(A little bit of the fiction writing that I dabble in. I hope my readers enjoy. :) It's amatuer...but it's mine. Like my favorite fortune cookie once said.. "You create your own stage. The audience is waiting".)
2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

"Sights seen in the mind's eye can never be destroyed"
Strabo (64 BC - AD 21)

THE PASSAGE - Chapter One



Seraph closed her eyes as she was told.

Her senses tingled with awareness as the sound of falling water grew louder, mimicked in a gentle touch upon her shoulder. Someone warmed her ear with a whisper, but before sense or reason could give the words shape, they faded into a place that held no form at all. Sound rushed out, as if being pulled through a small hole, leaving only thick quiet to fill the void.

Darkness cradled her. She felt the muted pump of her heart, and the velvet blackness caress her skin the way it did when someone stood too close at night. Was she falling, or flying? Maybe she was levitating.

'Or maybe', she thought, 'I have already arrived'.

The questions drifted in the same dreamy procession as leaves floating downstream, and yet there was no real need for answers. She knew this, for she had crossed over many times before. But regardless of her certainty, the questions always remained.

Or perhaps they were the answers all along.

--

"Open your eyes," a voice said.

It was as if a door were thrown open near the ocean, just in time to hear the seventh wave crash on the shore. A rush of tingles ran wildfire up her spine, while echoing words untangled themselves from her thoughts. She swayed as she felt solid ground beneath her feet and gulped the fresh air, tasting rain on her tongue.

The fading light in the sky eased into her vision. There were storm clouds darkening overhead, and a wind that spiraled down from them teased at her long black hair.

It was then that she heard the chanting. Women's voices, lilting in harmonic tones that seemed to rise and fall with the blowing wind. Before her, solitary on the sloping green plains, a ring of square stones almost triple her height. Torches had been thrust into the ground around them, their flames guttering wildly in the wind. She walked through the wet grass and pressed herself against one of the stones, circling around to the other side to shield herself from the storm. Shadows danced against the slabs of rock like ghosts of the women within the ring. Their hands reached up to the sky, their backs arched in offering. As Seraph stared, a peal of thunder rolled across the plain, and lightning sparked the bank of clouds. In a heartbeat she was blinded by it, clenching her eyes shut until the moment passed....

...but dizziness welled up in her core as the chill of the storm suddenly gave way to a press of hot, dry air. The next breath was laced with spice, and the sound of the women and thunder thinned out until it hissed like a thousand serpents. She pushed away from her brace against the stone and opened her eyes, squinting as she adjusted to brilliant sunlight flashing on pale dunes as far as she could see.

At her feet, a terrace of quarried stone spreading out like a mountain. Pulling her hair back away from her face, she picked her way across the platform of stone, following the call of a reedy voice. The heat blazed against her dusky skin, magnified by the massive granite blocks that had baked under the sun for hours. When she peered down the terraced slope, she saw a young man standing on a high ramp, draped in a pristine white robe and adorned with gold and lapis lazuli. Below him on a grand stairway, a dozen men worked in unison, their backs shining slick with sweat. Across the desert, a shadow of the pyramid stretched out to touch the distant sand, and Seraph knelt down to press her hands against the burning stone...

...but her fingers disappeared beneath the surface of water. Ripples from her touch fanned out through a mirror smooth pool, disrupting the perfect image reflected within. A cool breath of wind chased away the parched heat, and Seraph glanced up, following the line of water and cypress trees as they joined together in the distance beneath the pregnant swell of a palatial tomb. Silence fit the moment as moonlight glowed on the white marble dome and it's guardian minarets. A hint of a smile grew, the moon shining just as deeply in her pale green eyes. 'Such truth in beauty' she thought to herself as she looked back down into the reflecting pool. . .

. . . And saw the face of London's Clock Tower light up. It boomed the hour, and with each heavy chime Seraph felt herself center to the world around her. A double-decker bus roared by in a blur of red, and flashes from a tourist's camera lit up the sidewalk around her. It was raining again, and her brows perked slightly as she realized she was already carrying an umbrella. Flicking it open, she watched the flow of people on the sidewalk, peering over her shoulder as they disappearing down the stairs to Westminster Station. She tightened the scarf at her throat, a faint scent of sandalwood lifting up from her wrists. She looked down to see she was wearing a simple brown wrap skirt, lace up boots and a black duster that hung well past her knees.

