
##1005076 Shelly and the Great Purple Hairstreak <p> " Got it ! " The milky-winged butterfly fluttered to the top of Shelly 's jar . Leaning against a tree , Shelly smiled as the sun warmed her face . <p> " Hey , Petey ! " she yelled to her brother as he squatted on the ground looking for rocks . " I caught a cabbage butterfly ! " she said , tucking the jar into her bag . She carefully stepped over an anthill . <p> " I found this ! " Petey held up a speckled stone . " I 'll have a great rock collection for the contest . " <p> " Hey , there 's Jamal 's kite ! " yelled Petey . Up , up soared the yellow kite , like a butterfly dancing in the wind . Jamal would enter his kite collection in the contest at the school tomorrow afternoon . Most everyone in the circle of houses was excited about the contest . And most everyone hoped to win a ribbon . <p> Dragonflies darted and two orange butterflies hovered overhead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ caught a black swallowtail on thistles near the edge of the field . She found holly blues on clover leaves close to a cluster of maple trees . <p> " Shelly , will you keep these butterflies for tomorrow ? You 'd win a ribbon for sure . " <p> " No . I 'll release them today because butterflies do n't live long . Last summer , I kept an orange sulfur all night . But the next morning , the wings were ragged , and orange smudges stuck to the glass . It just crawled through the grass and hid under a leaf . " <p> Just then , the cabbage butterfly opened its wings . <p> " But I can find more tomorrow , " Shelly continued . " I once caught two butterflies on one flower . " They tromped through a patch of weeds . Something moved on a flower just ahead . <p> " Oooh . The wings are blue with little tails ! " whispered Shelly . <p> No , the wings were purple . Shelly stared . Could it be ? It was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to their field of thistles , clover , and mint . <p> She took a deep breath and crept toward the butterfly . Slowly , slowly she raised the jar . Then she lowered it . " Petey , it 's a great purple hairstreak . " Huge purple wings , streaked with black , shimmered in the jar . <p> " A hairstreak ! " she said softly . Shelly and Petey walked along slowly . <p> Deeper into the field , the mud was so sticky it spotted their shoes . Smuck-smuck . Petey poked his stick into a mud hole . Then ... Buzz . Zzit . Zzit . Wasps swirled from the hole . <p> Zzzzit . Shelly slapped at the insect buzzing near her face . Petey dropped his stick and ran . Shelly felt a prick and looked down . Three wasps were stinging her ankle . <p> " Ouch ! " <p> Shelly swatted at them as she tore through the field , scrambling through weeds and grass . Oh , I ca n't drop my bag , she thought . She ran across @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " What 's wrong ? " asked her mother . <p> " Wasps ! " Petey gasped . <p> Shelly looked down : the wasps were gone , but her ankle was swollen . In the living room , she plopped on the sofa . <p> " This ice should reduce the swelling , " Mom said as she arranged an ice bag over Shelly 's ankle . " Let 's prop this foot on a pillow . Now , you need to stay out of the field tomorrow . " <p> " But , Mom , I have to catch butterflies for my collection . " <p> " Shelly , you stay out of the field , " she repeated firmly . " But , you can go see the other collections . " Shelly frowned as Petey pasted his speckled rock to a piece of cardboard . What can I do ? Shelly wondered . I have a cabbage white , holly blues , a swallowtail -- even a great purple hairstreak right now . She hugged her pillow and frowned . Maybe I 'll just keep them overnight @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ When she opened her eyes , the moonlight shined on the jars lining the floor . <p> " Oh , " she gasped , jumping from the couch . Are their wings tattered ? Peering into the jar , she could see the wings -- purple , yellow , blue , and white . These butterflies ca n't stay in jars all night , she thought . <p> The flashlight beam lit up just part of the field as Shelly limped along . She unscrewed the lids and shook each jar gently . The cabbage butterfly flitted like a tiny ghost in the white light . <p> The holly blues disappeared into the grass . The swallowtail darted away . Up , up , up flew the great purple hairstreak , shimmering blue then purple , circling the tree . She kept the light beam on it as far as she could , then it vanished into the darkness . <p> Back inside , she sighed . No butterfly collection . She set the row of empty jars near Petey 's crayons , tissue paper , scissors , and paste . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ square of tissue paper . Could I make a butterfly from this ? She tossed the paper up . It swished , then swayed , and finally touched the floor . She worked for a long time , cutting and twisting and pasting . <p> Hours later , it was time to get to the school . Petey balanced his collection of rocks , while Shelly clutched a box . Long tables held posters and bottles and rocks and hats and other things . Elaina carried in a tray of erasers shaped like vegetables and fruit . Sherman 's tooth collection filled a table . Dog tooth . Sherman 's baby tooth . Shark tooth . Grizzly bear tooth . Iris 's glass pigs posed on velvet squares , and stuffed pigs perched on the table edge . Wearing a collection of buttons , Martin skipped around . Simon 's caps came from all over : Seattle , Miami , Toronto , Detroit , San Juan . A diamond kite dangled above Jamal 's head . The box kite , as tall as Jamal , was propped against the table , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . <p> Jamal looked up . " Did you bring your butterflies , Shelly ? " <p> Shelly placed the box on the table . She lined up tissue butterflies one by one . Cabbage butterfly . Swallowtail . Holly blue . Great purple hairstreak . <p> Black spots on the cabbage butterfly looked like eyes . The swallowtail 's streaked yellow and black wings spread wide . The holly blue 's wings were tipped with ink . The largest butterfly glimmered : curved tails hung from the hind wings of the great purple hairstreak . <p> " Hmm . " Walking around the hall , the judge tapped her plastic clipboard . <p> The judge turned a page in a stamp album . Then she picked up a glass pig . She looked so closely at the butterflies that her nose almost touched one . The judge moved to the next table . Before long , she had stopped at every display . Finally , she marched to the middle of the room . <p> " Each collector will receive a ribbon , " she announced , holding up a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ prize goes to the ... pig collection . " Iris beamed as she accepted the purple ribbon . " Second prize goes to the ... cap collection . First prize goes to the ... kite collection . " <p> Shelly clapped for her friends . <p> " Finally , we have two awards for unusual collections . One goes to the tooth collection . The last award goes to the collection of paper butterflies . " <p> Shelly squealed . " Yes ! " Waving the silky green ribbon above her head , she grinned . <p> At home , Shelly , Jamal , and Petey sat on the back porch sipping lemonade . <p> " Next year , " said Petey , " I 'm going to collect postcards . " <p> Shelly squinted at the holly blues and swallowtails dipping and dancing in the field . <p> " I 'll help you , Petey , " said Shelly . " And you can help me make a great purple hairstreak as big as Jamal 's kite . " <p> Illustration ( Girl and boy with butterflies and a flying @ @ @ 
##1005157 A famous writer 's journey from Oregon to Indiana is a lesson in sorrow for the loss of life on America 's roads . <p> A few miles east of home in the Cascades I slow down and pull over for two raccoons , sprawled still as stones in the road . I carry them to the side and lay them in sun-shot windblown grass in the barrow pit . In eastern Oregon along U.S. 20 , black-tailed jackrabbits lie like welts of sod-three , four , then a fifth . By the bridge over Jordan Creek , just shy of the Idaho border in the drainage of the Owyhee River , a crumpled adolescent porcupine leers up almost maniacally over its blood-flecked teeth . I carry each one away from the pavement into a cover of grass or brush out of decency , I think . And worry . Who are these animals , their lights gone out ? What journeys have fallen apart here ? <p> I do not stop to remove each dark blister from the road . I wince before the recently dead , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fence post , in the spontaneous aversion of my eyes , and pull over . I imagine white silk threads of life still vibrating inside them , even if the body 's husk is stretched out for yards , stuck like oiled muslin to the road . The energy that once held them erect leaves like a bullet , but the memory of that energy fades slowly from the wrinkled cornea , the bloodless fur . The raccoons and , later , a red fox carry like sacks of wet gravel and sand . Each animal is like a solitary child 's shoe in the road . Once a man asked , Why do you bother ? You never know , I said . The ones you give some semblance of burial , to whom you offer an apology , , may have been like seers in a parallel culture . It is an act of respect , a technique of awareness . In Idaho I hit a young sage sparrow -thwack against the right fender in the very split second I see it . Its companion rises from the same @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and sails off clean into the desert . I rest the walloped bird in my left hand , my right thumb pressed to its chest . I feel for the wail of the heart . Its eyes glisten like rain on crystal . Nothing but warmth . I shut the tiny eyelids and lay it beside a clump of bunchgrass . Beyond a barbed-wire fence the overgrazed range is littered with cow flops . The road curves away to the south . I nod before I go , a ridiculous gesture , out of simple grief . I pass four spotted skunks . The swirling air is acrid with the rupture of each life . Darkness rises in the valleys of Idaho . East of Grand View , south of the Snake River , nighthawks swoop the roads for gnats , silent on the wing as owls . On a descending curve I see two of them lying soft as clouds in the road . I turn around and come back . The sudden slowing down and my K-turn at the bottom of the hill draw the attention of a man @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from where the birds lie . I can tell by his step , the suspicious tilt of his head , that he is wary , vaguely proprietary . Offended , or irritated , he may throw the birds back into the road when I leave . So I wait , subdued like a penitent , a body in each hand . He speaks first , a low voice , a deep murmur weighted with awe . He has been watching these flocks feeding just above the road for several evenings . He calls them whippoorwills . He gestures for a carcass . How odd , yes , the way they concentrate their hunting right on the road , I say . He runs a finger down the smooth arc of the belly and remarks on the small whiskered bill . He pulls one long wing out straight , but not roughly . He marvels . He glances at my car , baffled by this outof-state courtesy . Two dozen nighthawks careen past , back and forth at arm 's length , feeding at our height and lower . He asks if @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bird