Preserving a Bad Apple, EPILOGUE

Then the magicians said unto Pharaoh, This is the finger of God...EXODUS 8:19 KJV

~EPILOGUE~

I live for the infamous epilogue! Actually, there is a not-so-literary and not-so-nice term for readers like me who are addicted to the epilogue at the end of a romance novel. I won't repeat it, but I will admit that I am an epilogue junkie and I will never recover. According to Merriam-Webster, the epilogue is defined as a concluding section that rounds out the design of a literary work; one additional chapter at the end of the book, which continues the life after the happily-ever-after ending of the main story. Some readers despise epilogues, complaining that they are too predictable and formulaic. In most cases, the heroine gets pregnant, usually within the first year after marriage. CHECK. She delivers a baby girl ~ angelic and lovely ~  followed by a tough and tumble baby boy the next year. CHECK, CHECK. Everything about normal life is upended, as the happy couple makes continual adjustments. The hero and heroine learn to willingly sacrifice all for the sake of love, home, and family. TRIPLE CHECK.

No matter how much one is tempted otherwise, the reader must wait until the very end for that well-written epilogue. Afterward, the reader can close the romance novel and smile for a few minutes ~ thoroughly smitten, captivated, charmed, and entranced. I have literally read the book a second time, just to experience the epilogue again. So...here's the epilogue to this series of posts ~ the life after the happily-ever-after ending of the main story. No author could have written it more perfectly.

David turned 51 this year, and I will celebrate my 57th birthday in December. We have both spent the major portion of our lives together. David adopted our daughter one year after we married, and we gave her a little sister and brother within the next two years. Our three children have grown into successful adults and have made us proud more times than we can count. After the babies were born, we moved out of the cozy little cabin and built our first family home. Altogether (children and college moves included), we have moved various members of our immediate family 41 times. We have lived in a hundred-year-old shack, a newly-constructed brick home, a church parsonage (twice) and a single-wide mobile home that we gave to my parents as a place to retire. We bought a hundred acre farm, a two-story home with a swimming pool, and the original honeymoon cabin ~ after an absence of 17 years. Some people say we are gypsies. How exciting is that! I like to think we are pilgrims still moving towards our desired haven ~ our last best nest. As a couple, we have been crushed, and we have been cured; we have been filled, sealed, and bound together. We have understood the sacrificial elements required to establish a bond that stands the test of time. Over time, we have created a family of mortar.

No epilogue is sufficient without a few twists of irony, usually in the form of revelation to the reader. Use of paradox or discovery is not simply an unveiling of the writer's technique; the device is necessary for the reader's close-the-book feeling of complete triumph. For David and me, the unexpected and unlikely divergence took place at a faith-healer's revival in Jackson, MS in May of 1989 ~ our third year of marriage. I attended the revival meeting on a Friday night with my mother. She had suffered greatly with back problems and had heard about the fantastical healing testimonies. A former Miss America had claimed the miraculous healing of a limp, in which a shorter leg grew during one of the services. Mom and I set out on an adventure with one singular thought ~ what could it hurt? That night, Mom took her place in the long healing line after the great and glorious sermon of faith; however, she did not receive the instant healing which she sought. I, on the other hand, was chief among the cynics. Despite an unsettling reservation, I watched the evening's events with awe. On the way home, I realized that the miracle had occurred in me ~ a spiritual transformation ~ unexplainable, unbelievable, and undeniable. The following Saturday night, David and I attended the service together. He, too, felt the tugging force of the reigns, and our lives were changed forever. We both had been touched by the finger of God.

When I first began this series of posts, I stated that David was my equal yoke. I didn't understand what that meant until recently. My grandpa had a wagon and two mules, so I understand a yoke. It is important when plowing a pair of mules or leading a team of horses that they are equally-yoked together. In other words, the paired horses must stay in line or "equal" with each other as they travel down the row or the path ahead of them. When one horse turns, the other horse must move with the same adjustments. If this movement does not occur, then the one holding the reins must gently tug and guide the pair back in line. If the adjustment does not happen, then the yoke becomes heavy, strained, and weighted. Once the animals' symmetry of movement is realigned, the yoke becomes lighter and less burdensome on the animals. Even the Rolling Stones understood this concept with the lyrics, "I'll never be your beast of burden." Being equally-yoked is not about marrying someone who is just like you. Being equally-yoked is moving together in agreement, always willing to honor the pull of the reins and to make whatever adjustments are necessary.

I love this verse in Psalms: Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them. That's why I love romance novels. The author keeps adjusting the reins throughout the book, and if he or she is successful, the yoke is equal by the end of the book. The beginning substance is unperfect; however, the planning and ordaining has begun in the author's thoughts even before the characters have met ~ even before the characters are born! We, the readers, witness the continuing fashioning as the days and deeds are recorded on each page and the chapters of life flow into a seamless, fluid movement leading up to the expected end.

