by David Meuel
The sun had just slipped behind the rough granite peaks that loomed over Silver Lake in the northern High Sierra. The lake’s surface was darkening, and the evening air was cooling. My grandmother, sitting on a bench near me, buttoned her thick jacket and put on gloves. I walked along the shore looking for another small, flat pebble. I found one that would do, picked it up, threw it sidearm onto the water, and watched it skip—one, two, three, four, fivesixseveneight times. My eyes widened. I slapped my hands together in triumph.
“That was a good one,” Grandma said. “Eight—is that your record?”
“No,” I said, my eyes scanning the shore again for another suitable pebble, “I’ve done nine skips two times.”
“That’s very good.”
“But I want to do ten. I’m ten now. And I want to do ten skips.”
“You’re very determined. I’m sure you’ll do it.”
I threw another pebble in. It skipped only four times. I was annoyed.
“You’ve been throwing for a while,” Grandma said. “Why don’t you rest your arm a bit?”
My arm was tired. I hadn’t realized it until then. “Okay.”
I sat down with her, and she helped me put my jacket on. We gazed out at the lake. It was beginning to look mysterious, like a vast sea of black ink.
“Do you ever notice,” she said, “that each time one of your rocks skips the skip creates a ripple on the water?”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“And do you notice that—even after the rock stops skipping and sinks into the lake—the ripples are still there, that they keep widening and widening, and that—finally—they disappear too?”
I thought for a moment. “I guess so.”
“That’s what I was thinking about when you were skipping rocks.” Her voice quavered a bit. “It may seem funny, but it reminded me of life.”
“Life?”
“Yes, and death too.”
“How?”
“Well, the rocks are our lives. Let’s say each skip is a decade. With some lives, it’s eight or nine. With others it’s just four. And with some others like your Uncle Gus—well, their lives don’t even get that far.” She stopped for a moment. “Then there are the ripples. They’re the impressions we make on the people in our lives—the influence we have on them, the memories we leave behind. Sometimes, some of us share stories we remember about people who’ve passed on with others. That widens the ripple even more. But then, after more time passes, the influence and the memories, like the ripples, are just gone.”
“Vanished into thin air,” I said, remembering the words I’d recently heard a magician say on TV.
“Yes, vanished into thin air,” she said, wiping away a tear that had formed on one cheek. “I wish you had the chance to know your Grandpa better.”
“I knew him for one skip.”
“Yes, you did, and that’s something.” She smiled now. “I knew him for five skips.”
“That’s a lot more.”
“Yes, it is. But, I guess I’m greedy. I would have loved just one more skip.”
“But the ripples are still here.”
Her eyes brightened. “Yes, they still are.”
•
Soon after that vacation I became bored with skipping rocks, and, when we visited Silver Lake in the future, I focused more on kayaks and then on girls vacationing with their families. I didn’t even think about that evening at the lake again until Dad called one night fourteen years later to tell me that Grandma had died.
“Nine skips,” I said without thinking.
“Nine what?” Dad said.
“Oh, nothing.”
As I put the phone down, the story came back with the clarity and force of a lightning bolt. And four days later, because it seemed especially fitting, I told the story to people at the reception we had after Grandma’s funeral. It was one of many stories that family members and friends told that day—and one of many that some others, especially the younger people there, were hearing for the first time. As I listened, I wondered how wide the ripples from Grandma’s nine skips would eventually become, and I wondered how long they would last before they too would vanish.
Showing posts with label David Meuel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label David Meuel. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Maribel’s Yearbook
by David Meuel
As Daniel Kessler opened the door to room B-9—his room—at McKinley High in San Jose that June morning, he remembered standing in the same spot the summer before with Bev, the English Department chair. He had punned with her about B-9 and “benign,” saying that he hoped the room number would be a good omen for his first year of teaching. She smiled and opened the door, and he saw the room for the first time. His eyes moved from the peeling paint on the walls to the torn curtains over the windows, to the desks with “Fuck you,” “Fuck,” or simply “Fuk” carved into them. This’ll be a challenge, he thought.
Now, ten months later, Daniel was starting the last day of instruction before final exams. Both the school year and his short teaching career were finally coming to an end.
As he sat down at his desk, Maribel walked in.
Maribel was one of the students from the terrible senior English language learner class he had been assigned that year, the class that, probably more than anything else, had convinced him that he just wasn’t up to the challenge at McKinley High.
She had had a sad history. Three years before, her parents had given all their money to a coyote, or illegal guide, to help their family cross from Mexico to the United States. She and her mother made it. But the border patrol caught her father and two brothers and sent them back to Mexico. She and her mother hadn’t seen them since, and now the two of them shared a small one-bedroom apartment with four cousins.
