The Friendship Garden: Marigold and Violet

The twilight was illuminating in the distance while I faced west toward the water. It had a subtle glow with red streaks across the sky that slowly moved down into the horizon. I balanced myself on the large rock that stood in the center of a small pool of water. The tiny canals that circled the rock were dug earlier in the day by a group of kids. It was a beautiful night, one to remember.

Today was also the first anniversary of my best friend passing from this life to the next. I was here at the beach remembering her life and our life as best friends forever (BFF). We were two inseparable twins from different parents who thought we would both grow old together while celebrating all the marriage milestones to our future spouses, children, birthday parties, and everything in between. I was here to celebrate her and toast to her memory.

I sat down on the rock, reached into my shoulder bag, and pulled out a large bottle of red wine. It was her favorite. We would come to this beach a lot while growing up and when we were finally able to drink, we would buy the wine and sit on this ancient rock and talk about our plans in life. We both knew what we wanted and pledged not to do anything without each other in our life. We were sisters, not by blood, but by bond.

I raised my glass after pouring a full one and toasted out loud to Marigold Nevaeh Martin! People, even her parents, called her Mari except for me. I always said she was the flower in my life, and I called her by her given name, Marigold. We often joked that the flower smelled terrible, but the bloom was beautiful like her. She had flaming red hair, so it was a perfect name. My name, on the other hand, was not as unique. It was Caren. Always mispronounced and spelled with a k instead of a c, so Marigold renamed me. I became a flower and our friendship a garden. I was no longer called Caren by her, but instead, she renamed me, Violet.

As I sat on the rock and drank my first of several glasses of wine, my mind flooded with memories. We lived down the street from each other, only a few blocks from the beach in Seattle, Washington. We went to daycare as infants together, then all through school until we graduated from the same University. It was bizarre to some but natural for us. We even majored in the same field of criminal justice. The only difference is she became a police officer, and I became a corporate paralegal.

Marigold's middle name was Neveah, which is heaven spelled backward. It fit her perfectly, and it was symbolic of another difference we didn't share. As I sat on the rock and shared my thoughts with her, I knew where she was. You see, she believed in something more than what we see in this life, yet I didn't. Well…I didn't until that awful night.

Marigold had been on patrol one dark moonless night and spotted a stranded motorist on the freeway. She had made sure to secure the area with flares and her patrol car lights, but even with that, it didn't stop the speeding car from barreling toward them. In a flash of just mere seconds, she pushed a young mother who was the car's driver into a ditch and took the hit head-on. Marigold was gone instantly. She didn't suffer at all. I always knew she would practice what she preached, "There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends." At work and in her personal life, she was everyone's friend. She always treated people she arrested with respect. She disapproved of their crimes, but she wasn't there to be their judge and jury.

So I lifted high the last glass of red wine with my arm outstretched toward the horizon and toasted my BFF while the light of the moon silhouetted me. I know now that I will see her again, and that is what consoles me. That is what I know to be true.

Matthew 5:9 "Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God."

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge July 2021.

 

The Voice from the Deep: Finding Love & Life

Photo credit: Carol Eliassen

It was a sunny day as usual in Pismo Beach, California, when I decided to go swimming after walking the long white sandy beach. The waves were coming in slowly, along with a light breeze. I had picked a perfect day to hang out at the beach, take in the sights and fresh saltwater ocean air.

While walking along the shoreline, I literally stumbled upon Emma. She was a local college student from San Francisco and was just on a day trip to the beach. She had driven down with friends, but they had insisted on shopping, and all she wanted to do was enjoy being lazy on the beach as she worked on her tan.

I had just dined at a local bar and grill across the street that had a great view of the water. The shrimp, cod, and crab were the best I had ever eaten, but the drinks made me a little wobbly while trying to navigate the deep white sand. When I stumbled upon Emma, which I did, we hit it off after I kept apologizing profusely.

I wasn’t known for college life. I was a helicopter mechanic in the aviation field, so we seemed to have such different lives. She was majoring in interior design, and I wanted to live a fun life after working 60 hours a week or more. I had no ambition, no goals, living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that was my goal in life?

She didn’t seem judgmental, and she had a charm to her that was quite perky and cute. I thought that just because we are different doesn’t mean we couldn’t have a good time today. She was currently alone, and so was I. There weren’t many people on shore since it was still early in the day, so we hung out and got to know each other.

I tried to convince her to go swimming, but she confessed that she didn’t know how to swim. She was born and raised in San Francisco but never had a desire to learn, and her parents never sent her to swim classes. I told her I could be her instructor if we kept in touch. I could only hope for that. She never actually took me up on the offer but I could tell she was intrigued.

I hung out with her until her friends showed up, and we exchanged phone numbers and said our goodbyes. I was pretty sure I would never hear from her again. We were from two different worlds and had two different goals (or lack of goals) that didn’t match in life. It was nice to make a friend, even only for a day!

I finally got up the courage to wade in, and as the seawater splash up against my leg, I proceeded to dive into a wave that came towards me. I managed to swim out into the ocean water a reasonable distance from shore and then dove down again into the murky water.

This time it was different. When I went under, I thought I would come right back up; I immediately realized I was in trouble. I didn’t know which way was up because I had flipped around as I went below the surface. I kept telling myself, “Eli, you got this, don’t panic!” Not that I ever listened to myself, because I started to panic, then I began to pray.