up to the house to show his wife . " She 's never seen anything like this " He 's fascinated . " Not close " I trust , later , he will put it in the fields , not throw the body in the trash , a whirligig. orth of Pinedale in western Wyoming on U.S. 189 , below the Gros Ventre Range , I see a big doe from a great distance , the low rays of first light gleaming in her tawny reddish hair . She rests askew , like a crushed tree . I drag her to the shoulder , then down a long slope by the petals of her ears . A gunnysack of plaster mud , ears cold as rain gutters . All of her does n't come . I climb back up for the missing leg . The stain of her is darker than the black asphalt . The stains go north and off to the south as far as I can see . On an afternoon traffidess , quiet as a cloister , headed across South Pass in the Wind River Range @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ then try to wrestle the gravel-spewing skid in a straight line along the lip of an embankment . I know even as I struggle for control the irony of this : I could easily pitch off here to my own death . The bird is dead somewhere in the road behind me . Only a few seconds and I am safely back on the road , nauseated , light-headed . It is hard to distinguish among younger gulls . I turn this one around slowly in my hands . It could be a western gull , a mew gull , a California gull . I do not remember well enough the bill markings , the color of the legs . I have no doubt about the vertebrae shattered beneath the seamless white of its ropy neck . East of Lusk , Wyoming , in Nebraska , I stop for a badger . I squat on the macadam to admire the long claws , the perfect set of its teeth in the broken jaw , the ramulose shading of its fur-how it differs slightly , as does every badger 's , from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ car drifts toward us over the prairie , coming on in the other lane , a white 1962 Chevrolet station wagon . The driver slows to pass . In the bright sunlight I ca n't see his face , only an arm and the gesture of his thick left hand . It opens in a kind of shrug , hangs briefly in limp sadness , then extends itself in supplication . Gone past , it curls into itself against the car door and is still . Farther on in western Nebraska I pick up the small bodies of mice and birds . While I wait to retrieve these creatures I do not meet the eyes of passing drivers . Whoever they are , I feel anger toward them , in spite of the sparrow and the gull I myself have killed . We treat the attrition of lives on the road like the attrition of lives in war : horrifying , unavoidable , justified . Accepting the slaughter leaves people momentarily fractious , embarrassed . South of Broken Bow , at dawn , I can not avoid an immature barn swallow @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ slats of the grille . I stop for a rabbit on Nebraska 806 and find , only a few feet away , a garter snake . What else have I missed , too small , too narrow ? What has gone unde or past me while I stared at mountains , hay meadows , fencerows , the beryl surface of rivers ? In Wyoming I could not help but see pronghorn antelope swollen big as barrels by the side of the road , their legs splayed rigidly aloft . For animals so large , people will stop . But how many have this habit of clearing the road of smaller creatures , people who would remove the ones I miss ? I do not imagine I am alone . As much sorrow as the man 's hand conveyed in Nebraska , it meant gratitude too for burying the dead Still , I do not wish to meet anyone 's eyes . In Southwestern Iowa , outside Clarinda , I haul a deer into high grass out of sight of the road and begin to examine it . It is still whole @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I soon discover , is fractured in four places ; the jaw , hanging by shreds of mandibular muscle , is broken at the symphysis , beneath the incisors . The pelvis is crushed , the left hind leg unsocketed . All but two ribs are dislocated along the vertebral column , which is complexly fractured . The intestines have been driven forward into the chest . The heart and lungs have ruptured the chest wall at the base of the neck . The signature of a tractor-trailer truck : 80,000 pounds at 65mph . In front of a motel room in Ottumwa I finger-scrape the dry , stiff carcasses of bumblebees , wasps , and butterflies from the grille and headlight mountings , and I scrub with a wet cloth to soften and wipe away the nap of crumbles , the insects , the aerial plankton of spiders and mites . I am uneasy carn , ring so many of the dead . The carnage is so obvious . In Illinois , west of Kankakee , two raccoons as young as the ones in Oregon . In Indiana another raccoon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ turn into the driveway at the house of a friend outside South Bend , it is evening , hot and muggy . I can hear cicadas in a lone elm . I 'm glad to be here . From the driveway entrance I look back down Indiana 23 , toward Indiana 8 , remembering the farm roads of Illinois and Iowa . I remember how beautiful it was in the limpid air to drive Nebraska 2 through the sand hills , to see how far at dusk the land was etched east and west of Wyoming 28 . I remember the imposition of the Wind River Range in a hard , blue sky beneath white ranks of buttonhook clouds , windy hay fields on the Snake River plain , the welcome of Russian olive trees and willows in western creek bottoms . The transformations of the heart such beauty engenders is not enough tonight to let me shed the heavier memory , a catalog too morbid to write out , too vivid to ignore . I stand in the driveway now , listening to the cicadas whirring in the dark tree @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at the driver 's side , and I lean down as if to speak to someone still sitting there . The weight I wish to fall I can not fathom , a sorrow over the world 's dark hunger . A light comes on over the porch . I hear a dead bolt thrown , the shiver of a door pulled free . The words of atonement I pronounce are too inept to offer me release . Or forgiveness . My friend is floating across the tree-shadowed lawn . What is to be done with the desire for exculpation ? " Later than we thought you 'd be " he says . I do not want the lavabo . I wish to make amends . " I made more stops than I thought I would ; " I answer . " Well , bring in your things . And whatever I can take ; " he offers . I anticipate , in the powerful antidote of our conversation , the reassurance of a human enterprise , the forgiving embrace of the rational . It waits within , beyond the slow tail-wagging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Sidebar Editor 's Note A writer has a certain handful of questions ; " Barry Lopez once said . " Mine seem to be the issues of tolerance and dignity " In his 7 novels and 4 books of nonfiction , including Arctic Dreams , which won a 1986 National Book Award , Lopez explores those questions through the lens of the natural environment . His poetic language joined with powerful ideas has made Lopez one of the most acclaimed writers of his generation . Sidebar A Closer Look What is the thesis of this essay ? I Where does Lopez state it ? How does the title reflect it ? Trace the theme of memory throughout the piece . What is Lopez saying about remembrance ? What is Lopez seeking at the end of the essay ? <p> 
##1005161 Cast of Characters <p> SCENE ONE Christmas Eve , London , 1843 Narrator : One would n't think Christmas Eve to be a time for ghost stories , but here , in the offices of Ebenezer Scrooge and his long-dead partner , Jacob Marley , our ghostly tale begins . Let me say again that old Marley was dead . This you must understand . Cratchit : Mr. Scrooge , sir , might I add some coal to the fire ? Scrooge : Absolutely not . Coal costs money . Does n't your coat keep you warm ? Cratchit : Not really , sir . Scrooge : Then I suggest you get a new one . Cratchit : But , sir . . . Scrooge : That 's enough , Mr. Cratchit . I suppose you 'll want the day off tomorrow . Cratchit : Yes , sir . Christmas is only once a year , sir . Scrooge : You want me to pay you for a day when you are not working ? You 'd better be here even earlier the next morning . Narrator : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Fred : Merry Christmas , Uncle ! Scrooge : Bah ! Humbug ! Fred : Christmas a humbug ? You do n't mean it ! a Scrooge : I do ! What reason have you to be merry ? You 're not wealthy . Fred : Come , dear Uncle . What reason have you to be so gloomy ? You , with all your riches . Scrooge : Bah ! Humbug ! What is Christmas but a time of wasting money on things you do n't need ? If I had my way , every idiot who goes about saying " Merry Christmas " would be boiled in his own pudding . Fred : Uncle ! Scrooge : Nephew ! You celebrate the holiday in your way . Let me celebrate it in mine . Fred : But you do n't celebrate it . Scrooge : Let me not celebrate it then . But take my advice , celebrating has done you no good . Fred : There are many things that do us good without making us rich . Though holidays have never put a scrap of gold in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for having celebrated them . Cratchit : Yes , yes ! Scrooge : Quiet , Mr. Cratchit , or you 'll celebrate Christmas by looking for a new job . Fred : Do n't be angry , Uncle . Have Christmas Photograph <p> dinner with us tomorrow . Scrooge : Humbug . Fred : But why not ? Scrooge : That 's enough . Good day , Nephew . Fred : So be it . But I shall keep my Christmas spirit " til the end . Merry Christmas , Uncle ! Merry Christmas , Mr. Cratchit ! Cratchit : Happy New Year , Master Fred . Scrooge : There 's a ridiculous notion : My clerk , with barely enough money to feed his family , and a crippled child , too , talking about a happy New Year . I must be mad ! SCENE TWO Late that same evening Ghost Chorus : Owwooooh ! Narrator : Scrooge sat by the fireplace in his dreary house . He heard the door fly open and the rattling of chains . Scrooge : What 's that noise ? Narrator : Passing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ghost with death-cold eyes . Its head was wrapped in bandages . It had chains locked around its body . Scrooge : Pooh pooh ! I 'm not a man to be frightened by shadows . Marley : You do n't believe in me ? Scrooge : I do n't . Narrator : The ghost raised a frightful cry and shook its chains with an awful noise . Scrooge dropped to his knees and covered his face . Scrooge : Mercy , dreadful spirit . What is it you want with me ? Marley : Much ! I am the ghost of your partner , Jacob Marley . I must drag this chain and wander through the world forever ! Woe is me . Scrooge : But why are you chained ? Marley : Each link of this chain is a punishment for some kind deed I failed to do . Oh , why did I not show charity ? Photograph <p> Scrooge : But , Jacob , you were always such a good businessman . You made so much money ! Narrator : Again the ghost raised a cry and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kinder ! Ebenezer , do you know the weight of the chain you 're making ? It was as long as mine seven Christmas Eves ago . Imagine how long it is now . Scrooge : Jacob , what can I do about it ? Marley : Hear me , Scrooge ! You will be haunted by three spirits . Listen to what each tells you ! Expect the first when the