Patience

Erma Hattendorf didn't have any patience for impatient people. She was born in a time when things moved a little more slowly. In her day, people traveled by train, a majestic steam locomotive pulling them across the American countryside to their eventual destination. People dined, slept, played cards with new friends. The journey was half of the adventure. Now people flew everywhere. Where was the romance in looking at a countryside from outer space passing by at six hundred miles per hour?

In Erma's time, men kept a watch in their pocket. No one had a phone there, let alone a device where you could check the weather and news, send messages to people all over the world, take a photograph and share it, store and listen to music. She wondered vaguely what happened to newspapers, letters with postage stamps, waiting a week to get your photographs back from the drug store and phonograph records. She missed the warm, rhythmic imperfections of the phonograph.

She wondered more directly why everyone was in such a hurry. Erma always thought life passed at the pace one kept. Those who ran it like a race, would finish it quickly and be very tired. She'd opted for the more leisurely pace wanting to meet her maker not only having savored every moment of the life He'd given, but well rested so she could greet Him with the proper reverence and exuberance such an event certainly deserved.

It was good that Erma was patient. Since the hip surgery a few years back, she was able to get around still, but only with the help of a walker. Even this was newfangled, a wheeled device with a basket, place to sit, a hand brake and a cup holder. She wondered why everyone had to have a bottle of water with them everywhere they went. Aside from a canteen while hiking, no one carried around water when she was young. To the best of her memory (which was admittedly fuzzy at times) she couldn't remember anyone dying from thirst in downtown Terre Haute.

Terre Haute! Now that was a memory from a far away place a long time ago. Erma wondered if even there people moved so much faster these days. She preferred to remember the saintly patience of Terre Haute in 1939. She remembered block parties and neighbors who helped each other out like family. No one seemed to even know their neighbor's names anymore.

Erma watched the eight lanes of traffic in front of her flooded with cars clearly disregarding the 45 mile per hour speed limit. This was the part of her biweekly trip to the grocer which always proved most frightening. She was certain it was only a matter of time before someone too busy to stop at a traffic light would run her down in their shiny, fast-moving automobile. If that was how Jesus was going to call her home, she could live with it. A slight smile crossed her lips as she realized the irony of the thought--living with the way she might die. Well, it was only ironic to those who thought that dying was the end instead of the start, but still amusing.

Oh, there would be some sadness when she left this world. She didn't really want to leave Glenda, Dorothy and Arlene behind. They'd all joked about how hard it would be to find a fourth bridge player their age when one of them made the journey home. None of them wanted to have to resort to playing 500 Rummy. She knew they'd miss her. At least she hoped they would.

Her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren? They might believe they missed her for a little while. But they were too busy to visit, so how bad could it be? Even as they closed on retirement themselves, both of her sons worked so many hours they were rarely home to get to know their children. It didn't matter, the great grandkids had schedules so jam packed with school, sports and other activities, they probably wouldn't have been there if their fathers stopped by anyway. They'd be fine. There was no place for a slow old lady in their world. Eventually they'd forget about her as they had forgotten about playing outside, eight hour work days, Sunday church or sitting down for the evening meal.

The cars finally crawled to a stop and the walk sign started flashing, a little, green symbol of a man telling her it was safe. Erma wasn't so certain. She waited until each lane had stopped before pushing her wheeled walker off the curb. Oh how she ached today! The eight lanes might as well have been the Sahara desert at the rate she was moving. The cup holder would come in handy there, she mused. She'd cleared the first three lanes and was moving into the turn lanes when the orange hand started flashing. She'd have to stop halfway across and wait.

In the final turn lane, the man in the German sedan looked impatient and distracted. He was furiously typing something into his phone. Worried he might pull ahead when the light changed leaving her stranded in traffic, Erma willed herself forward as quickly as her old legs would allow. She was right in front of his car when the hand stopped flashing. In an instant he'd have a green arrow. It had been a long time since she'd felt anything like a surge of adrenaline so she didn't expect one now. But when his horn blared the instant the light changed, she felt a surprising burst of anger and energy.

She stopped at the edge of his front bumper, thinking momentarily she would simply wave a fist at him. Another thought came. She pointed to the front of his expensive looking car, doing her best to feign surprise. Erma yelled, "Oh my! Fire. Your car is on fire! I see smoke."

The man rolled his window down and yelled, "Come on! Move it lady!"

"Your car, it's on fire! I see smoke from under the hood."

