Author's Note: See Chapter 1 for disclaimer.
* * * * * THE TALE OF MARIAN
CHAPTER 4 - A CHOICE OF WEAPONS*
20 August
I have not written in a diary since I was in high school. Diaries
seem so juvenile and trivial. Besides, who has the time? Days,
weeks, months pass by so quickly now that time seems to carry me along
like a runaway train. I worry sometimes that I will reach my final
destination without knowing how I got there or why, or where I might
have gone instead. Will I even notice which direction I am heading in,
or recognize when I could or should have switched tracks?
I don't believe in fate, exactly. I don't believe that I was meant
from birth to be a relatively good architect with a wonderful husband
and two terrific children. I don't believe it was pre-ordained that
my husband should die at 5:30 pm on a particular Friday exactly six
years ago yesterday in a stupid, needless rush-hour traffic accident,
or that my particular train is rushing uncontrollably toward a
specific date, time and place that I am going to die and that no
matter what I do I can't change it's direction.
What I do believe is that each one of us is uniquely special (though I
look at some people and wonder why); that the choices that each of us
make in life and the lessons we learn, no matter how small, are
somehow immensely important. I believe there is a reason we're here
on this earth, and that God has some huge universal plan, some pattern
that includes us all. It's just way, way too big for any of us to
see. Life is full of so many possibilities. We each make our own
path and do the best we know how. Instead of screwing things up for
each other and for those to come after us, we can do our best to make
things better along the way.
Looking in the mirror, I ask myself why I didn't have a midlife crisis
at 40 like we are all supposed to. I think I was just too damn busy
to indulge myself. Now, at 45 years old I don't look or feel too bad.
Not hot, mind you, but not at all bad. Jason says I look 38 and I
choose to believe him.
I don't know what I want anymore, only that I want. I don't want to
be famous, I just want, I suppose, to do something of value. I want
to be valued. My dear husband is gone (how I miss his strong warm
arms around me, sometimes so much I don't think I can bear it), my two
daughters, grown. I have the house still, and the dog. I can make
any choices I want to. I feel I am at a turning point, but I don't
know which way to turn. What better place from which to begin again,
I think, than by going home?
I've managed three weeks, my entire vacation time for the year. I
hope it's long enough. I'm glad Jason talked me out of quitting for
now - I won't have the worries of looming unemployment to distract me.
I am taking a journey of the soul, not just of the mind and body, and
this will be my journal.
* * * * *
21 August
The car is almost packed now, with what little I am taking. Jason is
finishing for me, outside, with Bruno. Bruno was my kids' dog, before
they left home, and I am stuck with him and his name, which fits him.
He is a big, dumb, light brown brute of an Akita with a dark brown
nose and ears, who looks for all the world like a big, sweet, cuddly
teddy bear with a perpetual grin. He is sweet to me, but would just
as soon bite someone else as drool at them. I keep him on a leash so
he won't eat small children and animals. Jason is the only person he
will tolerate being around me. Bruno and Jason have an understanding,
some sort of silent wavelength that I am not privy to.
Jason says that people go out into the wilderness for one of two
reasons: to get away from other people for some peace and solitude;
or to do unspeakable things that they can't do with other people
around. He insists therefore that the dumb dog go with me. If I
insist on being idiot enough to wander out in the woods by myself, he
admonishes, at least Bruno will be there to protect me. I'm not
thrilled with the idea of being dragged around by a big dog for three
weeks, but it will be better than carrying a gun or a knife that could
easily be used against me, since I'm no good with them. Most of my
fellow architects are pacifists about this kind of thing, I have
found. We build things, we don't break things.
I look out the window at them and laugh. Jason is squatting down at
Bruno's eye level and seems to be giving him last-minute instructions.
Bruno is listening intently, his bear-ears perked up and his
corkscrew tail wagging, grinning.
I don't know what I would do without Jason. He came into the office
not long after Kevin, my husband, died, and instantly started arguing
with me. We enjoyed it so much I don't think we've stopped arguing
since.
Jason is a terribly sweet and thoughtful man, with a deep inner
strength, assurance and intelligence that peeks through his veneer of
shallow, narcissistic bullshit on occasion. I don't think he wants
people to take him, or life, too seriously; that might ruin all the
fun. He is also one of the most beautiful men I have ever met; not
just handsome, but beautiful, like the chiseled features of a statue
of a Greek god would be if it could. And, the only good-looking
blond that I would ever trust. He is tall and lithe, with long,
thick, shiny hair that I would kill for. There are very, very few men
that look good with long hair, and even then I think it makes them
look less than manly. But on Jason, it only serves to accentuate his
sublime masculinity.
