She was still asleep on his shoulder as he walked the
trail from the highway to the home clearing and the cave. She stirred as he
walked along.
“Hey, Birdie,” he said as they neared the cave, “why don’t
you spend the night with Ramona and me and the kids?”
“Gronk! Evermore!,” she said, very quietly.
They slipped in without waking the kids or the cats. Maeve hopped up to the head of the bed frame and went to sleep instantly.
“Mona,” he said, “me and the old bird are here. All is well.”
Everyone slept on until first light.
Like the virtuous wife in the proverb, Ramona was awake
first, stirring up her fire, and preparing to make a very large mushroom omelet
in her biggest pan.
Ralph was next. The sun was just coming up. It was chilly by the fire, and they could see the clouds of their breath in the air.
“How was Millicent,” said Ramona, whipping eggs in a big
bowl carved by Ooog.
“She was fine. She keeps busy writing for the paper. That’s the whole thing for her.”
“How did you like Mort’s,” she asked.
“Oh, it was funny, in a way. It wouldn’t be funny if I had to go there every day for some reason which I can’t imagine. The old guy running the place was kind to us. Of course he was interested in Milly’s cash. I don’t think he’s making much money there,” Ralph said.
“Did Maurice’s band play?”
“Yup. They were there. They have a new screamer. Maeve said they offered her a job.”
“Oh my! What an idea!” said Ramona, giggling.
Just about then they heard a rapping on their chamber door. Maeve was awake and wanted out, but she couldn’t budge the door.
Ralph got up and let her out.
She flew off into the tall trees and the morning light, calling out her new favorite word as she left them by the fire.
“Evermore,” said Ralph. “I wonder if it will ever wear off, or if we’re stuck with ‘evermore’, forever?”
Ramona snorted. “I wonder where she got that word?”
“Hard to say,” said Ralph. He was feeling thoughtful.
“I’ve been thinking about stories. Comparing them to images,” he said. “I mean, ever since Milly’s interview questions last night.”
“How are they different and how are they the same.”
“What’s bothering you about stories?” asked his wife.
“Well, I guess I’m not talking about the kind of stories about ourselves that we just say. It was the written ones, like Millicent writes for her newspaper.
“Isn’t that like a ‘graven image’ Mona. It’s a lot like getting your photo taken, isn’t it?”
He waited while she poured the beaten eggs into the shallow pan where the butter and sliced mushrooms had been frying quietly. It smelled wonderful, perfuming the cool morning air.
“I think there might be an essential difference,” said
Ramona, taking a seat beside him.
“An image is finite. It’s cast in stone, more or less, depending on the assumptions and experience of the viewer. But, the image itself is changeless. Maybe that’s why we don’t have our pictures made. They’re like one fir needle in the whole forest. In essence, a kind of lie,” she suggested.
“Now, the spoken word is as free as the air. You can’t grab it or catch it. You may remember it. The spoken word does have power, but it’s not visual or finite in the same way.
“The written word, stories about us, share some of that essence. No finite imagery is there. The reader must bring himself, his own internal imagery into the situation. But I don’t think they offend against our essential definition in the same way a photo, a video or even a painting would.”
“You know, I really like Millicent. I enjoy talking with her about things in our world. I’d hate to never speak with her again,” mused Ralph.
“What she wanted to talk about last night was how I felt about all those truly embarrassing images of us that people make. I told her that I thought that in the long run they didn’t matter. And in fact, they might be helpful, in that they are so far off from the truth that they act as a kind of shield between us and exposure”
“Oh, Ralphie, you’re so zensible!” said Ramona.
Then the eggs were cooked, so she took them off the fire and put the pan on an upright section of a large tree that she was using for a little table.
Twigg and the cats wandered out to see what was cooking, followed by little blond Cherry. Everyone had a fine breakfast.
Possibly the only thing that could have improved the scene would have been a big pot of coffee. But that’s a story for another day!
“Gronk! Evermore!,” she said, very quietly.
They slipped in without waking the kids or the cats. Maeve hopped up to the head of the bed frame and went to sleep instantly.
“Mona,” he said, “me and the old bird are here. All is well.”
Everyone slept on until first light.
Ralph was next. The sun was just coming up. It was chilly by the fire, and they could see the clouds of their breath in the air.
“She was fine. She keeps busy writing for the paper. That’s the whole thing for her.”
“How did you like Mort’s,” she asked.
“Oh, it was funny, in a way. It wouldn’t be funny if I had to go there every day for some reason which I can’t imagine. The old guy running the place was kind to us. Of course he was interested in Milly’s cash. I don’t think he’s making much money there,” Ralph said.
“Did Maurice’s band play?”
“Yup. They were there. They have a new screamer. Maeve said they offered her a job.”
“Oh my! What an idea!” said Ramona, giggling.
Just about then they heard a rapping on their chamber door. Maeve was awake and wanted out, but she couldn’t budge the door.
Ralph got up and let her out.
She flew off into the tall trees and the morning light, calling out her new favorite word as she left them by the fire.
“Evermore,” said Ralph. “I wonder if it will ever wear off, or if we’re stuck with ‘evermore’, forever?”
Ramona snorted. “I wonder where she got that word?”
“Hard to say,” said Ralph. He was feeling thoughtful.
“I’ve been thinking about stories. Comparing them to images,” he said. “I mean, ever since Milly’s interview questions last night.”
“How are they different and how are they the same.”
“What’s bothering you about stories?” asked his wife.
“Well, I guess I’m not talking about the kind of stories about ourselves that we just say. It was the written ones, like Millicent writes for her newspaper.
“Isn’t that like a ‘graven image’ Mona. It’s a lot like getting your photo taken, isn’t it?”
He waited while she poured the beaten eggs into the shallow pan where the butter and sliced mushrooms had been frying quietly. It smelled wonderful, perfuming the cool morning air.
“An image is finite. It’s cast in stone, more or less, depending on the assumptions and experience of the viewer. But, the image itself is changeless. Maybe that’s why we don’t have our pictures made. They’re like one fir needle in the whole forest. In essence, a kind of lie,” she suggested.
“Now, the spoken word is as free as the air. You can’t grab it or catch it. You may remember it. The spoken word does have power, but it’s not visual or finite in the same way.
“The written word, stories about us, share some of that essence. No finite imagery is there. The reader must bring himself, his own internal imagery into the situation. But I don’t think they offend against our essential definition in the same way a photo, a video or even a painting would.”
“You know, I really like Millicent. I enjoy talking with her about things in our world. I’d hate to never speak with her again,” mused Ralph.
“What she wanted to talk about last night was how I felt about all those truly embarrassing images of us that people make. I told her that I thought that in the long run they didn’t matter. And in fact, they might be helpful, in that they are so far off from the truth that they act as a kind of shield between us and exposure”
Then the eggs were cooked, so she took them off the fire and put the pan on an upright section of a large tree that she was using for a little table.
Twigg and the cats wandered out to see what was cooking, followed by little blond Cherry. Everyone had a fine breakfast.
Possibly the only thing that could have improved the scene would have been a big pot of coffee. But that’s a story for another day!
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