Mr. Argyle

Autumn has arrived in the park.  A cooling breeze paints the air with the muted hues of blue and indigo as it deftly brushes over a dying summer, a pleasantly mild wind with only a hint of the cold that will arrive with winter.  The current of air courses the length of the open lawn and curves into the grove of oaks guarding its perimeter.  Leaves tussle against the breeze, their tenacious grip on the trees weakening as they quickly age from green into the dark golds and browns of fall.  This one and that one loosen their hold and, mounting upon an invisible wave of air, dance a twisted little jig above the lawn until the wind loses its breath and the leaves float haphazardly to the earth.   As if in concert, two oak leaves circle the park bench a few yards ahead of me and settle at the feet of its occupant, Mr. Argyle.

As has been my habit for the past three years, since moving into an apartment two blocks east and three blocks north of Hayward Park, my regular running route takes me through the gated entrance of this urban oasis, along its varied footpaths and bridges and after circumscribing its boundaries returns me again to this very spot, a row of benches facing the lawn green, near to the wide wrought iron arches that bid welcome to the neighborhood.   And near to Mr. Argyle.

Across the street, a series of small shops look toward the park, attached one to the other along the length of the block, a small train of commerce having reached its destination, with a café as its engine and a quaint little bookshop anchored as caboose.  Directly in front of me, two benches distant, Mr. Argyle sits amid a scurry of fat gray squirrels and even fatter pigeons, a small paper sack cupped in his hands.  From time to time he reaches into the bag and tosses peanuts about the ground, causing a flurry of activity among his feathered and furred companions.

 Mr. Argyle comes to the park most every day.  This I know because I also come to the park most every day.   For upwards of five hundred times in the past three years, he sits and feeds the animals while I run and feed my obsession.  Yet, despite the longevity of our encounters, we are acquaintances of the urban kind, which is to say that we are not acquaintances at all – merely two strangers whose lives regularly intersect near the periphery of a green.   On occasion our gazes meet and a proper nod is exchanged.  At other times simple phrases and greetings, as small as talk becomes, is our mutual signal that we are aware of the social convention which seeks an acknowledgement of the other.       

I stretch my calves against the brick edge of the walkway, bending to the left then to the right, holding each position until the muscles say “uncle” and give up their tension.  As I stretch, I notice that Mr. Argyle has dressed for the approaching season, a crisply starched long sleeved oxford shirt underlying his signature sweater vest.   “Dapper” is an appropriate descriptor for Mr. Argyle’s dress.   “Urbane” is too contemporary for the polished but well-worn loafers he commonly wears and “proper” is too stuffy for a man whose outfit includes a wool peacoat in January.  “Dapper” it is.

The gentleman’s name who regularly supplements the diet of Hayward Park’s birds and rodents is unknown to me.   I assign him the moniker “Mr. Argyle” as a consequence of his ubiquitous habit of donning –on each and every outing to the park, save those times during the heat of summer – a sweater vest knitted with the overlapping and three-dimensional diamond patterns of varying colors and shades whose name is that of its wearer.   I’ve lost count of Mr. Argyle’s inventory of sweater vests, yet find myself anticipating each new arrival as eagerly as I might expect my next edition of Runners World magazine. 

Today the park belongs only to the two of us as it often does.  Weekday mid-mornings aren’t popular, what with school and work schedules, and the vast expanse seems at times to have been gifted exclusively for two men to enjoy at their leisure.  If it were summer, Mr. Argyle and I would be the lone patrons of the ice cream vendor making his morning rounds through the green.   I choose vanilla.  Mr. Argyle prefers pistachio in a cup, never a cone, and he saves the last few spoonfuls until it’s melted enough to slurp. 

Springtime brings argyle-patterned sweater vests of yellows and greens and a large kerchief folded and tucked in his right front pants pocket to catch the sneezes and drips courtesy of allergens.  Yet, despite the promise of a stuffy nose and enflamed sinuses, still he arrives like clockwork, feeding the animals or reading The New Yorker, sneezing and dripping through the pages.

Winters are my favorite time to run and Mr. Argyle’s favorite time to feed his cherished park creatures.  Arriving daily with bags of nuts and pieces of fruit that he most certainly prepares himself, he sets a winters banquet for the likes of doves and pigeons, gray and fox squirrels, and the occasional colony of migratory fowl that wanders through.

