My dad was always called by his middle name, Dale.  Yet, he was known by another name in print and sometimes even in conversation – H. Dale.  I don’t know how many people ever asked him what his first initial H stood for, but one person’s interpretation of it provided the title for one of my favorite cakes and a story from my childhood that I annually revisit by making that cake.

Martha, a farmer’s wife, lived back in the hills on a goat farm.  Her face was round and dark brown eyes watched from behind her glasses.  Soft, white hair covered the top of her head and her movements were quick and efficient.  She was strong and self-sufficient and a smile always played around the corners of her mouth.  On occasional Sunday afternoons my dad would accept the invitation to bring his family to join Martha and her husband for Sunday dinner.  By the time we arrived, Martha had fried mountains of freshly cut up chicken, was ready to mash the potatoes, and had just taken out of the oven the cake that always met us on these visits.  From the produce of her own land she put into the cake apples, black walnuts, eggs, and “figs” made from Roma tomatoes grown in her garden and dehydrated on sheets of paper underneath her kitchen sink.  This cake was baked with ground cinnamon, allspice, and cloves – the perfect autumn apple cake.  She made it especially for my dad and developed a moniker to suit the occasion.  She called it Hurry Dale Cake – because she said he was always in a hurry.  Yet, on those sunny afternoons, he was anything but in a hurry; happy might have been a better name for the cake.  Sometimes before the meal I helped by picking and shelling sweet peas from the garden, but we children pretty much were called upon to stay out from under foot of Martha and my mother as they finished preparing the meal.  Afterwards, we each took a wedge of that spicy apple cake and went exploring, following the sounds of the bells tied around the goats’ necks, dipping our feet into the icy creek water that encircled the farm, climbing the rocks and hills like the goats who led us on our merry chase.  When we returned to the house for more cake, or perhaps some of Martha’s home-made horehound candy, we’d see our parents uncharacteristically relaxed, resting in the cool, lengthening shadows inside the house, enjoying the hospitality of their two very special hosts.  No telephone.  No television.  Just the richness of kindhearted generosity spilling out of two very large hearts too small to contain all of the love they shared with each other.

I sometimes feel that I live a million light years away from my childhood home.  It’s silly to think that way about a place that is more about a time in my mind than a location on a map.  I can cross the distance that separates me physically from that place within a matter of a few hours, but it is not the same.  Still, I go there to remember the way life should be, the way I thought it was, the way I experienced it, the way I want it to be.  Every year I make a Hurry Dale Cake in the fall and bring to life again the joy of those Sunday afternoons.  That cake is very nearly like the accident of something sacramental that, by the anamnesis of this ritual baking, imparts the same grace bestowed upon me and my family as the sharing of it from the bounty of Martha’s goodness those long years ago.

HURRY DALE CAKE

Preheat oven to 350

Ingredients—

2 cups peeled and diced apples

1 cup granulated sugar

1 and ½ cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

¼ teaspoon allspice

¼ teaspoon ground cloves

½ teaspoon salt

1 egg

½ cup cooking oil

In a bowl, cover apples with sugar.  Set aside until syrup forms.  In another bowl, sift the dry ingredients.  Blend the egg and cooking oil and add to the apples.  Stir in the dry ingredients until thoroughly blended.  Pour into oiled 8-inch square pan.  Bake for 30 minutes.  Vary by adding nuts, raisins, dates, figs, coconut, etc., to your taste.

NOTES:  I use cut up dried figs or when I don’t have them prunes.  I substitute pecans for the walnuts.  I am very generous with the spices and highly recommend Vietnamese cinnamon for a robust flavor.  You may frost this cake, but I find it quite sweet enough without any toppings. I like to make ahead, cut into squares, and individually wrap in plastic wrap to preserve moistness.

Sara got up at her usual time that morning.  She wrapped herself in her cozy chenille bathrobe and padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen.  To her delight, sunlight was already just visible in the eastern windows of her kitchen.  There it was:  her touchstone, her benchmark, her favorite celestial body, the beautiful burning ball that lighted her days and illuminated her thoughts.  The sky was clear this morning so perhaps, she thought, this would be a sunny day after all.  After several days of spring rainstorms, Sara was ready for a respite from the dreary weather and the emotional pall it seemed to have cast over her life.  Once the sun ascended above the horizon, she knew how quickly it would complete its overhead arc in the sky and vanish beneath the blaze of sunset on the other side of the day.  Never so much as in the morning was she assured of the dependable passage of time.  And, no matter how dramatically everything else on her personal landscape changed, Sara was always confidently assured of the steady march of time, led by the sun, with the moon and stars following in their courses, never turning back or changing direction or stopping.  Once the morning arrived, too soon it would be over, and a day lasted such a few hours before yielding to the night which, however interminable it sometimes seemed, would eventually be gone just as certainly as the preceding day.  This structural underpinning of time provided all that Sara needed to remain grounded in the midst of unsettled and often turbulent circumstances.  The coming and going of day and night, light and dark, was the ideal of constancy upon which she modeled her character and fantasized a paradisiacal world.  For someone like Sara, whose relationship entanglements seemed always to have kept her busily rearranging her life in order to react quickly to the changes brought about by someone else, the constant passage of time was ideal in its reliable perfection.  Sara had an inner yearning to find the thing that she did perfectly well and could persevere in, in spite of changing circumstances, like the predictable sequence of day following night – nothing more or less than just what it was and had always been and would ever be.

She opened the French doors and felt a cool breeze filter through the screen doors, softly rearranging her hair that, after a night of troubled sleep, was still standing up in all directions over her head like a curly, grey dandelion.  Pausing in the open doors she listened to a cacophony of birdsong and hesitated to move for fear of missing this perfect moment.  Sara glanced at the clock on the wall.  It did not say, “The perfect moment,” or “The best part of the day.”  The calendar on her refrigerator did not say, “Day full of foreboding,” or “Day of wish fulfillment.”  Sara was surprised that in this moment she felt no concern for the day that lay ahead or, beyond that, for her all-too uncertain future.  The stillness of the air seemed to be settling her with a calm peacefulness in the present moment:  no expectations, no responsibilities, no outcomes or probabilities, no fears, no hopes, no plans, nothing but just the awareness of herself in a moment of only being in her place with everything else in its place around her.  Like geese flying in formation across the sky, she thought, recalling the lines of a poem she once read.  Sara allowed herself to remain in the open doors just a little longer, not really savoring the moment, but just being in it, until the irresistible idea of coffee settled into her brain and then the idea of its intoxicating aroma pulled her back in the direction of the kitchen and to the undeniable reality of the day.