Even the magicians ~ those who understand fascination, illusion, allurement ~ know that this is the finger of God. Writers understand the process all too well. They create, conjure, and craft until the lives leap off the page and into our hearts. We relish the twists and turns, we weep as our heart breaks and laugh as our heart sores, and we never lose hope even in the midst of the most difficult conflicts.

So you see, the bad apple was preserved for me, and I was preserved for him. Our story is being written by the finger of God. David and I came from two totally different starting points, and no one would ever imagine that our paths could intersect at any point. We should have never met, matched, or married. When I was in high school, he was in grade school, When I was a senior in college, he was a high school junior. When I was an editor of a newspaper, he was a bad apple. I was called Cotton by a beloved basketball coach ~ a name of endearment for my light blond hair and easy-going personality. David was known as Caveman ~ a name which defined his brutish behavior and ruddy physique. And yet, he was preserved for me.

David is the bi-vocational pastor of a small Baptist church now, and he lives a life of strength, honor, faithfulness, and devotion. I am more the Cavewoman in my role as a preacher's wife. And yet, we continue to feel the tug of the reins as we find that easy, equal yoke ~ the essence of the epilogue. Once the book is complete, the autograph is signed by the Author ~ the finger of God. What a divine book-signing!

For our 30th anniversary, my husband wanted to buy me a brand new car. Over the years, I had always driven used cars or the kids' throwbacks. I had been looking at one car in particular for over a year. I even knew the exact color I wanted. He located that perfect car for me at an area dealership, bought it on the spot, and drove it home.

The name of the car...

a ROGUE, of course. How romantic!

Dianne ;)

Preserving a Bad Apple, Part 3

Mortar is defined as a workable paste used to bind building blocks, such as stones, bricks, and concrete masonry units together, fill and seal the irregular gaps between them, and sometimes (during the best of times) add decorative colors or patterns in masonry walls. In its broadest sense, mortar includes pitch, asphalt, and soft mud or clay, such as used between mud bricks. Mortar comes from the Latin word mortarium meaning crushed.

Cement mortar becomes hard when it cures, resulting in a rigid aggregate structure; however, the mortar is intended to be weaker than the building blocks and the sacrificial element in the masonry, because the mortar is easier and less expensive to repair than the building blocks.
~~ From Wikipedia, the free encylopedia

