Post by goldenmyst on May 23, 2019 20:53:39 GMT -6
On the Road to Betrothal
They follow the ragged brow of the Hopi reservation to the ancient Pueblo of Walpi perched on its wrinkle. Atop the mesa, they sit in a room with a sandy floor with the other tourists. The timbers shake in the wind-driven sand of April. The Native guide, with his long hair, could be the snake dancer she saw in a picture. His face is worn as the ancient buildings he protects. When their turn comes they follow the crumbling buildings which once were homes.
They enter a dwelling where a coal heater sits and pottery is displayed by a Hopi woman. Her smile is starched like that of an ambassador at a formal dinner for a foreign delegation.
Marsha buys a piece of her art and carries it back to John. She says, “When we are old and grey we can raffle this off at the bingo parlor. It should fetch a pretty penny so that you can buy me a promise ring or even an engagement ring if the spirit moves you.”
John spots an eatery housed in a prefab building. They pull off the road and enter the joint. The inside is shadowy from the dust clouded light which peeks through the windows. But there is a steely shine on the metal tables and chairs which feels ghostly. They take their seats under the low ceiling with the prospect of food. The menu describes an America they left behind.
The people who sit next to their table can only be described as a couple with the woman doing a two-step of words to woo the man. Marsha and John eavesdrop on their conversation like cold war spies seeking the secret to detente.
The Hopi woman says, “You know I love the hot dogs at this place.”
The man says, “Uh huh.”
The woman answers, “This place has the best hamburgers for miles around. Have you tried them here?”
The man says, “Well yes, they are tasty.”
She replies, “But the French fries here are out of this world. And the ketchup is always fresh. That is why I come here.”
The guy says, “The mustard ain’t bad either. Goes good with the burgers.”
She replies, “They put way too much grease
on them at the diner down the road. Many a night I got heartburn from them. One night I ran out of Antacid. My belly ached all evening.”
Finally, the dude opens up and joins her dance of words. He asks her, “Do you ever eat Indian food?”
She replies, “What do you mean?”
He says “Amaranth cereal, blue corn pancakes smothered in honey, or pine nut tea? You won’t get a tummy ache from them.”
She replies, “You know, I have a tomato patch out back. I can make you a salad fresh from the earth.”
He replies, “Now, you’re talking my language. Let’s split this joint. Between your tomatoes and my blue corn flapjacks we can make a real meal.”
Their newly minted alliance leads them out the door and into the windy realm of love. Marsha tells John, “That couple reminds me of you and me back in the day. You were so shy.”
I say, “You are the reason behind my talkative season. My shell was never to close again after I met you.”
They descend onto a plateau into storms of orange dust. The sky is yellow with the clouds of wind-driven soil. To their surprise, they find a dinosaur footprint site. They park and are greeted by a smiling Navajo woman in a white dress. There is a table display of Indian jewelry. The young woman leads them across the sandy rocks and points to the brontosaurus prints embedded in the stone. The tracks are marked with signs telling what beast they were left by. Their tour guide doesn’t speak a word of English apparently as she just smiles and points to the footprints. They take advantage of the language barrier. Marsha says, “Honey, all these years have passed and you haven’t even given me a promise ring.”
“I’ll do you right before we leave this place.”
The curator woman of this place leads them to the table arrayed in abalone shell earrings and turquoise rings which suit John’s purpose. John points to a ring and the price is no obstacle in matters of love. He pays and holds Marsha’s hand while placing the ring on her finger.
“You know this is the best part of the trip for me. Even the Grand Canyon won’t top it. Maybe in our golden years, it will be an antique so we can hock it to get me a wedding band. But since we’ve come all this way, why not splurge and get me those pretty earrings too?”
“Done,” John says.
John kisses Marsha and they get in the car only to see the Indian woman wave goodbye in the rearview mirror. The Navajo maiden watches them with a smile which says she knows something special happened and that she was part of it.