clock strikes one . Ghost Chorus : Owwooooh ! SCENE THREE 1:00 A.M. Narrator : Scrooge awoke to find the first ghost , a gentle spirit in a long white gown . Ghost #1 : I am the Ghost of Christmas Past . I will show you your life as it used to be . Rise and walk with me . Narrator : They passed magically into Scrooge 's past . The ghost and Scrooge were suddenly standing inside an old warehouse . Ghost #1 : Do you know this place ? Scrooge : Know it ? I held my first job here . Why , it 's old Mr. Fezziwig . He was a decent man ! Narrator @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a cheerful young man . Fezziwig : It 's Christmas Eve ! Yo ho , everyone ! No more work tonight . Clear the floor for dancing and fiddling and celebrating ! Narrator : Food was brought in . The music began . Everyone started dancing-including young Scrooge . Ghost #1 : Such a waste of money , this . Scrooge : A waste of money ? Look how happy everyone is . Fezziwig was always making people happy . Little things mostly . The way he looked at you , or a pat on the back . Ghost #1 : With whom do you dance ? You look so happy . Scrooge : Ah , Belle . It 's young Belle . Ghost #1 : You loved her , but did n't marry her . Scrooge : I first needed to seek my fortune . Ghost # 1 : You mean , you could earn no money by simply loving her . You chose wealth instead . Scrooge : Spirit , why do you torture me ? Show me no more . I do n't wish to see it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back in his bedroom . SCENE FOUR 2:00 A.M. Ghost Chorus : Owwooooh ! Ghost #2 : I am the Ghost of Christmas Present . You 've never seen the likes of me before ! Narrator : The second spirit was gigantic , and as grand and joyful as the season . Its eyes were clear and kind , yet they frightened Scrooge . Scrooge : Spirit , take me where you will . Let me learn from it . Ghost #2 : Look upon me ! You and I will go and see things as they are now . Off with us , then ! Narrator : The ghost and Scrooge appeared in the doorway of a small house . Scrooge : Where are we ? Ghost #2 : You do n't know the house of your own clerk-Bob Cratchit ? Come inside . The family is sitting down for Christmas dinner . Narrator : Tiny Tim hobbled to the table , using an old wooden crutch . Photograph <p> Tiny Tim : Mother , there never was such a grand goose as this ! Cratchit : Spendid , my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a small goose ! You 'd think it was a prize turkey . Ghost #2 : It 's all they can afford ! Not a very well-off family . Scrooge : True , but a happy one . Look how pleased they are-especially that Tim . Cratchit : A toast ! To Mr. Scrooge , the founder of our feast ! Mrs. Cratchit : The founder of our feast indeed ! I wish he were here now . I 'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon ! Cratchit : My dear ! Let 's not be bitter . Mrs. Cratchit : I 'll toast his health because it 's Christmas , but that 's all . Long life to him ! Merry Christmas to the stingy , unfeeling , unkind founder of the feast : Mr. Scrooge . All : Merry Christmas ! Tiny Tim : And God bless us , every one ! Scrooge : Tell me , Spirit . Will Tiny Tim live ? Ghost #2 : I see an empty seat . I see a tiny crutch with no owner . Scrooge : Oh @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ghost #2 : If there is no change in his surroundings , the child will die . Ghost Chorus : Owwooooh ! Narrator : Scrooge looks sad as the ghost vanishes . Suddenly , another ghost appears . SCENE FIVE 3:00 A.M. Narrator : The third phantom was cloaked in a black robe . Nothing could be seen of him except one outstretched hand . Scrooge : You are the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come ? Narrator : The ghost did n't answer . It pointed its long , bony finger into the night . Scrooge : Ghost of the Future , I fear you more than the others . Narrator : The Spirit took Scrooge to a lonely cemetery that was covered in weeds . A coffin is being lowered into the ground . Scrooge : Whose funeral is this ? Why is no one here to mourn ? Tell me , Spirit , is there anyone in this town who cared for this man ? Passerby #1 : When did he die ? Passerby #2 : Last week . Passerby #1 : What was the matter with him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . Passerby #1 : Little good his money did him . Passerby #2 : Not a single person to mourn him ! Passerby #1 : But think of all the money he saved with such a cheap funeral ! Passerby #2 : Ha ha ha ! Narrator : The phantom pointed toward the gravestone . Scrooge : Before I look , Spirit , tell me one thing . Can this future be changed ? Narrator : The Spirit gave no reply . Scrooge trembled . He looked upon the gravestone and read the words EBENEZER SCROOGE . Ghost Chorus : Owwooooh ! Photograph <p> Scrooge : No , Spirit . Hear me ! Can I still erase the name upon this stone ? I am not the person I was ! From this night on , I will be a kind and generous man . I will honor Christmas in my heart . SCENE SIX Christmas morning Narrator : When Scrooge awoke , he was so happy to see daylight that he laughed out loud . For a man that had been out of practice for so long , it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to a boy . Scrooge : What 's today , my fine fellow ? Boy : Today ? Why , it 's Christmas Day . Scrooge : I have n't missed it ! Do you know the prize turkey hanging in the butcher 's window ? Boy : The one that 's as big as I am ? Scrooge : Yes , that one . I 'll pay you to go buy it and have it brought here . Boy : Yes , sir ! Merry Christmas , sir ! Scrooge : I 'll have it delivered to Bob Cratchit 's . They wo n't know who sent it ! And then I must join my nephew for dinner . Oh joy , I have n't missed Christmas ! Narrator : Scrooge spent the rest of the day spreading Christmas cheer and joyfully sharing his wealth . SCENE SEVEN The next day Narrator : Scrooge arrived at the office early . Cratchit entered , shivering from the cold . Scrooge : Mr. Cratchit , you 're eighteen and a half minutes late ! Cratchit : It 's only once a year @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ night . It wo n't happen again . Scrooge : I 'll tell you what , my friend . I 'm not going to stand for this any longer . Narrator : Poor Bob Cratchit . He was certain he was about to be fired . Scrooge : And therefore , Mr. Cratchit . . . I 'm doubling your salary ! Narrator : Cratchit was stunned ! Scrooge : Merry Christmas , Bob ! A merrier Christmas than I 've ever given before . And your salary is just a start . I 'll assist your struggling family any way I can . And Tim , whatever he needs , he 'll have it . Now , let 's warm up this place . Put some more coal on the fire , Bob Cratchit . Before you dot another i , let 's have more coal ! Narrator : Scrooge was better than his word . He became as good a man and as good a friend as the city knew . It was always said , if any man knew how to celebrate Christmas , it was Ebenezer Scrooge @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tiny Tim : And God bless us , every one ! THE END Photograph Sidebar Illustrations by Russ Flint from Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol in Prose ( Candy Cane Press , an imprint of Ideals Publications Incorporated , 1998 ) . Reprinted by permission of the publisher . <p> 
##1005162 Twelve-year-old Anita is a world-famous trapeze artist . There 's only one problem : She is terrified of heights . <p> Twelve-year-old Anita Rinaldi stood at the top of the platform , high above the circus audience . The spangles on her leotard sparkled in the spotlight . On a trapeze just below , her father , Tony , swung upside down from his knees , waiting to catch her . Anita took a huge breath , grabbed the bar of her trapeze , and launched herself into space . She did a front flip over the bar , let go , and sailed toward her father . Slap . Their hands came together . But Anita 's fingers were sweaty . She felt them slipping . I 'm falling ! she thought , a jolt of panic tingling through her spine . Her father grabbed her wrists with a viselike grip . " You 're all right , " he said . " Hold tight . " Anita 's heart raced as they swung back and forth like a pendulum . " Go ! " Mr. Rinaldi @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flew through the air to the waiting trapeze . It slapped tight into her palms . She swung her trapeze back up to the platform , grateful to be back on solid ground . Her knees trembled under her . She watched her 14-year-old brother , Steve , who stood on the opposite platform . How she envied him ! He was so calm as he swung off the platform and sailed through the air . He swung down , released the bar , turned two back flips and straightened out to meet their father with perfect timing . A roar of applause exploded from the audience . Steve landed back on the platform and held the ladder steady while Anita climbed down . Her heart had calmed down and her knees were not shaking anymore . But now her stomach hurt . She felt ashamed . She was one of the Flying Rinaldis , the famous trapeze family . Her father had started training her when she was just 5 years old . From the start , her brother had a natural flair . But Anita had been terrified . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a struggle to hide her fear of heights . She thought it might get easier as she got older . But it did n't . In fact , her fear seemed to be getting worse . Anita , Steve , and her father walked onto the center ring . The spotlight followed them . They joined hands and bowed as the audience cheered . They were walking to their trailer , and Anita felt her stomach settle down . Another performance was behind her . The problem was that tomorrow she 'd have to do it again . And again the day after that . And on and on , practically forever . She glanced at her father . He loved the trapeze . And he wanted his childrento follow the family tradition . She would never want to disappoint him . " I 'm going over to visit Dr. Colby , " Anita said . She was the circus veterinarian . Anita was always happiest when she was with animals . Dr. Colby said she had a talent for making the animals calm . " Any house calls today , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , " Doc said . " Emil says one of the tigers is n't feeling well . I was just heading over . " Anita picked up Dr. Colby 's medicine bag and carried it for her as they crossed the lot toward the tiger cages . Emil , the animal trainer , waved to them . He led them over to the tiger cage . " Konga has n't been herself all day , " Emil said , pointing to the huge Siberian tiger lying in the cage . Dr. Colby stood at the cage and studied Konga . So did Anita . She could see that Konga 's eyes looked dull and cloudy . " She 's probably running a fever , " Dr. Colby said . " I 'll need to tranquilize her so I can take a closer look . " Emil wheeled a special restraining cage up to the door of the tiger 's cage . They would lure Konga into the smaller cage , where Dr. Colby could examine her . Konga slowly made her way into the restraining cage , lured by a small @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Colby crouched behind her . She raised a hypodermic needle ad aimed it at a hind leg . At that moment , two lions began to roar . Konga backed up into Dr. Colby , and roared savagely . Dr. Colby fumbled with the needle while Konga strained against the bars . Suddenly , the cage 's latch gave way and the door slipped open . Anita leaped forward to close it , but Konga struck out at her with her paw . The door swung wide open and Konga bounded through the opening . " Back , Konga ! " Emil yelled . The tiger crouched and sprang forward , knocking Emil to the ground . Anita heard a loud thump as Emil 's head hit the pavement . Konga rushed toward Dr. Colby , who dived out of the way . Then Konga ran off through the parking lot . " Anita ! Run and warn Security ! " Dr. Colby said . Emil was sitting up , holding the back of his head . " I have to help Emil , " Dr. Colby said . " Anita @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scooped up the hypodermic needle and ran off in the tiger 's direction . As she ran , she heard panic -- stricken voices shouting " Tiger ! A tiger is loose ! " People were scurrying in every direction . She saw two security guards running with their guns drawn . Anita raced past the clowns " dressing rooms . As she rounded the corner near her family 's trailer , she stopped short . There was her brother Steve . And behind him , in a silent crouch , was Konga . The tiger was ready to attack . Steve did n't even know Konga was there . " Steve ! " Anita screamed . Steve turned . His mouth fell open when he saw the tiger . " Run ! " Anita yelled . The tiger jerked her head in Anita 's direction , poised to leap , yet suddenly confused . Steve flew into the trailer and closed the door . Before he could lock it , the tiger sprang at the door and pushed it open . Steve cowered in the corner , his eyes wide @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through the doorway . The tiger was creeping toward Steve . " Konga , " Anita said sternly . She did n't feel afraid . She reached for a chair and brandished it in Konga 's face . Konga snarled angrily , swiping at the chair with her huge paw . One of the chair legs snapped off . Konga lashed out again , breaking off another leg . Anita dove to the floor and , with a swift upward motion , jabbed the hypodermic needle into Konga 's underbelly . She watched the tranquilizer take effect instantly . Konga 's legs went limp . She stumbled and slumped onto the floor . Steve ran and threw his arms around his sister . They heard anxious voices outside the trailer . Their parents ran in , followed by Dr. Colby . Security guards entered with their guns drawn . " Do n't shoot , " Anita said . " She 's knocked out for now . " The security guards threw a net over Konga . They gently pulled her out the door . Dr. Colby shook Anita 's hand . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have a way with animals . And you 're cool under pressure . " " How 's Emil ? " Anita asked . " He 'll be all right . He 's lying down . " " Wait until he hears , " Anita 's father said . " I do n't need to hear , " Emil said , peeking in the door . " I saw ! Anita , do you realize how brave you are ? " Anita smiled . Brave . " If you ever want to give up the trapeze , I think you could have a great future working with animals , " Emil said . " If you ever want to work with me , let me know . " " I 'd love to , " Anita said , her face glowing . But then she glanced guiltily at her father . What would he think ? " Would you really like that ? " her father asked . Anita did n't say anything . " I still think you could be great on the trapeze . But only if you really want @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Anita nodded . Her father did n't look mad at all . He reached out and hugged her . " I was lucky to find something I truly love to do , " he said . " I want you to do the same . " " Well , think it over , " Emil said . He and Dr. Colby headed out the door . " Wait ! " Anita said . " I need to go with you . I want to see how is doing ! THE END Your Turn ! Anita 's Risky Move When Konga escapes , Dr. Colby tells Anita to run and get help . Instead , Anita rushes after the tiger by herself . She could have been seriously hurt ! Do you think Anita was wise to run after Konga ? What else might she have done ? How could she have helped catch Konga without taking such a big risk ? What would you have done in Anita 's situation ? Write down your answers . Author Affiliation About the Author and Artist Howard Goldsmith is the author of sixty children @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2200 A.D. , and Sooner Round the Corner . Look for Howard 's newest book series , Science through Stories ( McGraw-Hill ) . David Catrow has illustrated 30 books for kids . His newest books are Rotten Teeth by Laura Simms ( Houghton Mifflin ) and There Was an Old Witch by Howard Reeves ( Hyperion ) . <p> 
##1005169 The Ghost of Pebble Beach <p> Rain poured down in sheets , and heavy clouds filled the sky like charred marshmallows . A torn-apart rowboat was sucked into the ocean and blown back onto the sand . Its eerie presence made my heart pound like the footsteps of a marathon runner . <p> I was glad to be inside our cozy home . Suddenly , something caught my eye . A man was standing on the pier . The wind and rain whipped his sand-colored hair and drenched his white , collared shirt . He faced the ocean with his shoulders slumped and his hands behind his back . <p> Surprised that anyone would stand outside in the storm , I cracked the door open and called , " Sir , would you like to come inside ? " My voice was drowned out by a roar of thunder . Again , I tried , this time louder , " Can you hear me , sir ? " Nothing . <p> I stepped inside . Who was that man , I wondered , and what was he doing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the mysterious figure . I did n't know why , but somehow I wanted to find him again . Tomorrow , I decided . <p> The next morning , my 6-year-old brother , David , and I jogged out to the beach . The sun-baked sand was warm like a cake fresh out of the oven . It was hard to believe that just yesterday Pebble Beach had been ravaged by a ferocious storm . <p> " Hey ! " The friendly voice startled me , and when I whirled around , I was surprised to discover a smiling girl in a bathing suit heading toward us . She said , " My name 's Amy Edwards . You must be new . " <p> " Yeah , " I said , pushing my hair behind my ear . " We moved in about a week ago . My name 's Hannah . " <p> Amy nodded . " Wan na go for a Storm Walk with me ? " she asked . <p> " A Storm Walk ? " David and I asked in unison . <p> " Yeah , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , things from the sea wash up on shore . Afterwards , I sometimes go for Storm Walks and look for treasures on the beach . " <p> Soon we were strolling along . I told Amy about the forlorn figure I had seen the night before . She did n't know any more about him than I did . <p> David suddenly cried out , " Look ! " Amy and I turned and saw David looking into his hand . <p> " What is it ? " I asked , jogging over to him . <p> " A ring ! " he exclaimed . And he held it up for Amy and me to see . <p> The sun reflected off the ring , and its red ruby center glittered like the ocean . I read its inscription out loud : " With love from Chris -- 1977 . " <p> " Gosh , that 's quite a find , " said Amy . " You should sell it . I bet it 's worth thousands of dollars . " <p> David shook his head . " It 's @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " But David , " I reminded him , " boys do n't usually wear rings . Not unless they 're married . " <p> David thought about that . " Well , then , you can have it , Hannah . But you ca n't sell it . Okey-dokey ? " <p> I took the ring from him and replied , " You can count on me . " <p> " Did you find it yet ? " I asked Amy . It was the first day of school , and Amy and I were on a library computer , looking for a newspaper article on a research topic . Suddenly , the words " drowned " and " Pebble Beach " flashed on the screen . " Wait ! " I cried . " Go back ... look ! " We both read the article in horror : <p> Friday , October 13 , 1977 <p> Man , 20 , Drowns at Pebble Beach <p> -- PEBBLE BEACH , NJ 20-year-old Christopher Dalton was found dead last night . He had planned to go over to Starfish Bay where @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ give her an engagement ring . He took his rowboat across the bay despite the stormy conditions . This traumatic ending to their romance touched many people who joined in the search for Dalton . At 4 a.m. , rescue workers spotted the body and proclaimed Dalton dead from drowning , a victim of last night 's storm . <p> And then I saw it . A picture of a young man . Sand-colored hair . White , collared shirt . My mouth hung open like a cartoon character , and my mind raced , trying to picture the mysterious man on the pier . When I finally got control of myself , I laughed . Christopher Dalton was dead , so how could I have seen him ? It had been dark and rainy . Probably thousands of men at Pebble Beach wear white , collared shirts and have sand-colored hair . <p> But I knew that I had seen Chris . <p> Suddenly , my teacher said , " Hannah , you look like you 've seen a ghost ! " <p> All I could mumble was , " @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ David . He was watching some Disney movie called The Kid and the King . " Guess what ? " David asked . " This King gets too old to slay this dragon , so a kid has to help him finish his -- " <p> " Great , David , " Amy interrupted . <p> " Wait , keep going , " I said , an idea forming in my head . <p> " The kid has to finish the King 's mission , or something , and -- " <p> " David , you 're a genius ! " I cried . " Listen . This is what we have to do . We have to finish Chris ' mission and return the ring to Mary . " <p> " But how do we know if Mary 's still alive ? " Amy asked me . <p> " Math . It 's 1997 , and Chris died 20 years ago , at age 20 , the same as Mary . Which makes her ... " <p> " 40 years old , " Amy finished . <p> " Which means @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Here it is , " I said nervously as Amy , David , and I approached a small , yellowish house with a blue roof and blue shutters . It was fairly old ; in some spots , the paint was peeling like tired banana skin . <p> " You guys , she 's in the garden , " David pointed out . <p> " Let 's leave it on the doorstep , " I suggested . <p> " She 's coming ! " Amy screeched . " Hide ! " <p> I hastily placed the box on her doorstep and dashed to David and Amy 's hiding place . We watched as a woman wearing a white dress and a straw hat opened the box and picked up the ring . In awe , she placed it on her finger and smiled . She knew . Not how , but what . <p> David ran ahead of Amy and me on the path . The sky was dolphin gray , and it began to drizzle . By the time we got home , the drizzle had turned into a downpour @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ noticed David 's head appearing and disappearing in the frothy ocean . His arms reached out of the foam . Waves crashed over his head , and he was screaming for help . <p> I ran to him , panic constricting my chest . Suddenly , I tripped over a rock and fell hard on my ankle . Pain shot up my leg . I could n't get up . <p> Amy raced into the water . She began to swim out to David , but a monstrous wave slapped her . She drifted back to shore . We watched helplessly as David began to slip under the swirling blackness . <p> Suddenly , I saw my brother being lifted . David was actually floating over to us . Just for those few seconds , when he was in the air , I could n't hear anything . It was a moment of silence . The second I saw David hit the sand , I let out a sigh of relief . <p> The three of us were stunned . I rushed over to David . He seemed fine . <p> @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I flew ! " <p> " How did you do that ? " I asked . <p> " Someone helped me . They carried me over to you . " <p> Suddenly , I looked over at the pier , and for half a second , I saw Christopher Dalton . When I blinked , he was gone . I knew that he was thanking me . <p> That was a long time ago . Mary is still alive . I often see her and wonder if she knows that we gave her the ring . No one believed Amy , David , and me , of course . Whenever someone asks , we just smile . I 've looked and looked for some time now , but I have never seen Chris again . <p> 