"Perfect," she whispered, glancing up at the Clock Tower as she noted the time.

The passage was complete. They would be pleased.

Threading her way through the rush hour crowd, she tossed a coin to a busker.

He quickened the strum of his guitar to match her stride as she disappeared into London's Underground.
(To be continued)

2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

Two of my most beloved poems, by the same writer - Pablo Neruda. His words ring so true in my ears. If you are not familiar with his works, I highly recommend them. Vibrant and sensual, rich enough to taste. He has ruined me for all other poets.

POETRY
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~



And another for good measure. One of my favorites by him:

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~

I've heard that personal collections tell much about the people who have hoarded them. Some people become obsessed with a certain animal. Others collect a particular artist, or perhaps a type of crystal.

There are two things that I have long been fascinated with, and collect down to this day: Interesting boxes, and journals.

My fascination with boxes began at a very early age, starting with the treasure chests. When I was five years old, my mother bundled me up and carted me off to Disneyland. Everything was a clash of color and sound, whirling rides and fantastical sights at every turn. I have such vivid memories of being there in my baby blue pant suit. But over all the surreal experiences with talking parrots and giant mice dancing around me, I remember one thing gleamingly clear.

The Pirates of the Caribbean.

This ride enthralled me. Scared me. Lured me in with the mystery of pirates and their treasure.

At one point in the ride, there were treasure chests gleaming with pirate gold. I reached out, wanting to pluck one off the pile for myself, but just as soon as my little starfish hand reached out.... the cart we were riding in swung around a corner and plunged us into darkness.

From that day forward I knew I wanted a treasure chest of my very own. And I made one! I found a small plastic Barbie trunk which I very carefully placed every loose rhinestone, every piece of cut glass I could find in my mom's jewelry box. I was a scavanger, looking for anything sparkly to add to my trove.

The day arrived that my little trunk was stuffed full of glittery, shiny gems. I sat down on the floor, got out a piece of butcher paper (ripped on the edges to make it look 'old'), and set out making my Treasure Map. From my bedroom door, I paced out the steps down the stairs, through the living room, into the kitchen and out the back door. Taking a butter knife from the kitchen as I passed through, I counted the paces down the back steps to the sidewalk... then out across the yard to the edge of the above ground swimming pool.

Then I got tricky.

I backtracked some, and veered off beneath the Lilac tree. There was one particular limb that hung out further from the rest and I - not comprehending that time would pass and my tree would grow - made the very tip of that limb my final stop. Directly beneath it, in the green grass of our lawn, I would bury my plastic treasure chest. Butter knife marks the spot.

So I carved out a hunk of sod, and then sat down to finish my map. For effect, I drew the best skull and cross bones I could manage. Then I carefully folded my 'map' up, tucked it in with my jewels, and down into the hole my treasure chest went.

Plugging the hole back up, I ran into the house to dump the dirty knife in the sink. I couldn't stop giggling. I had my very own secret pirate's treasure, map included.

Every night I would go out and rub my toes over the grass that had died on that patch. I made sure water from the sprinkler revived it, and then watched with pride as the green started to return. But, of course... summer ended. School started. I soon traded in obsession with my treasure for the experiences of kindergarten.

But I never lost my fascination with boxes.

Years later, as my parents would take me to the Gun and Antique shows at local county fairgrounds, I would leave my Dad's table where he would be showing all of his firearms, and I would wander the rows of antiques. Every now and then, I would find a box that would catch my eye. Perhaps a small wooden one, with carvings on the top. Once, a large black lacquered one with red velvet lining. Another time, it was an old hat box from Paris. All of these lovely things I scuttled back home with, to add to my collection.

And then came the journals.

My mom gave me my first journal. It was navy blue with a gold lock, and the word "Diary" stamped on the front in gold leaf. I was clumsy with my entries, writing about my day in one and two sentence statements. "It rained and Chinook (our dog at the time) didn't come to the bus stop with me." "Sari (my best friend) wore new shoes today."

Such simple, bold statements of life that was no bigger than the space around me. But I was hooked. Journals were just like treasure chests, only this time...I could write the jewels. I could fill it with as many as I wanted, and they were secret, which of course was paramount for any REAL treasure.

