N. Scott Momaday, The Bear -- A Review of Beauty

N. Scott Momaday: Words from a Bear

Sometimes something absolutely beautiful comes on TV when you most need to see it. Last night PBS's American Masters series was N. Scott Momaday: Words From a Bear. You can stream it online at https://www.pbs.org/video/n-scott-momaday-word-from-a-bear-odljy7/. If you do, please watch it on the largest screen you have available. The views of Scott's world are the American West and his imagination. 

Momaday is Kiowa. He was born in Oklahoma's red earth country and raised in the red rock canyons of Arizona and the Jemez Pueblo in mesa country of New Mexico.  Momaday grew up immersed in his father’s Kiowa traditions and those of the Navajo, Apache, and Pueblo. His was a world of vast spaces and timelessness.

PBS describes Scott as a "Pulitzer Prize-winning author and poet, best known for House Made of Dawn and a formative voice of the Native American Renaissance in art and literature." (You can read my review of the book at https://bit.ly/37kI3UM.)

House Made of Dawn was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for fiction fifty years ago and I had the great good fortune of meeting him almost that long ago.

I was a single mom working full time and taking night classes at Central State University in Edmond, Oklahoma. I took two and, some semesters, three classes to meet a degree requirement. But always one night a week I spent a bit of time outside my daily pressure cooker life -- in Dr. Norman Russell's poetry class. He very kindly arranged for me to continue taking his class after I took it that first semester, changing its title and number to side-step academia's practical order.

In his class we talked poetry. We read poetry. We shared the poetry we had written during the week. We discussed and argued, though always civilly, what made poetry speak to us. Rhymed, free verse, traditional, experimental. How to say what we meant to say. Which words were strong enough to touch our reader, strong enough to touch the universe. The universe both inside and outside of ourselves.

Dr. Russell was an eminent scientist in the world of botany. His day job was teaching science classes to college students. Don't get me wrong. He enjoyed teaching. He loved botany. And he loved our night class of would-be poets. We were not all working toward a degree. We were a mix of generations and professions and life experiences and goals.

He was a Native American, a Cherokee. And, most-importantly to me, Dr. Russell was a poet. A kind and generous poet. Red Shuttleworth (a much awarded Western Poet in his own right) said of Dr. Russell in a 2011 tribute, "Norman H. Russell bushwhacked a trail for many Native American poets.  He was the first Indian to publish poetry widely."

Sometimes Dr. Russell had a poet friend come and read to us. One of those poet friends was N. Scott Momaday. I doubt Momaday remembers me at all, but I remember him. I remember him as a big guy with a wonderful reading voice. I don't think I realized that he was famous. That wasn't important anyway. I just liked that he talked poetry to us as one of us.

Now I'm really glad he was famous, because that got us this beautiful film, N. Scott Momaday: Words From a Bear. This film gives us Momaday's world in his own voice. 

Again, here's the link https://www.pbs.org/video/n-scott-momaday-word-from-a-bear-odljy7/ 

Enjoy.

On Courage -- An Essay

Lady Liberty is a symbol of many things to many people. For me she is the symbol of the best promises of the people of the United States as codified in our Constitution. Promises we have not yet completely achieved, but promises nonetheless. Promises of welcome. Of safety. Of power. Of freedom. Each of these, to me, requires great courage.

Welcome -- It takes courage to open our door to people we don't yet know. It takes courage to trust that the door will be open to those who leave the lands and families and neighbors they do know.

Safety -- It takes courage to build a government that will protect the lives and liberties of ALL the people here now and who will be here in the years to come.

Power -- This may take the most courage of all. The courage to use our power to care for ourselves, our families, our neighbors. The courage to exercise our power against those who would limit it to any of us. Those of us who have not historically had power must have the courage to stand up and demand the power we should have. And we must all always have the courage to accept the responsibility that goes with power.

Freedom -- Maybe this doesn't require courage so much as it requires honesty. We have to be honest with ourselves about the consequences of what we think, say, and do. Are we willing to allow our own treasured freedoms to the other people in our country, in our world? Are we honest about our goals, our methods to reach those goals, and whether or not those goals will be for good purpose? Greed and ambition cannot be allowed to corrupt that good purpose.

The promises of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness for all, as stated in our Declaration of Independence and codified in our Constitution, have not yet been realized. But we must continue to work toward keeping and protecting those promises.