Sara filled the hot water kettle and plugged it in, fitted a fresh filter in her chemex, and reached for the coffee grinder.  That’s when she saw the box on the floor.  Oh.  The Box.  After nearly a lifetime of working for the same company, Sara’s position had been eliminated just the day before.  This was her first morning, her first day of unemployment in 40 years.  To add insult to injury, her employer had given her the news on the exact date of her 40^th anniversary of employment, and without even so much as the chance to say goodbye to the few coworkers in the office that she might have wanted to bid farewell.  It was a management decision, executed by a young supervisor 25 years her junior who had been sent on his bloody errand by his boss, Hank, a man that Sara had considered a friend and colleague within the hierarchy of the organization.  Hank and Sara had both been with the company about the same number of years and had been watching with increasing concern as the owners surgically whittled away at the workforce with the most seniority.  In some ways it was incredulous to Sara that just a short 12 hours or so earlier she had been in her office, numbly packing things into The Box that had now taken up residence on her kitchen floor. Sara recalled many scenes in recent months when she had been the bearer of just such tidings of bad news, sent by Hank to deliver separation notices to coworkers.  Typically, with key management personnel or employees in positions of critical sensitivity to the company, the owners allowed no advance notice at all, severing them like limbs from a tree instantly.  This was the best way to make sure that there were no high-level snafus engineered by disgruntled former employees as parting shots before they and their Boxes were escorted to their cars.  At least she could take small comfort in her inclusion within this circle of elite, not being officially on that level of the organizational chart.  In a twisted sort of way, Sara felt her similar treatment was, in that respect, an acknowledgment of her years of service and importance.

She stood at the kitchen sink and looked over her shoulder at The Box on the floor.  The fledgling angel of death had not watched her very closely while she filled The Box, so he was not aware of the things that Sara had taken.  Whatever was she going to do with those things, now?  This must be similar to when a bereaved spouse has to go through closets and dresser drawers, picking through the lifeless bits and remnants of a lost love.  Thankfully, she had never kept personal belongings in her office, so the things she took were just about as meaningless as her 40 years of loyal service that were dismissed without recognition or reward, not even a kind word of thanks.  How could anything in The Box give her joy or comfort now?  The lid was taped shut and Sara looked at it with disgust.  She wished that she had never brought it home.  In the sanctuary of her home, it was an intruder from an alien world.  It symbolized a Pandora’s Box full of ills, shut up with packing tape against the possibility of being released into the safe nest of her home.

Sara recalled that while filling The Box she had mentally ticked off an unseen list of actions that she knew had been set into motion just beyond her office door.  She knew that she had already sent her last email from her company account, for no doubt the IS manager had watched until he saw the death angel enter Sara’s office and then cut off all her rights to the network and email system.  Protocols were in place that Sara had helped to design to safeguard the company’s assets – of which Sara had been proud to be numbered until the visitation from on high and the dreaded appearance of the dreaded empty Box.  Sara didn’t need to hear the speech, she already knew it by heart, but she was cooperative and listened anyway as he explained that her position had been eliminated and after two days she would be in receipt of a package of materials containing severance agreements and payoffs, if applicable, for her to review and sign.  He had no shred of dignity to offer her except to say that he would wait outside while she packed her things in The Box before walking her to her car.  Sara surrendered her keys and knew that even as she exited the building, locks would be changed, her voicemail box would be deleted, her emails scoured and purged, her office would be “cleaned” in a routine search of any incriminating evidence, and passwords would be updated. There would be an emailed notice sent to all employees informing them of her sudden departure, written in creatively vague terminology to make it seem as if it might have been Sara’s idea to leave, and wishing her well in her future endeavors – although she would never see that email or read those wishes.  At some point, she would be counseled by the HR manager – Hank – to seek legal advice before signing anything and she would be reminded on paper and through other communications that the company had the right to terminate her employment, as no contract existed between herself and the company.

Sara knew from watching this same scenario happen to others that resistance was futile.  Before her, many had tried and all had failed.  Although this was the worst possible time in her life to lose her job, Sara knew that there was no choice but to be cooperative.  At least, she thought out loud, I have my health.  Hearing her own voice jolted her back to reality, away from the fantastical graveyard specters of her imagination, their bony, long fingers reaching for her throat.  Instinctively, Sara looked up at the wall cabinets above her head and gently knocked on the nearest wooden door.  For the first time in her life, Sara felt fragile, vulnerable to the capricious whims of fate – and viruses and accidents and insults and unpredictable harms.  Any number of surprises, both good and bad, could be waiting just around the corner to catch her off guard.  Reaching for her bottle of multi-vitamins, she drew in a long breath, vowing, as she did, not to fall prey to adverse wish fulfillment.

On the exhale of that breath, it seemed that her immediate surroundings were flooded with the enormity of the change of her situation.  She stood there almost as if hallucinating, seeing a complicated web of problems displayed before her eyes.  What to do first, whom to tell, where to go, the complexity of it all seemed impossible to navigate and endless because all of the relevant questions appeared tied to so many other questions that the unraveling of it all compared to an impossibly knotted tangle of yarn.  If only it were yarn, then well might she just take a pair of scissors and snip out all the tangled bits, hoping to leave behind salvageable, meaningful lengths that on their own could be resolved and then reconnected into a more orderly outcome. She noticed her breaths were rapid and shallow, distanced as she had become from that overall sense of peace and calm she had earlier enjoyed.  How quickly things can change, she thought, and the distraction of this observation was just enough to remove her from the brink of despair.  Sara decided to table the thought processes required to address the overwhelming list of challenges.  It seemed like the ultimate luxury for her to make the choice to put off dealing with sudden joblessness – in whole or in its innumerable parts.  She laughed out loud at the prospect of not meeting problems head-on for the first time in her life; but, instead, diffusing their anxiety-producing power by simply eliminating them from the equation of her day.  What if she should do such a thing?  So what?  If things turned out badly, then tomorrow when the sun rose again, she would simply have one more in an incomprehensible number of issues to manage.  And, in the overall scheme of things, what’s one more?  Maybe that would be just the added ingredient to change things for the better, tip the balance in her favor.

