The Notebook

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Abstract

at kiss entered my veins and urged me to commit words to paper.The night was coming on, casting its dark shadows under the trees. I left Jenny inside with the dishes. I offered to clear dishes but was chased away. “I’ll join you when I’m done here, honey. The evening looks beautiful. It’s been the hottest day of the year so far. Sunset will be stunning.” I don’t know how many men turned seventy are kissed passionately by the woman they’ve been married to for twenty years and feel that rustling in one’s veins. Had I been given time to consider such a thing, I might have shied away from the prospect considering my age and the act of giving or receiving French kisses. Thankfully, I wasn’t given that time.After dishes, I saw Jenny walking toward the chicken coup, closing the small trapdoor by which the chickens got in and out. I put down my notebook. I walked toward her, clasping her in my arms, and rained on her a shower of kisses. She struggled, laughing all the time, as she was accustomed to doing in such circumstances. I collected her up into my arms, particularly courageous, bearing in mind the weakness of once hard muscle, and didn’t put her down until I entered the barn. The bales w

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ere warm, with the sun flooding in through the barn door most of the afternoon. The rest is history, as they say, promising Jenny no details of the next fifteen minutes would appear in print.I slept poorly that night. Toward morning I was still overcome by fatigue, unable to find a comfortable position for my aching back. I got up late. Jenny was in the kitchen, making pancakes. She was humming, smiling in a bewildered state, not knowing, I think, what kind of expression to put on. “Don’t you be referring to yourself as an old man again, do you hear?” Which was an odd thing to say, with me arriving at the breakfast table holding my back and bent over.I don’t know what fates brought me home to Jenny all those many years ago. I came to her a man half done, weighed upon with the eternal injustice of my implacable nature. It was all over for me. Jenny had this remarkable softness to deal with a hard nature without her ever having experienced that which sustains the given-up castaway’s need to live alone.So my notebook entry that evening was just this: Why does Jenny love everything so tenderly and so passionately, everything living, and then me?</article></body>

The French kiss

With dinner over, I went into the garden to jot down some notes in my notebook. I sat in the shade, under the pomegranate trees. It hadn’t been a great day. We had visitors, not friends, a couple looking for help with the gala and wondering whether we would be interested in lending a hand. Jenny has a hard time turning anyone away at the door. I dislike people at the best of times, at a gala, social event, or coming to the door unannounced. I left Jenny to navigate that discussion.

These recollections of the day, the strange discovery of an oil patch on the garage floor, the passionate and grotesque dislike for visitors, were dulled and paled into insignificance by a single act of love. It was mixed up with everything annoying. It was the tickling sensation of a kiss on my lips, and that kiss entered my veins and urged me to commit words to paper.

The night was coming on, casting its dark shadows under the trees. I left Jenny inside with the dishes. I offered to clear dishes but was chased away. “I’ll join you when I’m done here, honey. The evening looks beautiful. It’s been the hottest day of the year so far. Sunset will be stunning.” I don’t know how many men turned seventy are kissed passionately by the woman they’ve been married to for twenty years and feel that rustling in one’s veins. Had I been given time to consider such a thing, I might have shied away from the prospect considering my age and the act of giving or receiving French kisses. Thankfully, I wasn’t given that time.

After dishes, I saw Jenny walking toward the chicken coup, closing the small trapdoor by which the chickens got in and out. I put down my notebook. I walked toward her, clasping her in my arms, and rained on her a shower of kisses. She struggled, laughing all the time, as she was accustomed to doing in such circumstances. I collected her up into my arms, particularly courageous, bearing in mind the weakness of once hard muscle, and didn’t put her down until I entered the barn. The bales were warm, with the sun flooding in through the barn door most of the afternoon. The rest is history, as they say, promising Jenny no details of the next fifteen minutes would appear in print.

I slept poorly that night. Toward morning I was still overcome by fatigue, unable to find a comfortable position for my aching back. I got up late. Jenny was in the kitchen, making pancakes. She was humming, smiling in a bewildered state, not knowing, I think, what kind of expression to put on. “Don’t you be referring to yourself as an old man again, do you hear?” Which was an odd thing to say, with me arriving at the breakfast table holding my back and bent over.

I don’t know what fates brought me home to Jenny all those many years ago. I came to her a man half done, weighed upon with the eternal injustice of my implacable nature. It was all over for me. Jenny had this remarkable softness to deal with a hard nature without her ever having experienced that which sustains the given-up castaway’s need to live alone.

So my notebook entry that evening was just this: Why does Jenny love everything so tenderly and so passionately, everything living, and then me?