Her story touched Daniel, and he wanted to be sympathetic. But, along with the nine or ten other students in that class who cut regularly, talked incessantly when they were there, and even got into in-class shouting matches and fights, she was—he hated to admit—hard to like.
Needless to say, she and the others had learned next to nothing from him that year, had repeatedly failed the state high school exit examination, had failed his class, and would not be graduating.
Now, she just stood there looking at Daniel. He wondered what she wanted.
“Yes?” he said impatiently.
“Mr. Kessler—will you sign, please?”
From her frayed backpack, she pulled out a McKinley High yearbook. It had cost her—as it had cost all the students who bought one—$90.00. And, as Daniel paged through it to find a suitable space, he saw that it was filled with dozens and dozens of warm wishes and signatures. She had been working hard on this.
“This is very impressive,” Daniel said. “So many people have signed it. I hope I can find a space.”
She laughed. “Oh, you will, Mr. Kessler.”
Finally, he found a good spot, wrote that he wished her the best, signed his name, and gave the yearbook back.
“Thank you, Mr. Kessler. Now, I need to find more people to sign. I want to remember all people I meet here. This very, very happy time for me.”
“I’m glad,” he said, a bit startled by her last remark. “Say, Maribel?”
“Yes, Mr. Kessler?”
“I’ll always remember the story you told, the one about coming from Mexico. Do you talk to your father and brothers often?”
“Yes,” she said. “We talk every week to them. We hope they can cross in few months. We do not know, but we hope.”
“I hope so, too.”
She smiled, nodded, put the yearbook back into her pack, and waved goodbye.
He smiled and waved too, thinking how pitiful and grand she seemed at that moment, how hard her life was and would probably always be, and how privileged and easy his life was by comparison.
Maribel didn’t come back later that day for the last class meeting or two days after that for the final exam. But Daniel saw her at the graduation. She was sitting in the stands, and, when the name of each of her friends was announced, she stood, waved school-colored pom-poms, and cheered. Each time she stood, he smiled.
As Daniel Kessler opened the door to room B-9—his room—at McKinley High in San Jose that June morning, he remembered standing in the same spot the summer before with Bev, the English Department chair. He had punned with her about B-9 and “benign,” saying that he hoped the room number would be a good omen for his first year of teaching. She smiled and opened the door, and he saw the room for the first time. His eyes moved from the peeling paint on the walls to the torn curtains over the windows, to the desks with “Fuck you,” “Fuck,” or simply “Fuk” carved into them. This’ll be a challenge, he thought.
Now, ten months later, Daniel was starting the last day of instruction before final exams. Both the school year and his short teaching career were finally coming to an end.
As he sat down at his desk, Maribel walked in.
Maribel was one of the students from the terrible senior English language learner class he had been assigned that year, the class that, probably more than anything else, had convinced him that he just wasn’t up to the challenge at McKinley High.
She had had a sad history. Three years before, her parents had given all their money to a coyote, or illegal guide, to help their family cross from Mexico to the United States. She and her mother made it. But the border patrol caught her father and two brothers and sent them back to Mexico. She and her mother hadn’t seen them since, and now the two of them shared a small one-bedroom apartment with four cousins.
Her story touched Daniel, and he wanted to be sympathetic. But, along with the nine or ten other students in that class who cut regularly, talked incessantly when they were there, and even got into in-class shouting matches and fights, she was—he hated to admit—hard to like.
Needless to say, she and the others had learned next to nothing from him that year, had repeatedly failed the state high school exit examination, had failed his class, and would not be graduating.
Now, she just stood there looking at Daniel. He wondered what she wanted.
“Yes?” he said impatiently.
“Mr. Kessler—will you sign, please?”
From her frayed backpack, she pulled out a McKinley High yearbook. It had cost her—as it had cost all the students who bought one—$90.00. And, as Daniel paged through it to find a suitable space, he saw that it was filled with dozens and dozens of warm wishes and signatures. She had been working hard on this.
“This is very impressive,” Daniel said. “So many people have signed it. I hope I can find a space.”
She laughed. “Oh, you will, Mr. Kessler.”
Finally, he found a good spot, wrote that he wished her the best, signed his name, and gave the yearbook back.
“Thank you, Mr. Kessler. Now, I need to find more people to sign. I want to remember all people I meet here. This very, very happy time for me.”
“I’m glad,” he said, a bit startled by her last remark. “Say, Maribel?”
