A Thanksgiving Bear - Or The Story of Jim Rose and The Grecian Urn

A Thanksgiving Bear
or
The Story of Jim Rose and the Grecian Urn

By
Doug Pinkston

Chapter 1

Jim Rose sat looking out the window of the jumbo jet, catching a few glimpses of the rolling hills of southern Ohio through the thick, cottony clouds, remembering----suddenly----an image from his childhood, as though the image had seeped into his mind like a single ray of sunlight slipping through a hole in the clouds. He remembered how his father, a farmer, would lead his family out to the western ridge which drew up just beyond their property and how they'd spend a few moments waiting for the sun to set in the distant hills, the sun blowing up big as a balloon, lemon-colored, then cadmium, then deep orange, the dusty sky stretching out with layers of vermilion and sienna until sometimes the light would strike some wandering cloud painting the horizon with violet, then bursting into gold and silver. When the sun finally sank into the hills, pulse after pulse, until only a mere wish of the day remained, Aaron Rose would stand on that hill and wrap his long arms around his family and they would all hold their breaths, trying to be the first one to see that final speck of light disappear. There is nothing quite like the setting sun over the rolling hills of southern Ohio. Jim Rose thought of the sunsets he witnessed daily from the island he now called home----Key West----and wondered how they might compare. No matter. Both could carry wild dreams and memories peacefully into the forgiving night.

It had been just over five years since they'd all been together. Five years since that long day together at his home on The Island. It was Thanksgiving today, and his Aunt Lilly and Uncle Horace had invited everybody for dinner at their home in Luckey, Ohio. Jim didn't know for sure why he'd decided to make the long trip up there this Thanksgiving. I guess his sister was the one who'd finally persuaded him. Patty had always been his guiding light, his lode star in the night, pointing the way towards beauty, love and adventure. Where on this earth would he rather be tonight, than drifting his way back home, back to Ohio, to have Thanksgiving with his family.

Lilly McIntosh pulled back the thin, lavender curtain which half-covered the window over her kitchen sink, peeking out toward the long stretch of two-lane which ran by her house, squinting towards the west, struggling to focus through the striations of the autumn sun and the tall bare trees. She was sure she could hear a car. The frosty breeze had crystallized the corners of her window panes. She squinted even harder, thinking she heard the deep rumbling of some distant vehicle still well up the road. But there was no one.

She let the curtain fall back and grabbed a dish towel to dry her hands, looking back at her husband, Horace, who stood over a pot of butter beans, humming deeply through his large nose, a tune she'd heard a thousand times (though for some reason, just now, it wouldn't come to her). Horace pulled up the lid with the towel in his thick, spotted hand, taking a deep whiff of the simmering beans. The steam swirled through his white, handlebar mustache and bushy eyebrows like smoke from a pipe. He took in the aroma, then turned and gave Lilly a wink. She strolled to his side and put her hand on his shoulder, looking down over the stove, sniffing at the full mix of flavors before speaking.

"Well. . . .how's it doing?"

Horace took another deep inhalation and almost sneezed.

"Coming along," he assured her. Then he turned and gave her a kiss on the check. "No sight of James?"

"No honey. No one. Running late I guess."

"Well, its turkey day, you know. Traffic's always a mess out there."

Lilly pursed her lips, sucking lightly at her false teeth, rubbing the back of her neck. It had been over five years since they'd all been together. Of course it wouldn't be the whole bunch of them. But just the same. Poor James! He always brought her something beautiful from Florida. He had such warm brown eyes. And her sister Doris always thought he the hands of a pianist: long, slender fingers, delicate and yet firm. He hand the kinds of hands you could hold and all at once fell loved. "There's something to that lad," Doris would tell her, waggling a finger and winking. Lilly wandered into the dining room and found herself looking up at an old photo of the family on top of the buffet cabinet. She remembered how Little Jim had once brought her a dandelion necklace when he was just child, chasing Patty though the fields and woods of her brother's farm. It took a special eye to turn weeds into jewelry. She heard Horace move into the den and turn on the TV. Oh, poor James! When her brother had fallen and died Little Jim and Patty had moved in with Horace and her. Lilly remembered----suddenly----as though struck by a vision, an image of Jim and Patty at their father's funeral. They had held each other's hands and looked heavenward, like they'd taken sight of an angel.