Perhaps she was just too overwhelmed, or maybe in a state of shock.  But, maybe, she was being prudent in waiting for the severance materials to arrive.  Anyway, Sara decided that she would be careful and deliberate in her actions, and this morning too soon to be either.  She would follow her instincts and before doing anything she would just be a human being on the face of the planet for this day. She would give herself a day, perhaps two, before starting the process of processing all that had happened and was going to happen.  And, if that wasn’t enough time to reset her thinking, recharge her energy, and give her a fresh outlook on the future and her place in it, then she would give herself another day, or two, or three.  Rather than act in haste, she would create a cushion of space within which to move slowly and sanely.  Soon enough the pressures of her personal responsibilities would clamor for her attention and she would not be able to ignore them.  As if to demonstrate that fact, the electric kettle switched off and announced hot water by sending up a hissing plume of steam.  Sara slowly poured hot water over the coffee grounds, listening as the first drops of fragrant coffee hit the bottom of the empty glass container below.  Only then did she hear the cooing of the mourning dove from outside on her patio.  She stood very still, hoping not to frighten it away by a sudden movement, and wondered if she had missed this same bird calling from outside every morning.  She remembered as a child thinking that these birds were so sweet, so gentle, and she had tried to mimic their soft trilling sound hoping to lure one to her to keep as a pet.  Only in her adult life had she seen what real monsters those birds could be, and she had many times observed them engaged in bloody battle.  Even so, it was pleasant to see and hear this one today.  Maybe this bird had been coming every morning while she had been rushing to get to work on time to her important job where she was just as expendable as the coffee grounds she was about to toss into the trash.  And, what else had she missed on those tiresome, long days spent inside her office from first light till last, while she was occupied with the business of making money for her employers?

Sara poured her first cup of coffee into her favorite “Saturday mug,” the mug that she only used on Saturdays because it was delicate and beautiful and festive and helped her celebrate the weekend away from the office.  The daily mug that she had been using at work for years and years was packed in The Box on the kitchen floor.  It would have to stay there indefinitely, maybe forever.  She took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of very good, fresh coffee, coffee that she only drank on weekends because during the week, she was at work drinking the commercial brew that always tasted stale no matter when it was made.  Even though actual coffee breaks had been rare during her tenure at the office, Sara had managed to consume vast amounts of very bad coffee at her desk.  Breathing in, I drink my coffee, Sara thought to herself.  Breathing out, I enjoy it.

Sara topped off her Saturday mug and carried it outside onto the patio.  She left the doors open to allow the fresh spring air into her apartment for later enjoyment, and settled into her favorite chair, let her body relax, and focused her attention on her breathing.  From her fifth floor perch, she was privy to a view of the world below that at that height she shared only with the local birds.  And, seeing it this early in the morning on a week day was quite rare, almost like watching a television show.  She observed an unknown person making his way down the alley, stopping as he did to climb into each garbage dumpster, pry open the heavy lid, and then disappear within its gaping mouth.  Sometimes he emerged with objects in his hands which he then loaded into a shopping cart that clattered and rattled as he pushed it on down the alley.  Sara closed her eyes to the dumpster-diver and tried to meditate.

But, it was to be a short exercise in meditation for very soon the seamless quiet was rent by the jarring buzz of her front doorbell.  The sound startled her so suddenly out of her reverie that she spilled hot coffee on her robe, eliciting a string of expletives that shocked all of creation – or so it seemed to Sara.  When she checked her anger, Sara sensed that even the shadows on her patio floor, tracking the rising sun, had stopped while the sun paused mid-arc on its morning path around the sky and waited for Sara to hush and for balance to be restored before resuming its upward journey.  Woops, she thought, and then apologized out loud to the universe.  But, the doorbell buzzed insistently again, and so Sara turned to address her unexpected interruption.  She could only imagine it was a wrong address because there was no reason why anyone would be at her door so early in the morning on a work day when normally she would by now be rushing out that very door.  Of course, it might be a courier delivering the severance package from her office.  It would serve that person right for disturbing her peace to see Sara appear with bed-head hair, no makeup on, teeth unbrushed, dressed in her lumpy, coffee-stained bathrobe.  She got to the door just as it buzzed for the third time and swung it open, ready to be amused at the look of surprise on the face of the person who would see her there.

But, it was Sara whose face registered the most surprise when she saw standing before her in the open doorway none other than Hank, her now-former coworker who had sent his underling to Sara’s office yesterday afternoon to unceremoniously sever her from her paycheck.

Quickly she brushed her fingers through her hair and stuttered a greeting, “Oh, hello, Hank!”  Despite his polished, GQ-ready appearance, Hank wore the sheepish look on his face of a person who knows he has crossed a boundary, but it is simply too late to turn back.

“Sara, I am so sorry to bother you like this, but I needed to talk to you,” he said, gesturing with empty hands that did not carry the envelope of materials Sara might have expected from an emissary sent by her former employee.  “I’m so sorry.  May I come in?”

“Of course,” Sara said, shrugging her shoulders.  She stepped aside and allowed Hank to come into her front room.  “Why don’t you just have a seat here and give me a minute to put something on,” she said, adding, “I just brewed a pot of coffee.  Would you like a cup?”

“No, that would be asking too much.  I’ll just wait here,” Hank said, settling onto the couch with an agitated look about him.

What on earth!  Sara marched down the hall to her bedroom rolling her eyes and slammed the door behind her.  This guy has some nerve to come barging in here at this hour after what happened yesterday!  But, maybe there has been a change of heart at the office already.  Maybe the wrong person was fired, or maybe the owners realized they can’t operate without me in the organization, she thought.  Any number of positive possibilities could have emerged after she left the office.  She quickly threw on a pair of leggings and a button-up shirt, rolled up the sleeves, and then attacked her hair.  A once-over with a toothbrush, a little mascara, and a pair of sandals before she returned to the front room.

