HARVEST MOON

         My sister was stumped. The missing piece was under the puzzle itself. The 1000 part jigsaw our sister-in-law had given her for Christmas had tried her patience for months, and now, on the verge of being completed, there was this one final frustration. I could feel her relief sitting here, 800 miles to the east, when she found the solution.

         I doubt that Janet jumped up and gave her long-distance brother a high-five, or shouted "Yessss" to the heavens, but I do think she allowed herself a few moments of quiet satisfaction. Jigsaw puzzles are made for silent celebrations that feature cups of tea and small cakes. They are definitely not of an era where cars are overturned in the streets because a few athletes have won some championship, but neither is Janet or her brother.

         I can't remember if she mentioned the theme of the puzzle. Was it a castle, a sunset, the Grand Canyon or maybe that full moon that bathed the East Coast last Friday? The calendar said it was the Harvest Moon, and up here, in our rolling farmlands, the calendar was correct. The corn had been cut; and now geese invade the fields. Apples still hang on the trees, but each day the weatherman notes that the record low temperature for the date is below freezing, so every day that the fruit isn’t picked is a crap shoot.

         Friday morning the fate of the apples did not worry me. The weather was supposed to be warm. It was going to be a good day to explore the surroundings of Pam's new home, so off I went. A warm smile and macaroni with meat sauce greeted me as I walked in her door. I delivered her order of black walnuts in return. We ate our lunch, sniffed the beef stew that was cooking away for dinner, engaged in exercise to work off some of the lunch and then headed out in her car to seek a just-right New Jersey fruit stand. We drove west into the Pine Barrens, stopping at the first one that we found.

         Give it a grade of C+. Nothing really excited us. It's 'mum' season from Walmart and the Shop Rite to every tiny fruit stand on the highway. The price is usually three plants for ten dollars, but they could have been free, for Pam did not have a shovel to plant them. As a reward, she had her photo taken by me as she shopped. Pam claims she does not take a good picture, but she never stops me from trying. So after purchasing some concord grapes, it was back home for the hearty dinner complete with biscuits and a promise of baked apples later that night.

         Ah, but before the apples, we have to pay penance.

         Walking the boardwalk at Point Pleasant will work off the stew. As we walk, our conversations begin to form pieces of the jigsaw that is our future life: my business that has no successor; Pam’s grown children and their ideas about their mother; past defeats at the hands of those we both trusted. We speak haltingly but with confidence that we can broach subjects without hurting each other. Our minds at peace, within minutes Pam points out houses that abut the boardwalk in places, and wishes we owned one. Walking on, we can't help but hear the sounds of 'oldies' from a roadhouse on the boardwalk.

Rockin Robin,
Tweet, tweet, tweet
Go Rockin Robin 'cause you're really gonna rock tonight.

         Backlighting the scene is that Harvest Moon, rising over the Atlantic to light the way for friends and lovers. It was still twilight when we started the two-mile hike to the inlet, where the boards end. Now, on the way back, it is dark and where there are no roadhouses or arcades blocking the view of the ocean, the track of moonbeams can be seen on the water, drowning out the lights of the small boats. We reach the other end of the walk and step down to the beach and the edge of the sea. We stand side by side, looking out to sea. "This is why I love to live here, David."

         The moonbeam reaches out and touches us. I step behind Pam and hold her gently. We sway in time to the waves. She sighs. I nuzzle closer, wrapping my arms tightly around her, communicating with my touch my feelings for her. These moments are ours and ours alone. We are oblivious to the world. It comes as a shock to us when we catch sight of a solitary walker and another couple passing by. Our reverie rudely ended, we return to the boardwalk and the deserted arcades. A young man behind the counter of a game that offers prizes is shooting basketballs. Tomorrow, Saturday, he will have contestants to try if the weather holds. Tonight he can only watch the couple walk by. He hears her telling him of a flight to Appleton, Wisconsin.

         For our part, we comment to ourselves on the chance of winning the basketball game while walking to the car. It is only eight o'clock but we have walked four miles. On the way home we talk of the unit in Pam's development that her cousin is going to sell next year. Pam has asked if she, or rather we, can have first chance to buy it. It will be ours to own, Pam's to furnish and live in at first; I have my country house, which Pam loves too. Nothing is clear yet, but we are working it out, making the pieces fit.

         Pam makes eggs for breakfast. I'd not eaten them in the morning since I was in the Army. As I eat, I realize to myself that Pam and I always manage to have breakfast together at a table. I'm getting to like the habit! After breakfast it is off to Walmart to find curtains for the indoor porch, and then back to hang them, but not before I snap another candid photo in the parking lot. Pam retaliates, grabbing the camera and taking a picture of her man with gray hairs in his mustache. More macaroni, our mutual choice, for lunch, and after, with regret, it is time to be off for home and the pets. Three and one-half hours later I call to tell her I've made it safely.

         As the sun is going down and I am getting ready to take the dog out, the phone rings. It is Pam, 'just calling to say I miss you.' I miss her too; greedily I hunger to walk with her on the boards again. Instead I walk my dog around the Price Chopper parking lot. The moon shines its light on two separate people, two hundred miles apart, not two lovers standing on a beach, but that is only for tonight. For over a year now, Pam and I have been working on our jigsaw puzzle. It’s coming together. Our pieces fit very snug; there won’t be any missing. We aren't sure what the final picture will be yet, but we know we are going to like it.

Valatie Sept 23, 2002