MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

         Midnight, April 30th passed, and the calendar flipped a page. Glancing over, I wondered what had happened to the white-haired grandmother I had been expecting to smile at me for the next thirty days. In her stead were these two young graduates, in their gowns and mortarboards.

         The next day the temperature soared near ninety, and stayed there. Apparently, May had been just a rumor started by azalea lovers and Chamber of Commerce types to draw people to the tulip festival. The calendar was right, it was mid-June. We had gone from meat loaf and mashed potatoes to gazpacho in the turn of a page.

         The sun eyeballed our house as it made its way across the sky from southeast to southwest. The shadow of the white birch reached out to protect us but was always a dollar short. Thoughts turned to Agee and Evans, sitting and working in Gudger's shack back in 1936 Alabama, the heat their constant companion.

         Neither Agee nor Evans possessed a laptop, and even had they, Gudger would not have had an ISP connection or a DSL line. They plied their trade in secret, emerging from the heat one day to work the morning interview shows on their book tour, while trying to sell the movie rights.

         Lucky them! I can only sit and listen to a mockingbird doing cardinal impersonations. It sounds like a cardinal, but a cardinal with a bullhorn. Impressionists wear out their welcome fast around here. I want to say, "Is that all you can do? Do a goose, man. Geese are tough to do." The mockingbird answers by ramping up the volume. Would Agee have used 'ramping?'

         It has not rained since early April. This fact is weaving its way into the evening weathercasts. The ground is drying out and brush fires pop up. Normally this time of year is tractor season. It is followed by growing season, picking season, tractor season again and, finally, drab November gray and brown which sticks around until the snow covers the land.

         The lack of rain makes me wonder if we will have growing season or will the nightly news be full of farmers running dirt between their fingers. Agriculture lends itself to catastrophes. Last summer the southern part of our county was pelted with heavy hail which ruined many apple crops. The summer before was dry. I am sure that if I go back far enough, I can find a plague of locusts or frogs.

         All these thoughts occur to me as I speed west on Interstate 90 on my way to Troy. The pulmonary doctor is there for my wife. Troy is on the same side of the river as we are, but to get there we must cross the river, go north on Interstate 787 to Route 7 and back over the river and up the hill to his office.

         Coming down the hill are lots of big trucks. Route 7 is the road to Bennington in the Peoples Republic of Vermont. I make a left turn into the parking lot well in front of several trucks. We go in, dragging her oxygen tank behind. I rate the office high in reading material; the sports 'zines are up to date so that I am not reading about the Yankees and Mets Series.

         We go into the examining room. An assistant weighs her, takes her blood pressure and oxygen rate and departs. Shortly the doctor enters, listens to her lungs, remarks how well they sound, goes over her medicine chart, tells us to keep up the good work and sends us out to make an appointment for July. There are lessons to be learned here for my tax practice, but I am not sure what they are.

         On the way home we stop at Vampire City, the lab which draws her blood to check her level of coumadin and relay it to her regular doctor. Once or twice a week this is done. It takes her longer to walk down the hall to the lab than to have the blood taken. She surely must feel like a pincushion by now.

         The car is hot. We pull into our drive and slowly begin the short walk to the house. I unlock the door and prepare to help her up the step, then I spot this red stationwagon type vehicle pulling into our drive. Actually it is a Subaru that is a cross between a small SUV and a 1974 AMC Pacer. A man steps out; rugged with a sun tanned face. He can't be a process server here to hand me a subpoena, at least I think not.

         "Hi, I am buying the house next door at 18 McCagg." Next door means a quarter mile away over the top of the hill and on the sharp downslope to Route 203. It is this large brick ranch, quite nice but the ground is hilly and not as prime as ours. "I opened the mailbox and found this mail of yours," handing me circulars, envelopes and magazines from another era.

         "My god, these are old, sometime in December", I remark. It is as if the man were an Arctic explorer, discovering a cairn on the ice that contained messages from parties long lost in the ice and snow: Sir John Franklin making an appearance on stage again before disappearing from view forever.

         I blow the imaginary snow off the papers and find a bank statement that I thought lost, a letter from IRS of no importance, and lots of junk mail. The mail has not retained December’s cold, so that even though I yearn for drab November brown, I am still standing in the shimmering heat of my Alabama shack.

Valatie May 3, 2001

This was the last time that I had to take her to the lab; the next Monday her doctor admitted her to the hospital. From there she entered an Assisted Living Facility. I realized this as I read this again, tonight November 14, 2001