“Just let me warm up my coffee,” she called over her shoulder as she walked past Hank and into the kitchen.  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“Maybe a glass of water if that’s not too much trouble,” Hank replied.  “Tap water is just fine for me.”

Forgetting it was there, Sara tripped over The Box and spilled cold coffee on the floor.  She had to bite her lower lip to keep from swearing out loud again.  Then, she accidentally overfilled the cup, spilling hot coffee on herself for the second time that morning.  She mopped up the spill, filled a glass with cold water, and returned to the front room in no mood for small talk.  She handed the water glass to Hank and then sat down in the easy chair across from the couch.

Hank thanked her and took a long drink of water.  Over the rim of her Saturday mug, Sara watched Hank and could see that he was visibly calming himself.  He was a handsome man of a “certain age” – same demographic as Sara, a piece of information that she had confirmed many times over the years when updating databases for the office.  Tall and well built, he had a full head of beautifully razor-cut silver hair, a well-trimmed mustache and beard closely trimmed to his face.  Hank always looked like he was dressed for a photo shoot and this morning was no exception, on his way to work in a dove grey suit, his gold wristwatch hanging loosely from his left arm, making a jangling bracelet sound every time he moved his left hand.  Hank leaned forward, reached in front of him, and started to set down the glass on the coffee table between them.  Sara noted that he was looking for a coaster for the glass, but she sat in silence, refusing to be the first person to speak, not troubling herself to offer him one.  Hank returned to a sitting position, glass in hand, without saying a word.  Sara counted the seconds and at 33, Hank cleared his throat and began with another apology.

“Sara, again, I want to apologize for coming this morning.  I also want to let you know that I was completely blindsided by what happened yesterday in the office.  If I had known, I’m sure that I would have told you to expect it.  That may be why they didn’t tell me.  Fact is, they went around me entirely.”

Something in Hank’s voice caught Sara off guard.  He was not his usual glib self, but still seemed ill at ease.  A wave of compassion washed over her and she decided to reserve judgment about him until hearing the rest of the story.

Hank continued, “Truth is, I expect that I am next on the chopping block and I know that is none of your concern, but I did want to clear the air about this whole thing because there is something else that I need to talk to you about and it has nothing to do with work or jobs or being fired or any of this.  Let me just assure you of that.”

Sara felt herself blush.  Could it be that after all these years Hank had finally seen her?  Really seen her as a person and not just another cog in the wheel?  For a woman of her age, Hank was more than just a good catch, he was the ultimate catch.  She knew he owned a large house in a good neighborhood, took vacations, and drove a Lexus.  There must have been many years of good income leading up to his present circumstances and Sara could predict a happy retirement in his future with trips and restaurants and shows and, as far as she knew, no one with whom to share that good life.

Now that she looked at him from a new perspective, she quickly noted an ever-so-slight grimace on his face, as if there was an underling chronic pain just beneath the surface of his polished outer appearance.  Poor man, she thought.  He is tortured by the thought of our never seeing each other again.  I will not be coy with him, but relieve his mind immediately and let him know that I am available.  Of course, we will need time to get to know each other better, but if losing that job means acquiring Hank, then I am okay with that!  She smiled sweetly at him.

“Hank,” she said, with a decided change of tone in her voice, “why don’t you just catch your breath for a moment while I freshen up your water?  Would you like a slice of lemon or lime in it?  I have both.  Maybe some fruit or toast?”  Sara got up and reached for Hank’s water glass.

“No, thanks, Sara,” he said.  Please, I, I just want to clear the air between us and make sure that we are okay.  Really, I’m fine, but thank you.  Thank you.”  And, as if to prove his satisfaction with the water in his glass, Hank took several gulps, licked his upper lip, and looked tentatively at Sara.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Sara replied as she returned to her seat opposite him.

For a moment they just looked at each other, as if calculating the distance between them in units of syllables.  After what seemed a respectable space of time, they both began to speak at once, laughed, and then Hank nervously yielded to Sara.  Understanding that Hank might be reluctant to prematurely divulge his feelings before he felt confident in her reciprocity, she decided to demonstrate her congeniality and amiability by inquiring about how the rest of the staff had reacted to her departure, wishing them all well and hoping that it would not be disruptive to the office culture.

Hank seemed a little too distracted to fully engage in this line of conversation, but he pointed out that he was not able to gauge reactions since the firing had only happened yesterday and he had not yet been to the office, today.  But, he thanked her for asking.  The silence that descended between them after this exchange was one that Sara honored, letting it be the line of demarcation between obligatory pleasantries and what Hank had really come to talk about.  They were about to cross into a new country, one she hoped would be full of surprises for them both.

Hank nervously took another drink of water, set his glass down on a magazine, clasped both his hands in front of him, looked intently at Sara, and began.

“Well, I really don’t know how to tell you this, and again, I apologize, but Sara, I feel we’ve known each other for a very long time and I trust you and don’t really want to bring anyone else into this thing, whatever it is.  I’m not really sure what it is.  But, I actually thought about talking to you about this sooner, and then work got in the way, so, it almost seemed providential to me yesterday when I found out about their letting you go, you know, in a twisted sort of way.  Not that I think it was a good thing for them to do, and I’m really very sorry about it; but, at least, at the time, it did seem to open up a way for me to approach you about this.”

Hank stopped long enough to take another drink and Sara felt her heart pounding.  She could hear the blood rushing in her ears and her palms suddenly felt cold and sweaty.  Apparently this man had some very deep feelings.  How could she have missed the signals?  He was certainly professional at work, one had to grant him that.  She wondered how long this had been going on for him.  Poor guy!  She held tightly inside of herself an almost irrepressible urge to take him in her arms and assure him that she understood and would not disappoint him.

“The thing is,” Hank rose to his feet and walked over to the open doors, looking outside as he spoke, “I simply do not know what to do and I am hoping that at least, with the level of professional respect that we have for each other, that you will be able to listen to me and take me at my word when I tell you about this thing that is happening.  I, uh, I can’t talk to anyone at work about this, obviously, and my daughter would just not know how to take it.”

