by Donna Poole
Squeak…bang! The sound didn’t bother me at all. It barely registered. I was half awake and daydreaming in my reclining camping chair. My book lay upside down on my stomach and my eyes were half closed. I was reading the leaf patterns, ever changing in the lazy breeze, and the cloud formations drifting by in the bluest of skies. They had a lot to say that late summer day. And I was listening to one of my favorite bands. Perhaps you’ve heard of them; they go by the name “Late Summer Sounds.” That day they were playing their theme song, the one they’re famous for, with the rising crescendo of cicadas, the chirping of crickets, and the muted songs of the few birds not yet flown south.
Squeak…bang! I heard it again. Another camper was disposing of garbage in the bin not far from our campsite.
The sun was warm on my face; I knew I should move into the shade, and I would. In a few more minutes. Just not yet. The breeze felt cool from the north where the corn grew tall, and its sweet scent perfumed my perfect day. I stretched and yawned; I could stay here forever, curled up in the sun like a lazy house cat. I could grow whiskers. I could be a perfectly contented hermit, me, my books, and this chair, eternally happy with my solitude and time to think.
Except I couldn’t. Sooner or later, it would rain or snow. I’d run out of clean clothes to wear and food to eat. I’d have a doctor’s appointment to keep. I suppose eventually friends or family would miss me, come looking, end my sunny solitude, and drag me kicking and screaming back to the real world.
Oh, my fur and whiskers, as one of our cats is fond of saying, here comes a person looking for me already. And he has questions.
“Whatcha reading, honey?”
“Leaves and Sky.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard you talk about that book before. Is it any good?”
“The best.”
“Oh.” Short silence. “Want to come in the camper and get some lunch?”
“Not really. I was just thinking, Life is too crazy busy at home. Someone always needs me for something. I want to stay in this chair forever and become a hermit or maybe a cat. Either way I could grow whiskers.”
“What? Are you worrying about those two hairs that grow on your chin again? They’re so light I can hardly see them.”
“But suppose I stayed here forever and never changed my clothes or did laundry and grew a whole chin full of whiskers. Would you still love me if I became a hermit?”
“I’d have to love you from a distance. A hermit is a person who lives in solitude.”
“I’d miss you. What if we both became two hermits and lived here together forever?
“Then we’d miss all our kids, our grandkids, and our friends. And there are people at home in our real life who need us. Besides, if we both stay here together, that would make two of us, so we wouldn’t be hermits.”
“Well, there goes another dream. I guess I couldn’t grow enough whiskers to look like much of a hermit anyway.”
“If you’re not going to be a hermit, do you want to come in the camper and get some lunch?”
“How about if you fix lunch? I’ll take out the trash.”
“Okay. Be careful you don’t fall.”
I gathered the trash out of the camper and the truck, and then my cane and I walked the short distance to the trash bin. Squeak…the lid opened, and I tossed in the trash. Bang! The lid came down with a satisfying crash.
The wind picked up from the north, and I rubbed my arms and shivered. Thanksgiving and Christmas were just around a few corners, family occasions if ever there were such things. I pictured our big family gathered around tables in our home, and I smiled. Then my cane and I headed back to the camper where a sweet older man was making lunch and waiting for me.
The end of a partly fiction tale.
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