This is a dangerous time in the United States. We have people at the top of our government who do not believe in these promises. They measure our republic's value by how much money and power they can take for themselves. True courage cannot exist when motivated by greed and ambition.

The current witnesses in the Impeachment Hearings are courageous. They know what they risk by testifying. And I'm not talking about just their positions as long-time government employees or the inevitable avalanche of hate mail and email. Their lives are literally at risk. There are plenty of damaged people out there who will see themselves as heroes serving "their leader" by killing these witnesses.

Trump's inflammatory speech and behavior not only endanger the witnesses against him, but the people who defend him. There are damaged people out there on the other side of the political spectrum who will see themselves as heroes by killing Trump and/or his defenders.

Many of the people who would be caught in that crossfire are government employees protecting Trump and his allies, not because they necessarily agree with them but because it is their job. Or it could be someone who shares opinions in the coffee shop or has bumper stickers or cuts someone off in traffic.

In times like this when there is so much dissension, there are those who will irrationally lash out against anyone for any reason or no reason at all.

The constitutionally mandated impeachment process must go forward. Thoughts and prayers alone will not protect our nation or our people. We must all have the courage to support our Congressional members whether we agree with them or not.

So, if we hear or see something threatening, we must have the courage to say something. Even if we are many miles away from Washington, D.C., and many degrees of separation away from any political side. And even if the people being threatened have no direct say in what's happening in D.C.

The Importance of Books in My Life in Real Time

Marie Yovanovitch being sworn November 15, 2019

I finished reading Educated by Tara Westover very early Wednesday, November 13 after having stayed up way too late the night before reading it. Reading threw me behind in my preparations for a party I was having Wednesday afternoon. What kind of person reads instead of doing what they're supposed to be doing? To quote from the play Camelot, C'est moi!

Educated (which, by-the-bye, is an excellent book) was one of the books I read taking a break from rereading the eleventh book in Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. I'd also reread Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5 for the Introduction to Literature class that my daughter is teaching.

The party was over and I was tired. The problem being, I needed to find another book to read. I took How Language Began to bed with me that night. It is a good book, too. Nonfiction. An academic study of the evolution of human language. I read it off and on Thursday, then took it to bed with me again last night.

But today, it would not do. I have the Impeachment Hearings running on TV. An academic study of linguistics just does not give me the escape I need to make it through this testimony.

I've lived through some pretty frightening times -- President Kennedy's murder, the horrible things that happened during the Civil Rights Movement, the Vietnam War, Nixon's Impeachment Hearings, the Oklahoma City Bombing, 9-11, the Iraq War, the Afghanistan War, Trump's campaign rhetoric (which continues to this day), and his presidency. These are but the highlights of low times as I see them. Too much of these on TV in real time. Again it is scary, because of the possibility of someone or several someones to decide to take matters in their own hands. And it would all be live on TV.

Books can take me away from all this.

The Wheel of Time series is my blankie. It is fourteen volumes of escapism. WOT takes me to a world described with a fullness and consistency that I do not find in our real world. It's many characters are heroic, though flawed or they're mighty and villainous. Good guys and bad guys. And we know from the getgo which is which.

Anyway, the obvious goto would be to read the next WOT book -- Book Twelve, The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson. I couldn't find my copy of it. It's bound to be somewhere in this house. The bookshelves in the basement, the stacks of books in my office, in the bedroom, in the living room. Somewhere. But ....

So I bought Book Twelve and downloaded it to my tablet.

In Brandon Sanderson's Foreword to the book, he writes "In November 2007, I received a phone call that would change my life forever. Harriet McDougal ... called and asked me if I would complete the last book of The Wheel of Time." He goes on to recall his experience on September 16, 2007.

I remember my own experience of September 16, 2007.

I was driving home with my not-quite 18-year-old daughter. We were running at 65 miles per hour north on I-35 from Oklahoma City. The radio was tuned to National Public Radio's evening news program All Things Considered. The route, the speed, the radio program were all perfectly normal and unremarkable. 

Suddenly my daughter started screaming and beating the dashboard. Understandably alarmed, I pulled to the side of the road to find out what happened. She was crying and repeating "He died." Not tears of sorrow, but more of fury.

"Who?"

"Robert Jordan! He died! He hasn't finished! He hasn't finished!"