Sara recalled hearing that Hank had a grown daughter from a previous marriage that had ended in divorce long before she had met him.  It would make sense to her that a daughter would want to protect her father from another woman.  She nodded her head, knowingly.

“Hank,” Sara interjected, “of course you can trust me to listen and to keep confidential anything you say.  I’ve always had the greatest respect for you and I admire you a lot.  You have nothing to worry about with me.”  She didn’t want to say too much, fearing that it might be off-putting to him, so here she stopped and waited for him to pour out his heart to her.  If only she had taken the time to put on deodorant or even to spritz on some cologne, for she regretted that in the next few seconds they would be in each other’s arms and she was going to smell like an older woman who has not bathed, one with coffee breath and unbrushed teeth.  But, she had faith in the sort of true love that would drive Hank to her this early in the morning.  And, so, she wore the gentle look of a Madonna, beaming serenity and domestic bliss in Hank’s direction.

“Well, okay,” Hank said.  He turned around, facing her, put his hands in his pockets and said, “here it is.  The thing is, and please just hear me out, but the thing is that I’m in love with an alien being.”

Sara had already allowed herself to begin reacting after hearing the first three words, “I’m in love,” and so she felt her face instinctively reverse when the end of the sentence was delivered to her disbelieving ears.  After saying this, Hank, waiting to get a reaction from Sara, watched the look on her face change rapidly from joy to surprise to confusion to consternation until she finally settled on a look of utter disbelief.  Hank understood that look of disbelief appropriately to mean that she did not believe in alien beings.  However, of far more importance to Sara was her disbelief that Hank was professing to be in love with anyone else, anything else, it didn’t matter, it was not herself. While she tried to collect her composure, he continued.

“I know it sounds incredible, but you simply must understand that I am utterly,” and here Hank’s bewildered eyes scanned the room as if searching for the correct word, perhaps written on a wall or piece of furniture, until he found it and blurted out, “besotted with this creature.  I am not sure exactly where she comes from or even if she is a she or not.  I do know that her name is Rehinndella or something like that, and I can’t live with her or without her.  I am barely able to function thinking about her the way that I do all the time.  It has got to the point where I am questioning my sanity,” he let out an uncharacteristic nervous giggle, then sobered himself, “which I’m sure you can understand is one reason I wanted to talk to you about all this for a little reality-check.”

Sara’s face was now hopelessly blank, devoid of any expression that might reveal the gamut of feelings now leading her thoughts on a merry chase behind the betrayal she felt for having roused her own hopes of a romantic involvement with this man.  She looked at him – yes, he was still there, standing in her room looking exactly like a person who she thought she knew very well but who now was revealing something about himself that she really didn’t care to know.  This new revelation made Sara see Hank in an entirely new light and in the bright glare of that reality he didn’t appear as handsome as he had when he first entered her room.  The transformation was sudden and complete.  It reminded Sara of occasions when she had seen a former lover of her own or of a friend, a man newly in the throes of self-doubt and awkwardly adapting to being single, like someone who’s just learning to skate.  There is something about a man suddenly bereft of his significant other that strips him of all the gleam and glitter that love brings to a man and leaves him looking insignificant and weak and dull, like a deflated balloon, until enough time has passed so that he is able to re-inflate himself through other means than the constant approval and ego boost of that lost, adoring admirer.  In many ways, Sara hypothesized, men really were just as weak-kneed about love as women.  Hank was obviously suffering, and the maternal instinct in Sara that always made her reach out to the downtrodden, disadvantaged, underprivileged, disenfranchised people and animals that crossed her path now impelled her to not abandon Hank in his trial, but to at least try to be of help to him in some small way, even if only to refer him to a good psychologist.

“Hank, you say that you don’t know much about, was that Rehin . . .”

“Rehinndella,” Hank finished softly with a shy smile.

“Yes,” Sara continued.  “Rehinndella.  You don’t know much about her.  Then how do you know that she is an alien?”

“Sara,” Hank replied, with a little more energy in his voice, “it is the strangest thing. The way it all began was early one morning before sunrise when I heard the birds outside.  They woke me up, sort of half-woke me up, you know how that happens.  I was half awake, dreaming, listening to the birds outside, like I always do, and realized all of a sudden this creature was in bed with me. Breathtaking, beautiful, just all-encompassing of my attention and senses and she nearly smothered me with her soft, her soft clothing, I guess.  So soft.  So fragile.”  Hank stopped as if lost in the thrall of the memories of that first encounter until something called him back to Sara’s front room.  It was Sara, clearing her throat.

“Sorry,” Hank said.  “Anyway, the thing is that after that first morning, she would come back to me occasionally but only for very brief visits in the early morning.  We talked very little because, I have to admit, mostly we simply held each other and slept together.  And – I’m sure you’ll want to know this – our talking wasn’t really talking.  It’s like we can just read each other’s minds.  And, oh, her thoughts!  Just so rich and beautiful and full of love way beyond anything I’ve ever known or imagined.”  Hank paused again and looked at Sara, searching her face for some sign of recognition that she was understanding him. Sara obligingly encouraged him to go on with a half-hearted, “Mmmm-hmmm.”

“But,” Hank started up again, “at some point I would drift off to sleep and when I woke up, she would be gone.  Every time.  I tried to find traces of her left behind and I would even ask her to leave something for me to remember her by, but she would just laugh very sweetly.  She’s got the sweetest-sounding voice, sort of trilling and very soft.  Anyway, she would say things like she would be back tomorrow or she didn’t have anything to give me.  Honestly, I can’t even say with any certainty what she looks like because it’s always dark when she is with me.  And, to be honest, it’s gotten to where it doesn’t matter to me anymore.  It just doesn’t matter.  I know we speak different languages, but I think I now understand when she says, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” what she means is, “We will see each other again at some point,” because we can go weeks, months without seeing each other.  It’s just awful.  All I need you to know is that when I am with her, I am a different person.  I am completely in love with her and I have no idea where to find her except in my bed on certain mornings which I can’t even predict.  Do you think she hypnotizes me and maybe that is why I can’t ever seem to be awake when she leaves?  I’ve asked myself this question a hundred times.  And, how else could she do all this and then only show up when it’s dark without coming through my door unless she is an alien?  She doesn’t even have a key.  Do you think I’ve been hypnotized by her?”

