visited the Morrison House in the last ten years. It stood empty, alone, just sitting over there. He wanted so much to see what the inside looked like but dared not. He knew when he did it would end his fantasy.
As foolish as it seemed, he loved and mourned for empty houses. Every house had a story to tell. Each one had a rich and colorful past.
He knew, from his aunt and uncle, part of the houses story. Widow Morrison’s great grandfather was German. Morrison was the first name of the man that gave him his first American job. Morrison was a nice boss as well as a great man. When he died, Widow Morrison’s great grandfather changed his last name to Morrison in honor of his boss and friend.
After the boss’s death, the new Mr. Morrison moved to Kentucky and started working for Barker Pennington. He worked out the land for the house and built a one room cabin with nothing but a dirt floor; a meek start for the still little house across from his.
Oscar wondered if the original one room frame was still under the vinyl siding?
His best friend had keys to the house. The Morrison kin had been paying him for years now to keep the place looking as lived in as possible.
The pied piper
The Snake and The Rabbit
Late one evening in early October, I came into the parlor to find Holmes exceedingly hostile.
“Did you know?” He whispered.
The look upon his face gave cause for my blood to run cold. It created a full body shiver. I proceeded with the greatest caution. “About what?”
Then he screamed at me as if I was the lady on the steps, “did you know!”
“Know what?”
He stormed from the room. I stood staring out the window wondering what could be the matter. I went over lots of facts in my mind but could come up with nothing. The sun was setting when she returned.
Lizzie came into the parlor, she asked as she took off her hat, “did he tell you?”
“No.”
She looked stunned for a moment, then moved her head from one side to the next. “Sherlock,” she whispered bolting from the room.
I ran after her. We ran from Bakers Street, across streets and into alleys until I had no clue where we were. She found Holmes laying in the street bleeding. “Sherlock,” she asked in a panic. He moaned in pain when she touched his side.
“Watson, call a constable.”
“No,” Holmes moaned. His words were but a whisper, “I went looking for a fight and found one.”
“No,” she scolded. “Fighting requires that you defend yourself. You did not.”
We worked together to lean him up against a building. “What do you care?”
He could have hit her and done her less damage. “I beg your pardon.” She stared at him. His eyes were closed and all he was doing was breathing.
She left. She left us both there on the street. No name street as far as I was concerned. I had no idea where we were. With great effort, I was able to get Holmes to his feet and we were able to find a cab.
Back at Bakers Street, I cleaned his wounds as he came around. “Watson.”
“What am I supposed to know?”
“She has been seeing another doctor.”
I was in shock. “Since when?”
“September.”
“Where?”
“St. George’s, she has been seeing a surgeon there.”
“Did she tell you why?” I received no answer. “I have noticed that she is in pain and favors her right side.”
Mrs. Hudson burst into the parlor. “Mr. Holmes, Doctor!”
I went to her. “Urgent telegraph for Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you.” I returned to Holmes.
“Read it.”
I did so. “It is from Hopkins, Come at once, St. George’s Hospital.”
We got there as quickly as we could. Inspector Hopkins met us in the hall. “Do you know what is happening?”
“No.”
I ran down the hall hoping to find another doctor. I found an operating room, with a patient on the table. A nurse started pushing me out the door.
“Wait.” I heard a voice I thought I knew. “Dr. Watson.”
“Yes.”
“It is I, Vernet.”
“I meant not to interrupt.”
“No please, change, help me. We know the patient.”
“Lizzie?” I questioned.
“Nurse, help him get ready.”
With Vernet to guide me, we performed an appendectomy. I had never been inside the human body like this. I had amputated limbs on the battle field, but never had I had my hands inside a living person. It thrilled me to no end. Once he removed it, he held it up to me. “Look at the size of that thing. It could go at any moment.” When he laid it in a pan, it split with bile oozing from it. “Yes at any moment.”
After we were clean, we went to find Holmes and the good inspector. Holmes was beside himself. He looked at me with despair in his eyes.
“How is she?” Hopkins finally asked.
Vernet smiled, “she is fine.” He patted me on the back. “We removed appendix and she is fine. Will take weeks to heal but she is strong. Will do fine.” He shook my hand, “thank you Dr. Watson. You may help me anytime.”
My weight loss journey: you’ve got to be joking!
Exercise! For me, this is a dirty word. Nasty.
My doctor told me, “you need to move more.” I whined in my head, ‘but I don’t want too.’ 😢
This job is very sedentary. When I get home, the last thing I want to do is MOVE MORE. Take Cheeky out, then crash. Crashing takes on different forms:
Home from work:
Crashing takes many forms,
chores I do not wish to preform.
There are many to be done.
None of them are fun.
Inside and out;
they all make me pout.
Exercise 30 minutes, 3 times a week.
You’ve got to be joking! Eek!
Can we compromise?
How about twice a week when I mow the yard? Surprise.
I just want to sit on the couch,
watch some t.v., read, write. Cuddle with my dog. No chores please. Ouch!
But the chores have to get done.
Especially when there’s sun.
So move I will.
Not a thrill.
Poetry & More 