Mortar...
Several months ago, a few members of our small Baptist congregation met for a mid-week Bible study and prayer service. Very few people attend the prayer meeting, as lives are busy with work, school, and home responsibilities. Acutely aware of the low attendance, I asked an older member why there seemed to be so little interest in the midweek service and church attendance as a whole. He made a profound statement: The church today doesn't have mortar. We have the foundation and the bricks, but we lack the mortar.

~~~~~~~~~~

The time has come to fill and seal the irregular gaps of this romantic story ~ the unfolding, the unraveling, the ripening, the building, the perfecting, the resolving. This part of the story line occurs right after all trace of optimism is crushed and right before the author's timely delivery of the anticipated ending. Just like a huge cement truck with a rotating mixing drum, great romance writers know exactly how to spin together the mixed-bag of sacrificial elements to create a solid structure. The cement mixer is known as a transit drum, and it serves two purposes: 1) to avoid segregation or separation of all the ingredients while the truck is moving from one point to another and 2) to make sure none of the contents spill out of the drum. The internal spiral blades push the concrete or cement towards the inner zone of the drum. The drum rotates clockwise during transit. When reaching the point of the pouring out, the drum rotation is reversed, thus forcing the mixture to be slowly poured out for its desired purpose. Oh my goodness, I will never, ever look at a concrete truck the same again! If you want an object lesson about true love, just study the process of mixing cement mortar. If someone has read even a few romance novels, especially Regency novels, this is the tipping point where the story progression reverses, and the reader begins to smile. Ahh, the appearance of the mortar...

Something undefined, yet vital to the story occurs. The colors appear, the irregular gaps are filled, the binding begins, the story turns, and the unity forms. And I love it! Just thinking about it makes me beam with tenderness. All of the conflict and contention, the strife and struggle, the discord and disapproval changes direction. All those churning components are being transported from Point A to Point B, and the writer and reader (together) are nearing the arrival of the pouring out point ~ the intended target, the awaited depository, the ultimate destination.

For David and me, the rotation reversed on the kitchen floor of the Faircloth house. Although I loved my rental house and would remember it with fondness all my days, it was plagued with gang of vermin that had to be eradicated ~ MONSTER RATS the size of small dogs. The rats were not common house mice or even barn rats. These beastly rodents were field rats who, through no knowledge of how, when, or where, always ended up in the kitchen. When the first one appeared, I went absolutely ballistic! I had seen two additional rats, and this most recent one was number four. I called my neighbor "right down the road" and as usual, he came to the rescue.

After David chased the disoriented rat back into the field, he and I sat beside one another on the kitchen floor. Finally, I said what I knew we both were thinking. "David, this rental house is not working for me. I need something safer, free of peeping Toms and freakish field rats. My dad has offered me an acre of land. He and mom want me to move closer to them, which would actually be much better for me. My hours at the newspaper are so crazy, and my daughter will be closer to my entire family. I think my uncle and Mr. Pete, my dad's good friend, are going to build me a small cabin ~ something I can afford. I will only have to pay for the cost of the materials. I guess what I am trying to say is that I am not going to be your neighbor much longer."

Wait. For. It. The heart constricts, the breathing deepens, the churning stops for one brief moment ~ the mortar moment. David replied, "You know, Dianne, I have some money saved. I could help pay for the materials and help the men build the cabin. That is, if you want my help?" I knew exactly what he was asking. I said yes. He smiled and released a heavy sigh, "Besides good neighbors are hard to find." They sure were. The neighbor "right down the road" had finally ended his journey "straight into my heart." The bad apple had become the apple of my eye. David worked every weekend for the next few months to build our cozy little cabin. I can still see him shirtless, lean muscles exposed, a hammer in his hand and a mouthful of nails. I have the actual photograph to remind me, in case I ever forget!

The pouring out didn't stop with me. David began to empty all of his love into a precious little three-year-old. The two of them drove to the house site on Saturdays ~ my daughter sitting on the fold-down arm rest of his one-ton truck, her arm winding around his neck, and her pretty strawberry blond curls sporting one of his old work caps. That mighty mixing drum was turning, and the sacrificial mortar was being poured out on everyone. We were becoming a family.  A reversing motion had taken place, and our lives were changing directions. We had reached the happy-ever-after, and the time had come to build.

David and I were married on the back deck of the cabin on Easter weekend ~ Saturday, March 29, 1986. I truly believe that weekend was significant for both of us ~ a rebirth or resurrection that I could not define or explain at the time. The newspaper's sports reporter, who was also a Methodist minister, married us. Ironically, no Baptist minister would perform my wedding, because I had been divorced. Thank the good Lord above for Bro. Cumberland ~ a diligent sports reporter and a kindhearted friend. Mortar. My daughter and my niece were flower girls, and they fought over flower petals the entire ceremony. My older cousin, a cherished family member and life-long best friend, served as maid of honor and referee between the two. My mom and her best friend created a beautiful three-tier white wedding cake covered in sugared-wisteria blooms. Mortar. My father walked me along one side of the cabin, and my two brothers escorted my mother to her seat from the opposite side. David's father served as his best man, and his half-brother served as ring bearer. Mortar. My co-worker and best friend, expecting her first child, attended the wedding, along with one of my best friends from high school. Another close friend, who had supported me throughout the preceding months, was present with her new husband ~ who also celebrated 30 years of marriage last year. Mortar.

