Real life is the birthplace of the best stories. The tales related in Lines From the Times are drawn from real life. Lacking the length of a short story, these tales are pithy reflections on life as it is encountered by the author. From a little girl's conversation on a park bench, a grown man flying a kite in the church yard, a daughter's attempts to rein in an indulgent grandfather, a homeless man or a drug-influenced woman seeking direction, an adventure getting children off to school, strangers passed along life's journey, all combine to entertain and delight. These are not sermons by any means, but hey are parables of life where one finds a lesson taught, a prejudice challenged or a value uplifted. Lines From the Times is a mirror held up to our age reflecting our beauty and our blemishes. There's love in these pages; there's sadness for love not shown. There's acceptance here; there's rejection. We can find ourselves tucked inside the stories, ourselves at our best and at our worse.
Lines from the Times
By Guy KentAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Guy Kent
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-4081-9Chapter One
The Light Turned Green
A delight to behold they were, obviously in love. Yet indications said there were bumps along the path of romance.
When I first looked, he was talking to her in an animated manner. Arms went up and down. Whatever the subject, he was definitely emphasizing his point. His brow wrinkled. As he talked, body language communicated he felt distant from her. He kept talking, until ...
She raised her right hand, index finger extended, painted nails pointed, it appeared, to the spot between his eyes. Her finger moved up and down. He reacted, raising his hands in the classical "I don't know" gesture. She moved the finger closer. He moved back.
She lowered her hand and pointed finger. He began to talk again, obvious anger punctuating his words. She stared. He talked. She stared. Suddenly, she turned away from him and pounded her palms on the steering wheel of the car in which she sat.
He spoke more words. Palms pounded again. Talking stopped.. She glared. He moved further from her until his back embraced the passenger door. Now she stared through the windshield. He studied the car behind them. Silence appeared deafening.
Seconds seemed hours. Eventually, he raised his hand in a "hold it a minute" gesture. He began to talk once again. His hand lowered, but his lips kept moving. In just a short time both his hands came up in an "I give up" gesture. Still, he talked. She stared, still out the front windshield.
His words must have been magical. As he continued speaking, his back detached from the door and he leaned forward. Tears were now running down her cheeks. She still gripped the steering wheel. She still stared straight ahead. But her face was softening. He leaned closer.
He talked no more and moved forward. She spoke without looking at him. He responded. She talked. He kept quiet. She continued to speak. He placed his hands together in a sign of supplication. She turned toward him.
He looked away from her, out the windshield. She talked more. His hands rose to his head, one on each side. He massaged his temples. She now looked forward. His forehead moved down and rested on the dash. They both now seemed frozen in time.
Eventually he raised his head. His hand moved slowly toward her. The back of his fingers gently caressed her cheek. She turned her head toward him. His finger journeyed to her lips. They puckered in the form of a kiss.
Suddenly his finger departed her lip and moved up her face. His other hand lifted into view and impulsively he used both to muss up her hair. His hands she quickly pushed away, with laughter. His hand was now on her shoulders; they drifted with purpose toward the back of her neck. He pulled her forward. Their lips met in a kiss. And then they hugged.
The horn of the car behind them sounded. They jumped apart. It was then she saw me, watching intently in my rearview mirror. I looked away to see the light green.
I turned left. They went straight ahead, together.
Walking In My Shoes
One of my "things" is watching my children. The best time is when they are unaware of my presence. You can get a glimpse of the past through them; in them you can see the future. If you take parenthood seriously, you can be over-whelmed with an intense sense of responsibility.
This was one of those days. Matt is two. It's a difficult time for him. His older sister has gone to school. He misses her. His one-year-old brother is always in mother's arms when he wants to be. Left alone, he can wander into that world of the terrible twos.
Today, however, he was in a world of his own. He was a little boy wandering around the house looking for a secret place, one where parents, who have lost the ability to pretend, cannot enter.
I knew he was in that world. He was talking to people. As hard as I tried I could not see them. I watched him and listened to conversations between a boy and invisible friends.
His dress captured it. The clothing was only white training pants. But on each foot was a black shoe. The shoes were mine. His steps drug to keep his tiny feet inside them. He was the daddy of his secret world.
A little boy trying to fill his daddy's shoes. We think that's cute. In reality we all are trying to fill the shoes of those who went before.
As I look over my years, I have become much like my father. I have his good points, thank God. But some of his faults have become mine also.
Our hopes, our anxieties, our fears, and our prejudices, they all show up in our children.
It's enough to make you think. It's enough to make me pray.
There he goes, walking in my shoes. He always will in a sense. Oh, God, let me take care where those shoes go today. Tomorrow he will follow in my path to inhabit the places I inhabit.