I don't know why I'm not in love with him. Maybe he's too pretty.
Maybe it's because he practically worships women, and women know it.
He loves freedom, variety, and excitement. I am not exciting. I like
stability, and I am very possessive. We complement each other
perfectly in friendship - in romance we would be a disaster.
Jason tries to convince me that I have him wrapped around my little
finger, but I know that it is the other way around. Take this
vacation, for example. I went into the sporting goods store with
Jason to help him pick out a daypack. How I came out instead with a
top-of-the-line frameless backpack, teeny-tiny backwoods stove, water
tablets, dehydrated food, a dog pack, and a compass/cellphone/GSP
thing-a-majig with a 1/2" thick instruction booklet that I will never
read or hope to understand, and that blew half of my credit card
balance, I will never know. Luckily I had a sleeping bag, boots, and
other necessities, or I would be completely broke. I am now ready to
embark upon a three-week hiking trip that I hadn't even planned on. I
am not easily manipulated - he is the only one who can mess with me
like this and get away with it.
* * * * *
I stood up with relief as Marian came down the steps and onto the gravel driveway, carrying another roll of toilet paper and snatching a grape from a tightly packed blue cluster on one of the heavily laden vines that marched up the hill above the house and popping it in her mouth.
Finally! I almost let myself think for a moment that Marian was about to change her mind about going, she was in the house for so long. But I shouldn't have worried - once Marian had set her mind to something there was no stopping her. She was no lightning bolt, but she was single-minded and persistent, like the ocean beating the rocks into sand on the shore. She could drive you crazy.
"Jason, are you sure you'll call and remind Frank to come check on these soon? They might be ready before I get back ."
"Don't worry Marian, I'll call him. You know Frank won't let a windfall of free Zinfandel go to waste."
"Just as long as we get a free case of it next year. Thank you Jason, I don't know why you bother with me." She looked me up and down wistfully. "I'm going to miss you. Come here and give me a big hug - but watch where you put those hands."
I gave Marian a big bear hug, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around in circles, my hands in very respectful places. I can behave when I want to, which isn't often. The sound of her laughter echoing off the hot, dry hills made me turn rather protective all of a sudden. But that didn't keep me from pinching her derriere when I set her down.
"And where, exactly, are you going to fit that in?" I asked her in mock disbelief, staring first at her crammed backpack and then at the additional toilet paper.
"This," she claimed, waving it in my face, "is a symbol of civilization and the one comfort of home I will not, repeat not, run out of. I will fit it in if I have to leave food and clothing behind."
"How about leaving the bottle of wine instead," I teased. "It must weigh at least two pounds."
"You've been snooping in my pack again," she accused, and got in the car. I led Bruno around to where she had spread towels on the back seat. Not being used to such a treat, he promptly jumped in, taking up most of the back of the car, sniffing and drooling, then scrambled into the front and laid down, planting his front paws and head directly in front of the wheel in Marian's face. I grabbed his leash and directed him into the back seat again, telling him to stay. He stayed, for the moment.
Marian looked at me accusingly again, and lectured me in no uncertain terms that her car would never be the same again. If I heard that she had run off the road in a single car accident, I would know why; if there were any "accidents" inside her car, she would bag them and mail them to me. I told her that I couldn't help it if she didn't know how to train a dog. She breathed in deeply and opened her mouth again, but before she could launch into the argument properly, I took my ring off and closed her hand around it, leaving her with her mouth still open, but no words coming out. Ha!
"I hope this isn't a proposal," she finally managed, staring at the silvery object in her hand. It had been passed down to me from my grandmother. It was at once strong yet delicate, a wide band of intertwining leaves and flowers, with tiny gems at the centers of the petals. Marian knew it was a treasured possession.
I groaned. "It's a loan, for good luck. Think of it as. . . . an amulet of sorts. Have fun but be alert, Marian, at least until you get three or four days up into the forest. Then you'll be fine."
"I WILL be fine, Jason, and thank you, I'll take good care of it," she said, placing it on the chain around her neck and looking at me like she was humoring me. "Keep Ed in line for me. Au revoir."
"Until we meet again," I repeated.
". . . . . .in three weeks!" she called out, waving as she left.
"Maybe, my Marian," I whispered.
So, off she coasted out of the gravel driveway, curling up the hill, the dust in her wake stained pink with the sunrise, and a big dog climbing into the front seat - headed for the Pacific, headed home to the redwoods. That screensaver I had given her for her birthday had paid off nicely, I thought.