Marsha says, “I take a window seat on a plane but get dizzy on a ladder whose height is that of a gnat compared to the Grand Canyon.”
“Let’s go home. The Grand Canyon can wait until our next life. The Eola Hotel is the grand old dame of Natchez. Her seven floors are high enough to make me giddy.”
“Chase me around the kitchen to bare my frills and I’ll get my fill of thrills.”
“You are picture perfect in your chattily lace.”
“My panties are yours to divest once the salad is well dressed. First I toss our salad. Then you squeeze my blushing tomatoes. Mine are not fully ripe but nice and firm like those of a woman in the spring of life but not to be consumed. Eve plied Adam with her body whose forbidden allure was the fruit. They do get a touch of pink when I sunbathe in the backyard without my bikini bottoms, but who likes tan lines?”
John answers, “Love means we sit at the same table, share the same food, but dine with our own separate plates.”
“When a man grabs the ball and runs with it my estrogen spikes.”
They follow the road home. Windham Hill music suspends his beloved and he in an ambient reverie of speechless Sphinxes. Ahead is a convertible with a lady passenger wearing an elegant wide brimmed-hat. Her scarlet scarf flutters in the breeze like a Himalayan prayer flag. She crests the parched hills as they follow in a desert dance.
They find themselves in a classic pose on the gazebo in the Natchez bluff park with the sky stained in red wine. Marsha’s elbows prop her on the railing and his hands clasp her face.
He says, “Do you remember the lemon tree which grew in our patio?”
“It always bore fruit. It was a dry season when we planted it. But when the limbs were heavy with citrus my heart sang,” she replies.
“Just a few drops made our casseroles savory.”
“We were vegetarians when it wasn’t cool.”
“John, let’s live the dream again. From now on only a plant-based diet for us.”
“What worked for us two thousand years ago in Pompeii can do so again,” he replies.
“If memory serves me right you illustrated the walls of our fair city with models in lurid poses. Tell me the truth. Did you ever take part in those scenes after the brush was put down?”
“I never even entertained such a thought. I was always knocking on your door.”
“But the act of putting those scenes into art must have required intense focus. These were actual people making love. You were a voyeur in a ménage à trios. How could that not have turned you on?”
“I wouldn’t take it that far,” he replies.
“It was far enough to be cheating in my book.”
“It was my bread and butter. My heart was in illustrating the tales of Ovid.”
She catches her breath. “Be still my beating heart. I live and breathe Ovid. All is forgiven.”
“How I miss our nights just silently reading together. But even more so sharing a bottle.”
“You’re a much better bed warmer than a book,” he says.
She replies, “My readiness to put down a book is made all the more eager by the prospect of crawling under the sheets with you.”
“My favorite Ovid books are his Ars amatoria trilogy. Book one teaches a man how to find a woman. Book two teaches him how to keep a woman.”
Marsha replies, “Well you’ve found me so that is a moot point. And you’ve kept me over two thousand years and countless lifetimes. So that is also covered.”
John replies, “The third book shows a woman how to win and keep the love of a man.”
Marsha says, “I don’t need a book to tell me that. My study is time tested over millennia with you as my subject.”
“The Persian poet, ‘Omar Khayyam’ wrote odes to the joy of wine.”
Marsha says, “You read the Englishman, Fitzgerald’s, translation of it on a summer’s day upon a greensward shaded by a willow bough.”
John replies, “The jug of wine I brought gave us a buzz like the pleasure our fellow picnickers the bumblebees must take in gathering pollen. Omar’s path is a fruitful one for us.”
She replies, “You never turned down my Tuscan wine. We might find each other in the marketplace. No matter how long it had been since our last date, you never lost your taste for my jug of spirits, especially when it had been a good season for grapes. Let’s share a bottle tonight and remember old times. Join me in my boudoir and we’ll try the locally fermented muscadine wine. The southern grape is a wild nymph so I hear.”
