The Little Words Mean the Most

The chapter preceding the scam: Circa January 2020

 

Simone's asleep.

         I'm listening to her light exhales (and occasional Borealis-deforming snores). Night sounds. If it were spring, I'd crack a window and listen to the peepers paper the darkness with longing.

         Each time she breathes I murmur thank you. It's a form of meditation = "beditation."

         It's my desperate, deformed effort to be grateful to my wife, my lover, to my trust-companion for 30-plus years; to her parents; to my parents; to all those who've helped me along. I don't know who I'm thanking anymore, exactly; hundreds have urged me in the right direction. In a shambles mood, I feel like I've gone out of my way to disappoint lots of them.

         In a shambles mood, those I've helped wouldn't fill a cup.

         Those I've hurt might fill a hall.

         Maybe thanking Simone each time she breathes is compensation of sorts. Stay haunted; it's what you have. Thank you. It's a super-power. Thank you. And you have Simone. Breathing. Thank you.

         And now maybe she needs me. Because something happened....

 

 

Parker Woodland Audubon RI ~ Somebody has a walking stick

Are we just victims now?

 

The scam came that close.

         We're old. You have to wonder: Are we just victims now?

         Are we prey? And, if so, why not?

         My father spent his last two years in a nursing home. He'd graduated high school into the Great Depression; slogged through WW2 as private first class; endured a disdainful wife and her princely son (that would be me); worked in a factory until he retired.

         Dad's vanities were few. But he appreciated watches. Not extravagant Swiss status-pieces, mind you. He appreciated dependable, durable watches that told time accurately. He went into his last nursing home with just such a one on his hairy, mottled, thinning wrist. Someone there stole it, cunningly swapping his Hamilton for a drugstore Timex, to conceal the theft.

         We are prey.

         And don't you forget it.

 

 

Brush grooming in a blizzard

 

"Are your feet wet?" >dripping/swampy< "Are your feet cold?" >no<

 

How you know that you have good winter boots.

After a 3-hour brush-grooming session during a blizzard? All of the above: wet, not cold.

My winter boots are made from the same stuff as wet suits.

Scams are as natural as fungi; just be alert

 

This is OUR public service announcement, from Sim One and Tom, vulnerable, victim-class, because we're OLD (plus 70) and losing it? (supplementary prayer: Dear Darwin Above, save us!) whoops, sorry: wrong bulls-eye

> What happened, disturbingly:

> Today (fourth quarter, 2020), PHONE scammers successfully penetrated our middle-class household's (clearly not great) digital/emote defenses!!!

 

In sum:

... Sim One and me were almost scammed ... we were really-really-close-to-almost-outrageously scammed, sent-us-rabbit-jumping-out of the garage-INTO-our-2nd-best-car, well-terrified, heading up the highway ... PANICKED!!! you get the scrambled picture?

         ... though not-QUITE-on-the-brink-of-PAYING scammed

         ... (b/cuz at the last moment, driving up our rural road, away from our 32-year home, we FINALLY passed some nagging "we're not quite THAT gullible" test, "are we; you, me -- honestly?"

         ~ Sim One looked at me, weeping, as we flew up back roads....

         ~ I looked back at her, wondering: WHO ARE WE?

         ~ In our early 70s, are we just VICTIMS ... is that all that's left of our self-respect and being?

         guess so

         YEAH it was THAT close).

 

it was a scam; nothing more

 

 

Sunday walk, CT Audubon Society, Pomfret

10 years from now

 

Me again: > "You're almost home! Look for the tiny church that put up that huge rock wall after someone slammed into them in the fog?" Fog is a common bond out here.

Simone: > "I see that!"

Me: > "Come on home."

Stimulus: Our garage door goes up; it's the best-car's door, the car Sim One operates today. Response: I clatter downstairs from my office; from THIS very leaf of writing today you're right now reading; with each footfall, dismissing a bit, a lot, enough.

We, Sim One and me: > Hug. > 2nd, deeper hug. > Full, unrestrained, 3rd to infinity hug. Adequate seeping/weeping occurs: both, given the moment.

whisper to us both: You're home.

------

It's our motto now.

Home is us.

         Not our zip/postal code...

         Not our other loved, fawned-over house in France (where we YEARN to return, post-pandemic; for family ties, for village ties, for honest bread)...

         Right now?

         Just us. Home is us.

------

Has to be; given our 70-something age and this pandemic.

         Our families. Our connections. Our causes.

         Us is growing love. Growing patience. Tolerance. Appreciation.

         In sickness and in health; honoring those vows: second time for us both, Simone and Tom.

         In love as much as we can be, given the emotional stupidity too-comfortable couples are capable of talking themselves into.

 

 

I saw today that "kind" is the most common word in English fiction.

 

True ...

         ... since best-selling novels became a thing that could topple royalty, bad governance, lock-jawed social norms and past-sell-by conventions;

         ... and would topple us, the get-by conventionals: you, me, near futurists; topple every future as far as good science could SEE. I'm not a revolutionary. I'm a "please don't hurt me; I'm just a writer" with revolutionary-leaning views.

         ... which meant that NON-fiction (real life) was so UN-kind that only fiction could heal the wound.

------

Fiction is better. A rudder. For our journey.

It conspires to nudge us from our born-to-it omnivore "take/exploit/consume anything" nature to something not quite as cruel, more cooperative, apparently kinder; way more tolerable as a next-door neighbor, for instance.

         Do stats matter? Not at first.

         Everyone's dumb (wrong). Everyone's smart (wrong). Some get it right all the time (wrong, wrong, wrong).

------

The Bible promises, "The meek shall inherit the earth." So I'd heard.

I looked it up on Wikipedia.

         Matthew 5:5. King James Version: "Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth." The World English Bible version [published 2000] bends slightly a different way: "Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth."

         "Gentle"?

         That can mean many things, including "merciful" and "strength under control." Not to mention, "I soothed this ill sheep until it fell asleep. Then I mercifully slit its throat. Blood poured forth like the Nile. It dreamt sheep banquets. Then. Smoothly. Stopped."

         There's this curious 3rd interpretation.

         The author of Matthew 5:5 "wrote for a community of Greek-speaking Jewish Christians located probably in Syria."

         Greek warriors would "meek" a wild horse.

         Sam Whatley, 2015, Journey Magazine: "To be meeked was to be taken from a state of wild rebellion and made completely loyal to, and dependent upon, one’s master.... The best were trained for warfare. They retained their fierce spirit, courage, and power, but were disciplined to respond to the slightest nudge or pressure of the rider’s leg. They could gallop into battle at 35 miles per hour and come to a sliding stop at a word. They were not frightened by arrows, spears, or torches. Then they were said to be meeked."

         So there you go: you have the you (me?)-meek and the me (you?)-meek and the other-astonishing-meek who will (????) inherit the earth: and they are/might be/must be not frightened by arrows, spears nor torches.

 

 

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