Writer's Island-The Stranger

Once it had been Anna's favorite time of day, this hour just after supper when the sun was settling in behind the stand of pine trees in the western fields, the length of the front porch cast in cool shadow. She would come outside after helping Mama wipe the dishes, pour pitchers of water over the huge ferns swinging gently from the rafters, and settle into the rocking chair, book in hand, ready to read until dusk overtook her page.

Yet ever since Clayton had been gone, Anna's restful evenings on the porch had been spoiled. She felt anxious sitting there, the long dirt road leading from town staring her in the face, the road that might bring an ominous stranger bearing the worst of all possible news.

Eleven months, fourteen days since Clayton left with Harrisburg's First Militia and sailed across the Atlantic to France. Anna smiled sadly, thinking of the dreams she had once harbored about France, her imagination filled with ideas of love and romance. And now, it could be the place where her beloved Clayton lost his life, fighting in this horrible World War that made no sense to her or anyone else in their small town.

Anna glanced nervously at the dusty road, squinting for a moment against the sun's glare. Her imagination was now preoccupied with tales she'd heard of smartly clad soldiers in dress uniform, black armbands adorning their sleeves, soldiers that always came in pairs, politely knocking on your door, hat in hand, to deliver news that would shatter your life forever.

Turning quickly away, Anna grabbed up the heavy glass pitcher that served as a makeshift watering can and hurried down the steps toward the back yard pump."There's no use in thinking about such awful things," she firmly lectured herself. "I just have to believe with all my heart and soul that Clayton will come home safely."

And so it was that Anna remained busy refilling her pitcher, pouring fresh water into each ferns dusty bed, while the sun eased itself lower into the evening sky ~ so busy that she almost didn't see the lonely figure trudging toward her, dressed in the unmistakable khaki colored puttee's that looked so odd on boys barely out of knickers and more accustomed to overalls.

Catching sight of this stranger, Anna literally felt her heart sink, powerless to stop the pitcher as it slipped from her hand, shattering in a million shards of glass on the wooden floorboards. The seconds passed like hours, her gaze fixed on this solitary man coming ever nearer, until the first glimmer of recognition began to dawn.

This lonely figure, thin and long legged, one arm swinging familiarly at his side, the other - wait, the other caught up in a sling!-but there, definitely there, and yes, the shock of blond hair catching the last flicker of sunlight. This was no stranger, she realized. Impossible as it seemed, it was Clayton.

He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of her slender body come flying off the porch, and he continued to stand stock still while she raced over the yard and down the road to meet him, heedless of any rules of grace or propriety, her dark hair unloosened from its pins and streaming in the breeze behind her.

"My God in heaven!" Anna cried, throwing her arms around him, almost pulling back in surprise at the frailty of his body, aware that she could feel every rib as she pressed her own sturdy torso against him, and then pulling him even tighter into her chest, willing him to take strength and sustenance from her.

Clayton's one good arm enfolded her and he buried his face in the fragrant smell of her clean, sun warmed hair. Anna felt a deep shudder pass through him, and she pulled back, raising her eyes to meet his.

And then her heart sank once again.

Staring off into the horizon beyond her were not the bright blue eyes of the boy she had loved and sent sailing off to war, determined to lead the victory charge for freedom. These eyes were empty and dim, filled with nothing at all like hope or pride.

They were the eyes of a stranger after all.


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Writer's Island-Renewal

Treesa cast a critical eye on her reflection, turning sideways to avoid the morning sun pouring into the sewing room.

"You'll never remake this dress to fit me," she said, plucking at the delicate ivory fabric hanging loosely from her slender waist. "It was a stupid idea for me to wear your wedding dress anyway."

Anna managed a gentle "tsk" from around the mouthful of straight pens gripped between her lips. What made her daughter such a worrier? she wondered. Always determined that things wouldn't work out, that nothing would go her way.
Sighing, Anna reached underneath the dress and folded at least two inches of fabric toward the inseams. Such a "skinny minnie", too, picking at her food, turning up her nose at the hearty meals Anna prepared for the family's table.

Of course, with all this food rationing, Anna thought, it's no wonder she's wasting away to nothing. Since the States had entered the war two years ago, Anna was hard pressed to cobble together anything fit to eat. Treesa's delicate appetite had waned even further, faced with dishes like Spam Casserole, Oatmeal Loaf, and boiled beef tongue.

Anna could feel Treesa's impatience as she knelt beside her, lovingly caressing the folds of fabric as she continued to work. She smiled, remembering the excitement with which she and her mother had shaped this gown from yards of satin, the tremble of her mother's hands as she sewed the last of the 100 pearl buttons, the shiver of anticipation Anna had felt as she imagined Andrew unbuttoning each one on their wedding night.

Treesa's deep sigh roused Anna from these pleasant memories.

"Really, Mother," she said, "shouldn't we give up on this once and for all? I'm perfectly happy to wear the floral tea dress I had for Aunt Rose's birthday."

