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


Sunday, February 28, 2010

24 little hours


"What a difference a day makes..".
It's easy to fall back on feelings when you're out standing in the rain. Feeling sorry for yourself is not such a bad option when you find yourself standing under a foreshortened umbrella, rainwater dripping down your neck, a stiff breeze blowing tiny shards of cold, wet drizzle up against the back of your pant legs and your not so waterproof jacket. It's easy to feel low when folks you know see you standing before your cart, well, actually, your friends dog cart, pushed up mean against the side of the road,, and wonder "how the hell did he end up there?" Looking around all I could see was grey, fat clouds and the expanding rings of raindrops hitting oily water in chuck holes the size of large bread boxes. I stood there and all I could think was "fall from grace". I kept flashing on Charleton Heston's turn as a galley slave in Ben Hur. It was all I could do to keep from knocking out a beat on the stamped steel beast I stood before, thrumming out "ramming speed" as cars kept passing me by.

Fast forward twenty four hours and the sun is shining bright. It's still cold out but I'm inside with the heater on. The cat is out, hot coffee is circulating through my veins, the bed is freshly unmade and I still have last night's dinner dishes in the sink. I am starting to sleep better now that I have let go my wonderfully bad habit of eating late and drinking late. I stood on the porch a moment ago and looked out over the water towards the Olympics and know that at some point today you will be looking out that way, too. Bound to be, have to be, as they are about as beautiful today as you are.

I think of days like today and wish to forego that lengthy drive I have ahead of me, stay here, wait for something to break, then just when I think I'll blow off my opportunity I think of days like yesterday when I felt like a misplaced bracero selling oranges off of a freeway offramp and know I have no choice but to go. I know that I have to set my finances back a bit in order to see if I can make a hiring list or two. I know that I have to keep up my housework so that that imaginary dream buyer will fall in love with my house. I know I must keep my spirits up because not every day is a rainy day, because there are plenty of sunny days up ahead.

Outside my door it's still winter, will be for another three weeks or so. We managed to get through the season here in PO with little to no snow. I managed to make it through this financial debacle so far with luck and pluck and bit of hard work. With the sun shining, the wrens singing, the dafodils rising up through the muck, job interview in the wings and the fridge full I feel that life might just be okay. Find me again out on a walk, my dear, and up the antey. I have a long road ahead of me and every little bit helps.

Ramming speed, indeed! Onward and upward, my dear!

Your WHMB
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