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. 👃
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.
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.”
When I was a little girl my mother would tell me, “if you look at yourself in the mirror too long, you’ll turn into a monkey.” That thought flickered across my mind as I stood looking at myself in the full length floor mirror. It is one of those that you would see in a movie. Old timey looking. It has a base and sits in the floor. Adjustable, it can be moved back and forth slightly. I told myself, ‘some day when I get my own house, I’m owning one of them’. And I do.
I fluffed my hair and smoothed out my clothes. Ready for work. Ready to face another day. Chico barked as if to say, ‘you look fine’.
I bent over; patted his head before taking one last look to make sure there wasn’t tissue hanging out of my waist band or tooth paste on my chin.
When I turned to walk away, Chico set it up. You would have thought there was a cat in the room.
Upon turning back to face the mirror. There she was. Um, I was? A mirror copy of me. I moved to the left. She moved. I moved to the right. She moved. I opened my mouth to speak. She did the same. A mirror copy.
When I turned to the side, I noticed her back side was dark. So, she’s not a complete copy? Or was that a shadow?
Chico looked back and forth between the two of us. He was more confused than I was.
She pointed her finger at me. An independent action. I did the same. She reached the pointed finger at me. As our fingers got closer, yellow and orange sparks of light flew from our finger tips. This didn’t hurt it was more of a tingle. A tickling sensation. I drew my finger back sharply. But she didn’t. So I tried again. The closer we got, the more sparks flew. It was like putting to lit sparklers together and watching them burn down.
The tingling sensation remained constant.
When our fingers finally touched, we both disappeared in a flash of light.
I shot straight up in the bed gasping for air. Chico sat beside me at full attention. My finger was still tingling but it wasn’t glowing. I examined it with great care.
What had I ate for dinner? Nothing to cause such a dream.
At work, I’ve been listening to A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME by Stephen Hawkins. On the way home, MAN IN THE MIRROR, by Michael Jackson was playing on the radio. I hummed it most of the afternoon. Think this had anything to do with my anti-self dream? 😉
“But I fail to see how that could stop you. Love is the most powerful emotion I know.”
“Watson.”
“Do not Watson me.”
She stood again, “soon you will know why. You will have the answer to your problem.” She turned to walk away, stopped, and then turned toward me again. “Watson, you will find love. She will be everything that you have been searching for.” She left me sitting on the bench with more questions than answers.
When I returned, she and Mrs. Hudson came into the room packing trays.
“What have the two of you been into?” Mycroft asked.
“Cooking and singing.” Lizzie smiled.
They had made homemade soup and bread.
“That smells amazing.” My stomach growled though my spirits had not lifted.
“Wait until you taste it.” Holmes laughed.
When we sat down, Lizzie smiled. But I noticed that she favored her right side. “Watson, it was funny. You saw no doubt the picture of Holmes when he was a little boy?”
I pointed at Holmes, “By jove, I knew that was you.” I forced a smile.
“Imagine that little boy; sneaking up behind my grandmother, who mind you was a large lady.” Lizzie smiled.
Mycroft pointed out with laughter, “my size.”
“He would reach into that big bowl of dough with his little hand and grab a fist full.”
“Can you wait until the bread it baked?” Mycroft roared with laughter. “And she would chase you around the kitchen.”
Holmes smiled, “but at the end of the baking she always saved me a ball of dough.”
“Yes she did.” Lizzie laughed.
“What was that fruit and nut bread that she used to make?” Mycroft asked.
“If it had a name, I have no idea.”
He patted his belly, “it was so good.”
“Sounds like your grandmother was a wonderful cook,” I stated.
Lizzie smile, “she was a wonderful woman.”
After dessert, which ended up being that amazing fruit and nut bread that Mycroft was so fond of, he and Lizzie went for a walk.
Holmes and I remained behind, “what is on your mind Watson?”
“Nothing,” I shook my head.
“I have known you for a long time. I will not accept that answer.”
I closed my eyes trying to bring order to my mind. There was a knock at the door. A welcome distraction. Mrs. Hudson had a letter. It was from Mrs. Mary Tarter and read as follows:
Dear Lady and Gentleman,
I am writing you to let you know that what the lady suggested was correct. We did what she asked. To our amazement, our son was hiding out in the basement. Our daughter was sneaking him food while my husband and I were out.
He understands why I feel the way I do about him wanting to fight.
I can never thank you enough.
Mrs. Mary Tarter
“And she has signed it.” Holmes took the letter. “She wrote it not.”
Holmes looked at me, “very good.”
“Do you think she can write at all?”
“Perhaps not.” He laid the letter on the table.
“Should we tell Lizzie?” Saying her name made me mad.
“I am sure she knows.”
During the coming weeks she also hired Mr. McFarlane to sell Wiltshire. Because she was his legal wife, she was charged by law to settle Mr. Merryweather’s accounts. She made sure that all of his assets were transferred to his children. Her father’s timber mill she gave to the foreman that had been running it the last twenty years. One piece of property she kept the piece where her grandmother lived and died. I was to learn that it was close to the property where Holmes’ grandparents lived. The other piece of property she gave to Mr. John Paul Riker.
Dreams are amazing. I love what happens to us when we dream. It’s like a mess of images someone tried to put in order for your viewing confusion.
Last night, I was at a fast food restaurant. A burger was in my hand. A man brings every side in the restaurant to me. Lines them up on the counter in front of me. Each time he says, “is this what you ordered?” And I always replied with, “no. I ordered fries.” The last item he presented me with was fried pickles. While I enjoy fried pickles, I ordered fries.
A lady covered in food grime approached me carrying a bag of shoe string fries. I felt a twinge of disappointment, not my favorite but I did order fries.
She says, “you ordered fries?”
“Yes.” Finally someone recognized that I ordered fries.
“It will be 3 am before they are ready and they’re 35 cents each.”
My heart sank, “What?” 😯
Needless to say, I didn’t get any fries. Not even in my dreams.
Poetry & More 