The Wisdom of Ages
Three stories; four men whose lives take unexpected turns. Meet Samson who wonders what is down that country road that draws people so. Should he get in that old truck and go see? Mel and Rube have been having dinner at the Leavenworth Grill every Wednesday for years. One day the menu changes and so does life for Mel. Tom would give anything for his life to change. Can he beat back the effects of a crippling stroke by sheer force of determination? Growing old is not for the faint of heart.
"These three gems will make you think about time and how you use it. Maryann Miller has a rare gift for taking the pulse of ordinary lives and spinning that into extraordinary tales." -- Craig Lancaster, author of 600 Hours of Edward and The Summer Son
"Miller shares her skills as a writer and her humanity in this inspiring glimpse into the realities of aging and the heartbreak of letting go." Paula Stallings Yost Editor/Author, What Wildness is This: Women Write About the Southwest
"Sometimes the best stories come at the end of our lives, and so do the strongest lessons. Read Maryann Miller's poignant vignettes about aging and let them tug at your heart-strings. They capture the very essence of our tender humanity." ~ Dani Greer, author, editor and Special Projects Coordinator for Little Pickle Press.
Excerpt:
Samson sat in the meager shade of the small Mimosa tree that graced his front yard, watching the traffic on old highway 79. Granted, there wasn’t much, but every now and then a shiny new car would pass, heading toward the resort Samson knew was somewhere down the road. Or a car full of teenagers would zoom by, the boys laughing and tossing their empties out the window. And as many afternoons as he’d spent out here, it never failed to surprise Samson how much things had changed. On a good day he could count up to a hundred cars going by. Times used to be when one donkey cart coming down the road was cause for celebration.
Those had been the good years. The years Samson had worked for Mr. Watson until he’d given Samson this little piece of land for his own. Some folks thought Watson had lost his mind, giving away his land like that, especially to a black man. But Watson had never treated Samson like most white folks did, the ‘good ol’ boy’ routine that never quite covered the slight hesitation as white flesh met black in a handshake. Watson never hesitated as a man or a friend, and the memory creased Samson’s weathered face in a smile.
But the smile wasn’t just for Watson. It was for Molly and those six youngsters who had been so much a part of the goodness of those years. He wished he could have filled their bellies as easily as they’d filled his heart, but they’d never seemed to mind. They’d always laughed the place up, and any occasion, large or small turned into an opportunity for fun. When the peddler came down the road, the pots and pans clanking in time to the clip clop of his horse’s hooves on the dirt road, the children ran out clutching their dimes, eager to see what new toy or sweet the old man had. You’d’ve thought a carnival had come to their front door.
Then all too soon those good years had passed. One by one the youngsters got up and left. Then Molly had, too. Not of her own choice of course. A body has no choice when it comes to dying, so Samson had been alone these past twenty years. Wasn’t too bad though. Once he got used to listening to the radio instead of Molly and learned how to make passable biscuits. But acceptance didn’t dispel the loneliness that crept up on a man in the dark of night, and Samson wondered if he was destined to carry that loneliness to the grave.
A smile quickly replaced Samson’s thoughtful frown as he caught sight of his grandson’s car pulling up the gravel drive, heralded by a cloud of white dust.
“Howdy, Grandpa!” Chad called, easing himself from behind the wheel of the dark blue Firebird. "Thought you could use a cold brew this afternoon.”
“Well, boy, if you ain’t some kind’a angel been heaven sent.”
Laughing, Chad grabbed the six-pack and slammed the door. “You wouldn’t be calling me an angel if you’d seen me last night.”
His knees grating like a rusty hinge, Samson stood and regarded the smooth, mocha-colored face of his grandson with a fondness that went far beyond family love. Chad was Samson’s youngest grandchild. He wasn’t necessarily the favorite, but he was the most faithful, and it did an old man good to bridge the years between ninety and twenty sometimes. “You been tasting the sweetness of them city gals up in Dallas again?” Samson asked.
Chad grinned, following the old man into the small, frame house, banging the screen door behind him with a pleasant thunk. Inside, dust motes danced on a stream of sunlight. A Country tune whining on the transistor radio provided accompaniment. “You sure your old heart can take the excitement of hearing about my conquests?” Chad asked.
“Ain’t no better way to go.”
Chad plunked the beer down on the scarred, wooden table, then popped a couple open while Samson ambled over to turn the volume down on the radio.
“You ought to come up sometime, Grandpa. I know a nice widow lady for you.”
“Ha!” Samson snorted. “She probably couldn’t handle the likes of me.
“`Sides that,” he added, taking a sack of pecans to the table. “That ol’ truck done quit on me last week. Wouldn’t trust ‘er to take me to Jewett, let alone Dallas.”
Copyright (C) 2011 Maryann Miller
