Bookworms Report

After meeting with the Santa Maria Bookworms and Scribes, I'm looking forward to the next time--next month. That will give me time to work on some new writing on, maybe Nary a Drop of Seawater. It's probably closest to completion. Whew, just saying that makes me feel energized! Send me all the vibes you can spare.

Bookworms Report - Reminiscing

This evening I caught the last hour or so of a MeetUp of the Bookworms, a writers' group meeting at the Santa Maria Public Library. I was late, but they invited me to read what I had brought--Lady on the Bench. They were complimentary! I asked for their comments on whether I should post it here, whether folks would be interested in reading it. They gave me a yes and a go-ahead. So . . .

 Lady on the Bench

by

Beverly Gaye Scofield

1992

The first time I saw her she was sitting on a sidewalk bench on the corner of Light and Pratt Streets, busiest tourist intersection in Baltimore. It was early. The sun was just coming in over the tops of the tall downtown buildings. A finger of gold touched her head and slid down the length of her. She glowed, as though the sun had discovered a way to get inside her. Beside the bench, her shopping cart bristled with mysterious, plastic-wrapped odds and ends. The fingers of her right hand curled firmly around its handle.

It was early October and already the nights were chilly, the morning air too fresh for comfort. She was swathed in layers of clothing. Dark trousers reached almost to her ankles. Between their cuffs and the tops of army boots, I could see the ribs and puckers of long johns. Her trench coat fell open, and a rainbow of shirts and sweatshirts peeked around one another. Out of it all, a red plaid skirt emerged, falling halfway down her legs.

At least, I thought, she is probably not cold. But where had she slept last night? In this age of urban renewal, lairs for the homeless to hide away in were all disappearing. How did she make her way in an unfriendly world? What did she think about as she sat on a bench on an early October morning, waiting . . . waiting for what?

I walked closer to get a better look, peering up the street, pretending to look for a bus so I wouldn't seem rude if she opened her eyes suddenly. But her eyes were still closed, and up close her face seemed relaxed, the touch of the sun imparting beatitude. In the bright light, I could see every line of her careworn face, sculpted deeply but strangely pleasing.

How did she keep clean? Her hair, pushed back by a thick woolen scarf, appeared to be clean, recently brushed and braided. Where did she take her morning toilette? Her free hand lay loose and relaxed in her lap, fingernails broken but clean. How had she managed that, with no ready bathroom? How did she manage anything, with no phone to call a family for help, nowhere to go when she fell ill, no place to sit comfortably in private and just rest, without the need to worry about her cart and its precious cargo? It was all so far beyond my ken, so unbelievably foreign to everything I'd ever experienced.

What if she were my mother? My heart clenched with pain at the thought. Then, in a flood of revealing grief, I saw myself sitting there.

The End

It's a good group. Four others were there--Donna, Kristin, Rene' and Dot. They meet once a month. So, I'll have to work during the next month. I'm looking forward to it.

Poem - Mighty Joe Young

He Said His Name Was Joe Young

He said his name was Joe Young.

Once I'd pulled ahead and stopped

To intercept him at a pullout,

I teased and called him mighty.

His bicycle, encumbered, stem to stern,

By neatly rolled up bundles,

Seemed too heavy to be pushed,

As he was doing, much less ridden.

He wasn't a young man by any means,

But when I shook his hand, his grip exuded strength;

His eyes full of the merriment that comes only

From a heart that loves life and enjoys living it.

Joe's untrimmed beard covered his face and chest,

Blended at the sides with longish uncut hair.

Whether blond, red, or gray remained a mystery.

His lips, as he spoke, hid behind a wide red mustache.

We sat together on the tailgate of my pickup truck.

Our stories of adventure traveling back and forth.

My own seemed mild compared to his, but when I told my dream,

He laughed aloud in genuine appreciation. He understood.

He went his way, trudging byways, seeing the country, edge to edge.

I drove on, richer for having seen his eyes and heard his voice.

And when I, too, hit the road in months to come,

I pray I’ll cross paths again with mighty Joe Young,

Somewhere in America, living life his way.

Beverly Gaye Scofield

2014 All rights reserved

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This was one of my true life people adventures. On one of the beautiful Tennessee backroads, I passed and then looked back at this old guy pushing his loaded bicycle along the roadside. I pulled off at the first wide spot and waited for him to catch up. He stopped. This is what happened. I had snacks with me, and we just visited. It was surreal and wonderful. Enjoy.