Lilly wandered back into the kitchen. She looked in the oven and checked the sweet potatoes. They smelled of cinnamon and brown sugar. Then she stepped to the windows and took another peek down the road. Again, she thought she heard the sound of an approaching car, though when she took another glance she could see only the small specks of ice which floated in the dim autumn light. She'd heard that it might snow before morning, but she hardly believed it. She crossed her fingers, hoping that both Jim and Patty had not met with any unexpected delays----though Patty was almost always late to gatherings (it was Patty's fault, more times than not, her constant hurrying to finish up one more project, make two more phone calls, pick up a week's worth of dry cleaning, get the twins in matching outfits). Lilly's sister, Doris, always believed that Patty was the smart one in the family, the one with a mind for numbers. Patty's husband Zachary was a lawyer. Just about the quietest man Lilly'd ever met. For a man who made a living talking on his feet he sure lacked any kind of style. But around Patty perhaps it was just as well. Lilly remembered (she was slowly making her way back into the dining room, looking again at some of the old photos on the buffet cabinet), how James used to follow Patricia around their father's farm, mimicking his sister's postured confidence. Aaron would have them out in the yard at sunrise, even during the summer when most kids would prefer to sleep in until noon, and slip off into an uncharted purposelessness though the remaining waking hours. Aaron had no patience for laziness, and felt most relaxed when immersed in some pressing chore. The two gals in the family missed most of those genes, though they could certainly be ornery when the occasion called for it. 'If Aaron had just been born a woman,' Lilly mused. "What a world we live in!", she whispered, to herself. She sucked at her false teeth, shook her head and blew at the dust on the photograph of her brother sitting on their swing with his wife Ariel, swinging back and forth ever so lightly, Aaron's foot pushing them off from the porch, for once his face lit up with the flush of twilight and guarded romance, cheeks full as a squirrel. And then Lilly looked closer and she could've sworn Aaron gave her a wink.

Jim Rose drove with his left hand draped lazily over the steering wheel of the Plymouth he'd rented in Tupelo. He always got tired when he sat behind the wheel of a car for any length of time, no matter how much sleep he'd had, and so he found himself yawning and rubbing at his face as a slow, romantic song came up on the radio, shading his reflections towards distant sunlit memories. As the song wound towards it conclusion a single tear welled up in Jim Rose's eye. Then the radio broke in on his thoughts, warning all travelers of snow from the west. Jim Rose was born and raised in Ohio. He was a child of the plains. He remembered how serious a holiday Thanksgiving had been when he was growing up. There were times when his father would take him out hunting pheasant or quail in the week prior to the holiday. Aaron Rose would tell stories to his young son about the founding fathers, his voice quiet and clear as a stream: "Ole' Franklin, now he was the artist in the bunch----a flaming leftist they'd call him today----crazy'er 'en a loon, caught up in every trick of science, though a good mile smarter than he looked." And then Aaron would brag about the time he shot a wild turkey himself, stomping through the wildlands of Pennsylvania, back when wild turkeys----"My, my momma, everything was wild!"----back when wild turkeys roamed the wilderness, and back when the great Brown Bear was the master of the shadowlands; all this time leading his son patiently up a tree line, stepping on the dry leaves with the footsteps of an Indian, eyes mere slits, picking out every change of color or motion in the field. "There," he'd whisper, holding up his chin in the direction of the wild bird that hid silently in the chopped up field, heart twittering almost audibly. Jim Rose would step out quietly from under his father's big arm and draw a sight on the wash of feathers half-hidden in the field, the butt of the shotgun on his right shoulder, his left hand holding the wooden grip, shaking slightly, his right hand clinched on the trigger, shaking even more, his left eye closed, his right eye focused down the barrel to the sight, trying to pick a moment when his hands were still and the target was square. Then Little Jim would fire off a shell and bust up the corn rows and out would fly half a dozen of the portly pheasants, fat and lazy after a long summer of freedom and safety, and while they squawked and flapped their wings furiously, flying off in four directions at once, Aaron Rose would pick out a single bird and draw his sights on it, leading the target across the overcast and sheltering sky. Jim could still see how the buckshot would spread out like a shadow toward the racing bird, and how the pheasant would fold up when hit and fall to the ground like the closing of a long book.