##1005250 from The Feast of Love <p> As a Jew , I am drawn in a suicidal manner toward the maddest of Christians . Kierkegaard , being one of the craziest and most lovable of the lot , and , therefore , dialectically , possibly the most sane of them all , is of compelling interest to me . All my life , I have tracked his ghost doggedly through the snow . Lonely , eccentric , and deranged , the man Kierkegaard ( 1813-1855 ) was drawn to philosophize about matters concerning which one can not acquire any certainty whatsoever . Kierkegaard worried continuously about the mode in which one might think , or could think , about two unknowns : God and love . These were for the hapless Kierkegaard the most compelling topics . They bound him in tantalizing straps . Of the two vast subjects about which one can never be certain and should therefore perhaps keep silent , God and love , Kierkegaard , a bachelor , claimed especial expertise . Kierkegaard 's homage to both was multifarious verbiage . He wrote intricately beautiful @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . <p> I learned Danish in order to read Kierkegaard . His picture is on the wall in my study . I can not write a word without his image up there , looking down at me . <p> As a member of the bourgeoisie , which is what I am , I live quietly in Ann Arbor , Michigan , a city of ghosts and mutterers . Everywhere you go in this town , you hear people muttering . Often this is brilliant muttering , tenurable muttering , but that is not my point . All these mini-vocalizations are the effect of the local university , the Amalgamated Education Corporation , as I call it , my employer . It is in the nature of universities to promote ideas that should not be put to use , whose glories must reside exclusively in the cranium . Therefore the muttering . There are exceptions , of course . The multimillionaire lawyers and doctors and engineers-how did they get into the university in the first place ? -live here among us in their , to quote Cole Porter , stinking pink palazzos @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with horsepower . The warped personalities , like myself , like my prey Kierkegaard , walk hunched over and unnoticed , or we wait at the bus stops , managing our intricate and tiny mental kingdoms as the rain falls on our unhatted heads . We wait for the millennium and for Elijah . <p> I live next door to Bradley W. Smith . I see him walking his dog , also called Bradley . What is this , that a man should name his dog after himself ? The man runs a local coffee franchise , a modest achievement , in all truth . Megalomania can strike anywhere , I suppose is the point . <p> After he lost his second wife to another man , I decided to explain to him about Kierkegaard . In doing so , I first used the example of myself . <p> My wife is Esther , a tough bird , the love of my existence . She works as a biochemist for one of the local drug companies . It was Esther who years ago found out that the wonder medication Thalidomide deformed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ took away toes and fingers and entire arms . If Esther 's mother had n't joined the Party as a young woman ( and who else but the Reds were trying to desegregate the public beaches in those days ? who else had a single social idea worth implementing ? ) , and had n't dressed Esther in red diapers , and had n't signed Esther up for the Party as a child , she would have been proclaimed , my Esther , from the rooftops . But somehow , in the shower of publicity , some measuring worm looked up her background , and , though Esther as a youngster was blameless , and not a Leninist but a reader of Trotsky , that was that . <p> We live , in all truth , a tranquil domestic life . We have a year or two to go before retirement . Mondays , Wednesdays , and Fridays , I cook dinner . My specialty is a beef burgundy , very tasty , you have to remember to cook it slowly , covered , of course , in the liquids so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tender . Tuesday and Thursdays are the nights when Esther cooks . We read , we talk , we play canasta and Scrabble . We feed the two goldfish , Julius and Ethel . They must live . <p> As is proper , the children-all grown-have left home . We have three . The oldest , our beautiful daughter , Sarah , is , like her mother , a biochemist . She is successful but , so far , unmarried . She would be a handful for any man . I mean this as praise and description . The middle one , Ephraim , is a mathematician and father to three wonderful little ones , our grandchildren . I have pictures here somewhere . Of the youngest , Aaron , who is crazy , I should not speak . And not because he blames me for the mess in his head . No : he deserves to be left alone with his commonplace lunacies-he calls them ideas-and given peace . He lives , it goes without saying , in Los Angeles . <p> After Kathryn , Bradley 's first wife-a woman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ became a manager of a local coffee shop and subsequently bought the house next door . He became our neighbor . He moved into the haunted house adjacent to ours , haunted not by ghosts but divorce . There was a divorce dybbuk living inside the woodwork . Young couples would purchase that property , they would take up occupancy , they would quarrel , the quarreling would escalate to shouting and table pounding , they would anathematize each other , and , presto , they would move out , not together , but separately . They would scatter . Then back it would go onto the real estate market . Three couples we saw this happen to . <p> I should explain . At first sight , each time they arrived , they were fine scrubbed American pragmatists you might see photographed in a glossy magazine . Blond , blue-eyed Rotarians , fresh owners of real estate , Hemingway readers , they would unload their cheerful sunny furniture from U-Haul vans . By the time they moved out , they would have acquired mottled gray skin and haggard Eastern European @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the greenish appearance of owl-eyed Soviet refugees stumbling out of Aeroflot . Well , of course domesticity is not for every taste , but these young families emerged from that house bent and broken , like vegetables left forgotten in the crisper . <p> So , when Bradley arrived , alone except for his dog , we thought : The curse is over . The dybbuk will have to locate itself elsewhere . That was until Bradley met and married Diana . But I am getting ahead of myself . <p> This Bradley , an interesting man , invited Esther and me to dinner the second week he was installed in that house . A courageous gesture . He was not afraid of Jews . He served veal , which Esther will not eat . In the dining room , she picked at it delicately . She left small scraps of it distributed randomly around her plate . I said later , At least no ham , no pork , no shrimp mousse , no trayf . But Harry , she said , veal to me is like a frozen scream @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eat it , I said . So I do n't , she said . So ? <p> The man , Bradley , had a certain hangdog diffuseness characteristic of the recently divorced . But he was trying against certain odds to be cheerful . He asked me about my work , he asked Esther about her work , and he listened pleasantly while we did our best to explain . These topics do not provide good conversation . He listened , though . He had large watchful eyes . I was reminded of an extremely handsome toad , a toad with class and style and good tailoring . He seemed to be living far down inside himself , perhaps in a secret passageway connected to his heart . Biochemistry does not scintillate at the dinner table , however , nor do neo-Kantian aesthetics . Only when I mentioned Kierkegaard did Bradley perk up . From behind a locked bedroom door , his dog simultaneously barked . I assumed that the dog had caught sight of the dybbuk or was interested in Kierkegaard . <p> Prompted by his interest , I said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unlucky and boorish in love . He had fallen in love with an attractive girl , Regine Olsen , and then he had concluded that they would be incompatible , that the love was mistaken , that he himself was complex and she was simple , and he contrived to break the engagement so as to give the appearance that it was the young lady 's fault , not his . <p> He succeeded at least in breaking the engagement , in never marrying her . Cowardice familiar to many young men was probably involved here . Kierkegaard wished to believe that the fault lay with the nature of love itself , the problem of love , its fate in his life . From the personal he extrapolated to the general . A philosopher 's trick . Regine married another man and moved away from Copenhagen to the West Indies , but Kierkegaard , the knight of faith , carried a burning torch , in the form of his philosophy , for her the rest of his days . This is madness of a complex lifelong variety . He spent his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ justify his actions toward Regine Olsen . He died of a warped spine . <p> Esther says that when I am seated at a dinner table , plates and food in front of me , I am transmogrified into a bore . Yak yak , she says . At the table she adjusted her watchband and raised her eyebrows to me . I felt her kicking me in the shins . Still I pressed on . <p> Soren Kierkegaard maintained that everyone experiences love , everyone knows what it is intuitively , and yet it can not be spoken of directly . Or distinctly . It falls into the category of the unknown , where plain speech is inadequate to the obscurity of the subject . Similarly , everyone experiences God , but the experience of God is so unlike the rest of our experiences that there , too , plain speech is defeated . According to Kierkegaard , nearly everyone intuits the subtlety of God , but almost no one knows how to speak of Him . This is where our troubles begin . <p> At this point I noticed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . She glanced toward Bradley , our new neighbor . Do n't lecture the boy , she meant . <p> I raised my voice to keep his attention . Speaking about God is not , I said , pounding the dinner table lightly with my fist for emphasis , the same as talking about car dealerships or Phillips screwdrivers . The salt and pepper shakers clattered . The problem with love and God , the two of them , is