Madame Python says: Well, Wicket, I possibly found something decent in the slush pile today.
Miss Cricket says: Py, I thought today’s segment was about how sledding is the perfect aphrodisiac.
Madame Python: No, Wicky, we're not slipping and sliding toward renewed romantic fire today. But our story is set on a snowy day in January. Have a listen:
There was frost on the kitchen window and tea kettle steam in the air when Karen gazed over the back yard to where Neil was splitting wood. She always admired the way Neil drew a nearly circular arc with the sledgehammer before bringing it down on the splitting wedge – like an Olympic hammer thrower enscribing perfect circles before releasing the hammer. It was physics. Vectors.
Karen took a tall brown plastic tumbler out of the cabinet. It was the last of a set that Neil's mother had given them early in their marriage. She filled it up half with cold water, half with warm, no ice, to within a half inch of the lip. She pulled on a hideous fluorescent orange knit hat because she knew Neil felt happy to see her wearing it. No white hats, white mittens, or white handkerchiefs. Neil feared she'd be mistaken for a deer by an errant hunter. Red mittens today. She had to balance the water on the palm of one hand and pull the door shut behind her with the other.
Saturday splitting wood was an oasis of quiet and concentration – a time to lose track of time. Karen stood on the back porch feeling her nose hairs acknowledge the January air. For seventeen years Neil had plied his strength and perseverance to provide her and their twin girls with a home. Each day his early risings and skill with the farm had meant everything from boots to braces, a truck, four bicycles and a tree house.
Neil put down the sledgehammer when he saw Karen coming. He had long since thrown his jacket on the wood pile and steam was rising from his flanneled shoulders.
"You've split enough to keep us warm all winter," she said.
Neil tilted the glass and drank down the water in one go. Rivulets of water escaped at the corners of his mouth, turned at the edge of his red and black checked collar and dove under the front of his t-shirt.
"At least part of the winter," Neil said handing back the empty glass.
He gave Karen a kiss, soft as a cat's paw on spring snow.
"I found this," Neil put a round pine cone in her red mittens.
She knew he'd be out there until darkness brought him in. And then he'd be in the garage and the basement doing things like fixing the shower head that had been dripping since Wednesday. He'd reappear at seven o'clock. These were their Saturdays. He'd spend the day in his own space working in relative calm. Regenerating himself. From the crack of dawn until seven o'clock she could watch from afar his strong hands and flannel, decades of knowledge put to clever use and the arc of his hammer.
Karen put the glass in the sink and thought about how their Saturdays might have been different if they had lived in the suburbs and Neil had an office job.
At the crack of dawn, Neil would get up and go into the office. The office on a Saturday was an oasis of quiet and concentration – a time to work in the relative calm. He could lose track of time and do his best thinking, organize himself and gird his loins for the battle of the coming week. He could think about the seventeen years he had provided a good home for Karen and how he almost had enough set aside to pay for the twins' education when they got into Brown and Wesleyan. He could buy Karen a pewter rabbit during an afternoon walk and get home by seven.
Karen would, she considered, wake up to another Saturday where she had been left alone in the house with the chores and the children. Monday through Friday they worked. They only had two days each week when they could spend time together and every Saturday she would be – as always – by herself.
She would put on a white hat and drag the garbage cans to the curb hurting her arm. The girls would pout and hate her because she'd say she didn't have energy for friends to come over. At two o'clock, she would be fed up and call a fucking plumber because Neil had had all week to do something about the dripping shower head. The plumber would give her a bill for $267.23 for the house call – like we have that kind of money to waste just because lazy boy has to play in the office every Saturday.
She would eat pizza with the girls at five and not turn around when Neil came in at seven.
"We ate already. Yours is in the refrigerator," she'd say.
Neil would shove the pewter rabbit straight into the garbage can. He'd push the pink bag with the two rattan handles down under the pizza box and Diet Pepsi cans.
He would turn and make himself a sandwich and would start to think about Julie at work. Julie watches him work. She sees his power walk and his Nordstrom tie. She admires how he closes deals and brings in money. She FedEx's his marketing materials to him in Houston before he even realizes he's forgotten them. Through the glass wall of his office, she watches his strong hands and Italian cotton, his decades of knowledge put to clever use, and the arc of his hammer.
Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved
image credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/library_of_congress/2163717338/sizes/o/in/photostream/
There was frost on the kitchen window and tea kettle steam in the air when Karen gazed over the back yard to where Neil was splitting wood. She always admired the way Neil drew a nearly circular arc with the sledgehammer before bringing it down on the splitting wedge – like an Olympic hammer thrower enscribing perfect circles before releasing the hammer. It was physics. Vectors.
Karen took a tall brown plastic tumbler out of the cabinet. It was the last of a set that Neil's mother had given them early in their marriage. She filled it up half with cold water, half with warm, no ice, to within a half inch of the lip. She pulled on a hideous fluorescent orange knit hat because she knew Neil felt happy to see her wearing it. No white hats, white mittens, or white handkerchiefs. Neil feared she'd be mistaken for a deer by an errant hunter. Red mittens today. She had to balance the water on the palm of one hand and pull the door shut behind her with the other.
Saturday splitting wood was an oasis of quiet and concentration – a time to lose track of time. Karen stood on the back porch feeling her nose hairs acknowledge the January air. For seventeen years Neil had plied his strength and perseverance to provide her and their twin girls with a home. Each day his early risings and skill with the farm had meant everything from boots to braces, a truck, four bicycles and a tree house.
Neil put down the sledgehammer when he saw Karen coming. He had long since thrown his jacket on the wood pile and steam was rising from his flanneled shoulders.
"You've split enough to keep us warm all winter," she said.
Neil tilted the glass and drank down the water in one go. Rivulets of water escaped at the corners of his mouth, turned at the edge of his red and black checked collar and dove under the front of his t-shirt.
"At least part of the winter," Neil said handing back the empty glass.
He gave Karen a kiss, soft as a cat's paw on spring snow.
"I found this," Neil put a round pine cone in her red mittens.
She knew he'd be out there until darkness brought him in. And then he'd be in the garage and the basement doing things like fixing the shower head that had been dripping since Wednesday. He'd reappear at seven o'clock. These were their Saturdays. He'd spend the day in his own space working in relative calm. Regenerating himself. From the crack of dawn until seven o'clock she could watch from afar his strong hands and flannel, decades of knowledge put to clever use and the arc of his hammer.
Karen put the glass in the sink and thought about how their Saturdays might have been different if they had lived in the suburbs and Neil had an office job.
At the crack of dawn, Neil would get up and go into the office. The office on a Saturday was an oasis of quiet and concentration – a time to work in the relative calm. He could lose track of time and do his best thinking, organize himself and gird his loins for the battle of the coming week. He could think about the seventeen years he had provided a good home for Karen and how he almost had enough set aside to pay for the twins' education when they got into Brown and Wesleyan. He could buy Karen a pewter rabbit during an afternoon walk and get home by seven.
Karen would, she considered, wake up to another Saturday where she had been left alone in the house with the chores and the children. Monday through Friday they worked. They only had two days each week when they could spend time together and every Saturday she would be – as always – by herself.
She would put on a white hat and drag the garbage cans to the curb hurting her arm. The girls would pout and hate her because she'd say she didn't have energy for friends to come over. At two o'clock, she would be fed up and call a fucking plumber because Neil had had all week to do something about the dripping shower head. The plumber would give her a bill for $267.23 for the house call – like we have that kind of money to waste just because lazy boy has to play in the office every Saturday.
She would eat pizza with the girls at five and not turn around when Neil came in at seven.
"We ate already. Yours is in the refrigerator," she'd say.
Neil would shove the pewter rabbit straight into the garbage can. He'd push the pink bag with the two rattan handles down under the pizza box and Diet Pepsi cans.
He would turn and make himself a sandwich and would start to think about Julie at work. Julie watches him work. She sees his power walk and his Nordstrom tie. She admires how he closes deals and brings in money. She FedEx's his marketing materials to him in Houston before he even realizes he's forgotten them. Through the glass wall of his office, she watches his strong hands and Italian cotton, his decades of knowledge put to clever use, and the arc of his hammer.
Copyright 2013, Elizabeth Cricken, All Rights Reserved
image credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/library_of_congress/2163717338/sizes/o/in/photostream/
If he fixes leaky faucets, I wouldn't mind watching the arc of his hammer myself. It's been a long time since I've seen a man swing a hammer.
ReplyDeleteP.S. Naughty writer! Namey Namerson!
At least this "Karen" is well loved and in tune with her world. I'll put an Elizabeth doing bad things while working a cannery in Alaska.
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