The Envelope of Sand

Once there was a talented young woman who was very good in advertising sales. She was hired by the publisher of an extremely successful chain of weekly newspapers. Upon hiring her, however, the publisher, who understood that the young woman’s husband could only take vacations at particular times of the year, agreed that the young woman need not abide by the “All advertising employees may not take vacations when there are special advertising supplements.” He and the young woman reviewed the special supplement schedule and realized that, in fact, there was at least one that might be affected – “Automotive” – for which she had no accounts anyway.

The young woman built an extremely loyal group of clients and was known for her expertise in servicing them efficiently and creatively, especially in copy writing. Her husband, who was a brilliant yacht sales broker, was also doing well. (He did, unfortunately, have a habit of lying, which made living with him a bit of a challenge for the young woman.)

At one point, the husband and his wife became quite friendly with a very wealthy couple who were boating customers. They enjoyed each other’s company so much, in fact, that the wealthy couple invited the less well-off couple to join them in St. Lucia for a week – fully paid. The husband’s employer was quite pleased; this could be excellent for the yacht business.

The newspaper publisher, however, was disturbed that the young woman wanted a week off at the time of a special automotive advertising supplement, and refused to honor their original agreement. The young woman was terribly disappointed in his lack of integrity. She knew that she could not quit her job, however, since she was concerned about her husband’s increasing lying and that he might lose his position if something couldn’t be done about it. So, she continued in the job with as much vigor as she could muster after she shrugged off the disappointment.

The following Sunday, the weekly free newspaper that circulated to a large number of homes featured a story on the front page about prostitution. It was not a bad story; it was, however, presented in such a tasteless way that the young woman – who had believed in ethical journalism – was horrified that she had sold space in the edition of the paper. She contacted the publisher, who she had thought shared her point of view, but his response was basically, “Oh, well, that’s what it takes to get people to read the paper and see the ads.”

This added to the young woman’s dismay over her treatment in regard to the vacation policy. In fact, she was so incensed, that she went to her local advertising manager and said she was very sorry and she could not continue to represent the newspaper chain. She went home and told her husband to go ahead and let their friends know they could join them in St. Lucia. She typed a letter of resignation, took it along, and sent it from the island in an envelope containing a fair measure of sand. She and her husband, along with their friends, then had a lovely, relaxing vacation.

Since the young woman was a local resident and saw many of her former clients in the months following, she heard of their dismay over her departure. She accepted a position with a new start-up newspaper that had a “fun” time competing with her former publisher, who lost at least a healthy portion of revenue.

The young woman then went to work for a large international advertising firm as an account executive. She did well, but it was a long commute and very demanding job. So, when she received a call from the newspaper chain publisher who needed an advertising manager for one of his publications, she decided to go speak with him, if for no other reason than possibly to mend some fences. They had a good talk, during which he admitted that she had given him quite a few sleepless nights when she worked for the competing newspaper, and that he had – possibly – been wrong in his handling of the “vacation” situation. They parted amicably and the young woman said she would “think over” his offer.

Ultimately, she decided that one can’t necessarily go home again, and there remained some major trust issues for her. So, she stayed with the advertising agency, which was a good career decision money-wise; she had finally given up trying to “reform” her lying husband and gotten a divorce. This meant that when an honest, loving man entered her life, she could marry again and have two lovely children – to whom she could tell a story about integrity in the workplace and an envelope filled with sand.

Where Me Is to Be

There are low places,
damp and filled with plants
who like to keep their feet wet.
They would not think of lifting themselves out,
and when drought
encroaches upon their comfortable lair,
they despair.

I envy their enjoyment of their surroundings;
Finding myself there I think I would
struggle to get out,
all the while feeling the frustration
of mud holding me with its firm grasp upon my being,
moistening my breathing to the edge of suffocating fear.
I would question, however, whether in fact I belong stuck,
whether it is my true home,
as it is theirs.
After all, there is a certain beauty
to them, but then
they like themselves while there.

I know, though, that in ways I yet have to accept,
that the low, damp places,
often watered by tears,
are a natural part of me.

I like the higher ground,
only sometimes moistened by nature’s hand,
while fed by her abundant care.
I like the firm footing there,
the earth that helps the evergreens stand tall and proud
in their year-round beauty.
Only the meanest of storms,
or bugs or blight –
whether natural or imposed upon them by man,
can destroy their resolve to stand,
often above the rest,
to offer blest relief from heat –
welcoming us to retreat.

