Blue

She sees me approaching and quickly turns her attention to the coloring book. The new crayons I brought yesterday are within her reach.

“So, what’s this?” I ask.

She lifts the box of crayons, “I got new crayons yesterday. I like when they’re new because they’re pointy. It’s easier to stay inside the lines when the crayons are new.”

“That’s very pretty,” I whisper as I pull an empty chair from the table; I bend to kiss the top of her head. Baby shampoo, I think, and sit alongside her.

She exhales deeply, “This is my job. Today I have two pages.”

I nod my head in agreement. My eyes won’t turn away from her. She is deeply absorbed in her job, her brow slightly furrowed.

She continues with the yellow crayon, “Yellow is for the sun.” In case I didn’t know this, now I do.

I pick up the box of eight crayons – most of which have already lost their points; and make a mental note to purchase a larger box with more colors and maybe a sharpener. “Yes, and red is for the flower,” I speak softly.

“Red. Red is for flowers.” She carefully places the yellow crayon into the box and extracts the red one.

“What about the blue one?” I ask. The blue crayon is pointed, not yet used. Would she remember blue is my favorite color? I prod, “What is blue for?”

Silence. She works the red within the lines of the flower petals. It’s a beginner’s coloring book with large, easy prints. Some of the pages are missing, but it doesn’t matter.

“Green is for grass.” She takes the crayon and fills in the blades of grass strung along the bottom of the page. “Oops!” It snaps in half under her tight grip. “That’s okay,” she grins. “There’s only a little bit of grass.”

We giggle. Not the deep belly laughs of days before. I loved those laughs.

She slides the two pieces of green crayon into the box.

“Tomorrow I’ll bring you a new green one, a pointed green,” I promise.

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “See my house?”

A dog-eared page is to her left on the table. Its rough tear marks indicate a hasty extraction from a more advanced coloring book. The red and brown blend together. I am guessing that the colors represent the brick of her house. A brown and green tree, decorated with red dots, stands beneath an uncolored sky. Yellow lines stretch out from a bright yellow sun.

I’m holding the blue crayon. “Do you like the blue one?” I persist waving the crayon in front of her.

“Black is for dirt,” She replies as she pulls the black crayon out of the box.

“Yes, black is for dirt.” The ticking clock above the bookcase echoes in the nearly empty activity room. Far away chatter is muffled.

She inspects the box, “Orange is tricky. You don’t use orange much.”

“Orange could be for a pumpkin,” I offer, almost excitedly, although not expecting a reply.

A bell rings in the distance; and apron wearing staff approach appear from a swinging door at the back of the room.

“Oh,” she says, and quickly closes her coloring book. “It’s time to wash for dinner.” She takes the blue crayon from my hand, now still on the table top. “You have to go. Tonight’s guest will be Frank Sinatra. This is the best resort ever.”

I rise, “Okay, Auntie Heley, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She touches my arm and smiles. Our eyes meet for an instant. Her frail fingers bring a flood of memories. For a moment I want to believe she knows who I am. I kiss her forehead and turn toward the entrance foyer.

“Blue.” My favorite aunt says confidently, “Blue is for beautiful. It always reminds me of you, Judy.”

San Francisco - a long way from Jermyn

I traveled to San Francisco, but it was not the San Francisco of the ‘70s that Valerie longed to share with me.

In 2008, Eileen and I looked over the bay to Alcatraz Island and guided our rented bicycles across the Golden Gate Bridge’s span. According to the brochure, its span measures one point seven miles. We paused mid-way to gaze at the horizon.

A man approached and said, “Did you know it takes four seconds to fall from the deck to the water? You’re going 75 miles an hour when you hit the surface.”

“No kidding?” I shook my head, astonished that a stranger would tell another stranger such trivia.

We pedaled across the span—which according to the brochure, measures one point seven miles—to Sausalito for lunch.

Later I walked with Eileen through Pacific Heights and, from a metal chair in a sidewalk café, watched the foot traffic in the Castro as the waitress served cappuccinos. We played tourist roaming the neighborhoods, the Trolley Car Museum, and the twisty Lombard Street. We sampled chocolates at Ghirardelli’s’ and tossed some wrinkled bills into a street performer’s upturned beret.

On Fisherman’s Wharf, a vendor handed me a flower for a dollar; I passed the long-stemmed rose to Eileen as I kissed her cheek.

I can speculate that if I had been a San Francisco resident immersed in the culture and neighborhoods as Valerie wanted, it would have been familiar on a personal level. There would be memories of a life with friends gathering and holidays shared. That wasn’t the case.

The memories made with Eileen are the only memories of San Francisco.

Still, San Francisco is a charming city to visit.

Ride, Ride, Ride, Hitchin' a Ride ~ Vanity Fare

As a teenager in the 1960s, I hitchhiked a lot. Back then, we all thought it was safe, and, it was the fastest way to get from here to there. For me, in North-Eastern Pennsylvania, here was Jermyn, and there was Scranton. Less than thirty minutes separated the here and there: 15.9 miles on Route 6, pass the mall and restaurants and car dealerships; or, 9.2 miles 'through the towns' that were linked together by their main streets.

I gave my standard I’ll-be-with-Annie alibi to my parents (Annie had my back on days like today) and didn't stick my thumb out until I got to Mattise’s Dairy, hoping to God that anyone who knew me wouldn’t be driving in my direction. A pick up at Mattise's pretty much guaranteed the driver would be going through the towns. I loved the adventure of hitchhiking. Still, I never told my parents; I knew they would not approve.

A beat-up car stopped and as I opened the door, a smelly odor invaded my nostrils. I jumped inside. The man’s clothes were filthy and his long, greasy hair parted in the middle revealed a fresh cut on his forehead. “Where ya goin’ honey?”

My arm rested on the door handle. “Ummmm, Archbald will be good.” A lie, because my defense system kicked in and my chest tightened.

A few minutes later, he pulled over. His dirty fingernails clutched the steering wheel, he snarled, “You cudda walked here.”

I mumbled thanks and slammed the door. Creep.

When he pulled out of view, I stuck my thumb out again. A polished silver sedan pulled to the curb. I sat inside and breathed the clean air which held a faint scent of Old Spice. I told the driver I was on my way to Scranton. He was quiet. He had pretty blue eyes, sapphire like Auntie Heley’s birthstone, and was probably the same age as my father. His clothes were clean and he wore a silver ring on his right pinky.

He slid a country-and-western cassette into the player and drove through Archbald, Eynon, then Dickson City. He told me he was a pilot and had a private plane at the Wilkes Barre/Avoca airport. Near the Dunmore cemetery, he turned onto a side street and then into a tree-lined driveway. “I’d like to show you something.” He got out and walked toward the back of the car.

I hesitated for a brief moment then opened my door and bolted. He laughed–his voice raspy–and yelled “Hey! Wait!”

The Scranton bus stopped at the next intersection. My heart pounded against my eardrums as I climbed in and slipped some change into the fare box. I sat behind the driver and looked forward as if wearing blinders.

I hitchhiked until the following year when I became a legal driver.

But, I never picked up a hitchhiker.