An unveiling of artifacts

The Tale of the Librarian's Fifth Wife is collection of moments, an assemblage of events, a bread basket of words, a swap meet of scraps left behind from a beautiful romance that will help clue you in to the real deal, to the life of two star crossed lovers that has already been lived and left behind. For the moment, anyway.


Our lives lie scattered over several states and a half a case worth of decades. It's not so much a want as a need to do this, to gather together the splinters and the shards of our times and share them here with you. Those bits and pieces of flotsam and jetsam found below in this winsome log are the bits and pieces of our times, a smattering of the trinkets of the love that Jane and I gathered up over the course of five long hard years. How they come to you now is in a story of sorts, a type of autobiographical fiction, with images cadged from places other than our satchel. Give it time, photos, sepia, wrinkled, pocket worn, are yet to come.


So, what else is there to do but get out that cobbled together blanket of dreams from the back of the car, spread it out under the branches of our favorite green and noble Oregon Maple tree that we both loved and share these words and tales of those long ago times with you. It was a wonderful time. Sit a spell, grab your spectacles and come ride along with us for awhile.

Love, Jane, the Professora and Roger, the Wild Half Mexican Boy


Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Certifiably something or other, branch window, 4:30, 3/4

First, to his credit and for your sake, he must be a very lovely fellow, a delightful soul, a generous and giving companion, a stellar business man and upright staff in your religious community.

Possibly. Maybe. But, a kind man? I've had a taste of that. Not so much.

But I must tell you, it doesn't take much to pick that head of his out of a crowd. Thin on top, somewhat shiny. It was the eyes that did it, though, that clicked that face of his into total recognition. They're still, after all this time, edgy, somewhat mean, narrowly focused. If we were in a prison population that stare that he was giving out would be considered "mad dogging". It was that forced, angry look you give when you really don't know you're giving it, when your thoughts betray you ahead of your words. He was peering hard through that window of ours for a shape or a vision or a sighting, something to vent his spleen on. Whether or not he saw me I saw him.

I played it off to a colleague. I mentioned that there was this very mad looking gentleman staring through our window, giving out very heavy and somewhat negative vibes. I knew he hadn't been inside so I figured it was time for me to go outside and take a walk home for supper. Funny, after all this time, I had to laugh. But still, I felt my mouth get dry and my heart began to race. Was this finally going to be THE moment of confrontation? A chance to finally say what I wanted to say and put those dukes of mine up in righteous indignation?

I had to find out and there was only one way to do it. I picked up my coat and headed out the door. Saw the distinctive silver Focus pull forward into the parking lot, but didn't see the hula girl on the dash. Wasn't totally sure but left my head uncovered and crossed the street which would have allowed for full and total recognition when he pulled out of the lot. Stepped up to an open parking space next to Myres. Waited for the signal, waited for my fate. I might as well been waiting for Godot. Stood out there next to the curb, naked to the world, in a world harboring a hostile man who, still, after all these years, can't stand the fact that I exist and that he was burned. Couldn't handle the fact that he found out that he wasn't the top dog that he thought he was.

Ha.

I suppose by posting things like this I am rubbing his nose in it, the way that you don't do these days to a bad dog. But darlin', he was and still is a bad dog. A jealous man with a mean and vindictive streak a mile wide. I am sorry, not for what we were, but for the environment that you chose to continue to live in. It can't be anything but hard, God on your side or not.

I see what I saw and say to myself, "three years down, seventeen or less to go". Type A's don't have longevity, that much I know. Good fortune to me, poor health to him. And to the victor goes...well, a tall glass of water and thee to hand it over at the end of the race. Here's to cool, cool water, Professora.

Your WHMB
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