“Yes, Mr. Kessler?”
“I’ll always remember the story you told, the one about coming from Mexico. Do you talk to your father and brothers often?”
“Yes,” she said. “We talk every week to them. We hope they can cross in few months. We do not know, but we hope.”
“I hope so, too.”
She smiled, nodded, put the yearbook back into her pack, and waved goodbye.
He smiled and waved too, thinking how pitiful and grand she seemed at that moment, how hard her life was and would probably always be, and how privileged and easy his life was by comparison.
Maribel didn’t come back later that day for the last class meeting or two days after that for the final exam. But Daniel saw her at the graduation. She was sitting in the stands, and, when the name of each of her friends was announced, she stood, waved school-colored pom-poms, and cheered. Each time she stood, he smiled.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Last Night at Home
by David Meuel
Alex put his key in the lock, opened the front door, turned on a light, and saw the empty living room of the house on Clara Drive in Palo Alto. Nothing, not even a stranded scrap of paper, remained.
Three months ago, Dad had moved out and into an apartment in Mountain View. That was about the time he and Mom drove to Alex’s dorm room at U.C. Davis to tell him the news. Both were very calm, saying several times that he would always have a home with each of them. Mom had stayed in the house until the sale was final, and Alex had come home to help her move to her new apartment in Menlo Park. Today, they had finished, and at noon tomorrow the house would officially belong to someone else.
Alex walked into the empty kitchen and adjoining family room that, for him, had always been the heart of the house, and he turned on another light. Everywhere he looked, places melted into memories—the spot where he and Dad sat and watched Giants baseball games on TV, the counter where Mom prepared dinners, the floor where he spent hours drawing pictures of superheroes in his notebooks.
Then he walked down the hall to his bedroom, turned on the light, and looked at the empty spaces where, until that morning, his bookcase, computer desk, dresser, and bed had stood. He loved how his bed looked out into the backyard, where Dad would barbeque and the three of them would talk and laugh and eat burgers or chicken or salmon at the patio table on warm summer evenings.
Yesterday, Dad had said that, for him, the house had become a symbol for the marriage—something he and Mom had constantly worked at but never got right—and that he was glad to be rid of it. The comment saddened Alex. But, as he now understood, he had only known part of the story.
He turned off the bedroom light and walked about the house turning off the other lights, each time noting more places and the memories that went with them. Then he closed the front door behind him and walked back to his car.
Both Mom and Dad had said that he could spend the night with one of them. But he didn’t know if he wanted to. Not tonight. He thought for a moment. No, not tonight.
He opened the car trunk and pulled out his sleeping bag, pillow, and sleeping pad. Then he carried them into the house and into his room, and he laid them out where his bed had been—by the window that looked out at the backyard. As he lay down, he smelled chicken on the barbeque and heard three people laughing on a warm summer evening.
Alex put his key in the lock, opened the front door, turned on a light, and saw the empty living room of the house on Clara Drive in Palo Alto. Nothing, not even a stranded scrap of paper, remained.
Three months ago, Dad had moved out and into an apartment in Mountain View. That was about the time he and Mom drove to Alex’s dorm room at U.C. Davis to tell him the news. Both were very calm, saying several times that he would always have a home with each of them. Mom had stayed in the house until the sale was final, and Alex had come home to help her move to her new apartment in Menlo Park. Today, they had finished, and at noon tomorrow the house would officially belong to someone else.
Alex walked into the empty kitchen and adjoining family room that, for him, had always been the heart of the house, and he turned on another light. Everywhere he looked, places melted into memories—the spot where he and Dad sat and watched Giants baseball games on TV, the counter where Mom prepared dinners, the floor where he spent hours drawing pictures of superheroes in his notebooks.
Then he walked down the hall to his bedroom, turned on the light, and looked at the empty spaces where, until that morning, his bookcase, computer desk, dresser, and bed had stood. He loved how his bed looked out into the backyard, where Dad would barbeque and the three of them would talk and laugh and eat burgers or chicken or salmon at the patio table on warm summer evenings.
Yesterday, Dad had said that, for him, the house had become a symbol for the marriage—something he and Mom had constantly worked at but never got right—and that he was glad to be rid of it. The comment saddened Alex. But, as he now understood, he had only known part of the story.
He turned off the bedroom light and walked about the house turning off the other lights, each time noting more places and the memories that went with them. Then he closed the front door behind him and walked back to his car.
Both Mom and Dad had said that he could spend the night with one of them. But he didn’t know if he wanted to. Not tonight. He thought for a moment. No, not tonight.