The last of the peanuts are scattered on the grass and Mr. Argyle rises from his bench, crumpling the bag between fisted hands and eyeing the waste basket near the entrance.  Arcing his arms upward, he propels the paper ball towards the container and it rounds the opening, disappearing inside.  “Two points,” he says, grinning in my direction.  I smile and nod.  Walking under the archway, he leaves the park and heads to the café across the street.

I continue to stretch out my quads and in a few minutes he appears in the picture window of the eatery, walking to the table just to the right of the framed glass, a smallish table meant for two but usually occupied by one, a table with a slight tilt that makes the coffee in your cup lean against one side.  I’ve sat there myself.

Stretching finished, I look about the park for a minute before gathering my water bottle and heading for the exit.  I’ll need to consider long sleeved tech shirts from now until next spring.  A cool wisp of wind confirms my thought as I cross the street and step on the sidewalk in front of the café.  Mr. Argyle spots me through the window as I meander by and he raises his cup of coffee.  I offer a wave in return.

As I walk home, I wonder which sweater vest he’ll wear tomorrow.  I wonder where the heck he buys those sweater vests and if the peanuts he feeds the squirrels come from the vendor on the corner near the bookshop.  I wonder what he does when he leaves the little café and if he knows that a festival is scheduled in the park for next weekend.  I should mention it to him.  He  especially enjoys the park during festivals.  I turn the block and begin a mental plan for tomorrow’s run.  I’ll take the long course over the far bridge and round back across the inclined pathway.  A good workout.

 He’ll probably wear something with an autumn-colored argyle print, if I had to bet.  Not that it really matters in the scheme of things.  We’re far from friends.  I don’t even know his name.

Balancing Acts

Life gets out of balance.  Not enough sleep.  Traffic jams.  Coffee spilled on the shirt right before the client meeting.  The two-year-old decides to throw a tantrum in the checkout line.  The sixteen-year-old decides you were born in the eighteenth century. The spouse decides to blow the budget on a new gadget.  Even positive events can cause stress and varying degrees of anxiety.  That’s why everyone needs a realignment day from time-to-time.

Today is mine (and I think Luci’s as well).  I began the day with one item on my agenda: mow the lawn.  That’s it.  And since, for me, mowing the lawn is akin to meditative yoga, it only serves to help put things back in their proper place.

After spending the morning with Luci on a pleasant trek to Barnes and Nobles to pick up a couple of books (a novel by David Foster Wallace -  Oblivion – and another by Rebecca  Goldstein), we stopped by Basic Foods to load up on my latest obsession:  organic, non-homogenized milk from grass-fed cows.  I’ll give you the next few seconds to laugh.  Finished?  Thank you.  By the way, ten years after you’re dead, I’ll still be drinking the stuff.

Back home.

Luci leaves for an errand or two while I practice Zen And The Art Of Mowing Grass (I wasn’t kidding it’s like meditation), water the annuals, shrubs and Luci’s vegetable plants, splash Miracle-Gro on the lucky ones and clean everything up.

Luci returns, we both head indoors and begin an afternoon of puttering.  She lights up the Ipod dock and sounds across the last forty years begin to fill the house.  The Eagles, Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Chicago, The Avett Brothers, Dawes, BNL, a good cross-section of tunes work their magic to help reset the psyche, restore the balance that daily life knocks out of kilter.

Luci settles into making a new batch of sugar scrub for her lovelies - scents of lavender and mint waft through the house – and I pour myself a generous glass of 2009 J. Lohr, putter on the computer and inhale the mood.

The afternoon floats by like a cool, slow ride in an inner tube on the Guadalupe.  On a weekday.  Without the weekend crowd and the coolers tethered to sun-burned ankles. 

I drink in the calm and it tastes like a cold Seven-Up on an August day.  Good.  Refreshing. 

We’re hungry now and a huge salad of spinach, arugula, roasted turkey, blueberries, feta cheese and hazelnut vinaigrette, along with a second glass of J. Lohr does wonders at tugging the bits and pieces of life back into their rightful slots.

The sun slides towards the horizon, Enya sings the lyrical beauty of Storms In Africa and Orinoco Flow as the day winds down and equilibrium completes its cycle.

As if to say that all if well again, the calm restored, the scales of life re-balanced and ready for whatever tomorrow might bring, Euge Groove begins a jazz rift, its pleasant energy a foretaste of the morrow’s tasks.