Yep, Robert Jordan died September 16, 2007, after publication of the first eleven books of his Wheel of Time books. But the epic story was not finished. Characters were left in terrible straits. The nations of the world were divided and at war with each other. The ultimate bad guy was about to break free from his prison. And the final battle would require that all peoples fight together or the Wheel of Time could be irrevocably broken. It would be the ultimate end of times.

I didn't recall ever having heard of Robert Jordan or his epic fantasy.

My son, being ever the pragmatist, had not started reading J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series until the final installment was safely published. Jordan's dying seemed reason enough for me not to ever start WOT.

Jordan was diagnosed with a terminal heart disease in December 2005. He had made preparations in case he died -- extensive notes "... so if the worst actually happens, someone could finish A Memory of Light and have it end the way I want it to end."

With Brandon Sanderson on board to finish the twelfth book, I decided to give the series a try. That final book turned out to be three books and I must say Sanderson did a superb job. So, yes, I am working my way through the fourteen book series for the fourth time.

And I am surviving the chaos of our real times for the umpteenth time. So far.

The Luck of the Draw -- Nonfiction

Three or four times a year, I buy a Powerball ticket. Just one. And I don't pay the extra dollar for the "Multiplier." I figure if my ticket is the right ticket, $448 Million, or whatever, is sufficient. No need to be greedy.

Back in February I got that official looking bit of mail. The highlighted words "LEGAL DOCUMENT: JURY SUMMONS" was what made it look official. There's nothing like correspondence from the IRS or a summons to court to make a person nervous.

I've been in Colorado for seven years now and this is my first call to jury duty.

In Colorado, prospective jurors are randomly chosen from a pool that includes voter records, driver's license and non-driver ID records, and state income tax forms. I guess if you don't vote, drive, or pay income tax, you don't have to serve. I, personally, don't know anyone over 18 who would not qualify to get such a summons. Amazingly, some people never get called.

It's the luck of the draw.

Most people's experiences of courtroom activities are limited to television cop shows. I suppose, in a way, I'm more experienced with real life courtrooms than most of my fellow citizens. Many years ago I was a reporter for a small-town newspaper. I did feature stories, obituaries, edited the Women's Page, some photography. I did pretty much whatever my editor wanted me to, including covering the Federal and District Courts.

It was a pretty small town -- but big enough to have a daily newspaper, three banks, a McDonald's, and a Walmart. And, being the county seat, meant it was home to the Federal Court and County Court Houses. Plus, since it was in Oklahoma there were umpteen gas stations and churches.

I covered all kinds of trials -- fraud, breaking and entering, rape, murder -- but the one that got my by-line on the front page and most excited my editor was an Alienation of Affection suit. What! you say. One woman was suing another woman for stealing her man?

Yep, the local Presbyterian minister's wife was suing the local Episcopal priest's wife for stealing her husband. Apparently the affair had been grist for the local rumor mill for weeks, but without something formal and official, the local newspaper couldn't print it. Oh, yes and the offending woman was the daughter of one of the local bankers. Such scandal!

But, I digress.

The above jury summons came with instructions and information. Call this telephone number. "If your number is within the range of numbers stated,  you will need to report for jury duty." There's a long list of conditions and situations the court will accept to excuse you from service.

There are also provisions for punishment if you fail to obey a juror summons. Up to $750 and/or imprisonment for up to six months.

I have no condition or situation that I can legitimately claim for exemption from jury duty. Actually, I don't necessarily want to be excused. I feel that, like voting, jury duty is a civic responsibility to be accepted respectfully and done diligently.

So the Powerball drawing was last Wednesday. Of the six numbers necessary to win so many millions of dollars, I only had one number right. Then Friday I called the courthouse to check my number with the range of numbers and -- guess what -- I only had one number for that too, but it was easily "within the range of numbers stated." Yep, I win.

Now to stress.

The summons said they're doing repair work on the parking area so parking will be limited and they recommend taking public transportation. Cool. I love the light rail. My husband and I drove over to the courthouse yesterday while it was closed to see how close the light rail station is to the courthouse's front door. It's an easy block and a half or so. And if it rains I have an umbrella.

What should I wear? I've given up wearing make-up in favor of painting my hair. A splash of pink to go with a pink t-shirt. Or a rainbow of colors to go with my John Lennon t-shirt. Green for St. Pat's Day. You know.

