Saturday sap . . . . . .

Saturday morning. The world outside my den window is showing hints of spring this week as the daffodils suddenly jumped out of the ground, the maples painted the treeline with a whisper of red, and my early crop of weeds claimed their turf.

I should post on matters of great import. But spring is in the air, and I would rather not get into economics, religion, social justice, or war and peace this morning. Those problems will always be with us.

I think the spring-like weather this week has made my creative sap rise.

Everywhere I look there is a story or song seeking composure. (Alright, I know that sentence was a bit off, but the creative sap tank is not yet full, or maybe it is too full, it is a tricky balance).

I made an early trip to Mark's Food Shop this morning (regular readers will remember Mark's as your one-stop Valentines Day shopping center and gas station). Opening paragraphs of short stories crowded the parking lot and store.

Two pretty little girls, one obviously the big sister, were sitting in the back seat of an SUV, both faces pressed closely against the same window, talking intently about what they saw, as they waited on their dad, who was coming out of the store with mountain dews and snacks.

A lean, elderly man with a full head of curly, silver hair tucked under a cap decorated with U. S. Navy insignia, was standing next to his pristine, forest green, early nineties compact pick-up. His jeans were bright denim blue, especially against the white of his walking shoes and socks that connected his feet to the bottom of his pants legs. As his tank was filling he turned to the trash can next to the pump and reached deeply into it with his right hand. His hand went deeper and deeper until his arm could stretch no further. It was as if there was a convenience store gremlin inside the trashcan pulling him downward into the dark depths of the can.. I was afraid that the gentleman might lose the battle and suddenly disappear entirely, being pulled headfirst into the mass of floorboard refuse.

The store clerk complained, "Can I sue them for raising taxes on cigarettes again?"

Then I dropped by Hometown Market to get a bag of coffee beans. I could have stayed there all day. There is a story in every check-out. But I had not yet had coffee, so it was time to go home.

Earlier in the week I was in a fast food restaurant. There was a man and a woman sitting at a table in deep conversation. They didn't appear to be on a date; she was in sweats and he was in work clothes. People were coming and going around them, but they never appeared to notice. They occasionally smiled, but mostly they just talked, taking turns speaking and listening, listening and speaking. As they talked across their food they moved closer and closer together, leaning forward against the table. But it was if they were afraid to leave the protection of the table, which kept them from getting too close. I came back into the same place two hours later, they were still there talking, still separated by the safety of the table.

Stories springing up everywhere like daffodils or crocus . . . or onions or dandelions.

But as I have been writing and remembering these and other moments of the week I realize my original premise this morning was wrong.

The stories of people are the things of the highest import.

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