Frayed Feisty Threads - Book IV

The Treehouse Restaurant 6/3/1996

The acrid smell of oven cleaner permeates the kitchen. Well, at least the oven is finally cleaned, I thought, as I threw cleaning sprays and scrubbers under the sink. Looking at the clock, I wondered how one task could take so long. Never mind that I spent a good part of the task obsessing about whether or not to continue my relationship with him.

Hmmph! What relationship? I mused silently. A long drawn out correspondence for the sake of a meeting in April that was, well was...well, what? A tryst, at best. A flop, at worst. And yet, I write, looking daily for some rejoinder. But the letters are not as light, nor fanciful; they have become wooden, as though he had decided that one meeting was enough, and did not want to encourage another. Banter is limited, and there is certainly no hint of a future meeting, or even acknowledgment that he received the goofy card I sent in an effort to lift his spirits. And sending the story I wrote certainly did not help matters any. The chase is over; the conquest achieved.

For my part, perhaps I was beginning to lean, becoming dependent on an individual who clearly was sending signals that he did not want to be leaned upon. He was depressed...and so was I. The source of my depression remains unclear...but loss is imminent on all fronts, with Jaime graduating and leaving, parents aging, and no solid friendships established, at least of the male variety. And why is that, you ask? I could market the art of sabotaging a relationship. The only variable is time; some men are more patient than others.

It does not help that six out of seven days here are gloomy and rainy. I dare not write again about the rain, I’m sure he gets weather reports. Even I am tired of hearing about it. Yet, I find myself picturing the ocean on days like today, wondering if the waves sweeping the shoreline would be foamy, would the tempo be quickened?

I so dream of being elsewhere. Like in the treehouse restaurant, perhaps. I remember my first impression was that trees were sprouting a building. Nestled among the tall cypress, limbs crooked and bent, was a deck with tables and wooden steps leading to the water’s edge. There a boat dock waited invitingly for the hungry fishermen, who traveled this channel to and from the open sea. To take our order, the waitress had to duck under a branch, which appeared not to bother her in the least. She was nimble, quick and obviously familiar with the bend of the limb. She titled her head just enough to avoid any jarring contact. On the protruding branches, leaves were just beginning to grow. I remember looking out at the ocean through wisps of green that fluttered gently with the breeze.

I saw, again, another tree, with crooked limb, much smaller, and a child, who climbed into that tree, book firmly gripped between her front teeth, as she grasped the smaller limb with both hands, hoisting herself up and stepping onto the larger L-shaped limb. There she nestled, on a summer day, content, reading until the bark pressing against her back began to smart or someone came looking for her.

This cherry tree on my grandfather’s farm was not as grand as the cypress trees that surrounded me now, but brought hours of pleasure to my young self, and a comfort that I was reminded of today.

The scene before me was almost too much to drink in at once but immensely pleasurable and restful. This little spot, out of the way and nestled among the trees, created a feeling of protection and safety. It was a haven of sorts, that I would go to again and again in my mind, wresting from it all the tranquillity it had to offer.

But what of my companion? He is talking, and I must attend. He seems more relaxed than the last few days, and I can not decide if it is because the trees encircling provide an ambiance of intimacy, that special magic that can only be found in tree houses and secluded, coveted childhood places, or because he knows the ordeal of the last few days is nearing an end. Oh, he is pleasant, attentive, but I fear that breeding and politeness dictated his actions.

I suspect this dalliance is coming to an end. Knowing that, I find that I am sad. I long for the comfort of the tree, but I can no longer have that. I am not a child any longer. Yet, the tree surrounded me with its strength - silent, strong, rooted and accepting. Perhaps the child in all of us longs for trees in our lives to support, encourage, and be rooted when we are not. For a brief interlude, he, like the tree, was a strong and rooted presence in my life. It was a warm feeling that is now relegated to my Pandora’s box of memories, to be opened only if I dare.

Someone locate a lock for me and stand back, please, while I fell the tree with my ax. It will make good firewood, and will burn brightly, with special warmth.

May 27, 1996 June 3, 1996
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