A clear look of panic replaced the impatience on the man's face. He popped the hood and practically flew out of the driver's door, his expensive suit fluttering in the hot breeze. Let him feel the wrath of the twelve drivers waiting in line behind him. He should know what it's like if only to make him more sensitive. Already the cacophony of horns had begun in the lane behind him. Welcome to the world where everyone moves faster than the speed of sensitivity, she thought. She'd expected him to run to the hood, instead he ran to the back of his car.

Erma was about to move to the safety of the highway divider to wait for the next cycle of the lights. But instead she watched as this impatient, self-important man ran from the back of his car with a small fire extinguisher. It was the quickest she'd moved in a month, but she left her walker behind and made it to the open door of his car as he fumbled with the hood latch. As soon as he had his head under the hood, she laid on the horn.

A moment later as the man stood cursing and holding the spot where his head hit the hood, a police car stopped on the other side of the intersection. Lights on, the officer stepped out of the cruiser. "Ma'am, are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I'm just too slow to make it across a street this wide these days."

"May I help you?" The officer said, offering his arm in a manner she hand't seen for forty years. It reminded her of her late husband, a gentleman to the end. She took the arm of the young policeman and allowed him to help her across the street. They moved as slowly as a sailing yacht on a smooth sea.

"Oh, my walker . . ."

"I'll bring it for you once you're safely across, ma'am."

"Thank you young man."

"My pleasure ma'am." he replied before turning back to the man in the expensive foreign sedan. "Sir, you need to move your car out of traffic. If you're still there when I'm done, I will write you a summons."

Erma smiled. She'd have one heckuva story for bridge tonight.

The Complaint

Many years ago, I was working as the manager of a fine dining establishment known as Hardee's. We had a loyal clientele, some of whom would wait at the door before we opened to procure biscuits and gravy in a Styrofoam container or a bottomless cup of coffee for a nickle. I know what you're thinking, but that doesn't actually make me a hundred years old, our coffee was just really cheap and worth every penny of the five cents we charged (if only because the cup in came in was worth at least 4 cents).

Our regulars consisted primarily of retirees who would sit talking about the Great War and once in a while scare us into thinking they'd had a heart attack. We were afraid not only because we didn't want them to die, but because we knew that our contribution to their diet was certain to play major factor in any ventricular blockages and the resulting cardiovascular failure they might cause. Aside from the elderly, we had a rather large contingent of homeless and mentally ill people. You've probably pieced together that forward thinking people would not spent significant time eating in this sort of place. Yes, they did come in from time to time, but did not form the staple of our regular visitors.

One day, well after the lunch rush while perhaps a half a dozen people were dining leisurely, I was summoned to the front of the store. I inquired what could be so important as to interrupt my paperwork (and more importantly take me from my relaxing seat in the office). The kid sent to retrieve me simply shrugged and told me, “Some guy, he said he'd only talk to you.”

I headed to the front lobby where a large, green army jacket garbed man with a clean cut beard and serious blue eyes waited. He looked the age to have been a Vietnam veteran, so I wondered if those serious blue eyes were contemplating the murder of the man who perhaps he believed tried to poison him with food wrapped in paper served up with a slice of processed cheese.

Perhaps this rather irrational fear of mine was loosely linked to another customer who'd developed two interesting phobias when he'd been a POW in World War II. One phobia was mops. He would cower in the entryway when a mop appeared, entering the store only when the floor was completely dry. More frightening, and relevant, was his fear of cheese. If ever he received a Cheeseburger, he would return to the counter, ranting maniacally about how he hadn't eaten a slice of cheese since 1942 and demand someone remove the offending tray, sanitize the area within twenty square feet (without using a mop) then replace his burger with a cheese free one.

So this in mind, I asked the man, “What can I help you with?” I was, of course, hoping that he didn't read between the lines and realize that I was really begging, “Please don't pull out your KA-BAR tactical combat knife and stab me in the neck because we put cheese on your sandwich by mistake.”

He took me by the shoulder, not in a gruff fashion suggesting a disgruntled killer angered over misplaced dairy products, but that of a friend. I didn't realize that he was about to address one of the great debates of our society or that he'd momentarily let me know without a doubt on what side of this volatile debate he firmly stood. Nor until that moment, did I realize that a restaurant could reside in the center of this debate.

He pulled me close and whispered, “Sorry for making you come up here. I don't want to embarrass any of your employees. But there's something going on that I'm pretty sure you'd want to know about. I know if it were my restaurant I would want to know.”

He smelled of laundry detergent and was well groomed. He clearly wasn't homeless. I nodded, feeling less fear for my life. “Sure, I always appreciate any input from customers.”

“I was just in the restroom. There's a pretty big problem there.”

We'd had issues with the toilet in the past. I wondered if it was backing up again.

