It's a beautiful morning in the Forest, and you are off to visit your friends Mr. and Mr. Squirrel for a quiet afternoon of scrapbooking; as a break from picnic-planning, it will do you good. Whatever shall you wear?
TIEBREAKER LIGHTNING ROUND:
Without a moment of hesitation your hand falls upon the pink linen suit. The very thing for a nice morning with friends. And it has such cunning gold buttons, sure to charm everyone. But what shoes?
Yes, of course: gold sneakers, just right for an informal morning's arts and crafts. They sparkle so, like a new-made planet in the light of a young star. And of course they tie neatly with the suit's buttons. Last thing: an accessory.
The pin is, of course, nonrepresentational and abstract, much like Grandfather these days. You fix it to your lapel and check yourself in the mirror. Almost time to leave!
You just need to choose a scrapbook to add to.
You just need to choose a scrapbook to add to.
You go to your bookshelves. They stretch quite a ways, because you have to fit all the memories in along with the fiction—nonfiction goes on a smaller shelf, because there is so little of it, and so few books about it.
The Oldest Scrapbook is nestled up near Grandmother's green-bound book. You didn't buy it or make it, so you're not sure what the cover is made of, but it feels like good soft suede. The pages are thick creamy paper. There's still some space in it. Might as well fill it up.
Now, which memories to put into it?
And now you must be off, though it isn't far.
Usually made of logs, squirrel houses sit on pillars, with a nice wide staircase in front. They have broad eaves and cheery tartan curtains in the square windows. Your two friends have built theirs in the shade of three great cedars.
Usually made of logs, squirrel houses sit on pillars, with a nice wide staircase in front. They have broad eaves and cheery tartan curtains in the square windows. Your two friends have built theirs in the shade of three great cedars.
The squirrel you normally see is Mr. William Squirrel, because Mr. Robert is usually out in the Forest collecting nuts and things. William is small and grey and tends to wear suits. Robert is big and red and dresses mostly in flannel.
Right now, William is sitting in the open doorway, unscrewing a flower press. Robert is out by one of the cedars.
"Oh," says William, looking up. "Right on time! We, unfortunately, got a bit of a late start." He struggles with one of the screws, gives up, and stands. "Come inside! Would you like a snack, or is it too soon?"
The inside of the house is dim and warm. Lots of large soft furniture, most of it leather or polished walnut. You follow William to the kitchen table, which is covered with scrapbooking materials, where he sets the press and you sit. He starts putting food together.
It’s tough, but the last screw finally comes off. Inside the press are several violets and a daisy.
“Oh, thank you!” says William, coming back with a wooden tray. “I had almost given up on that. Now, what will you have?”
“Oh, thank you!” says William, coming back with a wooden tray. “I had almost given up on that. Now, what will you have?”
William passes you a plate and lets you take what you like.
“I had hoped to use those violets on a page dedicated to Rob’s mother,” he says. “I’m so glad you could help—if I’d asked him, it would spoil the surprise. Should we get started, or wait for him?”
“I had hoped to use those violets on a page dedicated to Rob’s mother,” he says. “I’m so glad you could help—if I’d asked him, it would spoil the surprise. Should we get started, or wait for him?”
“Later,” he says with a smile. He lays out scissors and craft paper and glue and bits of ribbon and stamps and anything else you might need for a scrapbook. “Rob should be in soon. Can I look at your book while we wait?”
The Oldest Scrapbook makes a satisfying thud on the table. It smells like all old books, but there is a whiff of metal, and a bittersweet note. William opens it to the first page, the first memory. He’s silent for a moment.
“I see,” he says. “Am I allowed to look at ALL of it?”
“I see,” he says. “Am I allowed to look at ALL of it?”
For a while there is only the sound of those dense pages turning. William’s eyes brim at one bright page, and he shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says. “I know what I feel but not what I see. What is this?”