I wish to stand firm,
tall and proud of whatever beauty I have to offer –
and offer it always.
I wish to avoid the storms, the bugs and blight
that might disturb my quiet existence
and destroy my personal resolve to be
the “me” that I see when
I feel solidity beneath my being.
I wish to offer relief,
retreat,
to others who might be in need
of dry ground and firm footing.

I wish to be deeply green, serene,
high above the mud,
as nourishing as I can be for others –
other than me.
Yet if I find myself in the low, damp places,
I must learn to accept
the nourishment they may offer:
that which is learned from struggling to be free..

Fence Face

His expression never changes,
remaining bland and estranged,
regardless of the work we do
to improve, to make more soothing,
his surroundings.

In fact, I should not say this.
He has, after all, yet to survive a winter outdoors.
I may not even allow it,
being a worrisome sort of householder,
I may pull him inside
and then I would never see
his reaction – or not – to true New England.

At best he is a minimalist conversationalist.
I do not know of what he speaks to the dog at night on her outings.
She may not know either, at least
I think she has little understanding of any words spoken by us
– or he – if a he he be.

And though he never cracks a smile,
or cracks any feature for that matter,
I cannot help but marvel at her presumably fact-filled mind.
After all, she has the entire fence to hold the thoughts
gathered up in sun or shade,
shine or rain,
empty yard or yard a-bustle
with efforts to make it a place for him to find enjoyment.

Fence Face, purchased at a nearby discount store,
meant for a tree to adorn.

But the tree got sick –
there was no cure for her.
She threatened the lines and wires
Running to our home to keep us
alive in sun or shade,
shine or rain,
and allow us to smile and express our expressions.

I think perhaps Fence Face
mourns the loss of his tree,
the loss of the feel of lifeblood
running behind the pieces
that make up his frozen features.

Perhaps Fence Face is me, and I he,
and that is the root
of my own inability to forgive those
who would stare me down, devoid of emotion,
mute in the face of my expressions
and effort to please
those who would seem unpleasable –
at least to me.

Fence Face will remain,
a reminder that even behind frozen faces there may be
Hope of Humanity.

Journey to My Hiding Place

My mother was in no mood to have me hanging about the house doing little girl things, so it was out the backdoor for me that morning. All of my friends were elsewhere – on vacations, out on errands with their moms – all the typical things that robbed me of company. I had to make do with my own.

So, it was off to my hiding place, which was and wasn’t a hiding place at all. It had been built as a fort, at least for whatever our play of the day was, by covering a depression in the woods with pine branches. I held main claim to it and could use it at will as a private retreat since it was closest to my house, which bordered a wondrous woodland that was an abandoned tree nursery and now playground for the young.

I left the yard through the small, woodsy area my father tended with such care, and past the swing set that sat in a clearing among its trees. There was just enough “swing” room to allow soaring to great heights, perhaps even around and over the top if we tried hard enough, though we never did. It squeaked and squealed as we swung on the wooden seats; the frame and hooks were iron, and there was no amount of oiling that would cure it. We couldn’t afford the newer models coming out, but that was fine. Its comments as we swung back and forth kept us company, especially when I was swinging alone. That was not the kind of company I believed I wanted that day, however. If I couldn’t have human company, I only wanted my own, hidden away where I could feel a bit sorry for myself.

I began the journey into the woods. To get there, I needed to take a narrow path through a field of tall grasses. Part way along, a garden spider had spun a web across the entire path opening, which both raised fear and fascination with the beauty of the spider and the web, and also posed a problem: Do I disturb it or not? The spider looked so large and beautiful, with its dark blackness and brilliant yellow stripes. I knew it was harmless – or at least I believed it to be. It was just hanging out waiting for food. The web was finely wrought and must have taken time to spin, but I knew it could be replaced easily if destroyed by my pushiness. I would, however, need to tell my mother - once I cooled off – and my friends about its existence. Would the spider remain long enough to be appreciated by others, or would someone or something come along to destroy it? Would the spider look for better feeding grounds?