He finished, “Your toilet paper rolls are on the wrong way.”

The Dare

Dexter and Clifford dared me. So yeah, of course I did it. They thought the fact that it nearly killed me was hilarious. Now that time has passed and I’m still alive I guess maybe they had a point. At the time, I didn’t think the two of them panting, laughing and telling me, “You should have seen the look on your face!” was at all amusing.
It all started one hot summer’s day. We were sitting in our normal place, in the huge cottonwood tree in the east side of the yard. At the base of our leafy perch sat two large milk, copper and cream colored beasts of the canine variety. Though in general, I don’t believe dogs to be very smart, the brown-eyed one had a vaguely intelligent look as he peered upward. I call him Einstein. The other, with her frightening, witch-blue eyes, was as quick as a hummingbird on a sugar rush.

They waited there most the day, most of every day. Apparently the mutts were hoping one of us might fall out. As if! We found uproariously good sport in tiptoeing along the perimeter of their yard atop the wooden fence. This torture eventually lost its luster. The dregs of summer, the heat, the boredom, these things all collide at times creating the perfect situation for making bad decisions. It started as a joke. When Clifford complained of the heat, Dexter, suggested, “We should go for a swim in their bowl.”
“The dog bowl?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Suicide. It’s suicide!” Clifford droned.
Dex resorted to name calling, “Coward!”
“He’s not a coward. Their water dish is on the deck. Getting there might be possible, but with two dogs in the yard, I’d have to say Dex is right for once. If they covered both stairs, they could cut off any escape.”
“Not the railing.”
“Suicide, you fool!”
“Shut up Clifford. You said they’d catch us on top of the fence too!”
Clifford just stared at Dex, his lips and nose twitching slightly. His dark eyes looked as if they might well up for a moment.
“He’s right, Dexter. The fence is what . . . six feet high. That railing on the deck is only about half that. They’re big enough to pluck us off there without trying.”
“Yeah, it would be suicide!”
“Shut it Cliff.” This time it was me telling him to be quiet. Cliff was the last one to join us running the fence. Everything was too dangerous in his eyes. He’d just stay in the tree and let someone deliver his meals if it were possible. Of course we weren’t about to pamper him and aside birds feeding their young, I’ve never heard of treetop food delivery services. “You know once you ran the fence with us it was fun.”
“This isn’t the fence.”
“What if there were only one dog?” Dex asked.
“I think it could be done with just one of them in the yard.”
Dex is capable of a smile so evil it sometimes made me shiver. Of course this was what he displayed before telling me, “Then I dare you.”
“No way!”
“Just a drink then.”
“Seriously?”
“Me too!” added Cliff. He was mad at me for not taking his side even though he was right. Cliff is awful touchy for someone who complains so much.
“You think I won’t?”
Dex still had the evil grin, “I hope you will actually.”
I looked at Cliff, but he wasn’t letting me off the hook. He bobbed his head at me. “Dare ya!”
“Fine.” I heard myself replying.
If Cliff was a coward and Dexter was a few nuts short of a bushel, I guess I’m just too stubborn for my own good. The challenge had been laid down. I promptly took a nap.
I awoke to Dexter jumping on me and chattering. “It’s time. The brown eyed one went inside and the other one is taking a nap.”
I stretched and yawned before checking out the situation. Indeed the witch dog was curled up at the base of our tree, snoozing in the heat. I wasn’t entirely confident in Dex’s scouting report. It would have been just like him to tell me the coast was clear when they’d actually added another dog to the mix. For all I knew, Einstein was on the other side of the house entertaining the hyperactive ball of creamy fluff that sometimes visited.
“You really gonna do it?” Clifford asked, his tail flicking nervously. “Seems dangerous.”
“Not suicidal?”
“A little suicidal.”
“Go on.” Dex urged.
“I’m going. I’m going.”
I descended the tree with as much stealth as possible. I made it to the top of the fence without waking the sleeping dog. My plan was to survey the yard before I made my mad run for the water dish. I didn’t want any surprises. A magpie eyed me suspiciously from atop one of the Russian Olive trees as I scampered past. I never trusted magpies, so I hurried along. I passed the ceramic sculpture of a smiling sun hanging on the fence. I don’t know why it was smiling. It’s hands, sometimes filled with sunflower seeds, were empty.
The yard was devoid of any other dogs. I headed back along the top of the fence to the post closest the far stairway. I paused on the post for what seemed an eternity, collecting my strength and wit. I took a deep breath. I willed myself to move ahead. Logic did not override my fear. I took another deep breath. On the third try I moved halfway down the post.
Twice I thought I heard something and retreated to the top of the post. Twice Dexter heckled me from the tree. What was that idiot up to? I worried he was going to wake the sleeping dog. I heard another sound above me. The magpie was eyeing me from the top of the fence. His presence made me nervous. I’d had a run in with magpies protecting their nest more than once. They can be mean.
“Go away.” I whispered.
“Do you need help?”
“No!”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to drink out of the dog bowl.”
“Oh . . . why?”
“To see if I can.”
“Good luck with that.”
He flew back to the top of the Russian Olive. I closed my eyes, counted to five and was off. I ran across the yard. I lept up the stairs. All the while fear propelled me. I moved like my tail was on fire. I felt the fingers of death reaching toward me from behind. It was glorious and terrifying at once. I don’t know that I moved any faster than normal, but it felt like I was flying.
Atop the deck, I moved into the shadow of the house. I stopped for a moment to make sure the coast was clear. Then I moved to the water bowl. I took a quick drink. It was foul water. Any warmer and it would have been boiling. It was tinted with dog breath, dead meat and sulfur. I stood on my hind legs thinking I might hurl from drinking it. My stomach churned for a moment and I covered my mouth till the feeling passed.
Catching my reflection in the glass door, I paused. I looked bigger than I remembered. Certainly my tail was fluffier and my fur was richer and shinier. I felt suddenly invincible. I drank from the dog’s bowl!
The feeling was short lived. The magpie swooped down. I jumped back from his pending attack only to realize he was warning me of something else. He cried, “Look out!” as he swooshed overhead.
The door was opening!
A tall human was letting the semi-intelligent dog out. I looked right into the brown eyes of beast for a moment. I don’t think he knew what to think. I know it took me a moment to process. Einstein barked once. Then the chase began.
Flat out the mutt was faster than me. But his size was a detriment for changing direction. I practically ran right under him as he lunged toward me. The skitter of claws fighting for purchase filled the air. I cleared the three steps to the landing in one leap. I bounced down the stairs, listening to the breath of the big dog stumbling clumsily behind me.
At the bottom of the stairs, I realized that “witch eyes” was no longer sleeping. This fact would have been hard to escape, since she was three feet from where I landed. Trapped between the two dogs, instinct kicked in. I heard her teeth snap behind me as I leapt up the railing. I moved like a bolt of lightning. Einstein realized what was happening. He turned and was waiting at the landing before I made it to the top of the stairs. Their trap was closing.
All the while Dexter shouted worthless instructions such as, “Go faster!” or “look out!” As if I was going to close my eyes and go slowly. Clifford on the other hand was woefully disheartening moaning loudly, “Suicide! Jerry is going to die! Suicide. This is your fault Dex. Poor Jerry!”
With Einstein blocking my path and Witch Eyes coming up from behind I was worried that Cliff’s assessment was accurate. I flew forward. No plan in mind, I just knew I couldn’t stop. I dashed to the top of the rail. Without thinking, I launched myself into thin air. It was fifteen feet to the fence. No way I’d make that. But the slimmest of branches protruded from one of the Aspen trees. It was a freakish deformation.
Aspens grow straight and tall. This one branch was horizontal for six or seven feet.