I kept my journals in my boxes, which gave me double the pleasure. Sometimes I would carry one of the boxes over to my bed, just to open it up and sift through the contents, no matter how many times I had done it before. Maybe that night's choice would be the small cedar box which was an advertisement for real cedar hope chests. It had a key that I could lock and unlock it with. Inside were tiny trinkets, paper momentos, and a small pink flowered journal I had bought with my own money. I loved these tokens of my life. They were proof of my existence. Of where I had been. Of what I personally found interesting.

My simple joys from these two things have not waned with time. I spy a hand crafted journal that ties with a strip of leather, and I immediately want to buy it. I see a box with dark wood thatching across the top and a curious lock on it, oooooh - I want to make it mine. I want to take them, and fill them up to the brim with my treasures...so that when they are sitting on the shelves looking lovely and enigmatic, I can tell myself.... There's treasure in there.

So... years have passed. But when I look out the window of the childhood home I grew up in, and see the lilac bush having grown so huge.... I smile to myself. Somewhere out there, beneath the limbs that have stretched out over the thick green grass, is a tiny plastic pirate's chest nestled deep in the ground with the worms and pebbles and brown dirt.

And you know what?

There's treasure in there.....

I'm not sure what's wrong.

There are times in the year where I will suddenly and without warning 'shut down' my creative processes. Well, I don't do it on purpose... I imagine a tiny little munchkin-me riding sidesaddle in my brain who gets her kicks on plucking out that particular mass of goo sometimes.

I sure wish I knew where she flung it.

All around me Spring has been bursting up out of the dead ground. Flowers reaching up for the sun... birds gathering in the wood piles. The slightly peppery scent of an orchard coming back to life. So... why can't I write about it?

Good question.

Thank you. I pride myself on good questions.

Smart aleck.

Anyway....

Every day I come look at my blog. I look at it, and visit the links. I listen to the music (which, by the way - is soon to change. I'm in a Crowded House mood this week. Mmm, Neil Finn - thank you for your songs), and I stare at the Blogger button like it were a little alien having just beamed in from Betelgeuse. If I don't look at it, maybe it will go away... or at least go to the next trailer park down the road.

But of course, I don't *really* want it to go away. I want it to stay awhile. In fact, if I were to be truthful, I might even let it take me back to it's mothership for some testing.

So why the resistance?

Maybe I'm having a temporary aversion to being prodded with long pointy needles. Or, long pointy lines of code for that matter. I guess you could say it's writer's block... but it would be the wrong thing to say. I'm not blocked. In fact, I have so many things boiling inside my little mind that you could say it is writer's overload. I have so MUCH to say, that it has bottlenecked.

The best route to take then, if there is a path to choose - is to let the wine flow one droplet at a time. Because someday, it will become a full glass again.

That being said....

I had the most fascinating dream the other night. It wasn't part of a lengthy epic as my night dreams are prone to be. It was a brief flash - a wavering moment in my subconcious... but it was so beautiful. In fact, I can honestly say this was the most peaceful, serene 'place' I have ever visited in my dreams.

I had walked up the last few steps of a grassy bank, to stand at the edge of a slow moving river. It wasn't very big, in fact a person wouldn't have to be a very strong swimmer to make it to the other side. But it was breathtaking.

Sunlight was streaming down through a wall of mist that had stopped short of the bank on the opposite side. Diffused light focused on the barely moving water, and glistened in near-blinding golden shimmers. The water was an impossible shade of emerald green... like it was a priceless jewel flowing over the rocks. The trees were weeping willows, and their branches hung gently over the water, the tips moving to and fro over the surface.

I stood there, completely engulfed in perfect warmth. I could almost taste the emerald hue, it was that rich. I was stunned by the beauty of sunlight through the mist, and everything about the moment told me that I had arrived. Where? It didn't matter. I had arrived.... and that's all I needed to know.

I desperately wanted to take a picture.

I turned and ran down the bank, to go into a nearby house and fetch my camera. I was moving in slow motion...but not in panic-time. It was simply the way I had to move in this serene place. But by the time I got my camera and climbed back up the hill, the moment was gone. The sun was hiding behind a higher group of clouds, and the water had dimmed to a grey-blue.

But when I woke up shortly thereafter, I still had that warm, green-gold glow radiating inside of me.