You fiddle with a button, wishing you could help. Give him:
You fiddle with a button, wishing you could help. Give him:
It is fortunate you wore pink today.
Memory is historical fiction, written for a single reader. In memory, there are heroes, villains, sidekicks, henchmen, dark woods, bright seas. In memory, there is life and death and love and other things that must be named and remembered, for they can’t be understood otherwise.
What we forget is as important as what we remember. Perhaps more so: forgetfulness gives shape and brightness to memory. Otherwise, it is a jumble. Forgetfulness can be fearful and terrible. It can also be a kind of grace.
Nothing is perfect. Nothing is wholly a blessing. Nothing is wholly a curse. The Forest has its boughs in the sunshine and its roots buried in rot and decay.
What you choose to put in your books—well, it might be understood as the layer of autumn leaves that will feed spring.
What you choose to put in your books—well, it might be understood as the layer of autumn leaves that will feed spring.
You cannot make your meaning clearer. If you peeled open a flower bud and showed William the now-aborted processes in its green heart, it would have the same meaning as if you handed him a pod full of seeds. The hardest question for anyone to answer is “who are you.”
He closes the book. He wipes his eyes. He picks up a scone, puts it down.
“Would you like something to drink?” he says. “Tea? Coffee? Sherry? Water?”
“Would you like something to drink?” he says. “Tea? Coffee? Sherry? Water?”
“Of course,” says William. One paw touches the cover of the Oldest Scrapbook. “I’ll, I, well. What kind?”
Jasmine goes well with your pink suit. While William goes about getting cups and putting the kettle on to boil, Robert comes in. He sets down a basket of carrots fresh from the garden and goes to kiss the top of William’s head.
“Ah, now we can start,” says William.
“Ah, now we can start,” says William.
While the water heats, Robert and William sit down. For a while there’s just the sound of shuffling paper and scissors. You open to the last page of your scrapbook and fix the warm memory of tea with Mrs. Mouse in the center of the page. Now you add:
Very carefully you draw a border of glue around the memory and dust it with some gold glitter. You smile, thinking of those who kept this book before there was such a thing as glitter. What would they think?
There are some delightful flower stamps to use—not the rose one; you can feel Grandmother’s disapproval at the very thought—but daisies, lilies, and hibiscus. Or you could cut up some colorful paper to glue in.
How fitting, since Mrs. Mouse has that hibiscus plant she is so fond of. But what color ink?
You sprinkle the hibiscus over the page to suggest falling flowers. The color brings to mind your pelisse, which you have not worn in, oh, ever so long. What season is it now? Still summer? Perhaps it is time for a change.
But you’re in pink for now, and that’s fine.
But you’re in pink for now, and that’s fine.
The tea is light and perfumed. Robert must have gathered the flowers himself—jasmine grows wild in the Forest’s southern reaches—and the tea itself of course comes from one of the elephant families to the west. As you sip, you glance at the two squirrels.
William is delicately lifting violets and setting them on a page with a dab of paste. Robert tries to cut some red ribbon but his paws are too big for the tiny silver crane-shaped scissors, so William reaches over and snips it for him.
Wasn’t William using those violets as a surprise for Robert? Can he finish the page with his husband sitting right there?
“SO,” you say.
TIME TO MAKE CONVERSATION, I’M SETTING A TIMER FOR 10 MINUTES, ASK/SAY SOMETHING TO THE LUMBERJACK SQUIRREL
TIME TO MAKE CONVERSATION, I’M SETTING A TIMER FOR 10 MINUTES, ASK/SAY SOMETHING TO THE LUMBERJACK SQUIRREL
Robert laughs. “Didn’t you bring over muffins when we moved in? I think they were blueberry.”
He proudly picks up his page. The paper is blue, and he’s pasted in several photographs of their wedding. There are little ivy leaves drawn all around. It looks very beautiful.
He launches into a detailed account of something Mx. Badger said the other day about the Eagles. It takes a very long time and it’s hard to follow. Robert, bless him, is not a good storyteller.