Ahh.  I exhale and enjoy.

Persons Of Interest

In reading and listening to the range of arguments surrounding many of the current political and social issues, I am struck by the lack of a singular concept which seems to be either naively missing or purposely tossed aside in these discussions.  What was once central to any debate involving our national consciousness is vaporizing.  What seems to be missing is the classical idea regarding what it means to be a person and specifically how this directly applies to life in American society at large, our relationship to each other and the function of government.

A person is a special kind of being.  Unlike other living things, persons are unique in that they possess certain rights which are not attributed to, nor presumptive of, non-persons.   Throughout history and especially since the 16^th century, persons are considered to possess intrinsic “natural” rights – rights granted by virtue of simply being persons.  The Declaration of Independence succinctly describes these as “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”.   John Locke, a British philosopher whose political theory influenced the Founding Fathers, lists the three basic natural rights of all persons as life, liberty and property.

The right to life is prima facie a first right, a fundamental expression of all other rights.  To violate ones right to life – to exist - is to make meaningless all other rights.  Thus, the right to life is pre-eminent above all other rights of persons since without it no other rights are possible. 

The right of liberty – what we mean when we say freedom – is the right to order one’s life and govern one’s affairs within the context of personal choice.  Liberty is not the freedom to do “whatever you want, whenever you want”.  The right of liberty within a social structure carries with it an implied consent that each member will exercise their freedom in a manner that does not infringe the rights of life, liberty and property of other persons. Our right of liberty embraces those ideas enumerated in the Bill of Rights – speech, a free press and religion – as well as other rights of liberty implied but not specified.

Property rights are those which involve not only land and buildings, but all material objects which rightly belong solely to the individual, including most importantly their own body.  From our property rights we derive our right to privacy and due process, among others.

Because each person possesses these intrinsic natural rights, a moral obligation concerning rights and duties exists between persons.  This moral obligation requires that each individual recognizes the rights of the other as being identical to their own.  If my status as a person grants me a right to life, liberty and property, then I must acknowledge that every other person also has the right to life, liberty and property.   Because the value of each person’s rights are equivalent, this moral obligation demands that I refrain from treating other persons as objects for my own benefit and a duty to respond to persons as ends-in-themselves.  As Immanuel Kant, whose seminal work on the ethics of duty, summarizes:

“Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, never merely as a means to an end, but always at the same time as an end.”

In other words, since the rights of any person when placed on the scale of value weighs exactly the same as every other person, we are constrained in our dealings with one another to be mindful of each persons intrinsic rights with the same diligence that we expect our own rights to be respected.   When we fail to do that, we jeopardize the free exercise everyone's rights, including our own.

Lastly, these rights are unalienable, which is to say that a person’s rights may not be arbitrarily taken from them without their consent or due process.  The Declaration of Independence is unambiguous in its assertion that “we hold these truths to be self-evident… that we are endowed… with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

Considered as a whole, the rights of persons are unshakably powerful and compelling and form the bedrock of how we view ourselves, our relationship to each other and the role of government within the larger society.

Of utmost importance, we must recognize that the rights inherent by virtue of being persons are “natural” rights.  No person has to earn these rights.  They exist simply because persons living in a common community exist.  None of these rights are granted by government, nor are they acquired by association with a particular social or religious group.  While we may feel privileged to be Americans, our intrinsic rights are not privileges bestowed upon us by government because of our status as citizens, nor should we desire such an arrangement even if it were possible.  No government can grant individual rights. A government should derive its powers – we might say government should derive its rights - from the consent of the governed, not the other way around.   No form of government has a mechanism to confer rights upon any person.  The Declaration of Independence declares that governments are instituted to secure these rights, not bestow them. A government whose authority supersedes those of its members may grant privileges (but never rights)  to some or all of those under its sway, or may hinder or prohibit the exercise of intrinsic rights (as all governments will tend to do), but it is not the case that persons derive their rights from an established government, even if propaganda or cultural convention suggests otherwise.  And we should not desire such an arrangement even if it were possible, since it would in essence grant arbitrary privileges, not rights, and by doing so, undermine and corrupt the very essence of what it means to live in a society of free persons. 