Someday, I'm going to be standing on that bank. But I'm not going to leave it to take a picture. I'm just going to lay down in the plush grass, and let the sunlight infuse me.

The Journey of Samwise: A Return To The Shire

As some of you may know, a stray cat decided to claim our house as his home during the winter months. A battered orange Tom, and a manx no less - who was obviously accustomed to battling it out for territory in the wilds of the Cashmere Valley orchards.

We named him Smeagol, for his habit of meowling and whining as he poked his head out from under the porch. But, my 7 year old niece... upon seeing The Return of The King.... decided that Smeagol was evil, and we absolutely HAD to rename our cat.

Hence, Samwise was bestowed as his new moniker.

Now, Samwise had a tendency to roam his newfound Shire. It wasn't unusual for him to go up missing for two or three days at a time. At night, I'd hear the coyotes yodling out in the orchard...and I would wonder if perhaps Samwise had strayed a little too far towards Mordor. But, eventually I'd hear him meowling at the front door, wanting his tin of tuna.

A survivor, that one.

Although... one morning when he returned, I went outside to find that something had gotten hold of him. His back leg had fur missing on a good portion of it, and puncture wounds where teeth had clamped. There was a small scratch on his nose...and he was busily licking and tending to his wounds. We watched him for awhile, and he wasn't limping or in immediate pain... so we decided to keep an eye on it, figuring that sometimes it's best just to let the animal take care of it.

That went well for a few days. The wound was staying clean, and he was busy inspecting the newly uncovered lawn and garden as the snow melted back.

Thursday morning of this week came, and I scritched his head on my way out the door for work. My mother was there, and we both noticed that the wound had swollen. Time to go to the vet.

So I went to work, not realizing that my mother had decided she would take him that day.

When I came home that night, I noticed Samwise wasn't milling around on the porch as he is wont to do. When I went inside, mom was sitting on the couch....

"Well, I don't know if we are going to see Samwise again or not...."

What???

And here is where Samwise's journey begins.

----

I was mindin' me own business in the garden there, noticin' that the ground was gettin' ripe fer mushrooms....when suddenly I found meself scooped up like I was nuthin' but a bag o' taters! I looked, and standin' there with me in her clutches was Grandma-ki... with the White Hand of Mary Kay smack dab on her face.

She threw me over her shoulder, Mr. Frodo - she did. She took her stride to that monstrous big dragon o' hers.... and I was soon flyin' down the road, not knowing it for nuthin'. And then I came to me senses....

.... we were headin' straight fer Mordor, we were.

I saw it plain as day, the Eye of Veterinarian. Oh it was an evil business, Mr. Frodo... the smell hit me like the stinkiest bog you ever did step in. When she brought her dragon to a stop, she hoisted me out and held me in a death grip, I swear it.

The closer we got to that evil door, the more I thought of the Shire, and how I might never see it again. And then, I heard her murmur low like. She said she was fixin' on fixin' me! At first I thought maybe just my leg, but then she said somethin' that made the hair on my back stand right up. She was talkin' about my Precious. My PRECIOUS!!! Noooo!! Don't let him turn me into anything unnatural!!!!!!!!!!

Hang that. I wasn't stickin' around for it Mr. Frodo. There was just no reason to it, as far as I could see. And I had to do somethin' quick, cause the Eye of Veterinarian was fixed on me solid like, and there wasn't no turnin' back once she got me through that door. So I had to think quick like... and the first thing to do was just to bite her hard and scratch for all I's worth Mr. Frodo. And so I did, I swear it.

The Gramma-ki dropped me then, and there was nuthin' for it. I went for the bushes straight away, and kept low so there was no seein' me. I was keepin' my Precious, and there was no two ways about it.
------------------------------------------------

So... there she was. Scratched, bit and bleeding. The Vet came out of his office when he heard the commotion, and was stunned to see mom with a real gusher coming out of the top of her hand. Apparently Samwise landed a perfect bite to a blood vessel.

So, wrapping mom's hand up as good as he could with the bright orange animal tape... the Vet urged her to head to the Emergency Room at the local hospital. Apparently cat bites are some of the worst in the world if they get directly into a vessel.

So she went, and the doctor got a good chuckle as he unwrapped the Vet's handiwork... but he did prescribe her five days of potent antibiotics. She then promptly went to the store and blew money on a pair of shoes and two shirts because, in her words...."I went to do the damned cat a favor, and to get him fixed so he wouldn't keep going out and getting in fights... and then I lost the cat, blew fifty bucks on antibiotics...and I was pouting!!!!"

