Chapter 4: It's all good

After finishing "Between Two Lovers" (Sequel to: Something We Have to Talk About), I wanted to just leave that storyline for others. I wanted to stop writing stories about cheating, and go on to other ideas I had. Both "Something We Have To Talk About" and "Between Two Lovers" is in fact only parts, chapters, of an idea I have for a novel, and far too early in my writings to think about properly doing.

Then shortly after submitting "Between Two Lovers", I went to visit a long time friend of mine, Cindy. Her father was also visiting her, and since I get to see him so little, he was much of the reason I was there.

She and I are very close friends and have been friends ever since we were 12 years old. Though we hadn't always lived near each other, we always stayed in contact. We shared most all of our life experiences with each other, all our ups and downs. I was there for her when her parents broke up and had their continual fights. I was at her wedding and when her children were baptized, and the same, she's been my shoulder to cry on, every time I was suffering from one more love lost, and when my mother died.

Being able to fly in and spend time with not only her and her children, but also her father is something special.

Her father is one of those unique men. He looks like something out of a past era. Since we are talking Rocky Mountains, he looks like a cowboy, either in jeans or bib-overalls, lace-up cowboy boots, and western shirts. Every piece of clothing he has on has a well worn and used appearance. He's overweight, but solid. I've seen him pick up and carry things twice my weight.

Yet, his appearance is deceptive. The reason I was willing to travel such a long distance to visit with him, is his unusual perception. He's quiet and almost shy in nature, but when he does speak on something, he's always spot on. He's never judgmental. He really does listen, and whatever he has suggested me to do, has always been the right thing. Some times I'd have to ponder on the meaning of his cryptic, slow speech, where one word usually paints a whole picture of thought, but if I really listen, I understand.

He also never tells you what to do, it's always advice, and only if asked for, never any expectations.

I've seen him sit for hours in a group conversing, waiting for his moment to speak, letting all others speak before him.

So he's the type of person I go out of my way to see. He's a value. A person to have quiet one on one talks with about serious things. A guy, a girl can talk to about not only men, but also other things. He's the type worth a flight on one of those overly crowded little jetliners, where everything is one class and you usually end up with someone's elbow in your side for the whole flight.

Even though he also looks rough, mean and hard, almost like a Hell's Angel, when he's with children he's a gentle lamb, a beloved pet dog who would never think of nipping or biting the small hand of a child, no matter how badly they hurt him.

With me, or any other woman, you'll never hear him speak a swear word. No matter how tired he is, he'll always stand to give his seat to her or an older person, open the door for her, or carry anything heavy, even if it's out of his way, and he's in a hurry.

It's only if & when, that I've seen the other side of him. It's startling to see this quiet gentle man in seconds change so drastically into a rolling mountain of fury and rip into some obnoxious male, pounding him to a pulp. I've only seen it happen once, and I never want to see him that angry again in my life. It's frightening. It's traumatic to see that gentle giant that you think you know so well, become a demon from hell bent on destruction.

That moment was for me, a peek into this other world of his. A world, I never have known, and could only make guesses about, a world so foreign and strange, as if it were on a completely other planet from ours, a world harsh and brutal, cold and without consideration for social niceties. A world my father might understand, but I could never.

That day we talked about a lot of things, and my story writing came up. He was very shocked at my telling him where I had posted my story. I could see in his mind, him wondering why I would be writing such a story. I know, in his mind he still sees me as the little 12-year-old neighbor girl. That's okay, I guess. I can have babies of my own, but in his minds eye, he still sees me as a little girl.

Of course he wanted to read my story, but he didn't want to read it then. Only after Cindy told him it wasn't a porn story and he could read it in front of us, was he okay in doing so.

I found it so odd; my large laptop looked so small sitting in front of him. It looked so unusual to see his big leathery hands, hands gnarled, calloused and scared by weather and work to the point where they could neither open nor close fully, sitting perched on the now small looking keyboard.

Cindy was sitting pensively on the edge of the sofa watching him. I thought she looked even more in anticipation of his opinion than I was.

He sat; he read quietly, the first I noticed of how deep his emotions were was when he took out his pipe. Of course, he's not allowed to smoke his pipe in the house, but him taking his pipe and chewing on the stem, is always a sure sign to us all, of how deeply and emotionally he is in contemplation.

He never drinks, or parties, that I have ever seen, the only vice he allows himself is his pipe. The aroma, some times good and some times bad, always permeates anywhere he is. Even his freshly washed clothes have that smell on them. It his smell, I can go anywhere in the world and smell that smell and think of only him.

When he takes his pipe and starts to chew on the stem, you know he's distant, and even if you would speak to him, he's not there and won't hear you. So there he sat, his weather worn and wrinkled face silent and without emotion other then the slow movement of the pipe in his mouth, the smell of old burnt tobacco smoke with a hint of spices slowly enveloping us all into his solitude. The only noise to hear from him was the occasional deep and heavy outward and inward breaths forced through his nose.

Finishing the story he stood up slowly, as if he were carrying a burden and closed the lid of the laptop. Without saying a word, he turned and walked out the front door and onto the porch. There we could see him through the front room window slowly, painstakingly stuffing tobacco into his pipe from his black leather tobacco pouch.

Even after he had placed the pipe back in his mouth, for moments he stood only there staring out into the distance, his hand holding the lighter in ready, but not lighting his pipe.

I thought for a moment to go out to him, but Cindy's look stopped me. We let him stand there alone. We watched him light the pipe, and slowly smoke it to finish. All the while, he continued to stare out into the landscape beyond.