This is what disturbs me when I read or listen to much of current rhetoric -  that we are forgetting or forgoing the principles – the groundwork - that define the unique kind of beings we are.  Regardless of our position on any political, religious or social issue, to the extent that we fail to recognize or consider first the fundamental rights of persons as they apply to ourselves and to all other persons or minimize their worth, or assign authority or control of the natural rights of persons to a government, entity or other than the individual who owns them, we corrode the core values that make being a person the unique and special station that it is.

Echoes From Trinity County - Memories of a country life

When I was a boy we lived for a few years in the Piney Woods of East Texas in a shack of a house with no indoor plumbing, no running water, a wood stove in the front room and chickens roaming the back yard.  A milk cow resided in the barn, pigs in the pen and corn in the field.  We moved there from our suburban home in Houson that lacked none of the modern conveniences one would expect in Texas' largest city.  Years later I came to understand that those three years were my mother's nightmare.  For me, they were some of the best years of my life.

During those years I was able to crack open a door just a bit to the world that my father grew up in. It was a fascinating place, where life was lived close to the earth, a sometimes hard and forbidding world where every success was earned and every failure measured against survival.  For me it was a time of discovery and exploration and kinship with the natural world that I've not known since.  There was something honest and true about those years that were unique to that place and time.  It was a time indelibly etched into my consciousness.  A time I'll never forget.

I'm transcribing my father's memories, written by hand many years ago, and as I typed each page I was transported into that mystical world of my childhood once again, where, for a few years I came to know the kind of world that informed my dad.

Here are a few excerpts from his childhood memories, exactly as he wrote them:

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Me and my two cousins, Bobby and Pal, always ran around together.  When we were little, Ma and Aunt Janey said we’d leave in the morning and sometimes we would not come home ‘til late afternoon.  Sometimes we would see some of Finis Tullos’ sow hogs with pigs and Bobby would put Uncle Wade’s mark on Finis’ pigs.  After I got bigger, I often wondered what Finis thought about Wade’s pigs following his sow.

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I remember one Christmas Eve we would hang up our stockings over the fireplace and the next morning they would be full of fruit and nuts.  We never got any toys ‘til daddy started working at the shipyard.  Our toy was a Garrett snuff bottle.  Sometimes when a wagon wheel went bad we would take a rim off of it.  The wheel was about ten inches around.  We would take a Prince Albert tobacco can and beat it flat, turn it up on two sides and nail it to a long piece of wood so we could roll it.

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Me and my cousin Paul, we started smoking when we got big enough to roll our own.  We used to steal eggs and take them over to Albert Terry’s store and trade them for Prince Albert papers.  Me and Pal used to go down to Uncle Sterling’s.  He had a hand roller.  You could roll ‘em and they would look like store bought.  I went down to Uncle Sterling’s and I liked it so well I would get off the school bus every day and stay down there. 

Daddy told Orville not to let me get off the school bus but I would get off anyway.  I stayed about two weeks.  One day, daddy rode his horse down to Clarence Odom’s store – it was about a five-mile ride.  He made Orville ride the horse back home and he got on the school bus with me.  When we got to Uncle Sterling’s, he asked me if I was going to get off.

I said, “No, I believe I will go home today.”

Polie heard daddy talking to me.  He went home and told Aunt Janey that Uncle Athena said he was going to give Billy some medicine when they got home.  I did not get off the school bus no more.

One - Two - Buckle My Shoe

My five-year old grandchildren, Evan and Brianna, began kindergarten recently.   They’ve entered the brave new world of primary school and it’s fascinating to watch the rapid infusion of knowledge as they process information and conceptualize its meaning.  Of particular interest to me is arithmetic.

While we might consider mathematics to be grouped in the sciences, it isn’t.  Math is not based on science, nor is it a science in itself, per se.  Math is more closely aligned with principles of philosophy, specifically logic.  There is a unique quality to numbers and their manipulation that set them apart from other forms of mental reasoning.

Consider the concept of numbers themselves.  Numbers are unchangeable.  The number 3 (and all numbers) are never modified or changed into anything else.  Nor is the number 3 interested in the scientific method or the concept of true and false which that approach implies.  One can never  “prove” or “disprove” the number 3. The idea itself seems silly because there is no need for verification of its truth value.  It is an “a priori” truth, a valid expression that is known without reference to any external experience.  And numbers have the unusual property of being independent of everything else.  The number 3 will remain the same for all eternity, regardless what changes occur in the universe at large.  Even if all of humanity ceases to exist, the number 3 will remain.  How can this be?  Aren’t numbers a human convention, simply a way that we’ve developed to explain certain aspects of the world around us?  To suggest that numbers transcend human thought is to give them a kind of independent reality of their own.

