Applied Dreams

My posting of this was somehow prompted by Christina's --
not sure why. I've never shown it before --
written at the request of a Catholic priest.

Hope you understand why.

faucon
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Pie Ties

The pleasant aromas drifting from the kitchen had neither a claim on his dreams or draw on the omnipresent snack-urge that all youths acquire. A pleasant, lazy snooze in the falling sunlight was allowed; a benefit of home schooling and reward for the pre-dawn assistance he gave J.P. Truthfully, he loved the quite, inspiring burst of new dawn that built upon the prayers of the evening to the yearning of the flowering day. Norman's heart was at peace, but he was not removed from passion over the misted surprise of a new bloom or rain revealed pebble of childhood memory. The call of hidden bird blended with the shriek of morning's hungry child. The patient gasping, grinding of the neighbor's aged car fit in somewhere, as did the song of the postman's steps and the gardener's rake. Now, in the afternoon, silence was more palpable than the angry rush of the working throng. The smells crept in.

Norman awoke with a start -- not alarm -- only chuckling, internal mirth. Since childhood, he had harbored a secret plan to watch her make the pies, to be there when the simple ingredients of flour and butter, eggs and milk, and arcane secrets found their way into grandma's bowl. He was always too late! The pies of last night's blackcaps and fresh peaches from Samuel's tree. They had to be washed in the mountain steam, of course, or they would never taste right. He never got to lick the bowl! Other kids talked about it. Of course their mothers rarely baked anymore. His father got the bowl if he was in the shop, or some passing kid playing on the walk. "Someday, someday, I will be up," thought Norman. "Oh, but that special place between clash of busy day and serenity of stolen internal search was so entrancing. Is it a trade to be sought, or a balance to be savored?" (well, he sort of thought that -- he is only seven.)

Normal had attempted a special ploy this day. As his mother Maria napped beside him on the window-box couch, he had tied her apron strings about his waist. She would not slip away! Ah, but his time was not yet to be! While his skills grew daily from book and written theme and long practiced numbers, the flow of simple human communication often proved more difficult. Maria's flickering smile acknowledge their shared secret, and an extra piece of cinnamoned 'sugar tit' was provided as reward. He had never said that these cuttings from the deftly turned glass plate were better than any planned cookie. She knew, of course, as mothers always know. J.P. got the bowl and he got the scraps -- who got the better deal? The loving stroke was different in each, one by careful count, the other by controlled heat. "Choices, choices - is that what growing up is all about?"

Norman wandered to the shop, still munching the golden goodies. His father, Guiseppi, had not yet returned. Everybody called him J.P. - always had. Norman had been calmly instructed to call him that also -- especially when on a handyman job in a stranger's home. "You must be judged by the work you do, not because you are my son." So he thought, 'Dad' and said 'J.P.'. In the kitchen he thought, 'Maria', but said 'mother'. A deceit? Self-delusion? A touch of humanity's bond? So many things in life seemed to blend together like the smells of the wood shop. Sawdust, glue, machine oil and paint. So like people. Each unique and special in its use and purpose. Together stronger and more pleasing - somehow greater than the bonded parts. J.P. often hummed while he worked. Did he hear a special song that guided his gifted hands? Or did he actually write the melody in wooden form and then rejoice in smiled prayer? So much to learn.

Other children were returning from distant classrooms where squabbling and insubstantial meals seemed more impactful than learning. There was time to play. Norman did not always enjoy the chosen games and was only passable good at the frenetic sports. He had a good eye, though, and could score when the moment was right. Yet, he preferred to pass off to another and share in the moment of victory -- not always, however, to those who thought it was their greater right by skill, or size or bluster. "By our simplest actions we are tied to others," he mused. "May there always be time to share the filtered sunlight and the crumbing gift of another's hand." The thoughts blended into a special blessing he would offer at supper. Norman's love was like that.

J.P was home! Norman ran off to jump in the rocker by the den. The smells from the kitchen would mix with the mysterious aroma of sweat and work, kitchen and shop. Mother and father. Without a word their thoughts would join across the separate rooms -- a caress, a brush of faith. He could feel it -- even see colors dance back and forth between them.

Norman liked this place the best.