how to say anything about them that does n't annihilate them instantly with the wrong words , with untruth . In The Philosophical Fragments , Kierkegaard points out that the wrong words destroy love in a way that waiting for one 's lover , delaying consummation , never can . In this sense , love and God are equivalents . We feel both , but because we can not speak clearly about them , we end up-wordless , inarticulate-by denying their existence altogether , and , pfffft , they die . ( They can , however , come back . Because God is a god , when He is dead , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ come back if He chooses to . Nietzsche somehow failed to mention this . ) <p> Both God and love are best described and addressed by means of poetry . Poetry , however , is also stone dead at the present time , like its first cousin , God . Love will very quickly follow , no ? Hmm ? Do n't you agree ? I asked . After God dies , must love , a smaller god , not follow ? <p> Uh , I do n't know . I 'll have to think about it . Do you want some dessert , professor ? Bradley , our new neighbor , asked . I got some ice cream here in the refrigerator . It 's chocolate . <p> A very nice change of subject , Esther said , breathless with relief . Harry , she continued , I think you should save Kierkegaard for some other time . For perhaps another party . A party with more Ph.D 's . <p> She gave me a loving but boldly impatient look , perfected from a lifetime of practice . Esther does @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feels implicated . <p> Okay , I said , I 'm sorry . I get going , and I ca n't help myself . I 'm like a man trying to rid himself of an obsession . Actually , I am that man . I 'm not like him at all . <p> Esther turned toward Bradley Smith . Harry , she said , is on the outs in his department . He does all the unfashionable philosophers , he 's a baggage handler of Bigthink . What do you do , again , Mr. Smith ? You explained , but I forgot . <p> Well , he said , I 've just bought into a coffee shop in the mall , I have a partnership , and now I 'm managing it . This interested me because I 've always wanted to open a restaurant . <p> Also , he continued , I 'm an artist . I paint pictures . There was an appreciable pause in the conversation while Esther and I took this in . Would you like to see my paintings ? he asked . They 're @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there on the living room wall . <p> Esther appeared discountenanced but recovered herself quickly . The artwork he had indicated had a great deal of open space in it . The painting itself covered much of the wall . However , three quarters of the canvas appeared to be vacant . It was like undeveloped commercial property . It had n't even been compromised with white paint . It was just unfulfilled canvas . Perhaps the open space was a commentary on what was there . In the upper righthand corner of the picture , though , was the appearance of a window , or what might have been a window if you were disposed to think of it representationally . Through this window you could discern , distantly , a patch of green-which I took to be a fieldand in the center of this green , one could construe a figure . A figure of sorts . Unmistakably a woman . <p> Who 's that ? I asked . <p> The painting 's called Synergy#1 , Bradley said . <p> Okay , but who 's that ? <p> Just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were you thinking of ? <p> Oh , it 's just an abstract person . <p> Esther laughed . Bradley , she said , I never heard of an abstract person before . Except for the persons that my husband thinks of professionally . Example-persons , for example . <p> Well , this one is . Abstract , I mean . <p> It looks like a woman to me , Esther said . Viewed from a distance . As long as it 's a woman , it 's not abstract . <p> Well , maybe she 's on the way to becoming abstract . <p> Oh , you mean , as if she 's all women ? A symbol for women ? There she is , not a woman but all women , wrapped up in one woman , there in the distance ? <p> Maybe . <p> Well , Esther said , I do n't like that . No such thing as Woman . Just women , and a woman , such as me , for example , clomping around in my mud boots . But that 's not to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ do like it . <p> Thank you . I have n't sold it yet . <p> I like the window , Esther continued , and all those scrappy unpainted areas . <p> It 's not quite unpainted , he informed us . It 's underpainted . I splashed some coffee on the canvas to stain it . Blend-of-the-day coffee from the place where I work . It 's a statement . You just ca n't see the stains from here . <p> Ah , I said , nodding . A statement about capitalism ? Esther glared at me . <p> You want to see my pictures in the basement ? Bradley asked . <p> Sure , I said , why not ? <p> Only thing is , he said , there 're some yellow jackets nesting in the walls-or wasps-and you 'll have to watch yourself when you get down there . Careful not to get stung . <p> We 'll do that , I said . <p> About this basement and the paintings residing there , what can I say ? I held Esther 's hand as we descended the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , likewise , were on my mind . I did not want to have her stung and would protect her if necessary . Bradley had located his paintings along the walls , as painters do , on the floor , leaning . Each painting leaned into another like derelicts reclining against other derelicts . He had installed a fervent showering bath of fluorescent light overhead . A quantity of light like that will give you a headache if you 're inclined , as I am , toward pain . The basement smelled of turpentine and paint substances , the pleasant sinus-clearing elemental ingredients of art , backed by the more pessimistic odors of sub-surface cellar mold and mildew . <p> One by one he brought out his visions . <p> This , he said , is Composition in Gray and Black . <p> He held up , for our inspection , images of syphilis and gonorrhea . <p> And this , he said , is called Free Weights . <p> Very interesting , Esther said , scratching her nose with a pencil she had found somewhere , as she contemplated our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like acorns , from badly imagined and executed surrealist trees , growing in a forest of fog and painterly confusion that no revision could hope to clarify . <p> And here , he said , lugging out a larger canvas from behind the others , is a different sort of picture . In my former style . He placed it before us . <p> Until that moment I had thought the boy , our neighbor , a dumb bunny . This painting was breath-snatching . What 's this called ? I asked him . <p> I call it The Feast of Love , Bradley said . In contrast to his other paintings , which appeared to have been slopped over with mud and coffee grounds , this one , this feast of love , consisted of color . A sunlit table-on which had been set dishes and cups and glasses-appeared to be overflowing with light . The table and the feast had been placed in the foreground , and on all sides the background fell backward into a sort of visible darkness . The eye returned to the table . In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plates were dishes of the brightest hues , as if the appetite the guest brought to this feast was an appetite not for food but for the entire spectrum as lit by celestial arc lamps . The food had no shape . It only had color , burning pastels , of the pale but intense variety . Spooky magic flowed from one end of the table to the other , all the suggestions of food having been abstracted into too-bright shapes , as if one had stepped out of a movie theater into a bright afternoon summer downtown where all the objects were so overcrowded with light that the eye could n't process any of it . The painting was like a flashbulb , a blinding , cataract art . This food laid out before us was like that . Then I noticed that the front of the table seemed to be tipped toward the viewer , as if all this light , and all this food , and all this love , was about to slide into our laps . The feast of love was the feast of light , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sighed : Oh oh oh . It 's beautiful . And then she said , Where are the people ? <p> There are n't any , Bradley told her . <p> Why not ? <p> Because , he said , no one 's ever allowed to go there . You can see it , but you ca n't reach it . <p> Now it was my turn to scratch my balding head . Bradley , I barked at him , this is not like your other paintings , this is magnificent , why do you hide such things ? <p> Because it 's not true , he said . <p> What do you mean , it 's not true ? Of course it 's true , if you can paint it . <p> No , he said , still looking fixedly at his creation . If you ca n't get there , then it 's not true . He looked up at me and Esther , two old people holding hands in our neighbor 's basement . I 'm not a fool , he said . I do n't spend my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . <p> I could have argued with him but chose not to . <p> And with that , he picked up the painting and hid it behind the silly ugly dumbbells growing like acorns on psychotic trees . <p> What a strange young man , Esther said , tucked in next to me , several hours later , sleepy but sleepless in the dark . Her nightgown swished as she tossed and turned . He seems so nondescript and Midwestern , harmless , and then he produces from the back of his basement a picture that anyone would remember for the rest of their lives . <p> Oh , I said , you could say it 's imitation-Matisse or imitationHockney . Besides , I said , light as a subject for contemporary paintings is passe . <p> You could say that , Esther whispered , but you would n't , and if you did , you 'd be wrong . <p> She gave me a little playful slap . <p> I only said that you could say that , not that you would . <p> You did n't actually say it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Esther said . I realized that she was agitated . I turned to her and rubbed her back and her neck , and she put her hands on my face . I could feel her smiling in the darkness . I could feel her wrinkles rising . <p> Harry , she said , it was a recognition for me , a moment of beauty . How strange that a wonderful painting should be created by such a seemingly mediocre man . Our neighbor , living in the Dybbuk House . How strange , how strange . Then she sighed . How strange , she said again . <p> Then the phone rang . <p> Do n't answer it , Esther quickly said . You must n't . Do n't , dear , do n't , do n't , do n't . <p> No , I must , I told her . I must . <p> I picked up the telephone receiver and said hello . From across the continent , on the West Coast , my son Aaron began speaking to me . In a voice tireless with rage , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Once again I was invited to hear the story of how I had ruined his life , destroyed his soul , sacrificed him to the devils and angels of lost ambition . In numbing fashion he found words to batter my heart . Indictment : I had expected more of him than he could achieve . Indictment : I had had hopes for him that drove him , he said , insane . Indictment : I was who I was . Crazy , sick , and inspired with malice , he described his craziness and his sickness in detail , his terrible