In one respect, that is exactly what numbers are.  Consider how we conceptualize arithmetic, specifically counting.  It “appears” that young children learn to count by associating a series of objects with corresponding words.  If there are three balls on the table, the first ball is labeled “one” the second ball is labeled “two” and the third ball is labeled “three”.  But it’s more complex than that, because removing balls “one” and “three” doesn’t mean that ball “two” represents two balls.  Ball “two” has now become ball “one” if there are no more balls on the table because it’s not about labeling objects at all.  Although outwardly it appears to be a verbal association, what is actually happening internally is quite different.  The child is really applying two concepts that already exist prior to any experience of the world around them:  the concepts of space and time.  

When any of us has an empirical encounter, what we would describe as an “everyday experience”, (let’s suppose our attention is directed to three balls on a table) that encounter presupposes two underlying concepts even as the experience itself unfolds. 

Firstly, we experience all objects as they relate to space.  Everything that is outside of ourselves is known as it appears to us in a three-dimensional reality.  Even if only one object is before us, it is qualified in our mind asexisting in space.  But what about “space” itself?  How do we come to know that property?  Or can it properly be called a “property” of our experiences at all?  Let’s remove all objects from space.  There is now nothing before us except emptiness.  There is nothing to experience.  Has space disappeared?  Has it ceased to exist?  Surely not, because as soon as any object again appears before us, we experience it immediately and empirically as it is known to us in space.  So, while space itself does not constitute an experience, it is a necessary prerequisite in order to HAVE an experience.  We never experience objects outside of space.  If that is so, if the concept of space is a prerequisite in order to have an experience, it must be known prior to experience in some essential way.  Concepts that are known prior to experience are given the label “a priori” (before experience) to differentiate them from concepts known after experience, or “posteriori”.  These two terms are important because they determine how reality works and what we can truthfully assert that we can know.

Secondly, our experiences are given to us as they relate to time.  Everything outside of ourselves is known as it is arranged “before”, “now” or “after”.  Time itself is conceived as past, present or future.  Objects that are not static experiences are perceived with properties of motion, which is a linear representation of the concept of time.  Even the primary act of arranging objects of our experience requires us to place them in some kind of order, either by counting or by assembling them in a procession of “before” and “after”.  Since we cannot perceive all objects of our experiences simultaneously, we utilize the concepts of space and time that we know “a priori” to give meaning to an experience.

We see three balls on a table.  Our ability to define the experience as “balls on a table” requires that we have an inherent concept of space.  Our ability to define the experience as “three balls on a table” requires that we have an inherent concept of time, since what are “three balls” except one ball, then another ball, then another ball – in other words, a linear progression of three objects in a row.

Now, back to kindergarten.

My grandkids can count three balls on a table.  (Even Abby, at younger than two years, can perform this feat).  But counting doesn’t rely on objects to have validity.  Remove the balls and my grandkids can still count (and they love to show how “high” they can count) with no objects at all and the meaning hasn’t changed because the underlying principles do not require an external world of objects.  They are realized internally, without reference to experience.   Arithmetic is a tangible expression of the properties of space and time and as such, it gives substance to these two concepts which are difficult to know on their own. 

All of this is nice and extremely boring, you say, but so what? What does it matter?  Well, it matters because of the postmodern world in which we live.  Science and the scientific method have been elevated in our culture to the level of a demigod, with the assumption that only what we can show through experiment and conclusion is regarded as truth.  Mathematical truths reveal an opposing reality, one that presupposes a component to human reasoning that is not dependent on the empirical method or scientific inquiry at all. 

If we understand the concepts of space and time as “a priori” truths and express their meaning through the arithmetic of counting - independent of material objects - the question arises as to the origin of these concepts.  If we have knowledge of these concepts as independent of empirical encounters, if we intuitively “know” these concepts prior to our experience, if our experiences are dependent on these concepts in order for our senses to give meaning to our impressions, then we must search for their origins outside of our daily experiences.  Clearly, we cannot utilize the scientific method, since that method, by definition, is limited to only what we can conclude from our experiences. 