At this point we were laughing hysterically... as is the habit of our family. Situations like this are so comical we can't help but laugh while feeling sad that Samwise was now a couple of miles away downtown... with train tracks, a highway, and country suburban sprawl between him and home.

So, that night I peeked out the door to his house. The heat lamp we had fixed up for him to keep him warm on the cold winter nights was dark. No orange kitty on his back baking under the red light like a little bean burrito at a mini-mart. As much of a chuckle as the situation was... I felt my heart sink. Poor Sam. Even though the Vet told us not to be surprised if he found his way home, I couldn't imagine him surviving it out of town, past the cars, across the numerous yards and fields where dogs roamed freely.

"Don't worry.... I bet you he'll come back" hubby said. But I just shook my head.

At best, I hoped maybe he'd find a new home with kind owners.

At worst.....

....

So the next day I tried not to look over at his house as I left for work. His food dish was still on the porch, but there was no need to fill it with tuna. Mom was doing good, the bite wasn't even sore - so that was a worry off my mind. I could tell she felt bad though. I tried to make her laugh by saying, "See? We should have kept his name Smeagol...cause then when he bit you, he would have shouted 'Nassssty Grammatsis!!!!' "

We both giggled, but still. Our Sam, our little stray, was gone.

So this morning, hubby and I rose early at 6:30, to get a real jump start on the day. We were hungry for omellettes and good coffee, and knew our dog would be geared for a walk. So out the door we went, and as hubby went to start the Jeep, I walked Griffin over past the porch swing to send him off into the orchard to do his business.

I stood waiting for him, when I heard a meowl.

I glanced around, telling myself it was the wind.

"Meooowl!"

I gulped. "I hear a cat. I hear a cat!!!" I almost gave myself whiplash as I looked all around, recognizing that plaintive little call. Hubby rushed over from the car, looking up in the tree at the same time I looked down at my feet....

...and there, slinking out from beneath the porch swing, was our Brave Samwise. Meooowwwwwwwwwwwwwl!!!!!!!

"Oh...holy cow!!!!!!! He came back!!! Sam's back!!!!!!!"

I scooped his little body up and he was an instant bagpipe of purring. I was absolutely dumbfounded. He had avoided the river, crossed the train tracks, made it across the highway and over two miles of the township.

I guess it really is true what they say. You can't lose a cat!

He is currently curled up on the porch in the sunlight, completely tuckered out from his long journey. And I'm sure in his mind he is thinking.... Ahhhh, Mr. Frodo. The Shire. The taste of Purina, the smell of my blanket. There's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for.

~*~

Ain't it the truth. :) When turning on the news tells of things that even nightmares can't imagine... I figured my little story of 'what was lost, now is found' might bring a smile or two to my few readers. I shamelessly (and awfully!) wove in a few direct quotes from Tolkien's grand book... and for those of you who aren't familiar with it, this story might not read the same. But I'm sure one thing is obvious; my joy! I've got my Samwise back. Kitties do have nine lives.

Today's simple pleasures:
A double-tall hazelnut latte
A handful of almonds for breakfast
Jason Mraz playing on the stereo
A warm fleece vest over my favorite t-shirt from London
Wearing sandals for the first time this year
The lingering scent of Miracle on my wrist
Seeing a heron on the bank of the river
A sandwich in a brown paper bag waiting in the fridge
Flowers for sale down the street.
I want to buy the red gerber daisy
.75 cents in my pocket

http://atomfilms.shockwave.com/af/content/trinket_maker

Visit that web page. Click on 'view film', and watch The Trinket Maker. What a charming animation. I really, really love this.
I would make it a direct link, however the page will not load properly through my blog if I do.

I would adore hearing comments on what you thought of this short film......

Since I am completely in love with Michael Parkes' Paintings, I thought it would be fun to take this test. My results are:

Rainbow Sphinx: You are the dreamer, the crafter of inspiration and the companion of muses from here to the ancient Mediterranean. Your feet never quite touch the ground, and you always see the possibilities instead of the limitations. People find you hard to understand, but impossible to live without. Remember to be patient with those of us trying to keep up.