* * * * *
*A CHOICE OF WEAPONS, a poem by Stanley Kunitz
* * * * * THE TALE OF MARIAN
CHAPTER 4 - A CHOICE OF WEAPONS*
20 August
I have not written in a diary since I was in high school. Diaries
seem so juvenile and trivial. Besides, who has the time? Days,
weeks, months pass by so quickly now that time seems to carry me along
like a runaway train. I worry sometimes that I will reach my final
destination without knowing how I got there or why, or where I might
have gone instead. Will I even notice which direction I am heading in,
or recognize when I could or should have switched tracks?
I don't believe in fate, exactly. I don't believe that I was meant
from birth to be a relatively good architect with a wonderful husband
and two terrific children. I don't believe it was pre-ordained that
my husband should die at 5:30 pm on a particular Friday exactly six
years ago yesterday in a stupid, needless rush-hour traffic accident,
or that my particular train is rushing uncontrollably toward a
specific date, time and place that I am going to die and that no
matter what I do I can't change it's direction.
What I do believe is that each one of us is uniquely special (though I
look at some people and wonder why); that the choices that each of us
make in life and the lessons we learn, no matter how small, are
somehow immensely important. I believe there is a reason we're here
on this earth, and that God has some huge universal plan, some pattern
that includes us all. It's just way, way too big for any of us to
see. Life is full of so many possibilities. We each make our own
path and do the best we know how. Instead of screwing things up for
each other and for those to come after us, we can do our best to make
things better along the way.
Looking in the mirror, I ask myself why I didn't have a midlife crisis
at 40 like we are all supposed to. I think I was just too damn busy
to indulge myself. Now, at 45 years old I don't look or feel too bad.
Not hot, mind you, but not at all bad. Jason says I look 38 and I
choose to believe him.
I don't know what I want anymore, only that I want. I don't want to
be famous, I just want, I suppose, to do something of value. I want
to be valued. My dear husband is gone (how I miss his strong warm
arms around me, sometimes so much I don't think I can bear it), my two
daughters, grown. I have the house still, and the dog. I can make
any choices I want to. I feel I am at a turning point, but I don't
know which way to turn. What better place from which to begin again,
I think, than by going home?
I've managed three weeks, my entire vacation time for the year. I
hope it's long enough. I'm glad Jason talked me out of quitting for
now - I won't have the worries of looming unemployment to distract me.
I am taking a journey of the soul, not just of the mind and body, and
this will be my journal.
* * * * *
21 August
The car is almost packed now, with what little I am taking. Jason is
finishing for me, outside, with Bruno. Bruno was my kids' dog, before
they left home, and I am stuck with him and his name, which fits him.
He is a big, dumb, light brown brute of an Akita with a dark brown
nose and ears, who looks for all the world like a big, sweet, cuddly
teddy bear with a perpetual grin. He is sweet to me, but would just
as soon bite someone else as drool at them. I keep him on a leash so
he won't eat small children and animals. Jason is the only person he
will tolerate being around me. Bruno and Jason have an understanding,
some sort of silent wavelength that I am not privy to.
Jason says that people go out into the wilderness for one of two
reasons: to get away from other people for some peace and solitude;
or to do unspeakable things that they can't do with other people
around. He insists therefore that the dumb dog go with me. If I
insist on being idiot enough to wander out in the woods by myself, he
admonishes, at least Bruno will be there to protect me. I'm not
thrilled with the idea of being dragged around by a big dog for three
weeks, but it will be better than carrying a gun or a knife that could
easily be used against me, since I'm no good with them. Most of my
fellow architects are pacifists about this kind of thing, I have
found. We build things, we don't break things.
I look out the window at them and laugh. Jason is squatting down at
Bruno's eye level and seems to be giving him last-minute instructions.
Bruno is listening intently, his bear-ears perked up and his
corkscrew tail wagging, grinning.
I don't know what I would do without Jason. He came into the office
not long after Kevin, my husband, died, and instantly started arguing
with me. We enjoyed it so much I don't think we've stopped arguing
since.
Jason is a terribly sweet and thoughtful man, with a deep inner
strength, assurance and intelligence that peeks through his veneer of
shallow, narcissistic bullshit on occasion. I don't think he wants
people to take him, or life, too seriously; that might ruin all the
fun. He is also one of the most beautiful men I have ever met; not
just handsome, but beautiful, like the chiseled features of a statue
of a Greek god would be if it could. And, the only good-looking
blond that I would ever trust. He is tall and lithe, with long,
thick, shiny hair that I would kill for. There are very, very few men
that look good with long hair, and even then I think it makes them
look less than manly. But on Jason, it only serves to accentuate his
sublime masculinity.