My husband says anything that won't offend the judge. So, maybe painted hair is out and, as for clothing, sad to say, I don't think I own anything that would offend a judge. Still, should I wear pants or a dress? A blazer with the pants or maybe a sweater? Floral or paisley for the dress or black? And shoes! Probably shouldn't wear sneakers -- even though I'll be walking that block and a half from the light rail station -- or flip-flops.

What about food? We're supposed to plan on being there from 8 til 5. Is there a snack bar that sells food in the courthouse? I don't know. I've only been in the courthouse twice and neither time was I concerned for food. Or coffee! Will they have coffee available?

I don't know what kinds of cases they try in the court I've been summoned to. I know I can't serve on a capital case, because I do not support the death penalty and could not vote to convict if that were a possible sentence. Anything else, I could do.

You know what else I don't know? Out of all the people summoned to serve I don't even know if I'll  be chosen for a trial. Guess I'll find out tomorrow.

If I'm not chosen, that'll be okay. If I am, that'll be okay, too.

Luck of the draw.

My 2018 in Books

Nebula NGC 6302

This beautiful photo by the Hubble Space Telescope is of a nebula sometimes called the Butterfly Nebula. This vision from 3,800 light years away. From so far away and so long ago. These cosmic wings are the perfect metaphor for the flight of 2018.

I'm a writer and many years can be measured in what I've written. But not last year. I have not been writing like I have in years past. 2018's flight must be measured in the books I read.

Not all the books I read in 2018. I can't remember them all. And I didn't make notes -- which I should have done, because at my stage in life I've read so many and forgotten so many that sometimes I realize two chapters in that I DID read that one and I don't have time to read it again when there are so many out there that I haven't read once.

Sometimes I do remember that I've read them before, but I wonder if I would still think they are as good as I thought the first time through. This year I reread John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany. For years I've said it's my favorite book ever. I read it again, because I recommended it to a friend and she didn't like it. I still like it, though maybe it's not my all-time favorite anymore.


In June I went to Washington, D.C. for a History Vacation with my son and his two sons. Thinking I would read to them in the evening after full days of exploring the city and the histories it tells, I took Tuck Everlasting. I hadn't read the children's book by Natalie Babbitt published in 1975, the year after my son's birth. So I read it before we went to D.C. and took it with me but never opened it again while we were there. The book's premise is that immortality isn't a wonderful thing at all. "You don't have to live forever, you just have to live.” Our days were too full of living.

While in D.C., as my souvenir, I bought The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson. It's nonfiction -- a history of three families who went north during the Great Migration and the Second Great Migration. It was the time when African Americans moved in great numbers out of the Southern United States into the Midwest, Northeast and West, a period of time from about World War I until after World War II. Being white and having grown up in the South, I knew nothing about the Great Migration. Like a lot of African American people in the South, I always thought of the North as being sort of a promised land, where people were treated equally and fairly regardless of their color. Boy, did I have my eyes opened.

As it turns out, The Warmth of Other Suns was good preparation for Michelle Obama's Becoming, my first book in 2019. ( For my review of  Becoming Click here.) Her grandparents had come North in the Great Migration.

A retired librarian friend of mine (Everyone who loves reading should have librarian friends!) introduced me to Elizabeth George's Inspector Lynley mysteries. Mysteries are my goto for fiction and, of course, I'd seen the TV productions on PBS's Masterpiece Mystery. But I gotta tell you, Sergeant Barbara Havers is even better in the books than she is in the TV series.

There were other nonfiction books -- I wouldn't go a whole year without David McCullough. 2018 was the year of "The Great Bridge." I know, I know -- it was published in 1972, but I didn't run into it until last year. It's the story of the building of The Brooklyn Bridge, the very one that still carries six lanes of traffic across the East River from Manhattan to Brooklyn. Before the bridge was built, crossing the river depended on ferries.

McCullough's book follows the bridge's building from the suspension-bridge-builder John Augustus Roebling's efforts to sell the concept of bridging the East River and the start of construction in 1869  just four years after the end of the Civil War, to its completion in 1883. With a main span of 1,595.5 feet (486.3 m) and a height of 276.5 ft (84.3 m) above mean high water, it was the world's first steel-wire suspension bridge. It originally carried horse-drawn vehicles and elevated railway lines. This is an epic story about the problems they encountered and solved -- steel cables long enough and strong enough, laborers afflicted with the bends, political conflicts between the then separate cities of Brooklyn and Manhattan (New York City), and the ever present problems of financing any public project of any size faces.