I was 26; David was 20 ~ not even old enough to get married without his dad's permission. I had a college education; he had a recycling paper company. I had read all my life; he had worked all of his. I was the mother of a young daughter who needed a father; he was a grown son who needed a family. I was the editor of a newspaper; he was a bad apple. He was my husband, and I was his wife.

EPILOGUE: To be continued...

Dianne ;)

Preserving a Bad Apple, Part 2

 I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God has given you one face and you make yourselves another. Act 3, Scene 1, Hamlet

I was born Southern Baptist from the womb...literally. I never knew any other life as a child, except church and community and the complete integration of the two. During the years of his ministry, Rev. D. W. (Dan) Moulder ~ my great-grandfather ~ founded and organized hundreds of Baptist churches, baptized thousands of converts, and married every Baptist (and not-so-Baptist) couple within a fifty mile radius. My family lived and breathed the Baptist faith. I even attended and graduated from Baptist colleges.

I was definitely born with one face, and I had made myself another. No one recognized the new face. Even my best friend and co-worker at the time made an accusatory statement, that to this day, I have never forgotten. She said, "Dianne, I don't even know who you are anymore." That one sentence defined the year-long dalliance of the Baptist girl with the bad apple. Wearing one face to myself and another to the multitude, I had no idea which was true.

I now understand a few things about myself and my behavior during that year. I was selfish. I was adrift. I was idiotic. And, I was embarrassingly involved with a younger man. David had not yet turned 20, and I was 25 going on 50. Even though I was a young single mother, a progressive editor of a county newspaper, and an energetic YMCA aerobics teacher (twice a week), I felt more like a cradle robber, a cougar, the proverbial older woman...much older than my birth certificate confirmed.

Despite the closeness of our relationship, David and I never acknowledged each other in public. We had not met each other's families. We were not acquainted with each other's circle of friends. Our clandestine relationship took place each night after my young daughter was sound asleep. On a few occasions, I cooked dinner for him; however, those covert dates were granted only when my daughter was visiting her grandparents. I also began to suffer how very different we were. He was socially awkward, and I was a social butterfly. I had been taught proper manners, and he didn't know how to hold a spoon. I had mastered artificiality, good impressions, and  keeping up appearances; he was impolite, unrefined, and brutally blunt. And, he liked to fight. (Absolute truth.) He had come to my house two different times after he had been in a bloody brawl. Despite all our attempts to be private, people heard of my paintings. I had definitely made another face for myself ~ one that I was not willing to remove.

The chicken house party in October ~ exactly one year later ~ changed everything. My rental house, known as the Faircloth house, was located in front of an abandoned poultry house. The house was used for storage and farm equipment, most of which was owned by my best friend's husband who farmed the land around the house. A small driveway forked at the highway ~ one lane led to my house and the other led to the chicken house and the property around it. As I said before, I was idiotic; so, for some mad as a hatter reason, I decided to have a party at the chicken house.

The party date was set for the Saturday night after the Friday night rival county football game ~ the same rivalry game I had attended one year earlier. I expected this event to be our coming-out party. I invited my friends, David invited his friends, and we both invited friends from all the grades in between my graduating year of 1977 and his graduating year of 1983. My younger brother was bringing his National Guard buddies from Camp Shelby, and I had informed the local law enforcement of the party ~ just in case the activities of the night got out of hand. Also, the county where I resided was (and is) a dry county, which meant that no business sold alcohol in the county; however, I lived about twenty minutes from Soso, Mississippi ~ a town that was made famous for a song by the same name and its unlimited supply of liquor. Sweet Magnolia Blues....

To say that the chicken house party was a fiasco is to say that the Empire State Building is tall. Too much alcohol and too many bad apples combined for the perfect recipe of disaster. No one knew that David and I were officially seeing each other, so one of my long-time male friends wanted to dance with me underneath the mirrored-ball. (Yes, there really was a mirror ball in a chicken house.) When he decided to get a little too cozy, David decided to do what he did best ~ start a fight. The rivalry from the football game the night before spilled over to the party, and before I knew what was happening, several guys were involved in a melee ~ cursing, punching, and going for reinforcements. I called the chief of police who dispatched two cops to break up the fight and send everyone on there way. After everyone had gone, all that remained was a big hole in the chicken house wire and the bloody bad apple who had been thrown through it.

What. A. Mess. The call from my younger brother the following day confirmed the sad state of my affairs. In no uncertain terms, he advised me that I should think about my reputation, but more importantly, my young daughter. He stated that my life was in shambles, and I had made very poor choices about the company I was keeping. My life of sin and debauchery was coming to an abrupt, sorry end, and I knew it. In no uncertain terms, he made his message clear concerning the bad apple. "Cut him loose." So, I did. David and I spoke that same Sunday night, and we parted on neighborly terms. He assured me that he was "right down the road" if I ever needed anything. And that was it...OVER. This is the part of the romance novel where you have to wonder how everything went so terribly wrong. Believe it or not, I have been brought to tears countless times when the plot reaches this all-time low.