If we know a truth prior to our experiences, its origin must be prior to our experiences.   And that is the crack that reveals the weakness of materialism, and the reason why our search for meaning will always extend beyond the physical.  We may not be aware of the underlying reasons why we aren’t content with the limits of science to explain reality, but the nagging sense that there are truths beyond what science can tell us weighs on our mind.   Perhaps the concepts of space and time and their creative expression through one of our most elementary ideas – counting – ruminate just below the surface of our collective experiences, tugging at our consciousness and whispering faintly that our existence begins not as a tabula rasa but with a set of tools ready for our purpose. 

Any kindergartener can help point us in the right direction.  Just listen to them count.

First Snowfall

He walked with purpose, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk, counting each step as he neared the corner.  There were forty-seven paces from the bus stop to the landing of the apartment building.   Each evening he walked and counted, his eyes fastened on the pavement, moving neither too quickly nor too slowly.   A bitter wind cut through the threadbare wool of his jacket and he thought of the warm tea that he would share with Leila upon his arrival.  Thirty-six.  Thirty-seven.  Snowflakes drifted onto the sidewalk and he planted his feet more firmly with each step.  It would not do to slide on a patch of ice.  It would not do at all.  Forty-one.  Forty-two.  Honey.  He would sweeten their tea with honey this evening.  He and Leila would celebrate this first snow of the season with warm honeyed tea. 

Even with his head down he could see the red-gray brick of the building in his periphery but he already knew he was near the landing.  Forty-five. Forty-six.  Forty-seven.  Extending a plastic card that he had gripped firmly in his right hand since exiting the bus, he swiped it across the surface of a metal device attached to the doorframe of the apartment house.  An automated voice announced “Accepted”, releasing the locking mechanism and allowing him to enter. 

His rooms were on the fourth floor.   The elevator had long since succumbed to disrepair, so he made his way up the stairs, one flight after another.  There was no need to count these steps although he knew how many there were.  And no need as well to fix his eyes downward.  There was relative safety in the building; even more once he crossed the threshold to his flat.

The fourth landing approached and he imagined the fragrant, meaty scent of lamb roasting on a bed of potatoes and carrots emanating from the apartment.  He knew  there was no roast tonight but the thought brought a smile to his weathered face.  It was his habit to think of something especially nice as he neared the apartment door.   It was important that Leila see him smile.   She worried too much already and it would serve no good purpose to burden her with a frown.  The thought of roasted lamb always made him smile.

Stopping at the third door from the stairwell, he swiped the same plastic card across a locking device identical to the one at the front entrance.    A clicking sound signaled its release and he entered the apartment.

There was no coat closet, the entrance giving way immediately to a small common room that served as the living and kitchen space.  Instead he had fastened a nice wooden rack on the wall to the right of the door where hung an umbrella, a pair of knitted mittens and a polyester rain jacket.   Removing his winter coat, he collared it on one of the rack hooks and stood facing the wall.  For a moment he stood silently, listening.  Looking to his left, then his right, he faced the wall again and lifted his gaze above the coat rack.  He could almost see the crucifix hanging there.  Closing his eyes he made the sign of the cross, finishing by pressing his fingers to his lips.  He gazed upward again at the faint outline barely visible against the fading paint of the wall.  The crucifix had been removed long ago but that mattered little.  It would serve no good purpose to ruminate about the past.

A porcelain kettle rested on the kitchen hot plate and he was pleased to see whiffs of steam escaping from its spout.  He had rigged a timer to the electrical extension that  turned on the hot plate at precisely the time the bus dropped him at his stop.  The little analog device ticked away for twenty minutes before disconnecting the circuit.   Two cups resting on saucers were already placed on the table in the center of the room, each one holding a day-old teabag.  He lifted the kettle and poured boiling water into both cups.  Returning the kettle to the hot plate, he retrieved the small bottle of honey from the cabinet above the sink and deposited a small stream of golden sweetness into each of the teacups.  As he returned the honey to the cupboard, a shadow crossed his field of vision.

Leila appeared from the bedroom.

He smiled broadly as she entered the room and with exaggerated fanfare gestured her to the table.

“Your tea awaits, my lady.”  Bowing, he circled his arm in a broad arc and cocked his head to the side as if sharing a secret.  “A special treat.  We have honeyed tea today.  In honor of the season’s first snow.”