It was a ten foot fall. If I missed it, I’d end up dazed, or worse, at the base of the fence that I’d just missed. The odds were good that the two dogs would have me for lunch before I could remember my name from a fall like that. If I caught the branch, I could ride it to the top of the fence . . . maybe.
I focused on the branch as I sailed through the air. Adrenaline and fear had pushed me further than I thought I could jump. But I’d jumped blindly and wasn’t sure that I’d be able to reach. I stretched my left foreleg and crossed the claws on my right one for luck. By the slimmest of margins, I caught a claw on the thinnest offshoot. I pulled and the branch swung to me more than I to it. A moment later I had a firm hold on it.
I scrambled up the fence and made my way back into the tree. It was fifteen minutes before I stopped trembling there. All the while, Dex howled, “You should have seen the look on your face!”
“I thought you were dead!” Cliff added.
They were still laughing when I caught my breath. “I dare you to try it.”
“No way!” Dex replied.
“Suicide!” Cliff added.

“Best fun ever, you cowards. It makes running the fence seem like just sitting in the tree all day.” They looked like they were considering it even before I sweetened the pot. “I’ve never had water like that before either. Cold as ice, sweet as nectar. I’m definitely headed back down next time I’m thirsty.”




This was based upon a true story. Although I do not know the true motivations behind the event, I did witness an insane squirrel narrowly escape both of our huskies and the force of gravity after drinking from the dog bowl on our deck one summer. I always wondered what he was thinking.