In keeping with every great romantic story, a few unexpected characters are usually introduced in the next chapter. Thankfully, my older brother and his ten-year-old son had moved home from Texas and needed a place to stay until he found a house. The Faircloth house had two extra bedrooms, so I offered them room and board. We were becoming quite the family of breakups, as my brother and his wife filed for divorce. In my opinion (and everyone else's, I am sure), the four of us seemed like one big down-on-our-luck, mixed-bag, hodgepodge bunch. Enter the peeping Tom...

The first person to see him was my nephew early one morning. He caught a glimpse of the peeping Tom hiding in the hedges behind the back windows of the large dogtrot hall. He called for me, and we both hid in a corner and watched him maneuver his way around the house. I saw him the next morning. I was drying off after my bath, and he was peeping through my bathroom window. At every sighting, I immediately alerted my brother who dashed out of the house; however, we never found his hiding place. I asked my brother if I could solicit the help of a close neighbor ~ one who lived "right down the road." Sure enough, the peeping Tom returned; but this time, David was waiting for him. He watched the pervert pull out of the driveway and followed him to his home, slowly driving past and awaiting an opportunity to confront the culprit.

Two nights later, he approached the suspected creeper in a parking lot with a group of his redneck buddies. David pulled up and parked his Corvette about a six inches from the guy's feet which were hanging off the back of his tailgate. I have read this scene more times than I can count ~ right out of an Avon paperback. David stepped out of the car, his long black hair still wet from a shower. He was wearing his favorite navy blue muscle shirt with the yellow trim. As always, his boot-cut Levi's were tucked into his cowboy boots. To this day, I can see the looks on the faces of those cretins who have never (nor will ever) measure up to the guy standing in front of them.

David told me he casually mentioned to them that someone had been sneaking around my house and that I was his neighbor. He added that most folks didn't appreciate that kind of behavior, especially that close to their own homes. Finally, he advised them that if they happened to know who the guy was, it would be a good thing to give him a message. "What was the message?" I asked him. 

"It's not important,” David answered. “What matters is that the guy doesn't come back." The peeping Tom never returned. Three weeks later, my brother and his son moved to a house in the community where we grew up. The Baptist girl was back, the bad apple was gone, and the rats moved in.

To be continued...

Dianne ;)

Preserving a Bad Apple, Part 1

(This post is dedicated to the most authentic man I know.  Today is his birthday, and October is a special month for us. He is my bad apple, my faithful partner, and my equal yoke.)

I love romance novels.

There. I said it. My apologies to the dark, dystopian, doomsday zombies out there; but I assure you, if you don't like hearts and roses, birds singing, and the smell of fresh-cut grass underneath a picnic blanket, you are not going to like the happily-ever-after ending of this series of posts. Period. Stop reading.

I simply adore Regency romances, which are a sub-genre of romance novels set during the British Regency or early 19th century. Regency romances are a distinct genre with their own idealistic and chivalrous plots and suitable period customs, conduct, and conventions. I appreciate the extensive research, hierarchy groundwork, and descriptive imagery that elevates the historical setting and family pedigree. But mostly, I just love the formulaic story line. The hero starts out as a tormented or misunderstood rogue, meets the one woman who tames him and makes his life complete, marries the strong-willed heroine, and pledges life-long fidelity to her. I refuse to read romance novels in which the hero (or heroine) is unfaithful. He might possess pure masculinity, a brooding temperament, and unbridled sensuality to the core of his being, but he is not adulterous. If he is a cheat, he is no hero of mine.

Cynics of this genre have one major complaint. They whine that the stories are unrealistic; however, I disagree. I sometimes reply that hunger is not a game and the dead do not walk; but, usually, I say nothing. No arguments satisfy the haughtiness and indifference of a literary dystopian snob. The novels I read might be considered fictional fluff, but my own romantic story line is not only similar, but true. Thirty years ago ~ on March 29th of this year ~ I married a rake, a scoundrel, or more specifically, a bad apple. Today is his birthday.

We first met on a cool October night in 1984; however, our story began in the spring of 1983. I was employed as the 24-year-old managing editor of a weekly newspaper in the county where I was born and reared. (Another one of my Regency novel requirements ~ appropriate use of the English language. Pigs are raised; people are reared. Apples are picked; candidates are selected. I reject the complete disregard of fundamental vocabulary usage in today's literary offerings; however, I digress.) Even though my personal life was a total mess during that period of my life, my professional life remained above reproach. I took my job (and my editorials) seriously. During that infamous spring, I wrote a scathing and zealous editorial about a group of high school seniors who vandalized the principal's home. The damage was severe, as they broke a window, placed a water hose inside the shattered pane, and flooded the principal's home. Not only did they thoroughly soak the carpet in the living room, they pulled down the front porch swing and threw it into the deep gully behind the house, along with lawn chairs, patio furniture, and the kids' swing set. As I recounted the mischief and wreckage, I added my own opinions about the group's misconduct. I entitled the editorial A Few Bad Apples. By my choice of words, the group of seniors had achieved their notoriety ~ their infamy banded them together, and their disgraceful deeds followed after them.  From the date of that publication until now, they were and are known as The Bad Apples.

On a Friday night during the month of October ~ almost a year-and-a-half later ~ one of my most supportive friends asked me to ride with her to a rival county football game and then accompany her to a party at a local attorney's lake house. I should not have gone with her to the game or the party. I should have made sure the newspaper's sports reporter was covering the game, and I should have stayed home. Then, I could have slept in my king-sized bed with my daughter, watched cartoons, and enjoyed our Saturday morning together; but I didn't.

         