Which Michael Parkes Painting Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hmm - intriguing results! A muse of the ages....

Mystery Solved
The man under the derby was T. Edward Davidson.

Those of you who have followed my blog for awhile now, might recall something I wrote about a spectre roaming the town. A peculiar man with a silver curled mustache and goatee, a neatly pressed suit, and a penchant for digging out the train tracks.

As it turns out, he was no phantom. He was a man obsessed with trains. He was a voracious reader, and fluent in nine languages. He had a keen interest in physics and aviation history... which wouldn't surprise those who knew him when he flew planes and taught in schools.

During World War II, he was a conscientious objector. He lived in South Korea for awhile, but never was able to shake his faintly Scottish accent. When questioned about his habit of walking everywhere he went, he replied "I get out to walking, and I don't have enough sense to quit."

There is going to be a memorial for T. Edward Davidson on March 13th at the steam train by the riverfront park - to which I am moved to attend. He passed away on February 21st. For as antiquated as he looked...the gentleman was only 81.

I'm going to be doing a little more rooting around for information about this unique fellow...but for now, I'm going to repost what I originally wrote.

For the train man:

There is a spectre that roams my town.

The first time I encountered The Engineer, it was a blistering summer day about six years ago. I was driving down by the old train trestle, where the cement arches leading beneath are often used as backdrops for photo shoots. Every day the trains rumble on overhead, and I rarely glance at people using the covered sidewalk to go beneath. Rarely, that is...until *he* caught my eye.

A thin spindle of a man was walking with a black cane toward the underpass. That in itself would not have captured my attention, but the fact that he was dressed head to toe in what seemed to be 1930's formal attire did. He wore a black bowler derby perched atop beautiful silver hair. A slim neck was encased in a stiff starched collar, a snow white dress shirt in contrast to the black vest he wore over the top, shining like only satin can. His pants were pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle to be seen...and his shoes looked like the wingtips I had seen in old picture albums at my grandmother's house.

I know I slowed down when I went past him, but by that time he had faded into the shadows of the underpass. I saw one brief flash of him through an archway... spying a meticuously groomed mustache, his proud gate with his walking stick grasped firmly.... and a black bowtie to complete the picture.

I drove on, completely dumbfounded by what I had just seen. The temperature that day was in the 90's - the sort of dry heat that the valley is famous for. Surely that slim man, in his 80's? 90's? was going to sweat himself into a puddle before he got to his destination??

Thoughts of The Engineer remained for some days afterward, but soon faded away with the routine of work and life. The year did not pass away though....until I found myself driving down that same stretch of road, and recognizing a familiar figure walking alongside the road.

As I drove by, I craned my head and looked. It was him, dressed in the same dapper suit...with the same handlebar mustache, the same bowtie, and the walking stick still gripped with a firm hand. He didn't look at me... he didn't look at the ground. He looked straight ahead, with an assured purpose in his eyes that most people would envy.

Engulfed in curiosity, I brought the subject up to my husband. He knew immediately who I was speaking of. "The old man in the suit...yes! I've seen him too!! It's like looking at something straight out of a Mark Twain book." And I could do nothing but agree. He went on to tell me he had seen the old man once, down by the park where there was a miniature train set up. Kids in the summer could go for rides on it, but it was small enough that an adult could pull it along with a rope if they wished... and that's where my husband had seen him. Pulling the train along the tiny track, in his formal dress clothes. I remember wishing with all my heart that I had been there with my Nikon, to photograph such a sight.

Glimpses of The Engineer came throughout the following years. The only change brought on by summer was the removal of the black suit jacket, to expose the vest beneath. Winter only brought the jacket back around him, and a pair of black gloves to match. He was always by the railroad... walking along the tracks that cut away from the main line and zag through the industrial section of town. He was always walking along these with that same purposeful step.

One day, however... something new happened. I was driving between two old cold storage buildings, where the train tracks come to an end, and I saw The Engineer hunched over them. It was such a startling sight that I almost stopped to see if he was alright - but then I noticed him lurching. Shoveling. He had a shovel in his hands, and he was digging gravel away from the train tracks. His black suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing pale arms. He was digging as if the train was on it's way, and it was up to him alone to keep it from derailing.