Though the story is incomprehensible, you nod and smile, noting that William is taking this opportunity to paste in several photographs among the violets.
Robert asks if he can look at YOUR scrapbook.
He opens it. His eyes well with tears.
“It’s beautiful,” he says. “I could read it forever.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says. “I could read it forever.”
You are a little bit curious, since most people can’t just LOOK at the Oldest Scrapbook, but there’s no good way to ask for clarification.
He turns back to his scrapbook and puts the page in. William clears his throat.
William turns his scrapbook toward Robert. In the center is a picture of Robert’s mother, a lovely old red squirrel, surrounded by pressed violets.
Again, it is a very good thing you are wearing pink.
You turn a page in the Oldest Scrapbook. The last blank one, as it happens. You add one last memory to it: Robert and William, embracing. You close the Oldest Scrapbook.
“Enough of that,” says William, adjusting his jacket. “For you.”
He passes you a loose scrapbook page.
He passes you a loose scrapbook page.
From somewhere, William has found a photo (probably taken at the Midsummer Festival, since the 4 of you are standing in front of a popcorn booth) of you, Mrs. Mouse, Pale Tom, and, and—William has thoughtfully put the daisy over the face, & glued pressed leaves around the border.
He blushes and kicks at the floor.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says. “Mx. Badger had the picture and when I saw it I knew it was the very thing for you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says. “Mx. Badger had the picture and when I saw it I knew it was the very thing for you.”
You try not to remember, only memorialize, the Absent Fourth.
But you add the page to the Oldest Scrapbook, right after the one of the two lovers. Someone after you will remember, more easily, without needing obscuring greenery.
But you add the page to the Oldest Scrapbook, right after the one of the two lovers. Someone after you will remember, more easily, without needing obscuring greenery.
There’s more tea and scones, and since you’ve filled your book you help William and Robert work on theirs. William does not appreciate your impulse toward glitter. Robert does.
Then it’s late afternoon, suddenly, and you remember you’ve got more stuff to do.
Then it’s late afternoon, suddenly, and you remember you’ve got more stuff to do.
The picnic is coming up fast, and there’s bread to buy and vegetables to harvest and fruit to pick and sandwiches to make and drinks to chill. The endless round must go on.
You take your leave. William sees you to the gate.
You take your leave. William sees you to the gate.
“I thought I knew what you were,” he says. “So did my grandpa. He gave me that photo, you know. But I don’t know, and I wonder sometimes if you do.”
It must be admitted, you wonder that as well.
It must be admitted, you wonder that as well.
“It was a lovely morning,” he says, with a change of tone. He sniffs the cedary air. “Thank you for coming. And letting me read.”
“Of course,” you say. “I always love visiting you two.”
Under your arm is the weight of the Oldest Scrapbook, heavier now with their picture.
“Of course,” you say. “I always love visiting you two.”
Under your arm is the weight of the Oldest Scrapbook, heavier now with their picture.
You say your farewells and you go home. The garden is fragrant in the sunshine. All too soon it will be harvest time for real, but that is its own joy, even if it isn’t summer. You put the scrapbook back in its place. There’s dinner to be thought of, before anything else.
You change out of the suit. All the picnic things are stacked in the kitchen—why are they there, that’s so inconvenient—and you just settle for bread and butter and apples.
The house is full of memory this evening, so you eat outside.
The house is full of memory this evening, so you eat outside.
The sun sets over the Forest. A bee momentarily lands on your apple. The air is like currant jelly. You could eat this day as if it were a rich dessert.
And in the fading light your shoes still sparkle like new planets, untilled and bare of life. You take them off and set them aside to walk on the warm dark earth under the trees. Newness is as great a burden as age.
Somewhere in the gathering dusk is a fluttering noise. Pale Tom must be about in the trees. You smile and wish him well, and go back inside to leave him to his work as a yellow moon rises.
/FIN
/FIN
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Thanks for playing!
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