It was a good year for nonfiction. September found me at the Jaipur Literature Festival in Boulder. JLF, a wealth of writers of every form, from all over the world -- an editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, a Nobel nominee playwright, poets, novelists, journalists, historians, and much more. And they sell books. "Oh, no, don't throw me into that briar patch!"

I met Wade Davis, Explorer in Residence at the National Geographic Society. I bought his River Notes: A Natural and Human History of the Colorado and read it. Since I've moved to Colorado, I've become hyperaware of the importance of water in the Western United States, the Colorado being the major source of water for seven southwestern states so it was perfect. It's very well-done, as dense with information and as engaging as are his lectures.

Astrophysicist Priyamvada Natarajan, Yale professor of astronomy and physics was there. She writes science so people like me can understand. Her Mapping the Heavens follows astronomy/cosmology from myth to string theory. Brilliant!

And then ... I went to Houston in October and heard Barbara Kingsolver read.  So of course I bought two more of her books, her most recent Unsheltered for a friend and Flight Behavior from 2012 for myself.

Flight Behavior takes on Climate Change and personal growth. Her main character Dellarobia Turnbow is an intelligent young mother, trapped in her own lack of education and her too early marriage to the wrong man. Climate Change has brought migrating monarch butterflies to her wrong valley in Tennessee instead of their right valley in Mexico. Change is inevitable.

Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible may be my favorite novel now. I read it back in 2014. Check out my review of it.

I ended 2018 with another John Irving novel, Avenue of Mysteries. Irving writes books for writers. His main characters are often writers who think about things writers think about. In Avenue of Mysteries, the main character Juan Diego gives good advice to writers -- "Characters in novels are more understandable, more consistent, more predictable. No good novel is a mess; many so-called real lives are messy."

Certainly not an exhaustive list of the books I read in 2018, but these are the ones that I particularly remember. I hope your 2018 in books was as enjoyable as was my own.

A Walk in the Park -- flash fiction

"Ach, du meine liebe Gute! Your costume!"

My costume? I was wearing cargo pants, a plaid, flannel shirt, and sneakers. She, on the other hand, was wearing some sort of long black corseted dress, a top hat with lace, and high button-up boots.

"And your hair. So short." Her accent was British, though not exactly like my friend Ivor's. "And you're so tall."

How should I respond to that? Yes, I am tall and you are short. I don't think so. My Momma taught me better manners than that.

"Yes, ma'am. Isn't this a nice place to walk?"

She dropped her scrutiny of me and gazed at the river.

"The River Dee. It is beautiful. I used to ride here. My husband and I. He bought this land for us many years ago." She was distracted by a squirrel racing from one tree to another on the river's edge. "Here all seems to breathe peace, and make one forget the world and its turmoils."

Although the sky was overcast, the air was clear and we could see snow laced mountains in the distance. A view very familiar to me. But something about the squirrel was decidedly foreign -- its tufted ears.

"So, this is your place?"

"My place, indeed. All this land is my land. This is my country." She studied me closely. "Do you not know where you are?"

For a moment I felt dizzy, as though I had missed a step.

In that same moment she grabbed my arm to steady herself.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"I'm not quite sure." She continued to hold my arm. "Are you all right?"

"I don't mean to frighten you, ma'am, but I'm not sure I am. I honestly don't know where I am or how I got here."

No taller than my own grandmother, a bit heavier maybe, she took command seating me on an outcropping of rock.

"I, too, feel a bit dazed," she confessed. "To see someone so odd as you. Someone so oddly dressed."

She stood in front of me eyeing me from head to foot. "Are you a Campbell?"

"Like the soup?" I ventured.

From her quizzical expression my mentioning soup was just as odd to her as everything else about me.

She touched my shirt and explained "The Campbell tartan."

"No, ma'am. I don't really know anything about tartans."

She settled beside me seemingly satisfied not to know who I was or why I was there.

"Alas," she considered the scene before us. "Sometimes I fear I'm going insane."

"Insane?"

"Meeting someone like you," she explained.

"Like me?"

"My grandfather, you know -- George the Third. He was quite mad."