Instead, I called my mother after the game and asked if my two-year-old could spend the night. I explained to her that I was going to an after-party with the friend who had driven me to the game. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she didn't approve. Her exaggerated sigh, followed by the "I guess so" response, reminded me of when I was a teenager. That particular response was an intuitive foreboding of bad things to follow ~ an omen that left me with a sinking feeling which I usually did my best to ignore ~ almost as if she were reading my palm and predicting catastrophic events. At that moment, I should have kindly backed my way out of the invitation; but I didn't.

Continuing to wallow in my own personal quagmire of being recently divorced, my only reason for attending the party was the promise of alcohol and lots of it. Once we arrived at the party, I began to drink. I poured myself a plastic 16-ounce cup of spiked punch from the ten-gallon galvanized wash tub in the middle of the kitchen floor. I sat alone on the back porch steps and after a couple of refills, I finally started to relax. I shed my designer blazer, untucked my starched white oxford, and kicked off my red high heels. Feeling a little more at ease, I heard the screen door slam and a familiar voice behind me. I recognized the voice as belonging to the husband of a good friend. I instantly knew that my reputation as a newly-divorced single mother had preceded me when he knelt down behind me and stealthily shoved his hand down the front of my shirt. Even if I drank that entire tub of punch, I would have never wanted his hand anywhere near any body part of mine ~ covered or exposed. His pregnant wife was probably sitting at home trying to decide on a theme for the baby's room. I was repulsed, but I was also careful not to make a scene. I can't imagine, to this day, what he was thinking when he made an asinine move like that! His forceful and uninvited grasp had assured me of two things: I did not belong on these steps with this obscene excuse of a man or at this party with this far-too-friendly group of people.

I jumped to my feet, advised the bottom-dweller to go home to his pregnant wife, gathered my blazer and high heels, and stumbled out into the pasture where all the cars were parked. I was trying to find my friend's car, when I noticed a beautiful red Corvette with T-tops. (Absolute truth.) The car was shining like a delicious red apple in a fresh market fruit stand. For one unguarded and vulnerable minute, I was lured out into the open field ~ just one bite. So I placed my foot on the front bumper of that tempting and forbidden fruit and asked, "Who drives this car?"

A muscular young man who didn't look old enough to drive walked up and said flatly, "The car is mine." I will never, ever forget that moment...even in my tipsiness. He, too, wore a crisp white shirt tucked into tight Levi's with the jeans securely shoved into knee-high cowboy boots. The brightness of his white shirt accented his dark-tanned skin and shoulder length, jet-black hair.

I responded, "Take me for a ride." He smiled and obliged.

Today, as I recall the series of events following the unexpected encounter, I am grateful to be alive.  For some reason, probably alcohol-related, I had petitioned a nineteen-year-old boy to take me for a ride in his 1981 model Corvette. Even more threatening, he said yes. Maybe he was thinking to get lucky with an experienced older woman who was mildly drunk. Maybe he did not want to humiliate a ridiculous-acting female. Maybe he was just being nice. Whatever the reason, the young driver of the car opened the passenger door for me as he waved a thumbs-up sign to the group of buddies he left behind. They were all toasting him with their Pabst Blue Ribbon beers and Marlboro cigarettes. I assumed by his swagger that he was relishing his conquest as he was sure to score an easy mark. I was wrong.

With the t-tops removed, I enjoyed the cool autumn wind and the loud eighties' music. He drove deliberately and said very little until we turned down a narrow dirt road that led to a wide open field with a single oak tree located dead center. The ominous setting looked like the kind of place where the Ku Klux Klan might have hung a black man for whistling at a white woman. Amazed at my expeditious ability to sober up, I carefully assessed a few important unknowns. I didn't know where I was (at all). I had just met the young man in the driver's seat, so I didn't know him (at all). And, I didn't know how to get back to the party, to my friend, or most importantly, to my home. As we parked under the massive oak tree, his motive became crystal clear. He wasted no time before he asked, "Do you know who I am?"

Before I could respond, he defiantly answered his own question. "I am a bad apple."

A bad apple? I had to think for a second. Then, like Chicken Little, I knew in an instant that the sky was falling. Every curse word known to man reverberated inside my head. I looked at the oak tree, and all at once, I expected headlights, tar, and feathers. Quickly, the thoughts inside my head took on more biblical proportions. Oh, Dear God,  I inwardly prayed, I am either going to be tortured or gang-raped or strung up from that tree. And what’s worse, no one ~ absolutely no one ~ knows that I am out here in this godforsaken place. Forgive me of my sins. And with that simple prayer, I prepared for the worst. As horror replaced confusion, I watched him turn off the car engine and open the glove compartment. Thinking he might be reaching for duct tape, a knife, or something even more sinister, I was surprised when he pulled out a quarter-folded newspaper.