Her figure eight becomes a black silk silhouette.
They follow the ragged brow of the Hopi reservation to the ancient Pueblo of Walpi perched on its wrinkle. Atop the mesa, they sit in a room with a sandy floor with the other tourists. The timbers shake in the wind-driven sand of April. The Native guide, with his long hair, could be the snake dancer she saw in a picture. His face is worn as the ancient buildings he protects. When their turn comes they follow the crumbling buildings which once were homes.
They enter a dwelling where a coal heater sits and pottery is displayed by a Hopi woman. Her smile is starched like that of an ambassador at a formal dinner for a foreign delegation.
Marsha buys a piece of her art and carries it back to John. She says, “When we are old and grey we can raffle this off at the bingo parlor. It should fetch a pretty penny so that you can buy me a promise ring or even an engagement ring if the spirit moves you.”
John spots an eatery housed in a prefab building. They pull off the road and enter the joint. The inside is shadowy from the dust clouded light which peeks through the windows. But there is a steely shine on the metal tables and chairs which feels ghostly. They take their seats under the low ceiling with the prospect of food. The menu describes an America they left behind.
The people who sit next to their table can only be described as a couple with the woman doing a two-step of words to woo the man. Marsha and John eavesdrop on their conversation like cold war spies seeking the secret to detente.
The Hopi woman says, “You know I love the hot dogs at this place.”
The man says, “Uh huh.”
The woman answers, “This place has the best hamburgers for miles around. Have you tried them here?”
The man says, “Well yes, they are tasty.”
She replies, “But the French fries here are out of this world. And the ketchup is always fresh. That is why I come here.”
The guy says, “The mustard ain’t bad either. Goes good with the burgers.”
She replies, “They put way too much grease
on them at the diner down the road. Many a night I got heartburn from them. One night I ran out of Antacid. My belly ached all evening.”
Finally, the dude opens up and joins her dance of words. He asks her, “Do you ever eat Indian food?”
She replies, “What do you mean?”
He says “Amaranth cereal, blue corn pancakes smothered in honey, or pine nut tea? You won’t get a tummy ache from them.”
She replies, “You know, I have a tomato patch out back. I can make you a salad fresh from the earth.”
He replies, “Now, you’re talking my language. Let’s split this joint. Between your tomatoes and my blue corn flapjacks we can make a real meal.”
Their newly minted alliance leads them out the door and into the windy realm of love. Marsha tells John, “That couple reminds me of you and me back in the day. You were so shy.”
I say, “You are the reason behind my talkative season. My shell was never to close again after I met you.”
They descend onto a plateau into storms of orange dust. The sky is yellow with the clouds of wind-driven soil. To their surprise, they find a dinosaur footprint site. They park and are greeted by a smiling Navajo woman in a white dress. There is a table display of Indian jewelry. The young woman leads them across the sandy rocks and points to the brontosaurus prints embedded in the stone. The tracks are marked with signs telling what beast they were left by. Their tour guide doesn’t speak a word of English apparently as she just smiles and points to the footprints. They take advantage of the language barrier. Marsha says, “Honey, all these years have passed and you haven’t even given me a promise ring.”
“I’ll do you right before we leave this place.”
The curator woman of this place leads them to the table arrayed in abalone shell earrings and turquoise rings which suit John’s purpose. John points to a ring and the price is no obstacle in matters of love. He pays and holds Marsha’s hand while placing the ring on her finger.
“You know this is the best part of the trip for me. Even the Grand Canyon won’t top it. Maybe in our golden years, it will be an antique so we can hock it to get me a wedding band. But since we’ve come all this way, why not splurge and get me those pretty earrings too?”
“Done,” John says.
John kisses Marsha and they get in the car only to see the Indian woman wave goodbye in the rearview mirror. The Navajo maiden watches them with a smile which says she knows something special happened and that she was part of it.