A voice, not my own, more precise than the voice in my head, told me to swirl around while pushing myself to what I thought maybe down to the bottom of the ocean and then to push myself up with force. I did just that and managed to come out of the water. What was only a few minutes, while holding my breath, seemed like an eternity; I escaped certain death. If I had not listened to this voice and did just as instructed, I was sure to have died that day.

Well, much to my chagrin, today wasn’t over yet because I was still a pretty good distance from shore. I must have also been in a rip current because I could see the shoreline passing by at a fast pace as I moved further down the beach, not of my own accord. I knew not to panic but couldn’t help it when I spotted a dogfish shark. I could tell it was that type of shark by the two smooth dorsal fins gliding through the water directly in my current path. It wasn’t moving toward me, but I seemed to be getting closer to it. I started swimming as fast as possible with the rip current but at an angle toward the shore and just managed to break free. I quickly made my way to the beach. I threw myself on the soft sand and was thankful to be alive!

As I turned over and stared up into the sun, Emma stood and smiled down at me. Maybe there is a God? I certainly think so.

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge July 2021.

George's Bakery - Chocolate Death Cake

 

Chocolate Death Cake

George…just George. What a George he was. He never knew a cake he didn’t like or cookie, for that matter. I knew George well. He was quite a tall, lanky, handsome fellow who loved to bake. Growing up and looking at him, I always thought that he would be a perfect mortician because he looked like Mr. Fletcher, the local one in town. Thin and bony he was too. Aren’t all morticians tall and spindly? Well, I thought they were. I shouldn’t have stereotyped him at all because he became a Baker! Well, I won’t tell you how I envisioned all Bakers. That will be my little secret. Again, I was wrong, thanks to George.

Let’s get back to George the Baker. He was a friend of the family, and most called him Uncle George, except for me. I knew he wasn’t my uncle, and since we were so close in age, I never called him that. Everyone thought that was odd, but I just liked calling him by his name. I loved that name and even named my firstborn son George. It was not because George was my favorite person (which he was); I just liked the name. I would have liked to have been named George, but my parents named me Ellison and called me by my nickname Eli.

George couldn’t wait to open up his bakery as soon as he could so he did when he turned eighteen. He had saved up all his money from mowing yards in the neighborhood and having a paper route as soon as he got his first bike when he was six years old. George was the star of the town everywhere he went. He loved people, and people loved our dear George. The bakery was a smash hit when it opened, and George always greeted everyone each day with his big famous crooked smile. He would be up at 3 a.m. and in the kitchen at his shop by 4 a.m. He never missed a day. You could smell the freshly baked cinnamon buns throughout every corner of the small town.

George wasn’t married, and as far as I knew, he never had a girlfriend while growing up. He lived to bake, and that was his absolute passion in life. George’s parents had died when he was very young from a tragic plane crash, and he went to live with his Aunt Anne, who happened to be my mother’s sister. Aunt Anne had married the brother of George’s dad and was a widow soon after. She never had children or remarried, so having George was her little blessing. She doted on him yet taught him to be a hard worker and perfected his skills in baking. Aunt Anne was like a life raft for George when he needed it most. With both his parents gone, Aunt Anne was his new mother and father combined. He was a lucky soul for sure, having her in his life.

George’s bakery was always so busy. Even when someone in town passed away, they would invariably order his famous Chocolate Death Cake to serve at the wake, memorial, or reception after the funeral. Someone anonymously even ordered that cake for a wedding to give as a gift to the groom! The nerve of some people! Anyway, I digressed, so back to the cake. While learning from Aunt Anne, George would bake a chocolate cake every week to commemorate the passing of his parents. He and his parents always loved to eat chocolate cake, and George would go through the neighborhood and share it with his friends. George called it his Chocolate Death Cake because not only was it made in remembrance of his deceased parents, but it was so rich in chocolate you could die for it! That cake became his most famous dessert in town after he opened the bakery.

One day in December, his whole life seemed to change overnight. A bus loaded with college-age students showed up at his bakery when their bus had a flat and ended up in a ditch right outside of town. His shop was busy with regulars, but suddenly there was an overflow of people, with many outside the door waiting to get in from the cold. He quickly sold out of his daily pastries but happened to have plenty of cakes in the back he had just baked for an upcoming wake scheduled within two days. He brought four upfront to sell to the hungry students, along with free bonus coffee to help thaw them out.

A girl named Christine caught his eye, and it seemed mutual from the looks they gave each other. George was not much older than the students since he turned twenty-four that year, and they were all seniors. Christine approached George and asked for a piece of the cake. George was spellbound and tongue-tied for the first time in his life, and without saying a word, turned around, cut a piece of the cake, and gave it to her while saying it was death cake. Stunned, she asked if she should eat death cake? He stammered and had a hard time getting the words out that he wanted to say. He finally told her yes, you should, so she did, and then asked him to tell her why he named it chocolate death cake as he sliced himself a piece as well. They talked the rest of the day and grew very fond of each other.

Christine left that night with her senior friends but returned two weeks later to the bakery, where she and George fell in love. Christine finished school in May of that following year and moved to our little town to marry George, the love of her life. They lived in the house that he grew up in that Aunt Anne left him in her will, and they had four children. One being named George, jr. The others were the three prettiest girls in town that luckily looked like their beautiful Mom.

When George passed away, everyone in town came to his funeral, and at his reception, there was not a dry eye in the house as someone yelled out, “pass me another slice of chocolate death cake!” Everyone was sure George was looking down and beaming with that big, crooked smile on his face along with his parents and Aunt Anne.

While raising their glasses, they thanked George for the beautiful memories and their heavenly slice of Chocolate Death Cake!

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge July 2021.