Fishing The Well

The weight presses in on all sides. It comes first from the north. Soon there is equal force from the east, west, and south. She can feel the pressure but since it is all around, in ways it is offsetting. With each breath she lets out, the next is even more shallow as if a giant anaconda has her in its grip, squeezing, and slowly sucking the life out of her.

She needs air so she gulps but nothing comes in.

Down she slips and slowly slides, ever downward to a pit of unknown origin and hopeless retreat into an object of undefined uncertainty. A familiar place and despite darkness and the pressure, there is also some comfort. She has been there before. Doubt casts a pervasive shadow like showers of cold rain soaking through her clothing to her skin and to her bone. Fear is there lurking but not the surprising fear of horror and fright but instead the sulking, tepid and persistent fear that is ever present, able to hide in the shadow of the smallest pebble.

She twists slightly but not of her own control. Perhaps some creature, far away, has swished its tail causing a flow of movement that, after miles and miles of distance crossed, has brushed against her arm causing her floating body to slip to the side. The movement and motion reveals the pit that she slipped into. A deep well for which there is no bucket and there is no rope. A well, filled with thick fluid, like molasses that facilitates a pull to the bottom that is seemingly endless.

The pressure is complete and exhausting and she has quit fighting. That is a problem. She is allowing the fall to happen. She doesn’t enjoy it but she accepts it assuming that fate has laid this path for her, the path of joyless being and the fate of forgetting her love of life and accepting the mediocrity of living moment by moment of perceived failure.

There is a glimmer. It flickers there close by, seen but unseen, she knows that it is there but she is afraid to grasp it. Perhaps it will take her to a sludge that completely swallows her up suffocating her will and her breath but in retrospect, she is already in that place, deep in a well of sorrow and despair.

If she were to grab that light, where would it take her?

Uncertainty pulls her deeper down into darker levels of the well. The pressure grows like a vine around her lungs choking off the possibility of charity, of love, of hope. Eyelids heavy, breath almost exhausted, she senses the light’s flicker once again. It calls to her. A familiar voice, it beckons through the thick and foul sludge of doubt, fear, and anxiety like the ting of a crystal glass in an early morning forest.

A hand touches the light as it bobs up and down, tantalizing to the touch. It is her hand. It is her touch. She has reached out without thought or calculation. Risk was there but what was there to lose? It does not matter as she had nothing left to give. She had given it all up.

A kernel of hope hanging in the darkness of the ooze that enveloped and suffocated her every breath and her hand alighted enough to grip the lit feather attached to the hook. Its sharp prick gripped her finger and embedded into her skin giving her a painful reminder. “I am here,” it said.

The feather hid the hook and the hook was attached to a filament of thread that slowly pulled her up from the depths of the well. Skyward, she rose of a power not her own, pulled with care and ease but pulled with determination and great might; a constant tug against the morass of hate, morbidity and failure.

Emerging, the first breath fills her lungs like the joy of a spring day after a long, gray winter alone. She erupted into a world of bright greens, blues, and oranges that sprinkled the atmosphere in all directions. Sparks of light flitted about her head while the sound of babies giggling filled her ears placing a gentle but cautious smile on her face.

Landing, crouched on her knees, the hook left her finger and before her stood a small man of Asian descent. His wide brimmed hat shielded him from the brilliant sun that shone behind him. His warm smile and a gentle nod greeted her. A fishing pole rested in his palm.

“I am here for you,” he said with a nod.

“Thank you. Why did you save me?”

“Because you needed saving.”

“Are you an angel? Are you God? Who are you?”

“I am that song that comes on the radio that reminds you of your first dance. I am the smell of apples and cinnamon that reminds you of your mother who used to cook those splendid pies. I am the view of a young man with grease on his hands from tinkering with his automobile engine that reminds you of your father. I am the sight of that rocking chair that reminds you of the warmth of your grandmother’s knee and I am the sound of that chuckle that both your grandfathers used to make when you tried to tell them a joke. I am the coo of a baby that reminds you that you were once a child and you still possess the openness and careless love of a child. I am the essence of hope that you can have joy in your life once again. You just need to take that essence and do something with it. I am those moments past, present, and future that lift your spirit from the depths of depression.”

Unsure what to say, she just smiled.

“I am your brother, your sister, your mother, your father, a friend, an enemy, a husband, a wife or any number of people who interact with you daily that you could give hope to. You just need to give a smile without expectation of a smile in return. You just need to say ‘hello’ without any expectation of a ‘hello’ in return. You just need to give a gift of joy without expectation of receiving anything back. Put others first and you will find joy in every deed you do.”

“Why did you save me from the well?”

“I did not save you from the well; you saved yourself. I only showed you the way.”

The fisherman smiled and began to fade.

“WAIT!” she called out with desperation, “What if I find myself in the well again?”

“You will find yourself in the well again and I will be there to lure you out again. You can count on me to come from inside of you. Whenever you need me, hope, and I’ll be there.”

The sun shown over the waves blinding her to his presence and then he was gone. Or, was he suddenly everywhere? She didn’t know.

Secret Agent Man

The guitar rings out alone among a few background voices. Rapid strokes of the strings break out splitting the momentary silence. The bass joins in followed by a light drum accompaniment. When Johnny Rivers' voice joins, it is low but crisp and clear, "There's a man who leads a life of danger ..."

It plays in my head as we sneak out the front door of an old rental cape cod house located of all places ... on"old Cape Cod". I'd like to say that Patti Page was singing Old Cape Cod in my head but she wasn't, it was "Secret Agent Man" all the way.