Marsha says, “I take a window seat on a plane but get dizzy on a ladder whose height is that of a gnat compared to the Grand Canyon.”
“Let’s go home. The Grand Canyon can wait until our next life. The Eola Hotel is the grand old dame of Natchez. Her seven floors are high enough to make me giddy.”
“Chase me around the kitchen to bare my frills and I’ll get my fill of thrills.”
“You are picture perfect in your chattily lace.”
“My panties are yours to divest once the salad is well dressed. First I toss our salad. Then you squeeze my blushing tomatoes. Mine are not fully ripe but nice and firm like those of a woman in the spring of life but not to be consumed. Eve plied Adam with her body whose forbidden allure was the fruit. They do get a touch of pink when I sunbathe in the backyard without my bikini bottoms, but who likes tan lines?”
John answers, “Love means we sit at the same table, share the same food, but dine with our own separate plates.”
“When a man grabs the ball and runs with it my estrogen spikes.”
They follow the road home. Windham Hill music suspends his beloved and he in an ambient reverie of speechless Sphinxes. Ahead is a convertible with a lady passenger wearing an elegant wide brimmed-hat. Her scarlet scarf flutters in the breeze like a Himalayan prayer flag. She crests the parched hills as they follow in a desert dance.
They find themselves in a classic pose on the gazebo in the Natchez bluff park with the sky stained in red wine. Marsha’s elbows prop her on the railing and his hands clasp her face.
He says, “Do you remember the lemon tree which grew in our patio?”
“It always bore fruit. It was a dry season when we planted it. But when the limbs were heavy with citrus my heart sang,” she replies.
“Just a few drops made our casseroles savory.”
“We were vegetarians when it wasn’t cool.”
“John, let’s live the dream again. From now on only a plant-based diet for us.”
“What worked for us two thousand years ago in Pompeii can do so again,” he replies.
“If memory serves me right you illustrated the walls of our fair city with models in lurid poses. Tell me the truth. Did you ever take part in those scenes after the brush was put down?”
“I never even entertained such a thought. I was always knocking on your door.”
“But the act of putting those scenes into art must have required intense focus. These were actual people making love. You were a voyeur in a ménage à trios. How could that not have turned you on?”
“I wouldn’t take it that far,” he replies.
“It was far enough to be cheating in my book.”
“It was my bread and butter. My heart was in illustrating the tales of Ovid.”
She catches her breath. “Be still my beating heart. I live and breathe Ovid. All is forgiven.”
“How I miss our nights just silently reading together. But even more so sharing a bottle.”
“You’re a much better bed warmer than a book,” he says.
She replies, “My readiness to put down a book is made all the more eager by the prospect of crawling under the sheets with you.”
“My favorite Ovid books are his Ars amatoria trilogy. Book one teaches a man how to find a woman. Book two teaches him how to keep a woman.”
Marsha replies, “Well you’ve found me so that is a moot point. And you’ve kept me over two thousand years and countless lifetimes. So that is also covered.”
John replies, “The third book shows a woman how to win and keep the love of a man.”
Marsha says, “I don’t need a book to tell me that. My study is time tested over millennia with you as my subject.”
“The Persian poet, ‘Omar Khayyam’ wrote odes to the joy of wine.”
Marsha says, “You read the Englishman, Fitzgerald’s, translation of it on a summer’s day upon a greensward shaded by a willow bough.”
John replies, “The jug of wine I brought gave us a buzz like the pleasure our fellow picnickers the bumblebees must take in gathering pollen. Omar’s path is a fruitful one for us.”
She replies, “You never turned down my Tuscan wine. We might find each other in the marketplace. No matter how long it had been since our last date, you never lost your taste for my jug of spirits, especially when it had been a good season for grapes. Let’s share a bottle tonight and remember old times. Join me in my boudoir and we’ll try the locally fermented muscadine wine. The southern grape is a wild nymph so I hear.”
Her figure eight becomes a black silk silhouette.
