Smoke on the Water

It's only late summer but the air is cool this morning. The lake, still holding the summer warmth, allows the mist to drift like smoke over its surface, making it look ethereal and enchanted. Soon the sun will burn away the smoke and bring the lake in sharp focus. It won't be long before the trees will change to yellow and gold, russet and red.

The summer people have left. They have closed their cottages and pulled their boats out of the water. Some may return for the odd weekend. Some may return for cross-country skiing; other will bring the grandchildren for Christmas. But for now, the lake is left to the loons. It's one of the main reasons Angie bought the little house. The ever-changing view and the peace most of the year.

She sighs. Today is her eighty-fifth birthday. This one, like so many others, will pass in blessed silence. No cake, not even a cup cake. No candles to blow out. No wishes to make. But should the "Make a Secret Birthday Wish" authority listen to someone who did not blow out a candle, then her wish would be "please make it quick, painless and soon."

Her life has been good, mostly. She has traveled to many places, met lovely people and seen wonderous sights. No, she's never been to Rio during Carnival, but she has danced in the streets many times. No, she has never been to Antarctica, but she has seen the Northern Lights and the Southern Cross. No, she has not faced a charging rhino. But then, who would want to? But she rode an elephant and a camel. She has seen both Egyptian and Mayan pyramids and majestic waterfalls. She has held a koala and played with lion cubs. No, she hasn't seen everything, but she has seen more than most.

She's glad she did her traveling when she was young. Her arthritic spine, her relentlessly collapsing discs, keep her close to home. Angie closes her eyes against the glare of the sun that is peeking above the trees.

^*^*^

"Mom, he's touching me!" The weekly, Sunday afternoon road trip, back when having a car was still new. Dad would take them all over the area, lecturing the whole way about the history, the flora and fauna the special places and sights. The three of them squeezed in the back seat. Squirming, fighting for the best spot, tickling, poking and sticking wet fingers in each other's ears. Till dad yelled at them to be quiet.

^*^*^

The corner of her lips twitch in a half smile. She lets one memory roll into the next as she relaxes deeper in her chair.

^*^*^

Oh, the trials of first grade. Having to learn to write and spell was hard enough. Having to use a pen that needed to be dipped in an inkwell was tricky. But not splattering that ink all over the worksheet when she tried to push the nib with her left hand, proved impossible. Coming home each day with blue hands, wrists and sleeves and getting scolded for not being neat enough, seemed unfair.

But Angie soon solved that problem. She simply turned her worksheet upside down and wrote perfect - sort of - cursive letters upside down. No, of course, she couldn't read what she was writing, but her hands and sleeves were no longer blue. Yeah, they made her write with her right hand in fourth grade. As if that had been an improvement.

^*^*^

She opens her eyes. The sun has risen and is no longer shining in her eyes. The silence is comforting to her. Being tone deaf, music holds no special place. Too many sounds, too many voices, be they music or spoken, become cacophonous and overwhelming. She'd often retreat into her own thoughts and let them run amok or her brain would simply shut down.

^*^*^

"No that's wrong." Mom said from the kitchen. "Is not! And how can you even tell from there?"

Angie was, under protest, practicing piano. It wasn't easy, having to hold one finger next to the small black dot on the page to keep it from dancing away. Then she had to painstakingly count the number of lines and spaces, either up or down, to the next black dot, which would often jump away before she would get there. Once she found it, she had to count to find the dirty-white rectangle on the piano. Then memorize and move on, one at a time. It had taken her half an hour to memorize two lines on the page, three more to go, when mom had said she made a mistake.

"Well, you can hear it, can't you?" Mon was drying her hands on her apron.

"You can?" Angie wondered.

"Yes, of course. Now, show me what you did?"

And once again Angie places her left index finger at the first black dot and slowly, one black dot, one yellowish-white rectangle at a time worked her way through the two lines.

"No. Here you have to play this one." Mom pressed one of the black ones. The ones that were a bit taller than the dirty-white ones.

"Ouch! No, I don't like that." Eleven-year-old Angie was quite sure about that. "That has to be wrong."

