THE COMFORT OF STRANGERS

         Summer left late this afternoon or so the young weatherman on Channel 13 told me. Temperatures will now be more autumn-like. Her departure was masked by heavy showers, during the first of which Margaret arrived. As usual on this occasion, I was sound asleep when the noise of her trying to open my locked screen door, with the dog providing barking in counterpoint, jolted me into consciousness.

         The sleep was my response to a sinus problem which has filled my ears and left what can only be called an abscess deep on my gums in that area where once wisdom teeth might have sprouted but never did. After a full morning and early afternoon of work, my eyes grew weary and slightly after 1:30 I lay down in bed. It was now 2:45; Margaret was getting pelted with rain.

         I am thankful to see her. She can take away the comforts that strangers brought me yesterday. Can I call another Stories.com writer a stranger? I suppose so, especially when I had never seen her before. She came into this part of the world bearing gifts of roast beef, Swiss cheese, rolls, carrot cake and the most stupendous container of macaroni salad I have ever seen.

         Pam comes from that part of New Jersey that I last saw in "Broadway Danny Rose", where everything is Italian and larger than life. She is not Italian but this container would fit well on the buffet table of a 'made' man who is marrying off his daughter. I am threatened with having macaroni salad into the next century, and this after just finishing my super-duper pasta salad.

         Now comes Margaret, who has a twenty-one year old son at home who needs sustenance. My friend brought another similar container filled with ice, which has melted. I ladle macaroni salad into it, along with half of the carrot cake as a reward. Margaret is thrilled. Unbeknownst to me, I am giving her a birthday gift two days late.

         I have had my gift the day before with the visit. Like me, Pam fancies herself a writer and like me, has received praise but no money for her efforts. Like me also, she is widowed but she has adult children who do not understand her desire to write. We stand on the deck, but there is too much energy in the air to be caged on the tiny deck. We retreat to the field and begin to walk; exchanging life stories that each of us can pick for our own uses and file away for future reference.

         Once over her fear of snakes, the walk around the field goes on until we have explored every energy field possible, and perhaps some we did not want to explore. We realize we have made contact and will not be out of touch with each other for long. We eat some of the roast beef and salad, but between her diet and my sinuses and abscess; we barely make a dent. I can see that I will have my meals outlined for some time and to some, this will be good. My weight was down three pounds since the prior week.

         I show her a simpler way back to the Thruway. We say we must meet again and the happy day concludes. The memories of it come back as I snap the lid on Margaret's container. She is here to do some work, so she puts it in the refrigerator. As she works she tells me of the computer she bought for her daughter and the birthday celebration where friends and family took her bowling, of all things.

         The sun comes back out. I check my email and find a vexing problem that I did not solve in my last email to a client, so I retreat to the basement and my on-line tax research service on the old computer. When I come back upstairs, it is dark and raining and I notice the faint glimmer of headlights on Margaret's station wagon. During a let up she tries to start it, but it is dead. We feed the dog, take her food to my car and all pile in for a ride to her house. She says she will come back later with her son to start her car with her battery charger.

         I have never been to her house, which is about two miles away off a county road in the woods. We find the drive in the rain and I turn in and plow through the puddles and undergrowth. Deer scurry in front of us. The dog barks. Who is at the end of this drive? Will I meet Colonel Kurtz? No, it is just a wooden house, with several old cars joining the bush, along with a glider she mentioned she had and which I can see in the weeds.

         I return home, try to eat, spend the evening attempting to write and finally fall asleep around midnight. I dream of Howard Stern doing a video. He is sitting at a table talking. The last shot is an Atlanta train station reverse zoom. Howard is getting tinier and tinier. Once again I am jolted awake. My head is lighter and the abscess gone! I do not question where.

         I try to go back to sleep but my mind is buzzing. I must get up and write the record of my recovery. The last time I wrote at this hour, I told of such sad news. Now I celebrate the comfort of strangers: From Pam and her magic pan of macaroni salad along with our friendship to Margaret and her miraculous appearance in the rain. I did not locate Kurtz, only Howard Stern and a moth that flits about the one light lit in the house at this hour. Good night, again.

Valatie September 11,2001

The friendship told in this piece continues to comfort me and give me hope. Thanks Pam, and thanks for telling me about Stories.com.