impulses to hurt others and to hurt himself , as if I had not heard this story many times before , several times , innumerable times . Razors , wire , gas . He called me , his father , a motherfucker . Then he broke down in tears and asked for money . Demanded money . From the nothingness and everlasting night of his life , he demanded cash . I , too , was weeping with sorrow and rage , holding the earpiece tightly to my head @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Esther . Cupping my hand around the mouthpiece , I asked him if he had hurt anyone , if he had hurt himself , and he said no , but he was thinking about it , he planned every single minute in advance , he planned monstrous personal calamities , he needed help , he would ask for help , but first he had to have money now , this very minute , my money , superhuman quantities of it . Do n't make me your sacrificial lamp , he said , then corrected himself , sacrificial lamb , do n't you do that now , not again . I said , against my better judgement , that I would see what I could do , I would send him what I had . He seemed briefly calm . He breathed in and out . He pleasantly wished me goodnight , as if at the conclusion of an effective performance . <p> To have a son or daughter like this is to have a portion of the spirit shrivel and die , never to recover . You witness the lost @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eternity . Ethics is a dream , and tenderness a daytime phantasm , lost when night comes . Esther and I , eyes open , held each other until dawn broke . My darling wept in my arms , our hearts in ruin . We live in a large city , populated only by ourselves . <p> Kafka : A false alarm on the night bell once answered-it can not be made good , not ever . <p> 
##1005253 after Natalia Ginzburg Headnote " The following essay , He and I , " captures the seesaw of human companionship and love with a patience and sensitivity to interconnectedness that it is hard to imagine a male essayist attempting , much less equaling. " -Phillip Lopate <p> She is quintessentially French . I am , in the loosest sense of the word , American . She always feels cold . I am always hot . In the winter , even if it is n't chilly , she does nothing but complain about how cold it is . Even in late spring , there are large , fertile fields of goose bumps on her thin , beautiful arms , and I have known her , even in the Middle East in late June , to wear a woolen sweater around the house , to sleep in a lamb 's wool camisole in August . She speaks , since she does n't speak much , only one language well , though she seems to understand so much more than I do , even in the languages she does n't really @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make myself understood in several languages , yet have trouble focusing on the conversations of others . She enjoys reading maps and navigating around in new places . I hate it , and quickly grow impatient and ornery . After a single afternoon in a foreign city , she will have mastered the public transportation system , be able to find her way to the centrum from the most desolate-seeming corners . I will get lost five meters from my own hotel , or-worse yet-a new apartment . She hates asking for directions , preferring to gaze patiently at an ( to me ) indecipherable map for many moments . When we get lost , I am quick to blame her . She blames no one , but busies herself looking for secondhand shops and fruit and vegetable markets in whatever neighborhood we are lost in . She loves old architecture , curved surfaces , rummaging among the trinkets and memorabilia of other people 's lives at flea markets , the scent of flowers and herbs . I am always impatient to get where I 'm going , missing virtually everything @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ever been able to love completely and unconditionally are my own disfigured face in the mirror and sitting at my desk making a kind of music exclusively with words . . . though I love my son , and sometimes her , in a different way , as well . She loves travel , unfamiliar places , a sense of the unexpected . I dream of living always in one place , burning my passport , etching an address in stone upon my doorpost , running for mayor in some town I will never again move from . I love to eat in restaurants-bad restaurants , good restaurants , even mediocre ones . She always wants to eat at home : fresh vegetables and better food , she claims , at one-fifth the price . She hates the way I do the dishes and leave a mess after cooking . I like , on occasion , to do the dishes and cook , though I 'm quite awful at the former , which I always do in too great a hurry , leaving all sorts of prints , smudges , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a late movie-preferably a slow-moving , melancholic one of the French or Italian sort-and to have a glass of wine or two with dinner . I prefer rather superficial , fast-moving American films , fall asleep almost the second I enter the theater for anything later than the 7:30 showing , and can drink , at most , a glass of white zinfandel in late afternoon . She has little patience for , or interest in , pleasantries among strangers , preferring to restrict her circle of acquaintances to those she is truly intimate with . I enjoy talking to the garbage collector , the mailman , making small talk with the meter reader and taxi driver . The greetings " How are you ? " and " Have a nice day " do not cause me to rail against the superficiality of America and Americans . She is shy ; I am not . Occasionally , however , her shyness rubs off on me , or , alternatively-as in the case of landlords who are trying to take advantage of us or rabbis who are too adamantly in favor of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in English , her vocabulary suddenly expanding to include words like " barbaric " and " philistine . " She has no respect for established authority , and thinks nothing of running out on student loans , disconnecting the electric meter , or not paying taxes . I , on the other hand , though I have the face of an anarchist , am afraid of established authority and tend , against my own better instincts , to respect it . As soon as I spot a police car in the rearview mirror , I assume I have done something terribly wrong and begin to contemplate spending the rest of my life in jail . She , on the other hand , smiles shyly at the police officer , who quickly folds up his notebook and goes back to his car . She likes goat 's cheese , garlic , a good slice of pate with a glass of red wine , tomatoes with fresh rosemary . I like sausages , raw meat , pizza , and gefilte fish with very sharp horseradish . She claims that I am a Neanderthal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who will die young of high cholesterol , rancid oils , and pesticides . She is refined , has a sensitive palate and a nose so accurate it can tell the difference between day-old and two-day-old butter . When we lived in Cambridge , Massachusetts , she spent many days in search of the perfect , vine-ripened tomato and just the right kind of basil for making pesto . She ca n't stand , for example , pine nuts that are rancid . " Rancid , " in fact , is one of the English words she uses most frequently . At the cinema she hates to sit too close to the screen , and-if we 're at home-refuses to watch movies on TV that are interrupted by commercials , claiming that it interferes with her " dream world . " I like to sit near the front of the theater and tell jokes during the movie . I like almost any movie , as long as it is superficial enough not to disturb my worldview . She prefers dark , slow-moving , romantic tragedies , set to the music of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ days after , causing her to question , or reexamine , almost everything in her world . She remembers the names of films and actors , and prefers actresses who embody a kind of low-key sensuality and dark reserve . I adore those who are brazenly sexual and whore-like in their demeanor . If , for example , as in Roman Polanski 's Bitter Moon , there are two women , one of whom is subtly beautiful , sensual , and slightly tragic , the other who is vulgar , brazen , hedonistic , and rather shallow , it is always certain that she will prefer the first . I always prefer the second . On those rare occasions when we 've seen a film we both liked , she will , the next day-even the next month-remember every small detail of it : the weather in a particular scene , the shape of an awning , the way a blouse or a cloth napkin lay against the protagonist 's arm or lap . I , on the other hand , will remember nothing , not even the plot , as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the night . Somewhat sheep-faced , I will ask her to remind me what the movie was about , who was in it . . . on occasion , even , what its name was , all.of which she will generously do , never even pausing to comment upon my infirmity . Though I am rather smart about books and literature , it is the rare film in which I am even able to follow the plot line , much less unravel the mystery , so that , after we leave the theater ( assuming I have n't fallen asleep ) , I will usually need her to explain to me exactly what happened , who was related to whom , and why , at the end , a photograph of one character 's daughter mysteriously showed up on the wall of a seemingly unrelated character 's living room . When she does , I am inevitably embarrassed about my simple-mindedness and lack of insight , a shortcoming she seems either oblivious to or willing to overlook . I either love or hate people , and find myself utterly incapable of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She , though often equally indifferent to the same people , always seeks to find something interesting and unique about them , a pursuit I have neither the time nor patience for . Something in even the most uninspiring of persons arouses , if not her conversation , then at least her curiosity , and-once she has been engaged with someone in any way-she retains a certain ongoing loyalty to them I can neither relate to or comprehend . Though far less extroverted than I am , she will carry on a correspondence with any number of people , in all sorts of countries , and keeps a list in her address book of all the birthdays of everyone she has ever known and liked . I consider every crisis a catastrophe , and will begin to fidget nervously and despondently whenever I am confronted with a late train , a rescheduled flight , or an incompetent waitperson . She considers each of these events a hidden opportunity , a portent from the gods , yet another manifestation of the world 's independence and revivifying fickleness . Though I have somehow @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I am extremely lazy . My favorite activity , as Freud said of poets , is daydreaming , my buttocks wedged firmly in a chair . She is never idle , raising domesticity to an art form , a Buddhistic perfection in every ironed crease . Being a devotee of Bishop Berkeley 's formulation to the effect that , if you ca n't see it , it is n't there , I prefer neatness to cleanliness . My idea of housecleaning is to sweep the large dustballs under the bed , stuff plastic and paper bags sloppily into a kitchen cabinet , cover the bed hurriedly with a creased