We crossed the yard and turned the corner onto the darkened street. I followed my cousin Susan's lead as we lined up behind a telephone pole watching the object of our attention as they made their way down the street in pale moonlight.

Susan and I were fans of several books. I was never as learned as she was but I had read my fair share of Encyclopedia Brown mysteries. Encyclopedia Brown always solved the mystery that parents couldn't. We didn't have a mystery but there was nothing like looking for one when it is well past your curfew.

The family gathered at Cape Cod on a yearly basis. It seemed like we always went to Cape Cod for summer vacations, somewhere near Bass River on the south side. Far enough away from the hustle and bustle of Hyannis but close enough to get ice cream at Sundae School or dinner at the Wee Packet Inn.

My grandmother, whom someone before me named Nanny, usually ruled the roost with her quiet determination. With her was my mother, older brother Kenny, older sister Jeanne, older cousin Joanie, and older cousin Susan ... you get the picture, I was the youngest.

Joanie and Susan were sisters from Chicago and it always seemed neat to me that they flew in an jet plane to get to the Boston area; how extravagant! I often wondered if I'd ever get to fly in a jet plane and here they were, flying in for a few weeks during the summer every year.

The guitar solo played in my head. I was too young to watch James Bond but "Man from Uncle," "The Prisoner," and "I Spy" were on TV filling my head with how I should be ... a man of action, mystery, and intrigue!

Even so, Susan led the way. She was always smarter than me and would know what to do. We followed two young women staying in the shadow and when the shadow was not available, we pretended to be nonchalant ... though I didn't know what that meant. Susan explained it a few times but I don't think it got through to me. I'm sure that years later, I had a V-8 moment, slam the palm of my hand to my forehead and shout, "Ohhhhhhhhh THAT'S what Susan meant by nonchalant!".

The objects of our observance turned the corner onto route 28 and were quickly out of sight. We panicked and ran to catch up to the corner. Carefully craning our necks around a fence, we saw the two young women approaching a playground. The darkness was well set in as the hour turned to 9pm. They swung on the swings and talked in quiet tones about what, we certainly couldn't hear.

"We should get closer so we can hear!" I exclaimed much too loud. It brought an equally loud, "SHHHH!" from Susan. Thankfully neither of our outbursts were heard by Joanie and Jeanne.

Boys drove up in a car and hung out the window chatting to Jeanne and Joanie. Susan and I felt justified to be there now. What if these boys kidnapped Jeanne and Joanie? At least we could provide the police a description. We memorized the license plate of the car as it drove off without the girls.

Susan and I marched back toward the gray cedar shingle house convincing ourselves that we had protected our older sisters. "If the boys come back with friends, at least we know the license plate number!" I announced.

"You remember it?" Susan asked.

"I thought you memorized it." I responded.

"Me? No, you were going to!" she answered.

"Me? No, it was you. I swear, you said you could remember it!"

"Ok, well, it is gone now but at least we know what the car looked like," she laughed as we crossed the street and hopped the tired wooden fence into our yard.
"It was dark. What kind of car?"
"Plymouth? Chrysler? No, wait ... I think it was a Chevy."

There was a toe that was tapping on the front step of the house. That toe belonged to a very talented musician that I and my fellow grandchildren called "Nanny." Nanny never seemed to run out of patience. That woman of musical talent had an even greater talent for being kind, gentle and sweet. However, she wasn't tapping her toe to the strums of Johnny Rivers singing "Secret Agent Man." She wasn't tapping her toe to Patti Page's "Old Cape Cod" either. She was tapping her toe in frustration that two of her charges were out following around two of her other charges.

"Where have you two been?"

The look on her face was one that I had never seen. That look that occurs when a woman is angry, scared, relieved, frustrated, mad, and worried.

Susan, always quicker than me answered first, "You see," she started, "we were watching out for Joanie and Jeanne. We saw them sneak out and go to the beach."

"Yeah, we were worried about them!" I added.

"Sure, and we followed them," continued Susan, "We followed them down to the playground at the beach and it's a good thing we did! They were almost picked up by some boys!"
"Yeah, it's a good thing we were there!"

Nanny nodded and waited a moment to see if there was any more rope that either Susan or I wanted to put around out necks but we finally fell silent.

"You two didn't tell me where you were going. For that, you are both grounded tomorrow."

"WHAT???" we both exclaimed in unison. "We were protecting Joanie and Jeanne!"

"You didn't tell me where you were going. End of discussion!"

"B-but Jeanne and Joanie talked to boys!" I shouted.

"THEY," she smiled, "they told me where they were going and when they would be home. YOU did not! I had no idea where you were. If you want, I can make it TWO days!"

Nanny was through with us and we decided to take our lumps. Grounded for a whole day meant no beach time. It meant we couldn't go swimming. We couldn't build sand castles. It meant we couldn't hunt for crabs.

No one in the history of our family ever got grounded except for my older brother Kenny. Then again, he was always getting in trouble so that didn't count.

"Secret Agent Man" kept playing in my head as I crawled into a sleeping bag in the kitchen. We'd gotten caught and would pay the price.

The next day, Susan and I took 3 decks of playing cards and built the largest card house ever conceived by the human race. Ok, it wasn't that big but it did use 156 cards and grew to a height of 4 levels.

Surprisingly enough, Susan and I made it through our grounding just fine. We may have even enjoyed that day more than the others. That night we went to the Wee Packet Inn, ate fabulous food, got a spinning top at the end of the meal, and forgot all about our grounding.