Johanna M. Bolton
Author    Artist    Musician    Teacher

This essay and some others are being collected into a book of tales from
Indigo Farm, the (more or less) horse farm where I live in Florida.

Truth, like everything else, is relative ... more or less.   In fact, I doubt there are very many absolutes, although there may be a few universal truths.  Everyone agrees about death and, knowing the IRS, taxes.  And there’s nothing we can do about something like a tornado or the persistence of water carving a Grand Canyon.   I once saw a corn plant three feet tall growing wedged in a tiny crack against a light pole in the middle of a huge WalMart parking lot.  That was a miracle if I ever saw one!   So I think we can consider the persistence of Nature as an absolute, and for that, I am grateful.  Well, sometimes I’m inconvenienced, but I always try to take what She hands out with good humor and understanding.  For example, the case of the staghorn fern and two little wrens.  

I read that the Carolina Wren prefers to nest in natural cavities ... this after I paid good money for a handsome birdhouse which they ignore.   I do admire these wrens.  They are an attractive bird, and they eat bugs.  I enjoy sitting in my gazebo, watching them snap up insects from my potted plants.  Wrens should be a welcome addition where ever they go.  However, sometimes I’m a very slow learner, and my current family of wrens had a hard time teaching me even the most basic facts.  ...l ike that birdhouse fiasco.

The staghorn fern is a plant I admire not only because of its magnificent foliage, but because of its sheer tenacity.  I’ve had one plant for 5 or 6  years, and it lives completely on its own in a hanging basket under the chinaberry trees.  It has survived drought, freezing cold, blistering heat, dry winters, humid summers, and torrential Florida rains.  It has lived through three hurricanes. This fern’s ability to take a beating and come back again and again began to make me feel guilty.  I mean, if I tendered even a little love and care, just think how magnificent the plant would be.

So, I decided to take a more active role in its cultivation.  I moved it over by the faucet that supplied the barn.  There I might remember to give it some water and even food on occasion.  But then, one of the horses -- I suspect Junior -- dragged the fern over the fence, and proceeded to eat every bit of green.  Our horses are well fed.  They have ample hay, quality grain, and pasture, but maybe Junior just wanted some variety in his diet.  I don’t know.  What ever his reasons, the fern was the one that suffered.  Poor fern!  I moved it again, this time to a shady place under the second story porch.  Here away from horses, it rested and recovered.  I watered it, gave it a sprinkle of fertilizer, and the fern, Old Faithful, started to grow back.

Then came winter.  Florida winters are mild – warm, mostly sunny days.  However, we do now and then have a freeze.  One night when the forecast was for frost, I went out in the dark and started bringing plants into the kitchen.  Last was the staghorn fern.  I took it down from its hook and brought it inside, my mind mulling over where to hang it or should I perhaps just set it on the floor until morning?  But as soon as I entered the brightly lit house, the fern in my arms exploded, birds flying every where!  It seemed like an entire flock, but there were only two little wrens.  Apparently they’d been using a hollow in the fern’s basket as a nest.

I set the fern down, and herded the panicked birds back outside.  One sat on the deck, yelling at me, but the other huddled on the ground as if stunned.  This was not good.  So the fern went back outside to endure yet another cold night.  I left the porch light on, hoping the birds would find their way back to their nest.  I learned later that they did.  So the fern had to survive subsequent frosts, but I hope it was warmed just a little by its toasty feathered tenants.

During my winter break from teaching school,  I decided to build a greenhouse on the south side of the house.  In time, I moved in my orchids and a collection of other exotics.  I moved the staghorn fern, too, and apparently the wrens as well, for I caught them going to roost one evening as I was bringing in some outdoor plants.  When I finished enclosing the greenhouse in plastic, I left an opening wondering if they would find it.  They did.  My estimation of their intelligence went way up.

So now we have a compromise.  I restrain myself from repotting the fern, because if I did it would destroy the cozy nest under the plant.  The wrens continue to live there, although they do have to endure a damp home now and then when I give the fern a good watering.  So far, the plant doesn’t seem to mind its roommates in the hanging basket.  This being the case, I suppose I’m not going to worry about them either.  It wouldn’t do any good, since there’s apparently nothing I can do about it.   And I do get some benefits from this arrangement too; my greenhouse has a couple of excellent live-in pest control experts.