A few bad apples...the editorial, the senior boys, the principal's home. Because of the editorial, the mayor made an example of the graduating seniors. Because of the editorial, the newspaper received embroiled letters to the editor (namely me) ~ mostly from parents who considered the malicious and destructive deeds to be nothing more than senior shenanigans. Boys will be boys. They compared throwing rotten eggs inside the principal's home to rolling his house with toilet paper. One parent even threatened to sue the newspaper and demanded that I be fired as editor. And, because of the editorial, I made seven enemies for life out of seven high school seniors. I sat in silence as I waited for a circle of headlights to appear around us. Slowly, he unfolded the slightly worn newspaper, turned on the overhead light, and began to read the editorial. I identified the house by the principal's surname ~ the Steverson house. The malevolent recklessness of the misguided seniors had given the house notoriety ~ a history ~ a name. The principal did not return to the high school the following year (who could blame him); however, from that point on, the unassuming light gray cottage-style house would be known to me and to this group of seniors as "the Steverson house." His family only lived there four years.

Evidently, four years of high school with this principal was enough for the bad apple who had introduced himself only as David. After he read select parts of the editorial, I grimaced at how profoundly affected the young man had been by what I had written. I mean, who carries around a copy of an old newspaper in the glove compartment of his car? So I did what all good editors do when they are backed into a corner; I apologized.

"I am sorry," I said quietly and somewhat sincerely by my own standards. "I don't know what else to say. I am an editor. I write editorials. The words are merely one person's opinions. It's what I do. It's my job." I offered him every pat excuse I had ever used in my short career. 

He threw the newspaper on the back seat, started the car engine, and said, "That's all I wanted to hear. That's all any of us wanted to hear ~ an apology from somebody. I know what we did was wrong and we made it right, but you made it worse than it had to be. You made it all complicated by blowing everything out of proportion. We knew that we would have to pay for the damage and replace the stuff we ruined, but you turned a bunch of drunk guys having fun into a band of criminals who go around destroying personal property. You made it public. You branded us with a label. Plus, you only knew one side of the story. You saw what you wanted to see, and that's what you wrote."

Still fearing an act of retribution, I didn't reply. Actually, all I wanted to see were the four walls of my rental house. Then he broke the awkward silence, as if he read my mind, "You just moved into the Faircloth house about two miles down the road from where I live. Do you want me to drive you home?"

Once again, I was totally spooked. This guy knew where I lived. Had he been watching me? Had he known I was at the party? Had I been attracted to his shiny red sports car as Eve had been to that one taste of temptation? I tried to keep my wits and think like a newspaper editor who had been kidnapped by a spiteful weirdo, so I graciously answered yes.

Neither one of us spoke a word from the pasture to the driveway of the Faircloth house. He listened to his loud rock music, and I looked out the window thinking about what the young man had said. That's all any of us wanted to hear ~ an apology from someone. I repeated the words over and over in my head. Bad judgment usually led to destructive behavior that sometimes yielded a tornadic end. How did I, at the young adult age of 24, wake up to find the pieces of my life strewn all over the place from Mississippi to Florida and back again? How did a bad situation get so blown out of proportion that starting over was never an option? I wondered if I was the one who made it worse than it had to be? Did I complicate matters by seeing only one side of the story? Instead of just cleaning up the debris, one little piece at a time, did I simply seek out someone to blame? And, even as an enterprising editor, had I been the one exposed ~ sensationalized and scandalized like that front page editorial? Was my private life on public display to everyone in the county ~ a frayed existence that I had somehow tried to define as normal? Had I acquired a stench for everyone to smell and a tattoo for everyone to see ~ one that was also labeled 'bad apple'?

What I now consider to be the most comedic punch line for the night’s eye-opening experience was that I actually fabled myself to be some kind of prize ~ a five-foot-nine bottle of fine wine. I thought that this unrefined young man was now the big boy on campus simply because I was the lone passenger in his car, imagining that a night with me must be considered a rare exotic fling. I perceived that he saw a sexy older blonde with a fading Florida tan and a YMCA body in size six Chic jeans. I considered myself fine dining ~ the gourmet appetizer; all the while comparing him to a fast food burger and fries. Now I know that he had only one agenda, and I wasn't even on the menu.

When we finally pulled into the driveway (after what seemed like an eternity), I opened my car door and reached for my purse. That's when I realized I had left my purse and keys in my friend's car. Anyone who knows me at all will laugh out loud at this point in the story. I had no way to get inside the house, so I decided to sit on the front porch swing and wait until my friend returned with my purse. I really didn’t care if I had to sleep there all night; I deserved it. Then, in an unexpected show of kindness, the bad apple offered to climb through a window and unlock the door ~ something I was sure he had done at least once or twice for less than decent reasons.

I should have declined his offer to help. I should have slept on the front porch swing. I should have done everything differently that night.

But I didn't, and my life would never be the same.

To be continued...

Dianne ;)

         

56

A strange thing happened at the library, one month ago yesterday. I made note of the incident and tossed the written account into the tomorrow trunk; however, I continued to ponder about it often. 

On Monday afternoon of this week, a line of storms passed through central Mississippi, knocking out power and thwarting all my plans for a Presidents’ Day housecleaning. I decided that it was time to sit in front of my laptop (my only source of light) and draft a new post ~ after a ten-month hiatus ~ which I am finishing today.

On January 19^th, I answered a call from a lady who wanted to know about a fine notice that her sister had received in the mail.  She gave me the patron’s card number and name. I told the caller that her sister had checked out three movies which had been turned in late on November 16^th. I explained that she received the notice because the fine was sixty days past due.