"I'm sorry." What else was there to say? I was disoriented.

"I don't remember him," she continued. "I was quite young when he died. But there were always stories."

Maybe I was losing it, too. I was quickly approaching the age when my own mother's dementia had started and my grandmother's the generation before.

Outside the Window -- flash fiction

     She felt it more than heard it.
     She'd been tired, so tired she'd gone to bed leaving Carl in front of the TV.
     She didn't open her eyes. She heard only silence and drifted off.
     There it was again. A distant rumble, like a bowling ball running down the lane. She and Carl bowled a lot when the kids were small. The Bowlarama had thirty lanes, a bar and grill, and childcare. She turned over and went back to sleep.
     A different sound -- like a door shutting. Then rushing air. She kept her eyes shut. Maybe it was the heating unit. Or the wind. She felt Carl's side of the bed. Empty. He must still be in front of the TV. What time was it? Maybe she could go back to sleep.
     She opened her eyes.
     The room was dark. Totally dark. She reached for her glasses. The night light must be out. Maybe the battery. No, it didn't have a battery. It plugged into the wall. Did those bulbs ever burn out? She couldn't remember how long they'd had it. She touched the base of her reading lamp. Nothing happened.
     The power was out. Where was her phone? She'd use it for light. Yes, of course -- on the charger in the kitchen.
     She stepped into one of her house slippers, but she couldn't find the other one. Just another good reason to be more intentional about putting things away. Her keys, the remote control, the house phone.
     Carl was much better at that than she. He hung his coat in the hall closet as soon as he came in. He always recradled the house phone no matter where he'd been using it. Each of his tools hung in its place on the south wall of the garage.
     The living room was dark.

     "Carl?"

     No Carl. No TV, either. Of course not. The power was out.
     Maybe a breaker had kicked off. They did that sometimes, like when Carl was in the garage welding. Many years ago her father had shown her how to push the breaker switch all the way off, then on again. She couldn't think if the breaker box was in the garage or outside somewhere.
     Lightning flashed through the closed blinds, lighting the room in eerie strips. Too little light for too short a time. On then off like a strobe. Silence for a three-count, then thunder.
     First the wind. A gust front. She could feel it against the house. Then the rain started. From the popping sound against the chimney cap, they must be big drops. Or maybe hail.

     "Carl?"

     Maybe he'd gone into the garage to do whatever it was needed doing to get the power back on.
     She opened the blinds and looked out. The whole neighborhood was dark. So dark she couldn't see across the street. It wasn't just her house.
     Again, a flash of lightning. Wind driven rain lashed the window. Their beautiful bay window -- the window that sold them on this house.
     In that moment, she saw someone coming toward the house. Through her roses. Carl knew better than that. Her Mister Lincoln had been there for years. Her mother gave her the cutting. And the Tropicana, the most beautiful orange rose. Not the aggressive orange of a hunter's vest. More like mango sherbet. Carl said it didn't look right, next to the Mister Lincoln's deep red.
     Dark again, leaving only the bright blindness of eyes trying to adjust.
     Thunder and a scream. Amidst the raging wind and rain, something smashed through the window. Sounds of shattering glass and clashing Venetian blinds filled the blackness. Her chest constricted. She couldn't breathe. She pressed herself against the wall.
     Another flash lit the room. Harsh white light exposed a concrete bowl sitting on her living room floor -- the bowl and broken glass. Her birdbath. Carl told her it was too near the window, but farther away and it would have been on the other side of the roses. Where was he?
     Moaning wind battered at the front door. The moans sounded almost human. The moans became shouts, calling her name beseeching her to "please open the damn door."

     "Carl?"

     Lightning flashed as she opened the door. Carl stood there, silhouetted against the glare. Thunder roared over their heads, as though to shake the world. She pulled him inside.

     Too exhausted to be afraid any longer, they huddled in the hallway until the storm passed.

     Dawn came right behind the storm. In that quiet, first light, she examined the damage. Their living room was in shambles. Rain soaked the glass strewn carpet and most of the furniture. Blood streaked Carl's face.

     "Sorry 'bout the roses." He said. "And the birdbath. I fell against it."

     She gently plucked a deep red petal from above his left eye and a mango sherbet petal from his left cheek. Carl had been wrong. His face was beautiful. Even with the Mister Lincoln rose's deep red so near the Tropicana's orange.