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The Sweetest of All

by Johanna M. Bolton

     I never doubted my husband loved me, and especially not now as he sat across the table, holding my hands tenderly in both of his.  Candlelight glittered off my diamond ring and the gold band behind it worn thin by years.  A hushed murmur of restaurant conversation faded into the background, muted by the private booths. Somewhere soft music created a mood of romance.  My husband grinned at me, a silly grin that still melted my heart.

“You know I love you,” he was saying.  “I’ll never love another woman as much.”  He took his eyes from mine and focused on the diamond ring instead, a full carat stone he had given me two years ago on our anniversary.  “This is so hard,” he murmured.

What a curious thing to say.  I could feel a frown wrinkle my forehead, but I waited patiently.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he continued and I knew that tone.  This was something serious.

The warmth inside me faded replaced by a small coil of dread.  Oh my God, what now? I thought to myself.  He’s dying?  We’re bankrupt?  Something happened to one of the kids?  “What?” I demanded.  “What is it?”

He drew a deep breath and plunged.  “Judith, I want a divorce.”

My mouth dropped open.  If I expected anything it wasn’t this.  I forced myself to speak softly. “A divorce?  You want a divorce?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly.

I yanked my hands from his and sat back in the booth, my wonderful dinner now a sickening lump in my stomach.

“But before you get mad, please listen to me,” he begged speaking faster.

“Why should I listen,” I hissed.  “I think I’ve heard enough.”  I threw my napkin on the table, grabbed my purse, and scooted to the end of the bench.

“Judith.  No, wait!’ Kyle said quickly as I rose to my feet on the uncomfortable, but sexy open-toed slingbacks I had bought just for this night.  Despite myself, I hesitated and he pressed on.  “Judith, I’m gay.”

This second bombshell knocked the air from my lungs and I dropped back onto the padded bench, trying to breathe despite the shock.

“I’m gay,” he repeated.  “And I’ve been seeing another ... well, I mean, I've been seeing a man.”

I was speechless.  My husband, the father of my children, the man who slept beside me every night for the past 21 years, was just now telling me he’s a homosexual?  I could only stare at him, my mind full of disjointed thoughts.

“Oh, God, Judith, don’t condemn me,” he wailed softly, and a tear actually appeared, threading it’s way down his cheek.  “I need your help and understanding.”

I dug a Kleenex from my purse and silently handed it across the table, the automatic response of a mother.

  “I fought it for years, but I can’t fight anymore.  I know this isn’t fair to you, but Judy, you’ll find someone else,” he added, his voice throbbing with sincerity.  “I know it.  You’re too wonderful and you deserve much more then I can give.  You don’t need to be tied for the rest of your life to an aging fairy.”

When I didn’t say anything he continued.  “I didn’t want to tell you before.  I forced myself to wait until the kids were in college.”  He looked at me, gauging my reaction.  “Judy, say something,” he begged.

What could I say?  My husband was gay.   “This ... this other man.  How long has it been going on?”

“A year and a half,” he sighed.

A year and a half of little or no sex ... for me, that is.  A year and a half of working late, the weekend business trips, the phone calls...  Now it all started making sense.  “And you love him?” I asked, keeping calm when all I wanted to do was scream.

“Yes,” he replied in a small trembling voice.  “I love him very much.  I want to be with him.”

My world was in pieces, shattered all around me.  “So what happens now?” I had to know.

 “You don’t have to worry about anything.  I’ve started the paperwork.  They’ll let you know when the divorce is final.  All you have to do is sign this.”  He pulled a document from inside his suit jacket and set it in front of me on the damask tablecloth.

I stared stupidly at the words for a moment before fumbling a pair of reading glasses from my purse.

Divorce, I read.  And the grounds were incompatibility.  Well, that was certainly right.  And Kyle had it all so well planned.  How like him, I thought sarcastically.  I sighed.  What should I do?  Get a lawyer?  Fight?  Fight what?  The man was gay and I certainly didn’t need that complication in my life.  No, Kyle was right.  It would be best to get it over with as quickly and easily as possible.

I picked up the pen and signed.