 He pulled the chair out for Leila and made his way round the other side of the table.  “I hope you like it,” he said, settling into his chair. “It’s Earl Grey.  Only the best, of course.”  He knew it was not Earl Grey but a generic and quite bland pekoe blend, the only tea available.   But lighthearted banter made the evenings so much more attractive.

Leila looked radiant, her skin the color of ripened peaches, with a glow about her as if she had spent the day  frolicking in a meadow kissed by the summer sun. Auburn  waves of hair framed her heart-shaped face and cascaded down her shoulders.  She was as beautiful as the day he had first met her sitting in the park, near the bank of the river. 

He sipped his tea as he admired her, thinking of their time together, of the moments they had laughed and loved and cried together.  “I love you, my darling,” he whispered. 

Leila smiled but it was her eyes that he saw and it saddened him.  She worries too much, he thought, but knew that there was reason for her anxiety.   He had told her that it would be okay, that everything would work out.  He disbelieved it, as did she.  But as time passed he became hopeful, then encouraged, and even, at moments, sanguine -  if such a disposition were possible.

Leila was more pragmatic.  Her eyes told him so.

Her tea was getting cold as was the room and he rose to light the space heater situated on the far wall. 

When he returned, Leila had retreated to the bedroom.

Sighing, he fetched the cups from the table and placed them in the sink.  He was hungry but the thought of food sounded foul.  He knew he should eat.  He had lost too much weight already.  Perhaps later. 

He dragged a chair to the single window and pulled back the drapes.  The snow was falling heavily now, billowing white sheets playing against the deep red of a dying sunset.  He sat quietly and watched the flakes as they mounded on the windowsill.  Tomorrow morning everything would be blanketed in thick, soft layers of white and for a few hours the world would be pure, unblemished, the sharp edges and tarnished surfaces transformed into a pristine beauty.

He whispered to himself a verse from the Bible, one that he remembered each year as the first snow descended.   He didn’t know its context and bibles had been removed long ago, but it offered him a sense of serenity as he sat at the window and watched everything slowly, silently become pure.  Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.  Though they are red as crimson, they shall be as wool.

For a time in the morning the snow will offer an illusion; the appearance of a sinless day.

After a long while, he rose from the chair and prepared the apartment for tomorrow.  Turning out the lights, he entered the bedroom and undressed in the dark.  Leila was already asleep as he slipped under the covers and tucked the blanket around him.   Turning to Leila’s side, he held her closely as sleep slowly overtook him.  He knew it was only her pillow that he embraced, Leila having been taken away many months ago.  He had no idea where she was or if she was still alive.  He didn’t have nearly enough money to ask. But the fabric retained her scent, a fragrant smell as of lilacs on a spring day.  It was almost as if she were still here. 

A single tear streamed down his cheek as he began to dream, drifting into a world covered with snow.

Running With Marie Claire

I’m a runner.  I’ve run for most of my adult life.  In parks, around the neighborhood and on countless  treadmills at home and the gym, I run.  At Luci’s suggestion, we began entering races awhile back and I discovered that I was actually good at running.  In our first 5000 meter race, I placed third in my age group.  That’s a nice motivator and now, many races later, my avocation has become one of my passions.  These days I run not only for health and fitness, but to achieve personal goals like improving my pace and participating in endurance runs.  And it just plain feels good when I win another plastic running man statue.

When something is important to you, there’s a tendency to assume that it’s important to other people, as well.  That might be the case.  But more often, probably not.  I discovered that little nugget of truth a few days ago.

Luci and I had finished our weekly shopping trip to H-E-B, which always ends in front of the free blood pressure check kiosk and the magazine racks.  So, while Luci was sitting in the chair taking her blood pressure, I scanned the shelves for this month’s edition of Runners World Magazine.

Runners World is the holy grail of information for amateur and competitive runners.  Each month it lists the major races across the country, offers reviews of running and training shoes, nutrition and training advice as well as some really good motivational articles from the running elite to keep us amateur runners focused and injury-free.  If you’re a runner, it’s one the best tools you can have.

I looked on the left section of the magazine racks, which contained the health and fitness titles.  A number of unnaturally buff guys graced the covers of Men’s Health, Men’s Fitness, Steroid Monthly, Exercises You’ll Never Do Quarterly and Workouts For Gay Guys Pretending To Be Straight.  Hmmm.  No Runners World.