down comforter , cram my underwear ( freely mingling the soiled and the dean ) into a dresser drawer . She is almost maniacally clean , sniffing each of my shirts and socks daily to make sure they do n't need to be washed , vacuuming in corners , changing the pillowcases and sheets with the regularity of tides . I like to buy cheap things , particularly clothes , frequently wearing them once or twice until they fray in the washer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ place to place without ever wearing them again . One of the things she seems to enjoy most is to go through my clothes closets , reminding me of all the cheap items I bought and never wore , or which I have worn once , washed , and which are now " totally out of shape . " She buys clothes almost never , but always things of good quality , preferring to wear the same few things ( always immaculately dean ) time and time again . I fancy myself a great dancer and a sex object . She thinks of herself as physically awkward and more sensual than sexy . I can type like a madman and , albeit reluctantly , use a computer . She considers a keyboard a postmodern artifact . I like to drive . She likes to navigate . On those few occasions on which she drives our car , I nag her relentlessly about shifting at the wrong speeds , or squeezing too hard on the brakes . When she navigates and we begin to lose our way , I immediately become so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Budapest , she threatened to get out of the car and go home on her own . In countries known for their dangerous drivers , she insists I do all the driving , an affirmation of my manhood I accept reluctantly , though I do n't object to being in control . I am the kind of person who can do many things at once , most of them rather middlingly . She does only one thing at a time , but always with a sense of perfection . I like to cook without recipes , freely mixing Marsala wine , mustard , artichoke hearts , candied ginger , maple syrup , and plums , hoping something capable of being digested will emerge . She always uses a recipe-except for things she has made before-but everything she makes is successful and delicious . I would have been a rock star , or a concert pianist-or perhaps , even , the proprietor of an illicit sex club-had I felt freer to follow my lyrical and immoral heart 's calling . She would have been a sister in a Carmelite monastery , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother . I am a reluctant , though not unsuccessful , father . She could have been many things , all of them having something to do with taking care of others or using her hands : a nurse , a dentist , a carpenter , a potter , a refinisher of furniture , a restorer of antiquarian books . I , though I like to imagine otherwise , could probably have done only the one thing I am doing now : putting words to paper . I like to live part of my life in the if but only mode of wishful thinking and fantastical alternatives . She accepts the life that life has given her as her one possible destiny , without complaining . She does n't like to think of money-in fact , her refusal to think about it has , on occasion , gotten us into trouble . I , while I do n't like to think of it either , am usually left with the unpoetic task of having to worry about it . Since I have been with her , in fact , hardly a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . almost constantly . She , on the other hand , worries about many other unpoetic tasks in our lives which have nothing at all to do with money . I can imitate people from many countries , and with many different accents . She is too much herself to imitate anyone . I like to have some kind of music playing whenever I am not reading or working . She usually prefers silence , or only to have music on when she is actually listening to it . I will continue to eat even when I am no longer hungry , just for the pleasure of it . She eats only as much as satisfies her hunger on any occasion . I abhor all forms of table manners , eating with my fingers , chewing with my mouth open , taking food freely from others " plates , licking my fingers at the table , stuffing my mouth with large quantities , burping and passing gas . She never eats before being seated at the table , waits for everyone else to do likewise , chews only small morsels at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ such deliberate pleasure , that I have usually finished what is on my plate well before she is actually seated . Only twice in our eight years together have I observed her passing gas . Burping , never . As soon as I make a decision , I immediately , and relentlessly , tilt towards wanting the other alternative . She immediately accepts , and begins to implement , any decision she has made . She often says that I am a neurotic and " special " kind of person , that she feels that , living with me , this kind of behavior is the " statue quo . " Occasionally , when I am in one of my periods of manic reconsideration , she smiles slightly in her slightly smiling French way , as if to say , " Oy vey , what a case I am married to . " I like to eat on the street-frequently , and mostly greasy and unhealthy foods-which accounts for the fact that most of my clothes have grease and/or coffee stains on them , souvenirs of my animalistic habits she claims @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all , I like to devour greasy Hungarian sausages at stand-up counters in Budapest . She likes to eat only " atable , " quietly , savoring every morsel of , say , pate with , preferably , a glass of red wine . Among the tastes in life I can truly not abide are pasteque , fennel , and every form of anise , all of which she has rather an affection for . I am often angry at others , friends , foes , and family alike , and like to hold , and nurse , these angers for as long as is humanly possible , until I can almost feel them eating at my liver , like an earthquake with numerous , sustained aftershocks . She is incapable of sustained anger or hostility and would , I believe ( perhaps already has ) , forgive me the most egregious deeds and betrayals , an attitude I have no desire to test to its limits . Even in her case , I like to remind her as often as possible of the ways she has disappointed and betrayed me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my betrayals and weaknesses . I never cry , even when I am truly unhappy , yet I have a tendency to grow teary-eyed whenever an athlete experiences some major triumph , or after the last out of the World Series , when the players all rush to the mound and hug each other . She cries easily , even at sentimental movies whose pandering to sentimental feelings she despises . I will take any kind of pill or medicine anyone recommends in order to relieve pain and discomfort . She prefers " natural " remedies . Although I am not terribly Jewish by religious conviction , I wanted to have our son circumcised when he was born . She felt it to be a pagan ritual tantamount to permanent disfigurement , and began assembling propaganda from various anti-circumcision organizations around the country which depicted vast armadas of mutilated children with heavily bandaged penises . She won . . . she usually wins . I think she is beautiful , but too thin , and am constantly after her to try and gain weight . She thinks she is less beautiful @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beautiful arms . " When she was younger , in California , she wore her hair very short and looked like a kind of postmodern French punktress on her way to the wrong discotheque . Now , I think , she is much more beautiful and womanly , and , like I am , a bit older . When we met in Ecuador , she had rather gray hair and was wearing purple nylon pants and a yellow sweatshirt . She seemed , at first , more interested in reading her mail than in talking to me , a fact which I soon realized was due more to her shyness-and her passion for her mail-than to lack of interest in me . On the two-hour bus ride between Quito and Otavalo , across the equator , I slowly began to realize that she was quite beautiful , in an undemonstrative sort of way , and that night , as a way of getting myself into her room and closer to her bed in the hotel where she , her female traveling companion , and I were staying , I planned to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discovered , as shy as she seemed , and it turned out I did n't need to do that . The next morning I remember her companion bringing two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice to the room , along with coffee , and then our walking , hand in hand , above the town of Otavalo , where we finally sat in a small restaurant and her friend , Annick , took our picture . I looked very happy in the photo , though not too handsome . She looked happy , too , and quite lovely . We stayed in several very lovely , and inexpensive , small Ecuadorian hotels during those days , and I remember , not even a week after not having to borrow her toothpaste , looking down at her one night ( or was it afternoon ? ) and saying , " I think I love you . " " I think I love you , too , Gringo , " she replied . She used to call me " Gringo " in those days . I remember talking to her an awful lot back @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ compassionately , she always listened . I myself am not such a good listener , except on occasion , so that-along with the sweet way she always said " uh-huh , uhhuh. : " and " yes . . . yes " when I was telling her a story-it made a real impression on me . Back then , I do n't remember her being nearly as cold , or quite as thin . . . but , then again , we were in love and in Ecuador . Sometimes , now , when I realize we have been together for more than eight years and have a seven-year-old son , I think that this is one of the major miracles of my life . . . and I 'm sure she does also . I was so romantic then , that night in Otavalo , and so was she when , hardly a week later , she got on a plane from Quito to the United States and followed me to Boston . I remember her calling me , as we had planned , but suddenly having a sense that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me she was standing at a pay telephone across the street at Porter Square , I ran down the stairs , not even bothering to button my shirt or pull up my zipper , and took her into my arms and carried her halfway up to my fourth-floor , rent-controlled apartment . I was stronger in those days , and healthier , and so , maybe , was she . We were not so young , but very much in love , and there was a scent of laundry , somehow , wafting through my windows as we made love , on a mattress located on my study floor , for the first time in the United States of America . Now , as I write this , I am sitting in Israel , and we will soon be in Paris , then in Provence , and then back in the United States of America , the only country whose language I have truly mastered . I no longer live in that rent-controlled apartment , and that mattress , I am quite sure , is no longer on the floor . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ knowing eyes and beautiful smile and lovely French voice , and she is still , as a friend of mine once described her , " une chouette " -an owl . Which is a wiser , more deliberate animal than a fly . 