He opened the car trunk and pulled out his sleeping bag, pillow, and sleeping pad. Then he carried them into the house and into his room, and he laid them out where his bed had been—by the window that looked out at the backyard. As he lay down, he smelled chicken on the barbeque and heard three people laughing on a warm summer evening.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Brilliant Morning Light
by David Meuel
Lynn loved the mornings when she woke up at Roger’s. She loved the warmth of his body close—sometimes very close—to hers. And she loved the long columns of brilliant, direct light that poured in around the sides of Roger’s thick red curtains to announce the new day. After six years of sleeping alone in her room, where the first light of morning was always dim and gray, this was magnificent.
That May morning, Lynn also thought about how important this day was going to be. Her daughter Kimberly was flying in from Boston. She had just completed her junior year at Wellesley and was going to spend the summer with Lynn in San Jose. Finally, Kimberly and Roger were going to meet.
After Lynn’s husband died, Kimberly became the center of her life. And, as time passed, Lynn saw the two of them more as friends than as mother and daughter. Lynn told Kimberly nearly everything, so much more than she and her own mother ever shared. And she appreciated how open Kimberly was about her life, even about the boys she dated.
When Kimberly went away to college, Lynn became painfully lonely and thought about dating again herself. She hadn’t seriously looked at any man besides Kimberly’s father for twenty-five years, and the prospect seemed frightening. But she made the leap and went out with several men who, for one reason or another, just didn’t fit. Then, at a business luncheon four months ago, she was seated next to Roger. They chatted, exchanged cards, met for coffee, and after that everything flowed as easily as the light that streamed into his bedroom in the mornings.
Lynn was both excited and nervous when she introduced Kimberly and Roger at the airport that afternoon. They smiled and shook hands, but Lynn could tell immediately that they weren’t going to like each other.
As the days passed, the tensions grew. Kimberly thought Roger was too self-centered and simply not good enough for Lynn. Roger thought Kimberly was a snob and a “manipulative brat.” Soon, Kimberly objected to Lynn spending nights at Roger’s, and Roger criticized Lynn for being weak and letting Kimberly walk all over her. The more Lynn tried to please them both, the worse things got.
After two months, a sad, frustrated Roger broke up with Lynn. She still had Kimberly, but, after another month, Kimberly was back at Wellesley. Lynn’s house was empty again. And the warmth of Roger’s body and the brilliant light that once shined on them both were just things she remembered each morning, when she woke up alone in the dim, gray light of her room.
Lynn loved the mornings when she woke up at Roger’s. She loved the warmth of his body close—sometimes very close—to hers. And she loved the long columns of brilliant, direct light that poured in around the sides of Roger’s thick red curtains to announce the new day. After six years of sleeping alone in her room, where the first light of morning was always dim and gray, this was magnificent.
That May morning, Lynn also thought about how important this day was going to be. Her daughter Kimberly was flying in from Boston. She had just completed her junior year at Wellesley and was going to spend the summer with Lynn in San Jose. Finally, Kimberly and Roger were going to meet.
After Lynn’s husband died, Kimberly became the center of her life. And, as time passed, Lynn saw the two of them more as friends than as mother and daughter. Lynn told Kimberly nearly everything, so much more than she and her own mother ever shared. And she appreciated how open Kimberly was about her life, even about the boys she dated.
When Kimberly went away to college, Lynn became painfully lonely and thought about dating again herself. She hadn’t seriously looked at any man besides Kimberly’s father for twenty-five years, and the prospect seemed frightening. But she made the leap and went out with several men who, for one reason or another, just didn’t fit. Then, at a business luncheon four months ago, she was seated next to Roger. They chatted, exchanged cards, met for coffee, and after that everything flowed as easily as the light that streamed into his bedroom in the mornings.
Lynn was both excited and nervous when she introduced Kimberly and Roger at the airport that afternoon. They smiled and shook hands, but Lynn could tell immediately that they weren’t going to like each other.
As the days passed, the tensions grew. Kimberly thought Roger was too self-centered and simply not good enough for Lynn. Roger thought Kimberly was a snob and a “manipulative brat.” Soon, Kimberly objected to Lynn spending nights at Roger’s, and Roger criticized Lynn for being weak and letting Kimberly walk all over her. The more Lynn tried to please them both, the worse things got.
After two months, a sad, frustrated Roger broke up with Lynn. She still had Kimberly, but, after another month, Kimberly was back at Wellesley. Lynn’s house was empty again. And the warmth of Roger’s body and the brilliant light that once shined on them both were just things she remembered each morning, when she woke up alone in the dim, gray light of her room.
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