I don't know why I'm not in love with him. Maybe he's too pretty.
Maybe it's because he practically worships women, and women know it.
He loves freedom, variety, and excitement. I am not exciting. I like
stability, and I am very possessive. We complement each other
perfectly in friendship - in romance we would be a disaster.
Jason tries to convince me that I have him wrapped around my little
finger, but I know that it is the other way around. Take this
vacation, for example. I went into the sporting goods store with
Jason to help him pick out a daypack. How I came out instead with a
top-of-the-line frameless backpack, teeny-tiny backwoods stove, water
tablets, dehydrated food, a dog pack, and a compass/cellphone/GSP
thing-a-majig with a 1/2" thick instruction booklet that I will never
read or hope to understand, and that blew half of my credit card
balance, I will never know. Luckily I had a sleeping bag, boots, and
other necessities, or I would be completely broke. I am now ready to
embark upon a three-week hiking trip that I hadn't even planned on. I
am not easily manipulated - he is the only one who can mess with me
like this and get away with it.
* * * * *
I stood up with relief as Marian came down the steps and onto the gravel driveway, carrying another roll of toilet paper and snatching a grape from a tightly packed blue cluster on one of the heavily laden vines that marched up the hill above the house and popping it in her mouth.
Finally! I almost let myself think for a moment that Marian was about to change her mind about going, she was in the house for so long. But I shouldn't have worried - once Marian had set her mind to something there was no stopping her. She was no lightning bolt, but she was single-minded and persistent, like the ocean beating the rocks into sand on the shore. She could drive you crazy.
"Jason, are you sure you'll call and remind Frank to come check on these soon? They might be ready before I get back ."
"Don't worry Marian, I'll call him. You know Frank won't let a windfall of free Zinfandel go to waste."
"Just as long as we get a free case of it next year. Thank you Jason, I don't know why you bother with me." She looked me up and down wistfully. "I'm going to miss you. Come here and give me a big hug - but watch where you put those hands."
I gave Marian a big bear hug, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around in circles, my hands in very respectful places. I can behave when I want to, which isn't often. The sound of her laughter echoing off the hot, dry hills made me turn rather protective all of a sudden. But that didn't keep me from pinching her derriere when I set her down.
"And where, exactly, are you going to fit that in?" I asked her in mock disbelief, staring first at her crammed backpack and then at the additional toilet paper.
"This," she claimed, waving it in my face, "is a symbol of civilization and the one comfort of home I will not, repeat not, run out of. I will fit it in if I have to leave food and clothing behind."
"How about leaving the bottle of wine instead," I teased. "It must weigh at least two pounds."
"You've been snooping in my pack again," she accused, and got in the car. I led Bruno around to where she had spread towels on the back seat. Not being used to such a treat, he promptly jumped in, taking up most of the back of the car, sniffing and drooling, then scrambled into the front and laid down, planting his front paws and head directly in front of the wheel in Marian's face. I grabbed his leash and directed him into the back seat again, telling him to stay. He stayed, for the moment.
Marian looked at me accusingly again, and lectured me in no uncertain terms that her car would never be the same again. If I heard that she had run off the road in a single car accident, I would know why; if there were any "accidents" inside her car, she would bag them and mail them to me. I told her that I couldn't help it if she didn't know how to train a dog. She breathed in deeply and opened her mouth again, but before she could launch into the argument properly, I took my ring off and closed her hand around it, leaving her with her mouth still open, but no words coming out. Ha!
"I hope this isn't a proposal," she finally managed, staring at the silvery object in her hand. It had been passed down to me from my grandmother. It was at once strong yet delicate, a wide band of intertwining leaves and flowers, with tiny gems at the centers of the petals. Marian knew it was a treasured possession.
I groaned. "It's a loan, for good luck. Think of it as. . . . an amulet of sorts. Have fun but be alert, Marian, at least until you get three or four days up into the forest. Then you'll be fine."
"I WILL be fine, Jason, and thank you, I'll take good care of it," she said, placing it on the chain around her neck and looking at me like she was humoring me. "Keep Ed in line for me. Au revoir."
"Until we meet again," I repeated.
". . . . . .in three weeks!" she called out, waving as she left.
"Maybe, my Marian," I whispered.
So, off she coasted out of the gravel driveway, curling up the hill, the dust in her wake stained pink with the sunrise, and a big dog climbing into the front seat - headed for the Pacific, headed home to the redwoods. That screensaver I had given her for her birthday had paid off nicely, I thought.
* * * * *
*A CHOICE OF WEAPONS, a poem by Stanley Kunitz