Waiting for My Sister
I'm sitting on a bench. It's almost 3:00 in the afternoon. The bench is placed next to the escalator where arriving passengers ascend into the terminal of the Atlanta International Airport. My sister's coming. Today I'm the owner-operator of an exclusive shuttle service running from the airport to points north.
This is an international facility, for sure. That's not hard to discern. The murmuring sounds of the people around me are reminiscent of the Tower of Babel. I hear French, Spanish, German, Scandinavian languages, Japanese, Middle Eastern dialects, and others which I cannot catalog.
A variety of apparel is evident. There are Muslin women in dress that covers head to foot. There are young ladies in jeans so low-riding one or both of us should be ashamed. Their mesmeric appeal is surpassed only by those whose necklines appear to be in search of a navel. Times have changed. When I was the age of these icons of fashion, Mama would have slapped my face for even contemplating ladies so festooned.
The males are also interesting. Jeans appear to have surrendered to gravity and are definitely on a fast track to the ankles. Quite a few have chains hanging in loops. What's the purpose? They cannot be attached to keys or wallet. If so, the weight would have sent the leggins to the ankles.
The apparel most favored by the adult male seems to be Salvation Army, price-reduced-for-quick-sale, shorts eloquently contrasted by a decade-old Haynes plain white T-shirt. All of this is tastefully complimented by foot-molded-over-the-years sandals or flip flops. No wonder everyone got here before I. My wife insisted I dress before leaving home.
There are a few relics of a century past. Gentlemen, with as many years behind them as I, wear tan slacks, navy blue blazers, oxford blue button-down shirts, and red with white striped ties. Southern ladies wear neatly pressed dresses accented by brightly printed neck scarves and patent leather high heels that click and clack across the terrazzo floor.
Uniformed chauffeurs hold aloft their finely printed signs identifying the service they represent. Others hold handmade placards labeled: "Mr. Jenkins" or "Ms. Elliott." One is labeled "Jane." If I were not writing this I'd pause to see how many ascending passengers walk to the lady holding the "Jane" sign and inquire, "Yes?"
A lady, occupying the bench beside me, is one of fourteen dozen within fifty feet with a cell phone growing out of her ear. Her awaited passenger has apparently landed. With a smile she castigates him for his inability to navigate quickly enough the concourse from his gate to where she stands. "Will you hurry up," she says, and then she whispers, "I can't wait to hold you."
Every variety of person is here. Some rush. Some wait. Some look lost. Some evidence confusion. Some, like me, enjoy the bench and the people watching. Eyes constantly scan the passengers as they reach to top of the moving stairs. Expectation etches each face.
When expectation meets arrival, arms extend, faces dissolve into smiles, footsteps quicken. Those who have waited meet those who have come. A multiplicity of humans melt into a oneness of loving and being loved.
Can You Hear Me Now
"Hello," I spoke into the mouthpiece of the house phone.
"Hey, Pastor, this is George."
"Well, hello, George. It's good to hear your voice. What have you been doing lately?"
"Tell the truth, I've spent most of today trying to call you. You're a hard man to get catch up with."
"Well, sometimes I run the church. Sometimes the church runs me."
"It sure must have been running you today. Man, you're hard to reach. Don't you have a cell phone?"
"I do, George. I have a cell phone."
"Well, I don't have the number for your cell phone."
"That's probably why you couldn't reach me during the day, George."
"Do you think?"
"Why were you trying to reach me?"
"I wanted to see if you could speak to the civic club I'm president of next Wednesday."
"I'm sorry, George. I left my calendar in the car."
"Well, if I had your cell phone number, you could have checked your calendar while you were in the car."
"That's true, George. If you had my cell phone number you could have talked to me during the day. Tell you what, let me give you a call tomorrow and I'll let you know if Wednesday is clear."
"That's okay. I can call you. Just give me your cell phone number."
"I don't mind calling you, George. I'll call you from the office first thing in the morning."
"Do you think I'm nuts?"
"No, George. Why would I think that?"
"'cause, you're not calling me on your cell phone so I won't have your cell phone number recorded on my cell."
"George, you're a whole lot smarter than your mama thought."
"Why won't you give me your cell phone number?"
"If I gave you my cell phone number, you'd be calling me on it."
"That's the point isn't it?" "Yes, George. That's the point." Where Are My Glasses?
Late-thirty, Sunday night. Church activities were over. Everyone long ago left. I'd stayed in the study, writing notes to folks, some "thank-you" and some "missed you." The cool, early autumn evening, wrapped itself around me as I headed to the car. It was a perfect night for a drive.
Sitting behind the wheel, I scanned the addresses on the cards: There were three different but nearby towns. Why not drop each in the appropriate post office? They'd get the cards more quickly. Down Highway 53 I headed, arriving at the first post office in no time at all. Leaving I took a left toward the second stop.
At the junction of 411 and 140, the lights from the Post Office formed an island in the dark. I pulled across three parking spots, left the car running and door open as I ran inside to drop the note in the slot. Halfway back out the door it caught my eye.