“I made sure you’re provided for,” he was saying.  “You get the house and all the money from the savings.”

“Our savings?”

“And the minivan.  That’s always been yours, anyway.  My car, though...”

Oh, yes.  The car.  That damned car!  The testosterone machine, I called it.  He bought it about a year ago as part of some midlife crisis.  “It’s still in the shop.”

“I think we ought to sell it,” Kyle was saying.  “It will bring a good price, and we can split the money.”

Generous to the last, I thought bitterly.  That damned car!

“But since I’m leaving in the morning, could you take care of it for me?  You can send me half the money.”

I finally focused on what he was saying.  “What do you mean, you’re leaving in the morning?”

“Pat’s family has a business in San Diego.  We’re going to run it for them.”

Pat.  His name is Patrick, I thought irrationally.  He’s Irish?  “San Diego?” I spoke out loud.  “That’s clear across the continent.”

“I know.  But this way you won’t have to answer awkward questions about Pat and me.”

“When are you moving?”

“I’ve already packed.  We’re leaving in the morning.”

I gasped.  “So soon?”

“I thought it would be best,” he explained. “A fast clean break.”

“Kyle, you’re just walking out of my life?  After 21 years?  Just like that?”

“Oh, God, Judith!  Do you know how hard this is for me!  I’m so torn.  Part of me really wants to stay with you.  All I can think of is the good life we had together.  Our family.  But I can’t.  I just can’t!”  Tears came and I fished out another Kleenex.

”All right.  I see your point,” I soothed, playing along.  “A clean break.  You’re right.”

“I’ll drive you home,” he told me, solicitous to the last.

“No.  I want to be alone.  I’ll drive myself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

 He looked into my eyes and a tremulous smile stretched his lips.  “I love you, Judith.  I love you so very much.  You know that don’t you?”

* * *

I drove home in a daze.  I would have to get used to being alone again, but maybe some good could come from it.   I was still relatively young ... I mean, 41 wasn’t so old. I had a lot of life a head of me.  And I had my health.  And my figure.  I really wasn’t that bad looking for an old broad who’d had two kids.  Now I could do some of the things I wanted to do, like go back to college myself.  Maybe start writing again.

I eased the van into the garage and turned off the engine.  Spike started barking in the house. I should go and let him out.  I sighed.  I was glad he left me the dog.

The dog...  That thought finally broke me.  I put my head down on the steering wheel and started crying.  My heart was broken.

Kyle! Kyle, my love, I wept.

You bastard! How could you do this to me? I gave you twenty-one years! I gave you two wonderful children! I cleaned your house, washed your underwear. I cooked. I even went to all those boring office parties.

Anger and pain expressed themselves as the tears flowed.  And finally slowed.  I dug out the last Kleenex, wiped my face and blew my nose. All right, Judith, it’s just another disaster.  Get over it.

Right.

I climbed stiffly from the van, looking at the empty place in the garage where Kyle’s car usually sat.  That damned car!  And it was just like him to leave it to me to sell it.  I started thinking how I could word the ad as I climbed the steps and unlocked the door to the house.  Spike greeted me with a wagging tail and then dashed out into the dark backyard.

I wandered through the downstairs feeling sorry for myself, sniffing, my nose still running from the tears.  I paused at the door to Kyle’s home office and then switched on the light.  I rarely came in here and so I didn’t realize he’d been moving things.  The room had an abandoned feel.  Echoing.  However, the computer was still there.  The screen was dark, but when I touched the mouse, it lit showing one of those annoying message boxes superimposed over a program.  Kyle had been in the middle of something when the computer locked up.

I dropped into the chair and looked more closely at the screen.  Kyle had been reformatting the harddrive, I realized.  Why would he want to do that, I wondered?  Hummm ... maybe he was hiding something?  I never used the home computer since I had one at work, but I had a sudden strong urge to see what Kyle had been up to. My fingers found the keys that would abort the reformatting.

There was no sound for a while except a clicking keyboard.  Kyle’s online password was stored, a convenience for him and now for me.  All his emails were filed ... love letters from Pat and Kyle’s replies.

