On The Porch

 

 I asked the group of six that had been meeting weekly under the Maple if they wanted to continue. They told me they would continue whether I recorded their meetings or not. They were doing it for themselves, and if recording their conversations would be entertaining or informative to others, so be it.

 

They kicked my butt and told me to keep going, not to bore people but to trust that recording their conversations was valuable. But they were going to let’er rip and forget that I am listening.

 

So let the tape roll…

 

Last Tuesday: ON THE PORCH:

 

Hot spinach dip in a fondue pot on the table, chips to dip. Drinks available.

 

Shal came through the gate, grinning a big Cheshire cat grin.

 

“Well, Hello, Shal,” said Ollie, standing from her chair and waving him in. “You look happy.”

 

“I am.” He hopped onto the porch where the group had moved from the maple tree, poured himself a hot cup of coffee, and said, “Hi, everybody. Ollie, I like your porch, and that it is enclosed on three sides, and with that patio heater, it will keep us comfy until December. And I believe that tree standing in your yard is still our protector and observer.” He gives a salute.

 

“Yep, fall fell this week. The rains came, the lawns turned green, and the fields are so brilliant they glisten when the sun hits them.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Shal,” said Twinkie, “what do you have up your sleeve? You look like you hit a jackpot.”

 

“I did. I’m going to be a papa.”

 

“Really? Shal, that’s wonderful.” Ollie moved around the table to give him a hug. The others gather around, shaking hands, hugging, and slapping him on the back.

 

“We were about ready to go to a fertility specialist.” He paced, too excited to sit or maybe nervous about telling his friends something so close to his heart. “We wanted to be pregnant by the time Allison was 35—missed it by a year. She’s 36 now. I’m 40, and we’re a little tenuous about telling people, wanting to ensure the pregnancy sticks. But I couldn’t wait to tell you guys.”

 

“Isn’t it fascinating,” said Ollie, “that this happened after you began meditating?”

 

“Oh my gosh, that’s right. I have been meditating still, for Allison said I was calmer and more at peace when I meditated. Oh, this fascinates me. I had not put it together. I thought something else caused a pregnancy.” 

 

The group laughs.

 

“How’s Allison going to manage?” Ollie asks. “She’s a Physician’s Assistant. I know she loves her job.”

 

“I might become a house husband, well, not all the time. Allison said she didn’t wait all this time for a baby, only to let me raise it, so we are working it out. She will work a couple days a week, I will go part-time. I can do that with my job, and we’ll share.”

 

“I’m glad you guys have that option,” said Sally. “I’m happy for you.”

 

“Oh, I had qualms about bringing a child into the world, after that Covid thing, and the lock down, the school shootings and all that. But Allison said that a baby is evidence that the world will continue. So, I’m accepting that. We’ll home school if need be. Maybe that child chose to come in now, who knows what plan he or she has up that little baby sleeve of hers, his, whatever.”

 

“You are the shot of joy we needed, Shal.” When we have a joyful moment, it magnetizes more joy. It builds. And what is more joyful than new life? 

 

‘I love watching babies giggle, blow bubbles, and kick their feet like those feet were the best invention ever. I’ll babysit so Mom and Dad can have a date night. You’re making me want to go out and get a puppy.”

 

“Old Laffe there might object,” Shal looked at Ollie’s dog asleep under the table where Ollie had placed a large rug that gave him plenty of room and the others a warm floor if they wanted to take off their shoes.

 

“Maybe it would give him a longevity shot.”

 

“You know,” says Ollie, “all these things, babies, puppies, make our life more fun, and you know that ‘Neurons that fire together wire together.’ And that applies to experiences, learning, and mind talk. It fixes them into the brain.”

 

“Up with brain juice,” says Twinkie. “By the way folks, Alan kissed me.”

 

“Twinkie, really?” said Ollie, somewhat concerned that he was taking advantage of a love-struck girl.