That’s strange, since last month’s edition was right there on the top shelf where it should be.  Onto the next shelf which contained men’s lifestyle magazines.  Maxim,  Esquire, GQ, HQ, IQ, Yachting, Guns & Ammo, Field & Stream, Bow Hunters Bonanza, Fishing For Fun and Profit.  Still no Runners World.

I turned my attention to the last shelf of that section.  The bottom shelf contained magazines for men who only leave the sofa to retrieve a snack from the refrigerator.  I doubted that Runners World would be shelved there, but I scanned the titles anyway.  Monster Truck Mayhem, six different NASCAR editions, Sports Illustrated, Military History and a couple of survivalist titles (or one survivalist title and one Big Foot expose.  I couldn’t be sure).  Runners World?  Nope.

Moving onto the right section, I’m into the women’s health and fitness territory now.  It’s gotta be there.  A dozen women’s health and fitness magazines but no Runners World.  Now I’m starting to frown.

Onto the balance of the women’s interest magazines.  Bridal Monthly, Bridal Quarterly, Bridal Yearly, Wedding Monthly, Bridal’s Yoga Monthly, Better Homes & Gardens, Even Better Yet Homes & Gardens,  Woman’s World,  Martha Stewarts’ Living, Martha Stewarts’ Living In Jail, Oprah, Oprah 2.0, Dreaming You Are Oprah.   There were lots of women’s magazines but no Runners World.

Luci finished taking her blood pressure and walked up to the magazine rack.

“Oh, look, there’s the first edition of HGTV’s new magazine.”  She pulled it from the shelf, excited to show me an article about a home in The Heights neighborhood of Houston.  “It’s their first month and they’re highlighting The Heights.  Isn’t that cool?”  Luci’s grandparents had lived in The Heights and she carries fond memories of those days and the special relationship with that eclectic, north Houston neighborhood.

I mumbled something appropriate, irritated that H-E-B  wasn’t stocking Runners World this month and then my eye caught it. 

“What?” I reached for the magazine and held it against my chest like a holy text that had been desecrated. “Do you see that?  Do you see where they put my magazine?  Why is Runners World in the women’s beauty section? “  Luci was thumbing through the HGTV magazine looking for the article on The Heights.  Clearly she didn’t hear me or she would be as outraged as I was.  “Look.”  I pointed to the shelf.  “They stuffed Runners World between Glamour and Marie Claire.  Are they nuts?”

“Here it is,” Luci said.  “The article on The Heights.  Isn’t that amazing that The Heights is featured in their first month?”

“Sure,” I responded.  “Did you see where they placed Runners World?  It’s ridiculous.”

Luci glanced at the shelf of magazines but she didn’t seem to understand what had been done.

Showing me the picture of a nice, mid-century, Arts & Crafts home featured in the HGTV spread, she commented again how impressed she was that the Houston neighborhood was the focus of a new national monthly.

“That’s nice.  The Heights are nice,” I said, looking at the photo spread.  I turned my attention to the magazine rack once more and shook my head.  “Oh, I get it.  There’s a picture of a girl running on the cover of Runners World this month, so they think it’s just for women.  So why didn’t they place it with women’s fitness.  Shoving it between Glamour  and  Marie Clare?  Seriously?  What dopes,” I mumbled.

We headed for the checkout and I carefully placed Runners World gently and with dignity in the basket.  “Dopey stockers,” I said again for good measure.

As we finished our transaction and made our way to the exit, I saw what appeared to be the manager, speaking to a customer.  I thought of taking a moment to explain to him that running was a sport, not a beauty treatment, and just because this month’s cover showed a young lady running instead of a photo-shopped picture of some muscle-bound steroid-crazed model who’s probably never run a race in his life, it was still a sports and fitness magazine, not a guide to the debutante’s ball and he might want to explain that to the genius in charge of the magazine rack, but I figured that it wouldn’t do much good.  Walking across the parking lot, we reached the car and began loading the groceries in the cargo compartment.   “I’d like to see the moron that put my magazine in the beauty section run a half-marathon.”

Luci smiled at me as I closed the cargo door.  “Wouldn’t even last through a 5k, I’m guessing,”

 she said.

I nodded and smiled back.  “Darn right.”   

“By the way,” I asked as we left the parking lot, “who the heck is Marie Claire?”