I wanted to stop... I wanted to get out of my Jeep and ask him what he was doing. Ask him his name... ask him where he was from. Prove to myself that he was in fact flesh and blood!! But I didn't. I kept driving, looking in my rear view mirror at the figure shoveling and swinging... shoveling and swinging.

The last time I saw the Engineer was this summer. My husband and I were sitting in the park by the river, which parallels the train tracks. As we got up from our impromptu picnic, I glanced down the trail and there...coming up the slope....was the old man. He looked no different from the first day I saw him, all those years ago. He had on his bowler derby, his vest...his pin stripe pants. His walking stick tapped the ground with a steady cadence. I realized for the first time...that he had a pair of very small wire rimmed glasses on. They were so silvery and small, they nearly disappeared into his face. I had never stood so close to him.

He walked past us, never giving even a flicker of a glance. He just stared straight ahead.... walking down the trail with his slim shoulders back, his head held high. The epitome of a very fine butler from a royal household.

I still don't know who he is. But, in a strange coincedence... four months ago I started a new job in one of the old brick buildings in town. It is located directly across the street from the main hub of the train line. My first day on the job, I walked up the steps, and was about to head on into the main hall, when my husband spotted something.

"Hey...take a look at this...." he said. He was pointing to something on the very corner of the building, by the door. I leaned in to look. There, rusted and weathered over years of exposure... a tiny metal sign in the brick, above a doorbell that had seen decades since it's last use. It said; 'Ring bell for Engineer'.

The building is the site of the old trainyard station...

....and I halfway wonder if The Engineer would appear at the door, if I were to press that old, silent bell.

Portland Oregon, 1995. I was standing outside of a downtown office building fumbling with my umbrella, scowling because the little latch on the handle wasn't pushing in right and my umbrella was simply flapping there like a wounded bird. The rain had started to plaster my hair against my skin, and my feet hurt from being in heels all day. I was already envisioning that cup of coffee with cream I would have waiting for me at my sister's house, and how good it would feel to peel my nylons off and walk on her carpet with bare feet.

And then a warm, low voice suddenly rose up over the sound of rain on the city street.

"Voluptuous...."

What? I glanced up from my struggle and caught my breath. A man was standing no less than four feet away, dressed in a smart suit. The cobalt blue of his button down shirt looked beautiful against his dark brown skin. He had striking brown-green eyes, and he was looking straight at me.

"P...pardon me?" I said, forgetting my umbrella altogether.

He stepped closer, but there was still space left to dash if needed...that much I could see.

"There's a word called voluptuous, and you....are it."

I could feel my jaw move slightly, my lips trying to form some semblance of a reply... but I was stunned. I was 24 years old, and this was the first time a stranger had walked straight up to me and said anything of the sort. And to my amazement, I felt warmth rush to my cheeks and an instant smile erupt.

"Don't ever believe what they say about stick skinny girls. You just stay voluptuous and beautiful..." he said, tipping his head a little. And then he lowered his gaze toward the ground. Such a tiny gesture, but it said everything it needed to say. He wasn't hitting on me. He wasn't going to push me up against the door and ask my number. He wasn't trying to make me feel uncomfortable. He was simply making my day.

In a time when rail thin figures were all I saw in magazines... when 'beauty' was measured by how many ribs a person could see sticking out from beneath their skin, I found every way to hide my body beneath layers of clothes and baggy shirts. I couldn't open a magazine without feeling the downward spiral of 'I'll never look like that.....'

But in one fell swoop, I suddenly felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. Or at least the most beautiful woman standing in the rain in downtown Portland Oregon.

Before I could speak, he turned around, reaching up to smooth his fingers along the lapel of his long wool coat, and continued on down the street.

I stepped into the middle of the sidewalk, not caring about the rain anymore. I watched him walking away, and finally found my voice.

"Thank you!!! Sir? Sir??? Thank you!"

The sound of traffic on the wet city streets roared on into the afternoon. He disappeared into a crowd, and I'm not certain if he ever heard me. But that one comment made my whole day. Whole month. In fact, it still rings in my ears to this day.

I went home and told my husband what had happened. He just smiled and told me he knew it all along. But sometimes, it takes a word from a stranger... someone who isn't biased... to make you realize it for yourself.

I never looked at random acts of kindness the same way again, and I never hold back on giving a compliment. You never know just how it will shape a person's day... or life, for that matter.

And so, mystery man in Portland - if you are out there... thank you, once again.