 

“Yep, really. I think he means it.” He told me he tries not to get involved with a student. I guess it’s somewhat like the student falls in love with the teacher, and the teacher should not take advantage of that. Last Saturday, as we were taking a break from the hot room with that blazing kiln, we walked into the forest behind his studio and down a path there. When we came to a fallen log, we sat on it and talked. He had a problem with my name, Twinkie. ‘You are not a Bimbo,” he said. “You are the most UP girl I have ever met.”  

 

“’You can call me Shirley, my given name, if you want,’ I said.”

 

 “‘How about Twink? That suits your lightness,’ he said. 

 

 “And not as fattening as a Twinkie,’ I said. He laughed and fell silent. We held hands for a while just sitting there. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but my nerves were a wreck. I thought I was going to die of longing. And then he turned and kissed me.”

 

“So cool,” said Sally, bursting into tears, shocking everyone.”

 

…to be continued

 

 

P.S. You can find all the conversations on Substack, plus a little extra in between. 

 

Jewell D's Substack

 

aka

 

https://joycedavis@substack.com

With a Little Help from My Friend

 

                                                               Obe is dreamin' with me.

I have often dreamed of a Beach house sitting on the sand, no yard work, just sand up to the door. The sea is ahead; I can see it from my window, but behind the house, there are trees, for I love trees and need them in my life.

 

At my little dream house, I can write all day and party with friends at night. Nobody cares if the house is clutter free or the table is perfectly set. We drink wine, eat great food we have all prepared, have great conversations, and laugh a lot. 

 

After hearing the play Carousel rehearsed, and my husband, Neil, singing in it, and then attending the performance by the Lindfield College thespians and choir, the lyrics to This Was a Real Nice Clambake gives me a tickle every time I run across it. I almost named my memoir "This Was a Real Good Clambake," meaning my life. But I've never attended a clambake. I wrote about digging clams and frying them, though, at a little rented house in Long Beach Washington—thus the clambake song came to my attention.

 

This commentary came from reviewing my memoir, which I now call Come On, I Dare You, meaning write your own memoir. And when I came to the frying of clams, the lyrics of Rogers and Hammerstein's This Was a Real Good Clambake was there again, so cheerful and fun. Have you tried singing while smiling? It's impossible.

 

Rodgers and Hammerstein researched a lot to write that song. They wanted to know the procedure, the pit, the hot rocks, packing clams in seaweed, sprinkling salt water on them as they cooked, and what other food went well with the clams. They even collected recipes. Some say clambakes came from the Native Americans, but others say that is not the case. It is a New England invention. Clams used to be fed to the pigs.

 

My blog took a nosedive—I guess I wore people out with Conversations Under the Maple. I was basking in the sweetness of having my readership jump from 9,699 in August to 40,915 in September, but now it's a trickle—I love you faithful tricklers though. And usually, I don't get too concerned about numbers. If someone shows up, they ought to receive something. 

 

Perhaps people could feel my dilemma in wanting the meetings under the Maple to be in a sweet place while knowing that if people are to grow and share and be honest, they ought to bring their positives and negatives to the table. The idea was to eventually accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. 

 

I was prompted by reading that many people feel displaced, sad, and alone after the Pandemic and that the world is wonky right now, they need friendly meeting places. To have a healthy culture, we ought to provide such sites—thus, one group of six individuals elected to meet once a week under the maple tree in Ollie’s backyard. Perhaps they should take a sabbatical for the winter. But Shal's baby will probably be born by then. Shal was so excited to tell you guys about their pregnancy. He and his wife were about to enter into fertility treatments, when viola' they got pregnant on their own. "Fascinating,” said Ollie, “that this happened after Shal began meditating, although, stranger things have happened." Shal's wife is a PA (Physician's Assistant) 36, and he is 40. And they have worked out their jobs and childcare. Shal’s shirt is popping its buttons.

 

I wish them a perfect child. She will be fearless and go into the world to do phenomenal things.