Sara stared at Hank and then shook her head.  “Hank, I’ve never heard anything like this.  I have to ask, are you sure you aren’t just dreaming it?”

Hank sat back down on the couch and put his head in his hands.  Then he looked up at Sara, red-faced, holding back tears.  “Sara, I was afraid anyone else would ask me such a thing, but I felt sure that you, you of all people, you wouldn’t.  You have always been so fair about things and you know me very well.  Am I the sort of person who would make all this up or be confused by dreams and think they are real?  Am I?”

At this point, Sara couldn’t give a truthful answer that she thought Hank would accept.  But, she felt it best to play along with Hank a little further and see if there weren’t some way for him to accept a rational explanation for what had happened.

“It’s not that, Hank,” she reassured him.  “But, think about it.  Surely there is some small piece of evidence left behind, something you can think of that is different about the room or you or anything that might give you some concrete proof that Rehin . . .”

“Rehinndella,” Hank helped Sara with the name, again.

“Yes, Rehinndella,” said Sara, “proof that she really exists as you have come to know her.  I mean, from what you are telling me this might be some intruder breaking into your bedroom.  And, what if she is hypnotizing you?  This could be a serious problem down the road if there are more people involved.  Surely there is something you can think of that would put you on the trail of finding and understanding who she is, what she is.   I mean, you say you don’t talk but hear each other’s thoughts.  Have you never even heard her voice?”

Hank pursed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if running through a catalog of memories of his impressions of Rehinndella.

“Well, there is one thing,” he said, just a little sheepishly.

“Yes?” Sara asked.

“Well, it seems that on the mornings after she has been to visit me, I find tiny little tufts of white feathers in my room, almost like down feathers, and it does seem as if she uses my window to come and go because I find most of the feathers in the window.  But, she’s so quiet about it.  How can she come and go without me being aware of it?  Those windows are new, but you have to give them a good yank to open them and I am quite sure the first night they were all locked.  After that, I left them open just in case she came back.  Too, there is the fact that my bedroom is on the second floor. How on earth could she get up there?  I just don’t understand it.  She’s amazing!”

Sara frowned as she tried to process the new information and added an impression next to the most obvious one of Hank being utterly in love:  he completely believed in Rehinndella and in her alien-ness.

“Well, that is something,” she said to him.  “Think about this a little more.  You don’t communicate with your voices – so, how did you learn her name?”

“That, now that is a very good question,” Hank said, seeming very eager to share more about this strange love affair.  “You see, occasionally she and I actually do speak using our voices, well, my voice.  I’m not sure if you’d say she has a voice.  She makes a sound that is beautiful, trilling sort of, melodic yet it has a piercing clarity to it almost like a flute.”

“Like maybe a bird?” Sara ventured.

“Yes, yes, very much like a bird,” said Hank matter-of-factly, pointing at Sara to emphasize each word.  There was a sound in his voice that sounded very much like, “Thank you” to Sara, and she realized how much meaning is communicated through the inarticulate sounds that accompany the vocabulary that makes up a language.

“And that is how I learned her name. She told it to me and we rehearsed it over and over until I could say it, well, approximate it, because her language, well, you might compare it to a tonal language, for example, like an Asian dialect.  It’s just so different and you have to say things with just the right inflection in order to get the intended meaning across.  When we are together, it’s easier for me to say her name closer to the way she does, but, if you’d like to hear it, I’ll certainly give it a try.  I mean, saying “Rehinndella” correctly is kind of like saying “Pay-Droh” when you mean “Pedro.”

“Sure, I’d love to hear it,” said Sara, thankful that Hank had turned away from her so that he would not see her rolling her eyes heavenward.

“Okay, well, here goes,” Hank said and then he shook himself, swallowed a few times, and put his lips together almost as if he were about to kiss his unseen alien being in the air, and then warbled, “Rrrrrrrrreh Rrrrrrrrreh Rrrrrehinnndelll-UH.”

Sara didn’t know a man’s voice, especially a man of Hank’s age, could vocalize in such a high, shrieking register.  It was more like a whistle, except for the rolling r’s in front of the name.  And as high-pitched as the name was when it sang it – or spoke it or intoned it – on the last syllable at the end of the name, Hank’s voice shot up even higher, accentuating that last syllable with an ear-splitting vibrato.  Sara had to employ every bit of self-control she could collect to convey surprise or delight rather than to fall apart in uncontrollable laughter at what was to her the most comedic spectacle of Hank warbling that name.  Every last ounce of self-restraint was barely enough to quell the side-splitting laughter that was tearing at her to come out and confirm what a fool Hank was making of himself.  Still oblivious to the spectacle he was putting on, Hank carried on passionately trilling his alien girlfriend’s name as if it were an aria from an Italian opera.  Eventually, Hank stopped and looked at Sara for some sign of approval.

Sara choked back the laughter and put her hand over her mouth, feigning deep concentration while she asked, “What language is that?”

Hank tilted his head to the side in a thoughtful gesture and said, “I don’t know.  Good question.”

“Hank,” Sara went on, “has Rehinndella ever said anything to you about where she comes from?  I mean, surely she can appreciate the strangeness of the situation enough to offer you some information about herself.”

“All I know is that she lives up there somewhere,” Hank replied, waving his hand up in the air in the general direction of the windows.  “I can only take that to mean that she is from another planet somewhere out in space.  I just don’t know.”  Then he turned back to face Sara and looked at her squarely in the face.  “But, you know, it just doesn’t matter to me where she is from or what language she speaks or what she looks like.  I mean, it used to, but now what matters most is how I feel when we are together.  Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Sara nodded in solemn agreement.

“What would you like me to do now that I know about this?” she asked.

