maryangelis posted: " Not the same lilies. Market Day In Novgorod the sun was rising on the village square, all onion-dome silhouettes and calling ravens. A woman in a black head scarf and black work dress arranged cut flowers at a kiosk. She was a strong fierce-loo" consolationland
In Novgorod the sun was rising on the village square, all onion-dome silhouettes and calling ravens. A woman in a black head scarf and black work dress arranged cut flowers at a kiosk. She was a strong fierce-looking elder, like a wise warrior from a folk tale. Her keen wary glance spotted me right away. "Those -- they're -- the most beautiful lilies I've ever seen," I stammered, staring at them spellbound. They were perfect, the size of a soup bowl, blood red. Her eyes narrowed, sizing me up. She raised a branch of three lilies, and handed them to me. I caught my breath, turning them over and over, and reached for my purse. "Run along," she said, waving me away from her stall with a benign nod.
Mild-Mannered Librarian
Back in graduate school, the reference desk librarian had an upper-class English accent. Still, judging by his conversations in the back room or on the phone he was a lot more at ease speaking French. He was very handsome and scholarly looking with his sleek longish black hair and silver glasses and very calm thoughtful dark-lashed eyes. He was impeccably courteous and helpful, but kept discreetly to himself and didn't speak much. Still, he smiled when I stood around at the front desk, too hesitant to ring the bell for assistance. After a while we had a comedy routine where I'd stand there cradling the bell, and when he finally looked up from his window in the back room I'd hold the bell up and point to it. We finally got to talking about how many books I needed for my research, and then books in general. Somehow in the end we made plans to meet for tea at the coffee shop by the park, and then he'd drive me home. I was absolutely thrilled.
That evening over baklava and tea we talked books and film and poetry for hours, and a little bit about ourselves, gazing out the picture window at the park. He paid for our tea, and held the door. Then I held the door for three young men from the next table, and gave them a friendly nod. They did not smile or nod back.
My companion led me to a curiously small silver car, all streamlining and gleam. One of the three young men came up to my door and said "You're sleeping with this Arab here? Well unlike him we served our country, and I should punch your face in." I said "Oh, Sir, please excuse us; but we need to be going now." He said "Are you being a smartass with me?" I said "No, Sir! Not at all; it's true. We do need to leave." He grabbed the door handle, but the small car whipped around for the exit. I pulled my foot in and slammed the door as we shot out into traffic and the three young men gunned the gas on their pickup truck. Our librarian leaned back at ease, maneuvering the wheel with his fingertips, skimming right over a concrete median in a hairpin turn. The car purred along in some Harry Potter space continuum, gliding gently lane to lane as the traffic melted away behind us. After a circuitous series of loops, with regular checks of the rearview mirror, he finally downshifted for our trip across campus. At my house it took my shaking hands several tries to unhook the seat belt. "What, are you still thinking about those guys?" my companion asked in cool surprise, adjusting his glasses to scan my subdued and crestfallen aura. He seemed embarrassed for me, disappointed, faintly reproachful. Unlike the gleaming bullet purring underfoot, when trouble came I did not perform well as a sidekick under pressure.
After that day, there was a change in Reference Reserves. Two new friendly work-study students took over the front and brought me my books. The librarian stayed behind the window cataloguing acquisitions, leaning back at ease and clicking typewriter keys at effortless speed. It took many visits to clue me in that he wasn't going to speak to me again. Then he was promoted upstairs, and probably went on to a fine successful career.
That may not be true for those three young men. It would be good to talk to them today, to hear what-all was going on for them that night. Probably a lot. I would tell them that despite their first umbraged assumption I was not sleeping with anyone from anywhere. Despite their second assumption, my companion was a veteran too. Through a twist of history which dawns on me just now, at one time he might have fought the same army they did. That brings us to their last jumped conclusion: he was in fact a poet from Iran. Before library school his other keen pastime was rigging up and racing cars.
Sleeptime Surprise
I was fast asleep long past my bedtime when Dad sat me up in bed. Mom was turning off the TV and grabbing a coat to put on me. They were in a hurry but they were laughing. "It's a surprise. Hurry and come look," they said.
We heard humming come from the dark, and then Wow -- right over the porch roofthere were bright lights and letters running through the sky all by themselves! Like a lit up ribbon of wiggly bulbs running back and forth on a movie theater, but in bright colors. "What IS that?" I yelled. Dad explained it all. The Wikipedia version goes like this:
"Skytacular: In the mid-1960s, the GZ-19 Mayflower (N4A) was fitted with over 3,000 incandescent lamps of red, yellow, blue and green on both sides that for the first time featured animation. Usually moving stick figures, ticker messages or colorful patterns. A small gas turbine had to be attached to the car in order to power the Skytacular night sign."
"That is the GOODYEAR BLIMP," Dad said. "It's going off to visit the New York World's Fair. And guess what? Next year WE are going to visit the Fair too!"
Well that was a lot of amazement after bedtime. "It's like skywriting from God," I said.
Colors and flashes hummed along and headed west, spelling their way across the sky.
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