I gasped when I opened the first one and saw what it contained.  I made myself read them all, becoming more and more angry as a story of deception and lies unfolded through the emails.  Pat and Kyle had planned this whole thing, and there was nothing the “old bitch" as they called me, could do about it now.  Or was there?  I hunted further and found something really interesting.

Kyle had said I could have the entire savings account.  According to online banking, however, our joint savings had been a lot more than a paltry twenty-two thousand dollars.

I sat back in the chair, tapping my fingernail against my teeth. Should I do it?  Why not, another part of my mind argued?  Until the papers were filed in the morning, I was still Kyle’s wife.  I had all the right in the world to do it.  And, he had said I could have all the savings.

I love online banking.  So convenient!  I felt myself smiling as I transferred the more than two hundred thousand dollars he had just removed back into the savings account. That would definitely pay my college tuition!

It was well after midnight when I finally shut the computer down, mentally grateful for Microsoft’s irritating habit of locking up programs without warning.  If the reformatting had continued, I would never have learned the truth.

I let Spike back in before pouring myself a glass of Chablis.  As I stood in the kitchen ... my kitchen, I took a deep breath.  I had faced disaster and come out on top.  I was a new woman.  A free woman.  I smiled and took a drink of wine and went peacefully to bed.

Behind me the computer monitor shone in the dark study.  On the screen was the ad I had so carefully written.  Too bad Kyle would never see it, although maybe I’d better send him -- and Patricia -- a copy along with their half of the money.

Divorce Forces Sale: 2002 metallic Carmon Red Porsche 911 GT2 (6 cylinders), black leather, bucket seats, power everything, keyless entry, anti-lock brakes, custom wheels, new Michelin tires, CD/AM/FM, air, like new, just back from scheduled maintenance; $1.00. 813-453-2000.

The End

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On Being 60

by Johanna M. Bolton  

Lately, when I look, there is a face in the mirror that I do not know, and frankly, it disturbs me.  She is old, a reminder of my mortality, she is no longer pretty, and I really don’t know what to do with her. Heaven knows, it’s impossible to dress her since most clothing is designed to show off the physical attributes of a much younger woman.  What I wear can only be considered camouflage for a body that is reacting to gravity and the effects of cellular deterioration.  I wear loose baggy clothing with no pretension to fashion, made from soft durable fabrics, and, above all, comfortable shoes. I don’t think there is a particular style of clothing suitable for the older woman except some really ugly Jersey knit things from Wal-Mart, covered with tiny purple flowers.  Heaven preserve me from tiny purple flowers! And there is nothing more ridiculous that an aging woman dressing in an outfit more suitable for someone of eighteen.  So what to do?

I’m stuck with this old woman.  She is me, and I have to learn to appreciate her since we are one and the same.  And so, on being reminded by an male acquaintance that Crone-hood is the next step in the feminine trilogy, I have decided to embrace the Crone.

But how does our society view the Crone?  Well, there is some ambivalence, and in a culture that worships youth and beauty (along with money and power – all unworthy of any sane intellectual being) there are few positive aspects of the old woman.  For example, see how they are treated in public.  I have been overlooked as if I were invisible numerous times, the excuse being, “oh, I thought you were with so and so,” as if I would not be out in the world unaccompanied.  Then there is nothing more irritating then going to a doctor’s office and being addressed by some squeaky-voiced, grinning young fluff-headed assistant as “dearie.”  I am not her dearie.  I am not her sweet old maiden aunt, granny, or even remote acquaintance.  We have, other then a brief encounter of the professional kind, nothing at all in common.  So why is this bimbette calling me by a familiar endearment?

To many short-sighted youngsters, old people are considered cute.  They have no other reference for them.  Old men, I’m sure like to be flirted with by attractive young females, but no one really knows what to do about an old woman.  Face it, we live in a culture where an old man is Santa Claus, and an old woman is the wicked stepmother or the wicked witch.  It’s all a part of a long tradition (well documented by other writers) of reinforcing a female’s social (subservient) position with story, fairy tale, and fable. In western tradition ...  the traditional Western male point of view, that is, woman is a lesser being, the instrument of original sin, a possession, and as bearer of seed, to be protected and controlled in order to maintain his genetic purity.

