Ike

 

            I had an interesting conversation with Dwight Eisenhower the other day. Yeah, that Dwight Eisenhower. Ike. Thirty-fourth president of the U.S. of A. Retired.

            He was sitting by himself at one of the cafeteria tables in a forest campground friends and I had rented for a get-together. It was a large room, and he sat ramrod straight, down the way past large windows, some distance from the rest of our group. His back to the table, he sat on its bench with his arms crossed, staring into the woods.

            I went down and, brazenly perhaps, sat on a bench facing him.

            “Mr. President, what an honor! I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

            “Not at all, not at all.”

            The familiar Kansas twang, the sort of googly eyes, the famous grin, and the effortless, living-room charm of the man. The man who sixty years before had routed Rommel in North Africa and landed thousands on the beaches of Normandy couldn’t have been more at ease sitting there with me.

A Strange Slavery

            One brisk winter day, I wandered like a tourist through Georgetown, D.C. Cobbled streets led me across George Washington's B&O Canal and beneath an elevated on-ramp and down to the Potomac River. College crews in bright-colored shells water-skeetered along the gray and choppy river. A chilly wind carried sounds of traffic and, this being Washington, sounds of eternal construction. I selected a bench where someone had left a yellow balloon tied to an armrest, and it bobbed above me in the breeze.

 

            I pulled my jacket close. It'd been several years, and I marveled at the crowd of buildings that now extended all the way to the Watergate Apartments which, once upon a time, both before and after the ignominy of the Nixon years, was the only building of its kind in either direction.

 

            Waning daylight shooed me back into town, as did waxing hunger, and in time I gained the windowed shops that line M Street. I chose an unremarkable Italian grill I'd been to before. When I walked in, it was buzzing with patrons even at that early hour to confirm that it was a good choice. Directed to a small table with a white tablecloth, napkins in rings, and nice silverware, I set my jacket and briefcase on the chair opposite. I loosened my tie and surveyed the menu. I chose the spaghettini Bolognese.

            Scanning the clientele, as often happens when sitting by oneself, I noticed a pleasant attraction, an extremely pretty woman sitting at the small bar. She was with a man who I guessed was the owner or perhaps the manager of the establishment. She did most of the talking, until her acquaintance interrupted her off and on to greet a guest or instruct a waiter. The woman was young. She had long dark hair and the cheekbones and eyes of a classic beauty. She wore a black parka, open over a black top and black pants which tapered to just above the ankle. Plain gold hoop earrings and a simple necklace that matched it completed the ensemble, plus small leather sandals, one of which dangled from her instep like a calling card.

            The woman motioned with her hands as she talked, and touched her companion's arm frequently. It struck me as odd that she seemed to be flirting with him, yet he was noticeably unresponsive to her advances, if that's what they were. Not a particularly attractive man, he faced her, his knees near hers and the heels of his expensive shoes hooked on the rungs of the high wicker stool on which he sat. The woman sat half facing him, toying with the stem of a pair of dark glasses and occasionally sipping her sparkling water.

            How could this fellow not be captivated? Why was he not joining her in repartee or paying more attention? Was he accustomed to her attractiveness or just preoccupied with his job? Was she his sister? No, her mannerisms were not those of a sibling. I fancied he might be gay.

            She paid no attention to me, oblivious of the fact that I had been watching her off and on during my meal. When her companion left her alone from time to time, her uninterested gaze would sweep the restaurant but never encounter mine. Nor did I stare at her in a way that would be impolite. For that matter, her inattention prevented me from being rude. But the place was small and eye contact was hardly unlikely.

            I ate slowly and finished an excellent Bolognese. I ordered dessert, cheesecake with chocolate drizzled over it and a dusting of powdered sugar around the edge of the plate. I ordered coffee, which was delicious even though it was sure to keep me awake. I was not in a hurry to leave.

            The noted 17th Century diarist Samuel Pepys wrote, "A strange slavery that I stand in to beauty, that I value nothing near it." I make no excuse for being like most men, particularly in a strange city, enslaved as it were by feminine beauty. Art galleries the world over and statuary and poetry dating back for millennia agree. "Truth is beauty, beauty truth," or however that goes. So it is that on subways, in airline terminals, waiting to cross a street, on beaches of course, and in bistros and coffee shops, beauty is there to be appreciated. That evening, in that restaurant, the woman was exquisite.

            The check came. I didn’t reach for it. A few minutes later, my waiter returned to inquire if there was anything more I required. I shook my head, then checked the time on my smartphone. I toyed with the straw basket of a decorative bottle of Chianti. I rearranged the salt cellar and wooden pepper mill. Over and over. The waiter came back and hovered at a nearby table. I folded and refolded my napkin into different shapes. I sorted the contents of my wallet, then did it again. I ordered another glass of wine -- my third, I think.

            As I sipped, suddenly the pretty lady at the bar looked to have been deserted. The fellow she was with went to greet a table of people he seemed to know and joined them. Surely now she'd look my way and smile. Then she did!

            More than that, she slid off the tall stool and began to walk toward me, slowly. The nearer she came, the more gorgeous she was. God in Heaven! What do I do now? She was only steps away.

            I rubbed my wine-bleared eyes and looked again ... just in time to see my wife wave from the doorway, hang up her coat, and walk toward me. Beyond her, the object in my mirage shrugged on her coat and left.

            "So how'd it go?" I managed as she moved my briefcase and sat down. She was beaming.

            "Terrific! Motion granted, case dismissed, happy client. Badda-boom, badda-bing." She paused for a second, looking at me a little askance as only a spouse of several years can. Then she said, "You went ahead and ate. Good. How's the cheesecake?"

            In her go-to-court white blouse with the ruffles down the front, her tasteful scarf and knee-length skirt, shining auburn hair, bright wind-glazed cheeks, and lipstick re-applied as always, she looked radiant! Once again, I was smitten.

            I rest my case.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Perfect Fall

            Ah, fall!

            Leaves flash gold and red. The afternoon sun slants lower and earlier. Recipes appear in the newspaper for green tomato pie. Rose and dahlia cuttings get thinner. Smoke wafts from wood stoves. School's started, so neighbor kids don’t play flashlight tag past my bedtime. Folks lock their cars and doors against zucchini-growing neighbors.

            If March comes in like a lion, what to use as the metaphor for the first big storm of the season in the Pacific Northwest? It’s loud and it’s scary, like a crowd scene where no one knows what’s going on and no one’s in charge and something bad will happen. It’s November, and the temperature’s dropped twenty degrees over the past day and a half.

            Slabs of grey clouds push north. Flurries of pear and apple leaves flee across the yard, mount the fence, and race up the alley.  Across the street, poplars and bright yellow elms bend in the gusts, and everywhere spruce, cedar, ponderosa and even giant Douglas firs writhe and dance and whip around like crazed dervishes.

            I'm crazy, too. I climb out the upstairs window and begin to crawl across my sloped roof. Time to clean out the gutters. The asphalt shingles are gritty and wet from the rain which is half-hearted, annoying, and more spitting than falling. I slide bottom-first to the roof edge to retrieve the hose that I’ve tossed up here, cleverly I thought, hooking the trigger of the sprayer on the lip of the gutter. Now, it hisses a small stream of water in my direction. My perch worries me. The wind blusters in arrhythmic blasts. My weakening confidence plays games with my balance. Clumsy duck boots provide precious little purchase. The ground looms thirty feet beneath me.

            “Be careful,” says my wife helpfully from below. Yeah, right.