Real life is the birthplace of the best stories. The tales related in Lines From the Times are drawn from real life. Lacking the length of a short story, these tales are pithy reflections on life as it is encountered by the author. From a little girl's conversation on a park bench, a grown man flying a kite in the church yard, a daughter's attempts to rein in an indulgent grandfather, a homeless man or a drug-influenced woman seeking direction, an adventure getting children off to school, strangers passed along life's journey, all combine to entertain and delight. These are not sermons by any means, but hey are parables of life where one finds a lesson taught, a prejudice challenged or a value uplifted. Lines From the Times is a mirror held up to our age reflecting our beauty and our blemishes. There's love in these pages; there's sadness for love not shown. There's acceptance here; there's rejection. We can find ourselves tucked inside the stories, ourselves at our best and at our worse.
Lines from the Times
By Guy KentAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Guy Kent
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-4081-9Chapter One
The Light Turned Green
A delight to behold they were, obviously in love. Yet indications said there were bumps along the path of romance.
When I first looked, he was talking to her in an animated manner. Arms went up and down. Whatever the subject, he was definitely emphasizing his point. His brow wrinkled. As he talked, body language communicated he felt distant from her. He kept talking, until ...
She raised her right hand, index finger extended, painted nails pointed, it appeared, to the spot between his eyes. Her finger moved up and down. He reacted, raising his hands in the classical "I don't know" gesture. She moved the finger closer. He moved back.
She lowered her hand and pointed finger. He began to talk again, obvious anger punctuating his words. She stared. He talked. She stared. Suddenly, she turned away from him and pounded her palms on the steering wheel of the car in which she sat.
He spoke more words. Palms pounded again. Talking stopped.. She glared. He moved further from her until his back embraced the passenger door. Now she stared through the windshield. He studied the car behind them. Silence appeared deafening.
Seconds seemed hours. Eventually, he raised his hand in a "hold it a minute" gesture. He began to talk once again. His hand lowered, but his lips kept moving. In just a short time both his hands came up in an "I give up" gesture. Still, he talked. She stared, still out the front windshield.
His words must have been magical. As he continued speaking, his back detached from the door and he leaned forward. Tears were now running down her cheeks. She still gripped the steering wheel. She still stared straight ahead. But her face was softening. He leaned closer.
He talked no more and moved forward. She spoke without looking at him. He responded. She talked. He kept quiet. She continued to speak. He placed his hands together in a sign of supplication. She turned toward him.
He looked away from her, out the windshield. She talked more. His hands rose to his head, one on each side. He massaged his temples. She now looked forward. His forehead moved down and rested on the dash. They both now seemed frozen in time.
Eventually he raised his head. His hand moved slowly toward her. The back of his fingers gently caressed her cheek. She turned her head toward him. His finger journeyed to her lips. They puckered in the form of a kiss.
Suddenly his finger departed her lip and moved up her face. His other hand lifted into view and impulsively he used both to muss up her hair. His hands she quickly pushed away, with laughter. His hand was now on her shoulders; they drifted with purpose toward the back of her neck. He pulled her forward. Their lips met in a kiss. And then they hugged.
The horn of the car behind them sounded. They jumped apart. It was then she saw me, watching intently in my rearview mirror. I looked away to see the light green.
I turned left. They went straight ahead, together.
Walking In My Shoes
One of my "things" is watching my children. The best time is when they are unaware of my presence. You can get a glimpse of the past through them; in them you can see the future. If you take parenthood seriously, you can be over-whelmed with an intense sense of responsibility.
This was one of those days. Matt is two. It's a difficult time for him. His older sister has gone to school. He misses her. His one-year-old brother is always in mother's arms when he wants to be. Left alone, he can wander into that world of the terrible twos.
Today, however, he was in a world of his own. He was a little boy wandering around the house looking for a secret place, one where parents, who have lost the ability to pretend, cannot enter.
I knew he was in that world. He was talking to people. As hard as I tried I could not see them. I watched him and listened to conversations between a boy and invisible friends.
His dress captured it. The clothing was only white training pants. But on each foot was a black shoe. The shoes were mine. His steps drug to keep his tiny feet inside them. He was the daddy of his secret world.
A little boy trying to fill his daddy's shoes. We think that's cute. In reality we all are trying to fill the shoes of those who went before.
As I look over my years, I have become much like my father. I have his good points, thank God. But some of his faults have become mine also.
Our hopes, our anxieties, our fears, and our prejudices, they all show up in our children.
It's enough to make you think. It's enough to make me pray.
There he goes, walking in my shoes. He always will in a sense. Oh, God, let me take care where those shoes go today. Tomorrow he will follow in my path to inhabit the places I inhabit.
Waiting for My Sister
I'm sitting on a bench. It's almost 3:00 in the afternoon. The bench is placed next to the escalator where arriving passengers ascend into the terminal of the Atlanta International Airport. My sister's coming. Today I'm the owner-operator of an exclusive shuttle service running from the airport to points north.
This is an international facility, for sure. That's not hard to discern. The murmuring sounds of the people around me are reminiscent of the Tower of Babel. I hear French, Spanish, German, Scandinavian languages, Japanese, Middle Eastern dialects, and others which I cannot catalog.
A variety of apparel is evident. There are Muslin women in dress that covers head to foot. There are young ladies in jeans so low-riding one or both of us should be ashamed. Their mesmeric appeal is surpassed only by those whose necklines appear to be in search of a navel. Times have changed. When I was the age of these icons of fashion, Mama would have slapped my face for even contemplating ladies so festooned.
The males are also interesting. Jeans appear to have surrendered to gravity and are definitely on a fast track to the ankles. Quite a few have chains hanging in loops. What's the purpose? They cannot be attached to keys or wallet. If so, the weight would have sent the leggins to the ankles.
The apparel most favored by the adult male seems to be Salvation Army, price-reduced-for-quick-sale, shorts eloquently contrasted by a decade-old Haynes plain white T-shirt. All of this is tastefully complimented by foot-molded-over-the-years sandals or flip flops. No wonder everyone got here before I. My wife insisted I dress before leaving home.
There are a few relics of a century past. Gentlemen, with as many years behind them as I, wear tan slacks, navy blue blazers, oxford blue button-down shirts, and red with white striped ties. Southern ladies wear neatly pressed dresses accented by brightly printed neck scarves and patent leather high heels that click and clack across the terrazzo floor.
Uniformed chauffeurs hold aloft their finely printed signs identifying the service they represent. Others hold handmade placards labeled: "Mr. Jenkins" or "Ms. Elliott." One is labeled "Jane." If I were not writing this I'd pause to see how many ascending passengers walk to the lady holding the "Jane" sign and inquire, "Yes?"
A lady, occupying the bench beside me, is one of fourteen dozen within fifty feet with a cell phone growing out of her ear. Her awaited passenger has apparently landed. With a smile she castigates him for his...
