Faoin Scáth - Under the Shade: March 2020

On the Road with Pat and Greg

“Is it running alright?” Greg asked after he started his car. In the passenger seat, Pat was barely paying attention as he was texting his supervisor that he was going to be late.

“Purring like a kitten,” Pat replied but the sarcasm missed its target as the ’67 Comet sputtered to life.
“She’s temperamental but she’s paid for,” Greg laughed as he patted the dashboard.

“Why don’t you get a new car, Greg?” Pat watched as Greg shifted into gear with the stickshift on the column. Three on the tree, I think he called it, Pat thought.

“I can’t work on them. All computerized and whatnot.” Greg pulled back onto the interstate. “I picked you up at the dealer, right? What work is being done on your car?”

“New fuel pump.”

“That a computer told you it was going bad. It didn’t actually fail, right?”

“No, but…”

“So how do you know it was bad? Maybe the sensor is bad and the pump isn’t. How do you know? The dealer told you and what’s their incentive? To have you come in for service and how much is that going to cost you?”

Pat had to admit there might be something to that thought. Last time he had routine maintenance done, the bill was padded with miscellaneous extras. He feared about this bill after listening to Greg.

“I can get a new fuel pump and install it myself. I don’t have to take the tank off, rip out the back seats or cut a hole to get to it. It’s on the engine and runs off of a cam…” The words drifted away as the tires hummed on the concrete of Interstate 80.

The more Pat listened, the more he was agreeing with Greg on the idea that old cars were easier to work on and overall probably cheaper to operate. Well, at least some of them.

“Dammit, Greg. You missed the exit,” Pat realized where they were.

“You won’t be that late will you?”

A sigh was the only answer Pat could give as he reached for his phone to send a new text to his boss.

I think another visit with Pat and Greg was in order after a couple of weeks of rather dark writing. I don't want to share those just yet as I've wanted to stay as positive as possible.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #13: April, here we come!

Red Amaryllis

Closeup of My One's Amaryllis

My One's Amaryllis
in southern window light
for all the world to see
beyond just black and white.

The beauty of the petals
if they would only see
the whispers of the light
and life that it could be.

I believe in deep reflection
of how life ought to be
the hope that she believes in
if only they could see.

Once again the Amaryllis
blooms on the window sill
to bring a little color
to the lives we have still.

The picture is a bit overwhelming but so are the flowers at nearly 10 inches (25cm). A new amaryllis arrives each Christmastime via a friend of My One and we enjoy new blooms for months. The window sill seems like the ideal place for flowers in the wintertime and early spring when we can't wait for summer's colors.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #12: You Gotta Know When to Hold 'Em

My One #32

New Year but this is not the same
for out of the depths she called my name
raised me up to purge those demons
and cried those tears for me
for us
I trust My One forever
and then for one day more
for I hope to be with the only one
who never rejected me
My One
For I cannot be who I am
what I strive to be without her
She saved me from myself
that drowning soul that was me
back then
As now I can stand this day
at the crest of the morning hill
all I see is still nothing
without My One

I am the most fortunate and undeserving soul to have found My One. I don't know where I would be or if I would still be on earth, if it wasn't for My One.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #11: Words Can Be Rather Nutritious

GMT

Greg sat with his friend in the park, “Pat, do you know what time it is?”

“It’s 9am and I’ve been up all night with maintenance and inventory. This time change really messes you up, you know?”

“Not me, I ignore the time changes. I use GMT.”

“We don’t use Greenwich Mean Time anymore, Greg. It’s UTC now.”

“You mean ‘Coordinated Universal Time’? Pffft, they can’t even get the letters in the right order,” Greg said without revealing who they are. “I use the Greg Monitor Time. Daylight Savings Time? What’s that even mean? You can’t save time, you can only spend it. You spend time….”

Pat began to drift away in thought as Greg rambled on, something about time philosophy or something. He let Greg continue expounding on the “taxation of time,” at least that was what he thought the subject of the day was. Pat no longer cared.

“I asked what time is it?” Greg asked again after Pat was brought back to the topic at hand. “What time is it in Greg Monitor Time, GMT?”

“I don’t know. Thursday?”

“Are you even listening, Pat?”

“I suppose you’re right. If everyone stayed in one time, it would solve problems with the changing of the clocks.”

“That’s right but I think everyone should be on GMT, the…”

“Greg Monitor Time,” Pat interrupted.

“Right. You see, this is how it works. At sun up at the equinox, the time at latitude zero…”

Pat’s thoughts drifted again. He heard this diatribe each time he met up with his friend right after a time change. It usually ended with the suggestion that Greg move to a state that didn’t change times, like Arizona. The argument turned to how part of the year you would be in Pacific Time like California and the rest of the year, one lived in Mountain Time.

“… then after every 15 degrees longitude…” Greg was on a roll.

Pat looked over at a couple walking under the maple trees, wondering if they had a friend like Greg.

“So, what time is it?”

Pat glanced at his watch and sighed, “It’s lunch time.”

-----------------

I think each of us have a friend like Greg, full of knowledge and empty of facts as they continue in absolute confidence of their words.

But you're still friends with them anyhow.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United:Weekly Scribblings #10: Early Bird or Night Owl?

Seeking Slient Grace

I stood on the bank of the river
where Tommy O'Brien had drowned.
They say he died of a stolen kiss
his love gave to the shop keeper's son.

Mathilda cried through that dark empty night
when she desired more love than she had.
Then the walls crashed down to show the pain
would the pills in her hand let it fade?

On that day the bank took back his farm
after another year of crop loss.
Sean looked to the bottle for solace
and stared down the barrel of his gun.

Would Grace had greeted to save them
or Hope given them life on that day?
If they looked out instead of within
would they be given another way?

May we find a cure for one's lost dreams
heartaches and the depths of despair.
In silence we hear those quiet pleas
to grant peace they seek for their own.

For those who are struggling - there is hope.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United:Weekly Scribblings #9: Contagion