I retraced my steps along the path until I came to another branch, one that led to a poplar grove. I could get to my hiding place almost as easily through it, and it would lead me under sounds of the round leaves of the poplars, tap, tap, tapping against each other in a way I can only describe as clicking. It was not annoying clicking; it was quite peaceful. Also, since the area had once been a tree nursery, all the trees stood in straight rows with easily navigable paths between them. It was very light, both due to the openness of the paths and the movement of the tree leaves that filtered the sun. I was actually happy that I had been “forced” to take this route.

I followed a row into the grove of white pines, evergreens so typical of the region in which I lived. There were the same straight rows, which once had been tended and cleared regularly. Now they were left to tend themselves. There were branches over which to step, even fallen trees blocking the way, but I was young and lithe, able to navigate through, around, and over whatever might block my progress.

Then it appeared: the hiding place, refuge of soft pine branches arranged so carefully to look like a happenstance pile of debris, but which, in fact covered the depression we had discovered one day in this world of once smoothly-tended ground. How many times had I slipped through the secret opening – several branches easily pulled apart and then replaced with care above one’s head? I had lost count, only remembering the feel of the pine needles beneath me, their pungent, yet refreshing scent, and the quiet of the nook that took me out of an everyday world of noise and bustle. I could hear only bird chirps and songs, pleasant, welcome neighbors as I whiled away the minutes spent in hiding.

This time there was something wrong with the look of it, something about the arrangement of branches above the nook. Instead of heaping up, they squelched down. Feet had obviously trampled them, perhaps by others running through the pines. Sadly, though, I believed it had been done by others who wished to destroy what they took, correctly, to be a fort built by possible enemy children. I don’t believe the squirrels, pheasants, and chipmunks could have done such damage, and I didn’t believe that there were animals large enough in these quiet woods to have charged in as they ran from some other predator. The place felt too safe to imagine that possibility. No, I think it was the marauding gang that did the damage, and I could not face the repair work needed to rebuild what had been lost, so I stood in young-girl despair, my naiveté forever reduced by this bit of needless destruction.

Did I know then what I know now? The secretly-constructed hideaway was only part of a larger hiding place. In fact, the entire woodland was my retreat, my private place on a day when I felt shrugged off by my mother, and friendless by the absence of those on whose doors I could normally knock. This is not what filled my mind as I walked back toward my house. Instead, it was filled with a mixture of sadness and anger, neither expressed, however. The surroundings were too peaceful to allow for tears or thrashing of branches.

I returned to my father’s woodland creation, and to the swing set. I sat on a swing and started lifting myself higher and higher, the squeaking of the metal hooks on metal frame becoming my only companions in a hiding place of height and the freedom of flight.

In Hiding- At Least Until She Is Ready to Show Off

Enemy Weed

I’m not sure what that plant is,
pushing its way up by the bench in the woodland garden.
It is large, though, and I think
it is impatient to eat my impatiens.

Curiosity hinders me from attacking its horrid tap root.
I know it will fight back by reappearing overnight once I do.

But, tell the truth,
I want to see what it will do.
There is a guilt that goes with
clearing “weeds” from the garden.

Certain that this plant
does not truly hold evil intentions toward my impatiens,
I must still pull it out;
it is in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Perhaps it thinks the same as I,
and sees my legs and feet
as evil attachments to the ground,
ready to tap out its existence.

I will never know;
I will pull it out as best I can regardless.

Two Pictures

His chin just clears
the edge of the stone birdbath.
Pudgy hands grip the edge,
balancing him as he peers
into the water and at
the two stone birds permanently frozen there.
His mouth opens slightly in awe
and his hair fringes his soft eyebrows.

Frozen in time at age three (and-a-half)
in a picture given to Granmummy
and now on Mummy’s shelf above
the little drawers, the bureau, the floor.

He stands slightly in front
of his Graduation Photo where
at age eighteen, he probably
would not remember the scene
were it not frozen in time and
now in loose rhyme.

The young man smiles assuredly,
chin now darkened slightly
by the shadow of a beard.
His jacket, tie, and shirt in perfect order,
his hair now neatly trimmed,
unfringed.

No longer does he have a favorite tee shirt,
worn nearly every day.
His chin would be well above the edge of the birdbath rim.
The curiosity remains, however,
and the sunshine of that earlier day
will forever follow him.