In fact, women appear in three aspects; Maiden, Woman, and Crone.  The Maiden, sometimes called the virgin, is young, unspoiled, attractive to the male, and useful as a plaything.  The Woman, aka Seductress, Temptress, or Mother, another story altogether.  The female most dangerous in this stage because it is the time of her greatest power as a creator.   She is definitely attractive and useful to the male as a potential breeder, and this is not the place to discuss the complex dance of courtship, mating, and nesting that occurs during this time.  Our interest is on the last stage, the Crone.  She is the most terrifying aspect of woman and one to be feared as the afore mentioned wicked witch, stepmother, or mother-in-law.  She is beyond the play of the Maiden and past the age of seduction.  She has been there, done that, and her job now is to tech the maiden and support the seductress.

Grandmother is probably the most socially acceptable role for an old woman, but Granny is at best a purveyor of comfort food and other indulgences.  And she is a family member having proved herself by producing children.  An aged, single, non-breeding female, however, carries a stigma.  The implication is that there has got to be something wrong with her since she has not fulfilled her traditional social function.

Of course, a more enlightened feminine point of view sees all this quite differently.  There are some modern attempts to make the old woman socially palatable, the result, I believe, of more and more woman (and men) who grew up with the Feminist Movement.  The Red Hat Brigade is one such attempt to present an aged woman with a positive identity.  Another is Maxine.  Bless Maxine, a version of Crone hood that can be appreciated (and winced at) by both genders.  She speaks the truth unadorned by any vestiges of political correctness.  She’s tough, uncompromising, and accepting of herself – everything a Crone should be. Maxine dresses comfortably, and, other then a cup, is accompanied only by a funny-looking dog who always seems taken aback by her forthrightness.  If she has a husband, he wisely stays out of the picture.  Maxine is the voice of the Crone.  She is my hero.

Another favorite of mine is The Old Woman’s Sewing Circle and Terrorist Society, and I had a bumper sticker identifying myself as a charter member, until terrorism became a political rallying cry and terribly incorrect.  The bumper sticker should have read Anarchist Society anyway.  Terrorism is mindless testosterone-driven behavior, nothing that would appeal to a self-respecting Crone.  On the other hand, anarchy ... well, that’s right up her alley!

All of this establishes the fact that an old woman is not a cute dearie, and not necessarily something soft and harmless.  Face it, all of these labels are essentially putdowns.  No, a Crone is a force to be respected, and maybe the original writers who described her as something to be feared were right.  So, okay, I’ll accept myself and acknowledge my Crone hood.  This will be an adventure for me as I learn, and search for her identity.  She is formidable, something I appreciate having all my life been first and foremost a functional human being.  This is another step in my evolution, not to be feared (which is a waste of time), but something else to be celebrated.  So, let’s hear it for the Crone!

  2/19/07

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A Photograph of Marjorie

The old photograph has faded to sepia, the deckled edges slightly warped, but you can still see a young woman squinting in the sun as she posed with her two small children.  Just 25 years old, Marjorie was on the tall side of short, slender, with shapely legs in sleek silk stockings.  She wore high-heeled shoes. She always wore high-heeled shoes because she was a married woman.  Her grandmother saw to that.  She once told me about the day she started out to the store wearing comfortable oxfords, and Oma had come running after her, almost dragging her home to change.

“No decent married woman leaves the house unless she’s properly dressed,” her grandmother insisted, “and that means stockings and high-heeled shoes.”  And her word was law.

Good manners were an important part of life.  You cared what the neighbors thought, and so everyone did what was right and proper.  Right and proper, for a married woman, was high-heeled shoes.

In the photograph Marjorie’s dress is a cool white, printed with a bold design of bamboo leaves.  Around her neck is a single strand of pearls, and her hands are properly sheathed in white gloves.  Under a flat-brimmed hat, her brown hair curls over her ears. She wore it long back then, down to her shoulders.  You could just see a pair of white clip-on earrings peeking through her hair.  Powder and red lipstick was all the makeup she put on.

Dressed for traveling, Marjorie held her chubby two-year-old baby girl, and smiled for the camera.  You could imagine her mind already someplace else ... another continent far away at the end of her journey.  Her oldest child stood leaning against her side, white socks wrinkled around thin ankles, a bow in her long hair.  The children had no idea what was about to happen.  Click.  Preserved for all time in a black Kodak box.