There on the work table, across from the postal boxes, sat a pair of glasses, modern in design, rimless with light weight arms. Upside down, in the center of the table, they shouted for their owner.
What happened? Scenarios played out. In my mind's eye I saw the man emptying his mailbox. He turns to the table, places the accumulated mail down, pulls his glasses from his pocket, places them on his nose and then sorts the mail. Opening an envelope, he reads. Maybe he chuckles at some antidote. Maybe he mumbled at some piece of information. A mental note may have been made to check on something.
Then came the distracting occurrence. Perhaps an acquaintance entered and began a conversation. Did he and the friend laugh at some shared remembrance? Did they become so engrossed in the telling of their stories, the glasses' owner scooped up the mail, forgetting the eye pieces he'd lain down and walked with his friend out the door? Did someone come in and relate some tragedy that had occurred and the eyeglass wearer rushed out to confront the misfortune? Or did he just remove his glasses, as he re-stacked his mail, and then turned, as I often do, to walk away, leaving them to sit until their absent-minded owner once again initiated the search?
The night was quiet? The glasses more quiet. I walked to the car and stood for a moment beside the open door. Through the building's window the glasses were still visible, quietly abandoned.
Was he sitting at home squinting at the TV? Was he getting up during the commercials to search the nooks and crannies? How many times had he looked on the dresser? The desk? The workbench? Had he missed them at all? Was the reminder of his visual impairment to come in the morning?
I headed back inside, wanting to do something. This owner was a kinsman, a cousin in the Klan of the Preoccupied Visually Impaired. It was my duty to help. I stepped inside the lobby once again. I stared at the glasses, the only occupant of the bare table. What did I think I could do?
I did nothing. Instead, I looked at my watch. It was 9:55 p.m. I smiled. Everything was okay. In four hours, he would sit up in bed, slap his own forehead and exclaim to the darkness. "The Post Office!!"
A Meeting Missed!
Okay, I missed the meeting. It just slipped my mind. I was busy with some.... Well, I just forgot and missed the meeting. Alright, already! I heard you. I'm the one who scheduled the meeting. I still just forgot it. Okay?
Look, missing that meeting isn't the only thing on yesterday's list of foul-ups. The night before I'd set the alarm. I should have noticed the "PM" beside the "6:30." It was an easy mistake to make. I didn't intend to set the alarm for 6:30 in the evening; I didn't intend for my wife to be late for work. I suppose I did learn something from the experience. Dishes in the cabinet really do rattle if the door's slammed hard enough. Darn, she wasn't that late.
Shaking my head in dismay, I set about planning my day. Nothing of real importance highlighted on the calendar. There was time for a cappuccino. The car needed a bit of go-juice. Pulling up to the pump at the Quik Trip, America's best gas and convenience store, I opened the tank, pulled the nozzle from the pump, inserted it into the gas receptacle and reached into my pocket to retrieve my wallet and credit card.
You'd think as many times as I've done it, I would not forget to put my wallet into my pants pocket. You'd think that, wouldn't you? Oh well, back to the house. I retrieved the wallet and began the day anew. Back at the QT I gassed up. Inside I filled the cup with the thick brown liquid, paid for it and moved with determination into the new day.
I headed to the office, occasionally taking very small sips of the hot beverage. Once there, the liquid was set on the roof of the car as I retrieved the junk mail from the mailbox. I sat down at my desk, fired up the laptop and prepared to go online to update the website. That's when it hit me. There's no internet connection at the office. I calmly packed everything up and headed for the home study to do the internet work.
I guess I was about two miles down the road when I noticed the brown liquid flowing down the back window of the car. I never did get a good taste of the stuff.
At home I connected with the World Wide Web and made the necessary updates. I carefully considered all the things I still had before me, writing each on a "to do" list. Now, completely organized I headed back to the office. Once there, I whittled down the list in a frenzied fashion.
Finished, I thought of my wife being late that morning. I'd fix supper, one of those gourmet dinners I'm so capable of. Heading home, I called her to apologize. She listened lovingly to me until the phone began to fade. I cursed my cell phone provider and started to put the phone back in my belt holder. It was then I realized I'd been talking on the office cordless phone.
After returning the phone to the office, I headed home, cooked the dinner and made my amends. We ate during the meeting I forgot.
So I'm sorry I missed the meeting. I'd like to tell you it won't happen again, but daylight savings time rolled around this past weekend and I can't guarantee anything.
Agreeing With My Daughter
Ring! Ring!
"Hello."
"Hi, Dad."
"Hi, Punkin." (That's what I always call my daughter.) "What going on?"
"Not much. I wanted to call you about Christmas."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Lines from the Timesby Guy Kent Copyright © 2009 by Guy Kent. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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