RIPLEY? ?

WEEPING WILLOW

 

It is a glorious evening even though the sky is thick with scudding black clouds. T.V. meteorologists are sure, promise us, the clouds are rainless. They may possibly interfere with the fireworks program but we can all leave our umbrellas at home. I need none of their graphs, coordinates, reports from Africa. My bunions ache like hell. The bigger one on my left toe throbs, hurts more than the right one. Together I may have to silently limp a little. Their action, my reaction, will certainly make mince-meat out of Joe Hector, channel 5's weather man.

 

Jess and I love the fourth, the smell of the rockets' red glare and don't mind too much the teens pushing us, using words that still shock me. The show will go on. Jess and I will stay, may even join the Sousa parade, shout and salute every red, white and blue flag we pass, no matter its size.

 

My special flag colored tote bag, the one I made ten years ago, is over my shoulder. It's getting shoddy but is helpful. In it I have two pop-open cans of chilled iced tea and two collapsible umbrellas that have every rib available to do its job if necessary. I'm counting on it lasting as long as I do.

 

The amphitheater is almost full. Large t.v. screens let us see everything that is going on everywhere. They make me a little dizzy so I just watch the one in the middle of the stage. It is the moment Johnny Cash walks out, reaches center stage and starts his croaking that the crowd goes wild and I turn him mentally off. Maybe he is my nemesis, makes my bunions pulsate, throb. As I glance away, a bit of rain runs down my nose. Jess is watching Johnny, doesn't notice my unrest. I reach into my tote bag for just one of our brellas, slip it between my crossed ankles. Another drop touches my forehead. No one around us seems to feel what I feel. No one is leaving. No performer is shrinking into the stage curtains. I tug on Jess's arm, raise my voice over the cacophony of country music that grates on my mind. 'Jess, we should go,' I insist. 'Those clouds are getting ready to burst, erupt into another Vesuvius.' He knows how many times over our years together I have been right, puts our umbrella in the tote, raises our collapsible metal chairs and we squeeze past all the non-believers in our row.

 

The air flow away from the staring crowd changes rapidly. There is a freshness, a greenish odor. Looking back, we can still see the sky light up, watch the rockets glare fall harmlessly to earth. I give Jess no room to argue, walk fast and find parking lot Q. Like a lost puppy, he tags behind me, follows me straight to where we parked. My extra- ordinary sense of direction first lets me see the arborarium's magnificent gardens, the wooden fence around the playground.
The trees from almost every country on earth have names I can't spell or pronounce except the strong maples, banyans, oaks and my favorite tree of all, the Weeping Willow. A semi-circle of them waves in the the rising wind. I feel like I am in China waiting for the moaning, the groaning as the trees sway and cry aloud. Involuntarily, my head cocks to the side, enjoys the silver lights that seek comfort between the boughs.

 

The oldest tree's 100 year old marker is missing. She seems to be bowing, bending too far. Branches are restless. Bright yellow things are showing their faces. 'My, god,' I scream to Jess. 'What is happening? The old lady tree moans louder and louder. She seems so sad, ready to die. 'Jess, she is turning into a lemon tree. Look!'  He ridicules me, tells me I have gone out of my mind but I have not. I gather a few of the lrge lemons and add them to my tote bag, carry it back to our car and leave the celebration crowd only moments before the celebration crowd is smacked hard when the 'empty' clouds tear wide open.

 

The morning paper reports the rare electric storm, has a photo on the front page of the famous old weeping willow tree lying on the ground. Her roots are exposed. It looks more like a lemon tree than the prize willow. All around it are singed lemons. A new story is born. 'The lemon tree loved the weeping willow and finally impregnated it.'

 

So silly, but what else could have happened? I'm going on Google later today to try to find an answer. There has to be one.