She then told me that her sister died on December 28^th. Despite a quick catch in my throat, I offered my condolences and an assurance that the branch manager would waive the fine ~ to completely disregard the notice. She said that her sister's death was sudden and unexpected, and that her sister was only 56-years-old.

I hung up the phone and sat expressionless in my desk chair. I had turned 56-years-old on December 28^th.  Even more unsettling, I realized that the 56-year-old patron checked out movies in November and checked out of this world in December ~ on my 56^th birthday! Such a strange coincidence, I thought. I could not shake the phone conversation for the remainder of the afternoon. As I drove home, I glanced at three audio books stacked on the front seat of my car. What if those three audio books were the last items I ever checked out at the library? What if someone called on my behalf ~ turned them in on my behalf? I kept thinking about my date of birth and her date of death…and one number ~ 56.

I never do the whole ‘New Year’s resolution’ thing. It just doesn’t work for me…never has. However, as I pulled into the driveway, I considered that maybe the time had come to pay more attention to the new year and to that strange phone conversation playing over and over inside my head.  56 – dead, sudden and unexpected – on my birthday. My dad will be 90-years-old in September, and my mom will be 84 in October. Clearly, I don't think that much about dying.

I do think of living, of doing, of going, of being. I just love the process of life. This morning, the birds are singing, and the high today is a sunny southern 77 degrees. The storms that passed through on Monday have been replaced with mild temperatures and blue skies. That’s life to me. Storms on Monday; blue skies on Saturday!

This past year, I read or listened to novels and novel series written by author Nora Roberts ~ well, at least every available book in our 20-system library. It took me nine months, like delivering a child ~ bringing new life into my world. I met the Montgomery brothers and the MacKades, and I learned so much about Ireland from the Gallaghers of Ardmore that I could almost touch St. Declan’s Cross. I Googled my little walking man, followed the arrows all through the town of Ardmore, and spent an evening taking in the sights. Thanks to Ms. Roberts, my own life has been enriched by so many fictional families and the real places those families have lived life. With her new series, I just left Greece and I am headed to Italy…as soon as the next book in the series is published this year!

My newest author of choice, Lisa Kleypas, introduced me to the magical world of San Juan Island, Washington, in addition to the high society of the Travis brothers of Houston, Texas. I have never known life in a 18-story penthouse or even seen a Maybach.  During the Christmas holidays, my son and I took a cross-country road trip to Colorado. We traveled through Tulsa, Oklahoma around 1:00 a.m. There was absolutely no traffic on the Muskogee Turnpike; however, I saw dimly-lit rooms on the top floors of the tallest city buildings. Matt concentrated on driving, and I wondered about the lives of the people who resided within those walls. Were they happy? Lonely? Married? Single? Busy or bored? Impulsively, at 1:00 in the morning, I wanted to know what kind of car Gage Travis drove. I searched on my phone for a Maybach, which led me to a picture of the Maybach Exelero that sells for 8 million dollars, which led to one of the most unusual early morning conversations about cars and life with my son.  

I am currently reading a book by Janet Evanovich and Dorian Kelly, and one of the main characters is a successful craft beer brewer. My husband and I both choose to practice teetotalism ~ complete personal abstinence from alcoholic beverages; however, I have become so interested in this industry and the process of creating new beers. Over the years, I have been introduced to people who work in wine-producing vineyards, build the perfect Guinness beer, and drink Jameson Irish whiskey with a twist of lemon. I haven’t consumed a single ounce, but I love being interested in those who do, especially those who do it well.

At 56, I have seen Paris through the eyes of a blind girl. I've visited the fictional town of Mitford ten times and the real town of Blowing Rock once during a fall college break. I've eaten, prayed and loved my way across continents with author Elizabeth Gilbert. I've met a most beloved hotel owner, Pasquale Tursi, in the fictional town of Porto Vergogna ~ a sleepy little coastal village located next Italy's Cinque Terre. And, I recently re-visited a rabbit hole with a girl named Alice. Even my branch manager made this statement to me one day at work.  "If you ever disappear or if someone hasn't heard from you in a couple of days, I will check to see the last book you read to find out where you are." 

At 56, I have started my first Instagram account. As of this date, I haven’t posted a picture, but I follow people who post on a daily basis ~ people who live…really live! I connect everything in life. For me, it’s not about ego; it’s about living. I am such a National Geographic photography devotee, I follow every NatGeo photographer on Instagram ~ even though I have never posted one picture. I follow every underwater photographer I can find, and yet, I have no desire for a first-hand experience. I follow Alaskan photographers, mountain climbers, and world travelers, and I always prefer my quiet back patio with squirrels, birds, and books as my favored companions.

I am so curious about living, not dying. Everything about living is fascinating to me, which is why I am a reader, a student, a disciple. My life as a librarian is simple and commonplace, to be sure; however, I have met hundreds of people from across the centuries and across the sea, through the words, worlds, imaginations, and real lives of others. And yet, the distance from my house to the library is fifteen miles.

56 ~ a birthday for one woman; a burial for another. For one, a cake; for another, a coffin. For one woman, the final day of a cross-country road trip from Colorado; for another, a processional and a farewell trip to a cemetery.

A 56-year-old woman died on my 56^th birthday. She never paid the fines on her late movies. She never even got the notice in the mail. One woman never knew the significance of her 56^th year of life, and another woman learned how significant 56 can be.

The difference between living and dying, the difference between life and death...

Dianne ~ 56