"No." And mom sounded equally serios about this. "See here, this little mark means you have to use this one."

"No, it must be written wrong." There was no budging Angie.

Mom huffed. "This is what it sounds like." She made her fingers dance over the sort-of white and that one black rectangle.

"Wow! how long did it take you to memorize that?"

"Memorize? You read it." Mom shrugged.

"Oh, mom." Angie laughed. "They're not words."

She was saved from any further lessons that night, when dad came home, which meant that dinner should be on the table.

Angie never became a piano virtuoso, nor did she learn to read music. One day, when her piano teacher told her that she had to use both hands on the keys at the same time, she said, 'no thank you' and left the lesson.

^*^*^

The sun has reached its peak. It'll be another month before it's low enough to reach all the way to where Angie is sitting. She's comfortable in her chair. Maybe getting a little thirsty. She's feeling a headache brewing, but nothing she can't handle. She distracts herself by looking at the lake. The smokey mist has drifted off. The loons are gathering to discuss when to leave and where to go. It truly has become a brilliant and clear day. Lost in her memories, Angie does not see the one cloud and how it becomes two, then three.

^*^*^

The epic snowman, she smiles her half smile. The snow was thick, wet and heavy that day. Her brother had made a snowball, but there was no enemy to aim for. So, he rolled it like a bocci ball, until it was too big, too heavy to roll on its own. Handing his coat to Angie, he rolled it further and further. With each turn the ball picked up another inch or so of heavy wet snow. Every few turns he'd rotate it, to keep his masterpiece round. Soon is became too big, too massive for him to roll by himself. But there was just too much labor invested to leave it by the side of the road. So, they both pushed and rolled the thing. Luckily their cousin Rolf passed by and stopped. Traffic stopped when they crossed the road. Drivers stuck their heads out of their cars and cheered. More kids came out and rolled more balls and heaved them on top of her brother's creation. That snowman mocked two amateur football teams. It took weeks to melt, while it stood in the middle of the empty lot that had a goal on either end.

^*^*^

She sighs with pleasure at the memory of kids shrieking, yelling and laughing.

^*^*^

There was a large empty space behind the new house. The summer they moved in, every kid in the neighborhood worked hard. They dug holes, made hills, banked curves to scary angles, made gullies to avoid. And when it was finished, they raced over the path with their bikes. Sprained their wrists; gave themselves mild concussions and major knee scrapes. And then did it all again. Till the lots were divided and construction began on the four new houses.

^*^*

She's deep in her memories now and hears the rhythm of dozens of skates scratching in unison over the rough ice.

^*^*^

It seemed as if everybody from school had come. Once the hot chocolate and pea soup was gone, they formed lines. Angie grabbed the tail end of her brother jacket. ducked her head, like everybody else and ... left-slide, right-slide, left- ... Periodically, whoever was in the lead, like ducks flying south, would glide to the back and the next one would set the pace. Even back then, it was rare that the lakes would freeze over enough to make this safe.

^*^*^

She's resting in her Eames. A second-hand, second-generation Eames, but an Eames, nonetheless. The shadows have lengthened. A slight breeze is rippling the water. Clouds have formed. The sun is not quite low enough to tint them, but it won't be long. Sunrise and sunset are her favorite. How many times has she tried and failed to paint either? Only to run out of colors or light before she can capture it. How many rolls of film has she wasted because she didn't have the right filter or film?

After her brother's funeral, too many years ago, his friends, all members of the same gliding club, looked up as they left the crematorium. That's what you do when you are a glider. You look up to check the clouds. The better the clouds, the better the updraft, the longer you can stay up. Which is the whole point of gliding. So, when they looked up, everybody else looked up too. Circling over the crematorium were six or seven gliders from a neighboring club, as if they were showing him the way.

A tear escapes as Angie remembers. She wonders who will show her the way.

Yesterday evening, while she was reading, she had a stroke. The left side of her body is paralyzed, her speech is gone, she can't reach her phone. She can't get out of her chair.

She's alone.

Someone will find her, eventually.

Another pain stabs through her head, as she looks at the sunset. Fire in ... ...