TIME in a capsule

Time Magazine Monday, Mar. 18, 1946

Irish sentiment led John Cardinal Glennon to pause in his native Ireland as he flew back, a new-made Prince of the Church, from Rome to St. Louis. There last week, as it must to all men, Death came to Cardinal Glennon. He was 83.

Odd, I can hear that, intoned, in some corner of my mind. Not the whole piece; I had to look it up to find the context. No, the words I hear, like some solemn Pete Smith voice-over: There, last week, as it must to all men, Death came…

Somehow, I had created for that fragment of pomposity, a whole setting. It would have been movie newsreels, and in that situation, formulaic. Because I could hear the one, I assumed there were others. A standard obituary in the darkened house of flickering images. Hence, Death came to Former President_____, Death came to the star, Death came to Joe Blow.

Because of that, the supposition of a notable over-use, I wanted to twist it and use my version as an opening sentence: Last week, Life came to Robin Gray.

I may use it anyway, even if I am the only one who can here that deep, perfectly enunciated echo of Death.

Sketch: Aunt Dave

The sign jutting from below the second story dormer of the building had been altered.  Re-purposed.  Davelyn said that she found it, just lying on the side of the road out in the middle of nowhere.  The faded lettering on the  panel inside its fancy wrought iron frame said:  Love Can Grow Community Baptist Congregation. She liked the sentiment so much that she kept it, even though she had no use in the world for the thing. It stayed in the storage shed behind her father’s house for several years, just taking up space and getting in the way and getting shoved farther and farther toward the back and otherwise forgotten.

she painted out the Baptist Congregation and lettered in BAR, in a lurid fuscia because the paint was part of a mixed lot she had gotten free.

Exercise

Mira came to the door wrapped in a towel.  She was not expecting anyone.  No one knew she had moved into the stone cottage at the top of the hill.  she looked through the peephole and saw no one there, stepped away, wondering if she had imagined the knocking, then heard the sound again, louder.

She opened the door a crack, aware that she was being a total idiot.  The man  standing there on the porch was the same she had mistaken for a boy the day before.  He was no taller than her shoulder, thin, and wrinkled as a prune.  Almost as darkly weathered.  There was something wrong with one of the legs she could see showing below his khaki shorts.  It seemed withered.  The shorts, themselves, were neatly pressed as the man was not.  His blue shirt made his eyes seem even brighter.  He grinned at the slice of her he could see through the crack in the door.

“Do you have work, Ma’am?”  He had an odd accent, not southern, almost Irish, but not that.  She was nonplussed.

“Work?”

“Employment.  chores.  Small things that need doing.  Heavy lifting.  I’m not tall as you can see, but I am strong.  You just moved in.  Perhaps you still want your furniture moved around see how it looks better one way or another.  I don’t ask for much.  A bit to buy a bite and a sip.  Won’t be pretending it isn’t for drink, not like some.  I don’t take people for a fool.”