fjft

-Ecclesiastes 1:11: "There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow."-

I couldn't remember my dream really well this morning. Had something to do with forgetting stuff. No, seriously. ;P

Oh, why not. Story time!! Living where I do, I do tend to give undue thought to the weather, I suppose.

Dry

Why is my face so puzzled? Ah, my friends, it is because I have heard the strangest tale, and am trying to decide whether it is true or not. What? No, if I say it aloud, it will refuse resolution, for tales so pettishly dislike their telling... well, I suppose if you will be so insistent, then I will begin.

Some time ago, there was a boy. I am told his name was Tom, but it could have well as been Jack, or perhaps Alfred. No matter, I shall call him Tom. He had a mother, a father, and one older brother, but their names are never told. So we will pass over them for the time being and return to Tom.

He has walked the earth for about sixteen or seventeen years, under a crown of brown-fisted hair, and over a body now of an average size, if a bit gangly. He lives in a quiet house in the hills with his nameless family, on that bright borderland between the farms and the lazy suburbs of a distant city. His brother came into the world a year or two before him, but even that small edge makes the younger hold him in awe.

Here is a usual scene. Tom's father leaves for work, early, before the sun rises. Our friend Tom awakes much later, and has just finished eating his breakfast when his mother comes in. She says "If you're not busy, could you get the clothes out of the dryer?" in that curious maternal voice that makes it a matter of honor to be unbusy. He dutifully, if a tad reluctantly, quits to the laundry room. There, he swings open the door to the dryer and pulls out the clothes, hand over hand, dumping them into the waiting hamper. At last, the machine is empty. Before shutting the aperture completely, Tom tugs out the lint screen. A broad motion with his long fingers suffices to pull off the grey-purple fur in one impossibly soft, flat piece, which he crumples and sticks in his pocket. Tom may be on the brink of manhood, but something about that plush fuzz must strike his fancy...

Ah, and here is his brother, leaning in the doorframe, watching. "Can I have that?" he asks, seemingly just as entranced as Tom at the collected lint. The younger brother reaches down into his pocket and produces it, handing it to his solicitous sibling. He has been asking for it every time now for longer than Tom can remember the beginning of, but Tom is not selfish. He is sure there will be a time when his brother is not watching, and he may keep the lint for himself.

And what, pray tell, does his brother want it for? Let us follow him. He retreats from the laundry room, the prize tightly in hand. Up the stairs he goes, one foot bouncing, then another. Into his room... then he opens a tiny box, and stuffs the tinder down into it. Yes, tinder. It seems that the lint makes the perfect starter for a fire, and it is this practical use that Tom's older brother intends to put it toward, burning it up first when the garbage pile gets high.

But enough of domesticity for the moment, for what is occurring outside the house is, I think, far more interesting. The grass of the hills around Tom's house lies sharp and parched, yellowing in the persistent sun. It seems the area has had no rain for a year, and skirling winds besides. This is why Tom is so careful to clean the lint from the dryer, and his brother so punctual to snuff the garbage bonfire when it falls; one unwatched spark is enough to set the whole countryside ablaze. More pressingly, however, there is a dire shortage of water. Tom's family does their part, as can be told by the sad droop of the plants in their yard, and the musk scent of bodies unshowered and toilets unflushed. Unfortunately, it is becoming clear that the efforts of residents are not enough. One reservoir is gone; another already half-empty, steaming silently in the heat before it is even used. As the dry year tumbles over into summer, the heat bites terribly on the people of the hills, who dare not even sponge their swelling faces with the precious reserves of water.

There comes a day when Tom rises in the night, the warmth of the day gathered so quickly that his body thinks it morning, though the sun is barely up. He patters downstairs to find his mother and father already up, eating breakfast, snatching for themselves the one blissful hour when they can bear to move. Tom pours some cereal, eats mechanically. Even the cool milk seems repressive and powdery. His brother comes down and begins to eat as well. Tom stops in disgust. He is about to run back upstairs to his smooth-sheeted bed when his mother cuts in. "Sweetie, I know it's so hot, but could you empty the dryer for me? I'd really appreciate it" she says, the hope clear in her voice. Tom's father looks up with an odd expression as the boy walks quickly toward the ever-warming laundry room. Hand over hand, out come the clothes, painfully hot, this dawn. Up comes the lint screen, around his fingers, and he wedges the softness into his pocket, knowing that he will soon have to relinquish it. Savoring the feel meanwhile...

His brother does not wait in the doorway. Tom is confused, my friends. His emotions make a hollow tunnel in his body, as if the little ball of lint is of great import, and he has just been granted it, this once, by some miracle. He tugs up the hamper and carries it to his mother, with two hands, wonderingly. He sets it down, only to notice his father motioning, already about to go to work, that job that grasps him away so early and rolls him back home so late, every day of every week. Tom hardly knows his father, now, but he obeys the silent command.

His father merely whispers rapidly, "Do not give it to him. No matter what, do not give it to him." He becomes more agitated, speaks more tensely and quietly. "Put it on your windowsill, open the window. Leave the room and close the door. Quickly!" And the exchange is over. Tom, frightened by his father's terse manner, does not stop to verify that he refers to that hidden ball of lint in his pocket. Somehow, he knows, though how, my friends, is not told.

He bounds up the stairs just as his father leaves for work. On the steps sits his brother, finished now with his breakfast. "Oh, hey," he starts, "wouldja mind giving me that..." his hand gestures casually towards Tom's pocket. Tom does not stop to figure out whether to answer with a no or a yes, though he feels guilty already for being so selfish. Perhaps he imagined the encounter with Dad! The heat, wanting to keep the fluff... he slows on the steps. But, well, after all, he could always give it to him next time; Father did seem so anxious.

His feet pound up to his bedroom, and he reaches for the tiny clump and places it under the open window. Then he is out again, closing his door behind him, just as his father said, my friends. But his brother is waiting out there. "You're acting awful strange, Tom," he says, "I think you might want to lie down, little brother." He pushes his smaller sibling aside and opens the door. But he does not go toward the bed, to turn down the sheets for his dear brother, oh no. He strides first toward the sun-soaked window and looks at it. He looks at the sill, then on the ground beneath it, then at last back to Tom. His lips are tightly bound, like a harp string ready to snap. "Where is it, brother?" he hisses.

Tom flats his back against the wall, eyes flinging to and fro from his advancing brother and the wide, wide window. And what does he see through the window, friends? For he hesitantly points toward it, his face open in fear and wonder mixed.

Ah, yes. He sees a single, purple-grey raincloud, growing ever larger in that burning sky.



Reality check. May your year be full of rain or dryer lint, whichever you prefer.