Hank sat back on the couch across from Sara and spoke with such a sense of urgency in his voice that Sara knew they had at last come to the real point of his visit.  “I want you to know about it.  That’s all.  It’s crazy to me to be so in love and not be able to share it with anyone.  It’s just driving me nuts.  I want the world to know about us, but what can I say?  What can I do?  I don’t think anyone is ever going to meet her – certainly not my daughter or anyone I work with, none of my relatives or close friends, you know.  Maybe some scientist some day or some astronaut or someone who’s out there looking for extra-terrestrials will run across her because they are trying to document such things.  But, as far as bringing her into my ordinary, everyday life, taking her out on a date to a restaurant or a movie, well, I just don’t know how that is ever going to be possible.”

Hank and Sara looked at each other for a few moments as the fading emotional charge of Hank’s words fell into the carpet beneath their feet where it sank in silence into the pile and disappeared.  At least, when he was talking, the words – no matter how crazy they sounded – actually seemed credible because of the conviction with which he conveyed his story. But, once he stopped talking, silence wrapped around his face like a contorted mask of confusion and that look only accentuated the probability that his tale was impossible.  Worse, as the seconds sped by in silence, it seemed as if even time were trying to distance itself from what Hank had said.  Hank became more and more conscious that he was losing his audience and that he needed to keep shoring up his credibility by talking more, even if just to convince himself.  There was something reassuring about the sound of someone else’s voice in this conversation.

Perhaps Sara sensed Hank’s self-doubt.  Without thought, she heard herself ask, “So, you’ve not told anyone else about this?”

Relief washed over Hank’s face as Sara returned to the dialogue.  “Actually, I had to say something to my daughter and there are a couple of people that I have talked to because they have all noticed a change in me since this thing started up.  I guess,” he said with a boyish grin, “I just can’t help it.”

“What did you tell them?” Sara asked.

“I just said that I met someone, at first, and that I was very interested in her.  Of course, my daughter wanted to know everything about her, to meet her, you know.  So, I just explained that was not possible right now because of her job.”

“What did you tell her that Rehinndella does?” Sara asked, very curious to see how Hank had been able to disguise Rehinndella’s invisibility to anyone but himself.

“I said that Rehinndella is a consultant, so she has to fly around a lot, always making presentations and visiting clients, etc.  And, it’s understandable that she would be called away on a moment’s notice.  That’s why we can’t ever make plans . . .”  Hank’s voice trailed off again.  He had clearly given this much thought and Sara decided that this version was a Rehinndella whom she could possibly like.

“What about her name, or where she lives,” Sara questioned.  “How could you keep your daughter from trying to find out about her?  Surely she’s tried to Google her by now.”

Hank shrugged his shoulders and said, “I simply asked her to give me some time to sort through things and make sure that this was a relationship that we both wanted to pursue.  She doesn’t ask me about it anymore, so I think she gets the idea that I just want to keep this private.  I mean, it’s not like I’m missing any family events or anything.”

Sara wanted to suggest that Hank would have done better if he had kept the topic private and not shared it with her as well, but she wasn’t sure that he might not fly off the handle and react violently.  Not until the words were already out of her mouth did she realize that what she said instead was probably even more insensitive.

“Well, what’s the chance of you just flying off with Rehinndella to see where she lives?  Ever think about that?”

The words hit Hank like a slap across his face, evidenced by the involuntary wince of pain, which he attempted to hide by turning away for a moment.  Sara was immediately sorry and tried to ameliorate the effect of what she’d said.

“I just mean,” she said, trying to patch things up, “that if Rehinndella can’t live in your world, then have you given any thought to living in hers?  I don’t mean to be flip, really, just have you thought about this?”

“Of course I have,” Hank blurted out, his words hard and razor sharp.  “Don’t you think,” he continued in a hoarse whisper, “that I’ve thought about this and turned things over in my mind a hundred different ways trying to find some way to make it possible for us to be together?  Don’t you think I would if I could?”  Hank stopped abruptly, cramming the knuckles of his left hand into his mouth.  Sara turned away, afraid to look at him for fear she would see a man crying in her front room.

She wished for the hands of time to turn back so that Hank could return to being the strong, skillful, successful man she had always admired.  Finally, she said, “It sounds like you both love each other.  Surely, given enough time you will be able to figure all this out.  I mean, how long have you actually, well, known each other?”  Even Sara felt the ultimate betrayal of this question, because she didn’t mean a word of what she said.  She only hoped to somehow disentangle herself from this conversation and help him to regain his composure so that he could leave her house and never come back again.  Sara couldn’t believe in this relationship any more than she could believe in Rehinndella or in Hank.  She wondered how she had sounded to his distressed ears.  Hank shot her a glance through the cloud of torment that enveloped him, assuring Sara that he was not duped by her mock concern.

“Sara, I think I should go.  Thank you for letting me talk to you and I am truly sorry you lost your job and that I barged in on your day – today of all days.”

Hank stood up and made his way to the kitchen sink with his water glass.  Sara made no effort to stop him, breathing an inward sigh of relief.  She hoped that she would never see or hear from Hank again.  What a crazy way this had been to start the first day of the rest of her life!  She wondered if she ought to call the office and let them know that he was not responsible for himself, not thinking clearly, maybe drinking.  If she knew how to reach his daughter, she might just do it.  But, then, someone in as deranged a state as Hank might come after her seeking revenge if Sara stirred up any trouble with his daughter or the office.  No, better to let him leave and then just never see or talk to him again.  This would be an absolute close to the chapter of seeing him every day at the office, fantasizing about him on occasion.  What a nutcase he turned out to be.

Hank had turned from the sink and started for the door when he tripped on The Box and knocked it over on its side.  The edge of a piece of tape stuck to his shoe and as he attempted to detach himself from it, the tape tore across the top of the box, pulling the lid off.  Sara jumped from her chair but Hank had quickly righted himself.  “Just leave The Box,” Sara said.  “And don’t worry about me saying anything to anyone, Hank.”  They both moved awkwardly around each other the few short steps to the door.  “As far as I’m concerned, this conversation never happened,” she assured Hank, plastering a fake smile on her face.

