In Pencil ...

"Five inches and still falling," I wrote in the small notebook.

The blanket of snow fell deep on the mountain that day ... "five inches and still falling." the weatherman had said. Curled up with "The October Country" by Ray Bradbury, I momentarily glanced up to gaze out the window at the tumbling flakes and shivered. Unprepared this time for the icy battle ahead, I laid down my book, felt for the cane beside my chair, and pushed myself up with a grunt, and a grunt, and a grunt until I found myself on my feet.

Across the room, the fireplace sizzled softly in the key of F# major without a bit of flame. My neighbor, Edmond, at the foot of the hill had offered to bring a load of firewood the night before and I had graciously accepted his offer. After neatly stacking it outside the kitchen door on the small covered stoop, he produced two bags of "the basics" ... milk, bread and eggs ... necessities that would see me through the ice storm that lay ahead. I may lose power at any moment ... a tree could topple onto the house ... or heaven forbid the bear in the top hat returns ... but by God I'd have French toast!

Slowly, cautiously, I made my way over to the fire and moved the logs around with the poker. Then giving the embers beneath a encouraging swish, I watched with interest as the flames burst back to life like the opera singer I remembered while on a bus ride to Raleigh. In the middle of the silent journey, she had, without any warning or announcement, stood up near the rear of the bus and exuberantly burst into Georges Bizets, Carmen in the key of D minor.

Although I never remembered being a fan of opera, and I'm confident when I say not one person on the bus that day had a clue what she was singing about either, we all sat ethereally listening as the bus slipped from the foothills of the North Carolina mountains ... the spell broken only a few times when someone near the middle by the window, nosily bit into a crisp red apple and was immediately chastised with stares, furrowed brows and head-shakes. That's twice I'd thought of that opera today. My mind seemed to be working well.

I hobbled over to the window and pushed the curtains back with the pine cane I'd carved for myself many winters ago, and peered out as far as my hunched back would allow. The icicle I'd been watching grow for hours had stretched nearly to the top of the porch railing now, and I amused myself as I pondered what would happen when it finally touched. What were those calcium things that developed inside caves? Stalactites? Stalagmites? One type grew up, and the other type grew down. I couldn't remember and didn't really care that much ... it was just another something to add to my long, ever-growing list of "things I'll probably never think of again". Letting the curtains drop back into place, I crossed the room again to the kitchen counter, picked up my pencil and the small red note pad which was already open and ready for me. Carefully beneath the printed words, "George Bezets - Carmen", I shakily added to the list, "the things in caves - stalactites or stalagmites".

Being trapped here in my cabin in the middle of winter, running out of food and firewood, perhaps dying a painful and lonely death in the winters snow, or that crazy bear with the top-hat and cane trying to break back into my house again ... none of those things scared me half as much as the myriad of things I was now beginning to forget. The feel of my mothers gentle hug .... gone. My zip code and telephone number ... gone, gone. The name of the imprisoned TV preacher I used to send five dollars a month to ... long gone. How many eggs in an omelet ... etc.

All leaving me and as things would come to me, I'd hastily write them down. Twelve little notebooks filled with notes now occupied a basket on the kitchen counter. There were more stuffed into the top drawer of my dresser ... several scattered across the fireplace hearth ... and at least three in the bathroom for whenever epiphany struck during your most delicate moments. At the age of 98, I looked forward to those "delicate moments" almost as much as I did the epiphany's ... but not quite.

Outside the wind rose to C major and the pick pick pick of ice pellets against the kitchen window increased in tempo, staccato, and vibrato and I curiously leaned across the kitchen sink to peer out the window into the darkening sky. Snowflakes blew like half crazed butterflies, illuminated now by the yard-light just outside the window. "Nights arrived, Lila" I told myself for no reason in particular, and for a half second I toyed with the idea of writing my own name down in one of my books ... just in case. You just never knew about these things.

It was the crash, like an orchestral cymbal on the front porch that startled me. Was it the bear in the top hat coming back for me, or was it the icicle finally pulling free from the eave? I pulled myself steadily along until I was back at the front window peering out. The icicle was still there, growing longer still, and the bear in the top hat was no where in site. But the thing that caught my eye was the large ice coated tree limb which now lay draped like some fallen, exhausted creature from another world across the steps leading up to my porch. I was now encased here and knew my ice cocoon would eventually enclose me like a chrysalis.

"Chrysalis" ... I hurriedly wrote it in my book before I forgot.

The clock struck once but it didn't mean a thing to me ... was it one o'clock, or something thirty? I didn't know and didn't really care any more. It was probably getting close to eight, but who kept up with time when you were as old as I? Judging by the chill in my bones though, which actually served a better time piece than the clock, I knew it was bedtime. Drawing the curtains closed as if I actually expected anyone to ever look through them on a night like this, I paused once more to take a look at the icicle. It was now touching the porch railing and the thought of seeing it in the morning gave me a thrill as I seldom had any more.

My eyes moved from the top of the icicle down to the bottom ... taking it in ... wondering if I gently hit it with the back of a spoon if it would resound with a "G sharp" or something more like an "A" note. Or, I surmised, would it be flat like the sound made when the percussionist hits the rim of the tympani? How I longed to go out and strike it, but instead I scribbled in the notebook beside the bed, "Note icicles make when hit. Find out tomorrow."

I pulled off my housecoat and stepping up on the footstool beside the bed, I gripped the covers and pulled myself into the bed. Though the sheets were cool, I felt suddenly warmer somehow. Outside the wind rose again and howled in the key of D minor ... and I quietly matched the pitch with a steady hummmmm.

And then, breathing deeply in, so deeply I could feel the air fill my lungs full for the first time in ages, I sang in high perfectly pitched soprano the first stanza of "La Habanera from Carmen"  ....

"Love is a rebellious bird

That nothing can tame,
And it's quite in vain to call it,
If it's convenient for it to refuse.

.... Threat and prayer ..... do nothing.
One speaks well, the other silences,
And it's the other that I prefer,
It's said nothing, but I like it."

"Threat and prayer" ... the words had rushed back to me like a long lost friend! I rolled to my side and took the pencil in my hand, lifted the notebook from the table and scratched the words down for memory's sake. The bus ticket to Raleigh and the playbill for "Carmen", my name on the cover, slipped out from between the pages, and drifted to the floor like the snowflakes outside.

-Lynn Hamilton Rutherford - 2011'

Inspired by Magpie Tales

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