"You will not be married in some garish flowered, short dress!" Anna exclaimed. "I don't care whether it's wartime or not, or that "all the other girls" are doing it. You have the opportunity to wear a perfectly beautiful, traditional wedding gown, and that's what you'll do." She jabbed one last pin roughly into the fabric, offering a silent apology to her precious dress.

"Well, at least get rid of this silly sash," Tressa complained, grabbing a fistful of the pale blue satin ribbon wrapped twice around her waist. "No one would use a sash on their wedding dress in 1943!"

"Fine," Anna muttered, trying not to think about the way Andrew had gently placed the ribbon against her cheek, comparing the delicate blue material to the shade of her eyes. Young people have no appreciation for history, she thought, for tradition, or cherishing the things that matter. Rising from her knees, trying desperately to keep the annoyance from her voice, she released Treesa from her obvious discomfort.

"You can take off the dress now," she said, smoothing her red serge skirt and tucking a pincushion into the pocket of her apron. "I'll have to start work on it right after dinner if there's to be any chance of finishing it by Saturday."

Anna glanced at her daughter, who continued to stand motionless before the mirror. The sun had shifted slightly, leaving the girl standing in the midst of one solitary ray, as if a spotlight were shining directly from heaven, setting her auburn hair alight with sparks of reddish flame, illuminating the satin where it lay in gentle folds.

Tears jumped into Anna's eyes-such a beautiful girl was her Mary Teresa, she thought, catching her breath. About to start a new life with a young solider off to war, embark on a future that held only God knew what. Could wearing this dress bring her the kind of love Anna had felt for her Andrew, a love that would ignite a spark of light and happiness into those dark, shadowy eyes?

At last Treesa turned from the mirror, meeting her mother's teary gaze. "You know," she said, smiling slightly, "perhaps there's still some life in this dress after all."

Anna grinned, briskly wiping a tear from her cheek. "There most certainly is," she agreed. "Plenty of new life to go around!"






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Writer's Island-The Key

"What key are we in?" the musician will ask, inquiring about the tonality of the piece of music she's preparing to play. For singers, the key is vital, because it will determine whether the notes are too high or too low for the voice to produce. As a pianist, I'm also interested in key - music in certain keys has more "accidentals" than others, notes that have to be changed from the normal progression.

Most musicians have their "favorite keys." Personally, I like the major flat keys, especially D flat. My fingers seem to naturally fit into that five flat pattern, and the tonality is especially pleasing to me, rich and full, with just a hint of melancholy.

Of course, it's not difficult to see the corollary between life in general and a musician's relationship with key. We all have certain patterns that best fit our moods, our inclinations, our desires. For some, life in C major, the simplest, most efficient of all keys, is perfect. While others thrive on life in g-sharp minor, with every key an accidental at least once (and don't even ask me to explain double-sharping!)

Not surprisingly, I prefer my life to be similar to my favorite key. D flat major falls just slightly above "easy", and is slipping toward challenging on the scale. Tonally, it's pleasant, yet interesting, evocative yet accessible. And, as Goldilocks would say, it fits me "just right."

Perhaps the key to happiness then, is identifying that "just right" tonality for your life. Naturally it's fun to experiment with other keys once in a while. I've gotten great satisfaction from mastering a piece in the key of C flat major, even though my brain felt like it was solving one long algebraic equation the entire time I was playing it!

But I'm always happiest when I return to the "tonic" - home base, in musical terms. After spending the day meandering through life, like a jazz pianist will wander from key to key, following some wild, unexpected path so far from where he originally began, I'm comforted to find my way home, and let those odd chord progressions resolve into my own natural tonic "do". The place that feels just right to my fingers and to my heart.



more keys are available on writer's island

Writer's Island - The Gift

"Everyone is gifted - but some people never open their package." Unknown

Gifts - what else can I write about, except the abundance of them in my life? Anything less seems churlish and ungrateful, as if I'm embarrassed by the surfeit of riches piled in this package I've been opening for the past 51 years. A family that cherishes me, a husband who supports me in every possible way, a son who has grown up well and strong with a family of his own to love ~ a wealth of gifts indeed.

In truth, I wonder sometimes whether I deserve them when the world around me is rife with suffering and want. How-and why-have I been so "gifted"? And I try to remain properly grateful, in the hopes that my acknowledgement of good fortune will keep me safely encsonced in its favor a just a while longer.

Of all my good gifts, perhaps the one that is most key, most valuable and cherished, is the gift of my mind, my memory, my ability to read and write and reflect. It is this particular package that I open so gratefully each time I turn the pages of a book, sit at the piano to play, pick up a pen to write, open my mouth to speak. Because I have seen first hand what it means to lose this gift, in this terrible stealthy disease that's sweeping the nation and robbing thousands of people each day of their memories and thoughts.

"A mind is a terrible thing to waste." This slogan for the National Negro College Fund bears truth for the entire human race. "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most," is another humorous version, seen on greeting cards and refrigerator magnets. It brings a smile, but, in reality it is far from funny.

The gift of thought- it's priceless. I hope I'm putting mine to good use.

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