As Hank stepped out of the door, Sara stopped him, “Oh, Hank, just a minute.  There’s something I want you to take.”  She turned and sprinted back to the kitchen to The Box, repositioned the tape across the top of the lid, and returned with it.  Handing it to Hank, she said, “There is absolutely nothing in here that I have any interest in.  You might want to look through it and see if I accidentally took anything I shouldn’t have.  Just throw it in the dumpster if you want.”

Hank did not make eye contact with Sara.  His downcast gaze said it all.  He left without looking back.

Sara shut and locked the door behind her.  She realized that she was shaking as she settled back down into her chair, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.  Outside the cooing of the mourning dove had been replaced with sounds of traffic in the street below, and the sun was making progress marching across the sky.

Peony in May

Growing up as I did in what might seem like the unlikeliest of circumstances for privilege — a baby boomer, living in the household of a self-described “poor country preacher” in the foothills of northwest Arkansas — I consider myself to have lived a very privileged life.  Early on, my parents taught me to appreciate whatever is of greatest intrinsic value, highest merit, for that is what is the longest-lasting.  Seeing this quality in the lives of many of my neighbors, I can credit those formative years of my childhood for instilling in me whatever goodness there may be found.  For, hard at work, even without my knowledge, there was a legion of men and women surrounding me and my entire family, laboring behind the scenes at laying brick by brick the solid foundation of character from stone hewn by their own hands, carried from the vast supplies of untapped resources in each of their lives.  They brought the best of what they had:  truth and fidelity, hospitality and selflessness, forgiveness and acceptance, these were the materials they brought to help build my life.  And, above it all, motivating every word or action, was overarching love as infinite as the wisdom that guided their lives, as vast as the sky. Not enough good things can said about these people who lived their lives quietly, doing good things privately without recognition or reward.  Only now that I have achieved the age that many of them were when I first knew them, and many of them still are in my memory, am I coming to understand the depth and breadth of their influence on my life, and the sweet and very subtle ways that they left their mark on me.

One such person, to whom I owe a great debt of gratitude, carried out her functions in life without fanfare or advertisement.  You would see her on the sidelines, in the corners of a room, always wearing a look of sweetness and content on her face.  By the time I knew her, she had lived a lifetime of service to her husband and to her community, and she continued to do so until she died.  Only once did I hear any details about her life, and it came in the form of a sermon illustration that my dad told.  As he told it, the story took up permanent residence in my mind and heart. It is a story about real heroes that is rarely shared, ordinary people who go about their lives doing extraordinary things.  It has helped me to notice the elderly, the quiet, the unpopular.  Again, I am privileged because my dad took the time to get to know everyone in his congregation — not just those in positions of power or authority.  It gave me a different perspective, one that has enriched my life over and over.

In her youth, Ella was beautiful and Norman was under her spell.  Her thick, long, blonde hair and large blue eyes were as captivating as her smile and her charming ways.  Before they were to be married, Ella contracted an illness that could have been fatal.  However, after months of confinement, she did at last recover.  But the ravages of the disease took away her beautiful hair, and so she hid herself from everyone – especially Norman.  When the news of Ella’s recovery finally reached Norman, not even wild horses could have kept him from going to her.  From behind the locked door, she could hear him thundering up the stairs to her bedroom.  She would not open the door, but hid in disgrace.  But, love conquers all, and so she heard the door smashing as Norman kicked it in.  He rushed to her and gathered her into his arms, assuring her that she was as beautiful as she had ever been.  And so, they lived happily ever after.  In her old age, we all knew her to be fittingly crowned with a head of snow-white hair.  I am sure that the normal vicissitudes of life brought Norman and Ella their share of pain and sorrow.  But, she was known to have said that in all their married life, they never argued once.  Ella was happy to be a homemaker and to look after her husband, keeping the house neat and clean, perfecting the art of home cooking, tending to the gardens.  She babysat children in her home from time to time, and without ever knowing it, she was a role model for women in her community.

I never knew her as Ella, but as Mrs. Maxey, the old, blue-eyed, white-haired woman who lived down the street.  May never comes around on my calendar that I don’t think of her.   For, May was the month school was over for the summer, and soon after that, our church hosted the annual Vacation Bible School.  As was true of most of the women in the church, my mother was always up to her elbows in the planning and execution of the week-long half-days, teaching some of the classes, baking cookies for the refreshments, and getting her four children dressed and to the church on time each morning, in addition to all of the other housework that occupied her time.  It was one of the busiest weeks of her life, and Mrs. Maxey took this very much to heart.  Our entire family knew that once during that week of hurried busy-ness, Mrs. Maxey was going to prepare supper for us.  It would be delivered hot in dishes ready to serve, and we always looked forward to it.  We could be sure that there would be new potatoes and fresh, tender green beans from her garden; the first scallions – hot and already cleaned and ready to dip into salt and bite into; and a peach cobbler made from the fruit she had canned last summer.  From these meals I learned why my mother’s cooking was so good:  it was seasoned with love, and so was Mrs. Maxey’s.  And, it was my annual privilege to walk down the street to her house to return the dishes.  She always greeted me with that broad smile, never asked me if we liked the food, never expected a compliment, just smiled warmly and invited me in while she put the dishes in the kitchen.

Those meals and her smile belong to another place and time that I still carry with me in memory.  And although I can only return there in my vivid thoughts and recollections, I do know how privileged I am for the experience of them.  And, I have the tangible evidence of Mrs. Maxey in the form of her cookie recipe.  This one is a real keeper!  Soft pillows of sweet cookie that shouldn’t be frosted because they are so good with just a cup of tea or coffee or a glass of cold milk.  Every year I make these cookies at least once, and I love to share them.  I think that Mrs. Maxey would like that.

Mrs. Maxey Cookies

Mrs. Maxey cookies

Ingredients:

3 cups sifted flour

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup melted butter

1 egg

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

enough buttermilk to make a soft dough

Method:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.  Mix butter and sugar together.  Add egg.  Add dry ingredients alternately with buttermilk.  Dough should be rather stiff.  Work in more flour till dough is stiff enough to handle. Roll out on flat surface to about 1/2 inch.  Bake on greased cookie sheet until just brown.  I like to cut the dough into non-uniform squares, but you can cut into any shape, any size.  Leave space between the cut-outs on the cookie sheet because they will puff up a little while baking.