In Marjorie’s own words: “July 17, 1948 we left for Seattle, Washington, the first part of our journey overseas to join Daddy.”

            Two children in tow, one barely a toddler, the other a skinny five-year old, Marjorie also herded four heavy suitcases and a portable radio -- portable only because there was a handle on the top – and prepared to say goodbye to her family and the only life she had ever known.  It was a stable family, full of comfort and love, everyone living together in a huge old house on a residential street shaded by tall trees, a neighborhood where other stable families had lived for generations.   Everyone knew everyone else.  Every morning gossip flowed with fragrant coffee in spotless kitchens, as the women went about the business of minding everyone else’s business. This was the way of the world, security in tradition, tradition maintained by the women. No one would dare go against them and their coffee klatch cabal, no matter what the temptation.

Years later, Marjorie would tell about some bad girls from down the street.  They had boyfriends and rode on motorcycles. They provided weeks worth of speculation and comment over coffee.   She added that they both wore belts with their names spelled out in silver studs.  There was a certain wistfulness in her voice when she told me this, and I was never sure if she coveted the motorcycles or a wide black leather belt with her name in silver studs.

However, there would be no motorcycles for Marjorie.  Life was a kind of continuum in that neighborhood.  No one moved away unless they got married, and then they bought a house nearby.  Marjorie was one of the first to break with tradition, but she did it in a way that was still acceptable.  She married a soldier, someone approved by her family, and through the years she would move her household many times, as she followed him all over the world.  That was right and proper.

            The photograph was a memento of her first trip out of the country.  She was going to Japan.  Subway and buses usually provided all the transportation the family needed, but all those big suitcases meant bringing out the car, a treasured Chrysler that spent most of it’s life in a snug garage.  The whole family piled inside to see Marjorie and the girls off on the train; grandparents, parents, sister and brother.  It was a long solemn drive from Springfield to Grand Central Station.  No body talked much except for some low voiced reminders.  Her father warned her again to be careful.  “And remember to write.”  To “take good care of the girls.”  It was a long way to Tokyo, and no one in the family had ever been out of the country.  Japan was one of “those far away places with strange sounding names” the crooners sang about on the radio.  We had just finished a war with Japan.  “Be careful,” her mother warned her yet again.

            Grand Central Station was crowded, soldiers everywhere.  Even though the war had ended, military personnel were still being shifted here, there, and home again.  Uniforms outnumbered civilian travelers.  The station was huge, the ceiling so high it was hard to see. And it was loud, echoing, people calling, talking, machines protesting, loudspeakers distorting an enormous metallic voice announcing departures and arrivals.  Sounds crowded the air just as all those fast moving bodies crowded the space, too many of them to distinguish any details, just movement and noise.   The air smelled strange, too, scented with lubricants and other things, tart, alien.  The family crowded together, afraid to lose each other, bewildered children held tightly.   A shrill whistle sounded and steam blew up between the concrete platform and the train.

“All aboard!” a loud voice hollered.

The luggage disappeared into the baggage car, the children and their mother left the clinging hands of family, and climbed metal steps into a passenger car with rows of stiff mohair seats. The family stood outside the window, anxious faces, a few tears.  And again the whistle tooted, and more steam hissed.

Porters moved with dispatch, hustling last passengers into cars.  Doors banged shut, and the train shook and shuddered, wheels squealing against iron rails as the long machine jerked, trembled, and then started moving, slowly huffing its way down the tracks. Tick, tack, tick tack, ticktack ... coming faster and faster as the train gathered speed.

Marjory wrote in her diary: “We sailed from Seattle on July 23^rd on the United States Army Transport, the F.W. Ainsworth, and arrived in Tokyo, Japan on August 4^th.   Leonard was there on the pier to meet us.  He had grown a mustache.”  But the mustache didn’t last very long at all.

Back in the United States, the photograph lay snug in the camera, a memory for the family, for the future.  That was the day Marjorie took her two children and set off on their first great adventure.  She had finally escaped the security of life in Springfield, but it wasn’t until she was safely in Japan that she dared to wear her flat-soled shoes. 

January 7, 2003

Judy, & Marjorie (in her flat-soled shoes) in Japan 1949.