Lilies
The midsummer night lies heavy, a black blanket, the stars blotted out by dark hanging clouds that have threatened rain since noon. The wind rustles in the maples and oaks behind me, and pushes the faint scent of lilies through the screen door. The subtle sweet smell reminds of promises kept, of the transformation of springtime’s promise into summer gardens; the smell also evokes other, more profound images, the brightly decked Easter altars, and the somber, melancholy faces at funerals, both places where the lily’s warm colors and soft smells contrast with the darker underside of life, where the flowers invoke the promise of life in the face of its apparent ending. All lilies, after all, have burst from the brown earth to dance light and bright against the darker greens, and they arc across the summer, until the fall arrives, until that first frost wilts the leaves and causes the petals to drop, one by one, each by each, to the ground, until life gives way to brown, and brown to white, until only memories of those promises remain. Until the white gives way to brown, to green, and the lilies once again come out with their mingled messages of life and death.
But it’s full summer now, and a time for appreciation of the garden as it is; the time for quiet reflective memories is not yet. Still, perhaps because of the lilies, I am keenly aware tonight of the fragile nature of life, and how tenuous our hold is upon it. Perhaps it’s because of the lilies, but it’s also because my wife had her stitches removed this afternoon, and she will be okay. Our garden is still in bloom. But our winter very nearly came.
It happened like this.
Our city has a general gathering place, the Student Union Terrace at the University – a broad terrace between the Student Union Building and the city’s largest lake. The terrace is an expanse of concrete and stone, with big trees and chairs and tables, beer counters and a bandstand, declining gradually, in several wide mini-terraces, linked with stone steps, down to the lake itself; the lake is lined on the shore with large flat limestone slabs, in three broad steps, the lowest one at water level and usually lapped across by the water on even the calmest days. The place has piers and boat slips and swimming areas, sailboats, motor boats, canoes, swimmers, cyclists, students, retirees, street people, seagulls and ducks. My family and I were there on a recent Saturday night. We arrived around seven p.m., sat on the limestone slabs, our two kids with their feet in the water, my wife and me immediately behind them, on the next highest level, all sharing a couple ice cream cones, watching the waves, surreptitiously slipping the ducks a few bits of cone (we parents, usually fairly law-abiding, conveniently ignoring the algae-encrusted sign reading"For Swimmer’s Health, Please Don’t Feed the Ducks"). Several motor boats in front of us were lining up and tying up so that the rich folks could take in the concert – setting up behind us -- from the water, while we less fortunate ones watched from shore. The weather was calm, the sky filled with scattered clouds, the breeze gentle and the temperature in the upper 70s.
Close to eight o’clock, a young girl showed up with a banjo, set up a music stand on the first level of the terrace, behind us, laying her open banjo case on the ground beside her. She began singing folk music, starting with "If I had a Hammer," her thin and still undeveloped voice (she couldn’t have been more than twelve) barely audible over the general hum of the crowd. Even I could tell she knew only a few basic chords, but she was clearly sincere if not all that good. My eight-year-old daughter, among others, threw coins into the open banjo case. A couple songs into her set a middle-aged man, heavy in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, with a salt-and-pepper beard, vaguely unruly curly black hair and round wire-rimmed glasses, carrying a lit cigar, came up to her and started talking into her ear. My first thought was that he was her father, and that he was more or less exploiting her by making her perform on this fine Saturday night. He seemed to be on intimate terms with her, and continued leaning in, whispering in her ear. They soon appeared to be having some sort of disagreement, at least she seemed to be trying to move away from him while continuing to sing.
A woman of about 30, blonde and trim, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, carrying a clipboard and with a name badge hanging around her neck, approached and began talking with the man. She was obviously an employee of the Union, and I assumed she was telling him that a scheduled act was about to perform and asking him to take his daughter elsewhere if she insisted on busking. But it soon became clear that he was not associated with the girl, he was simply harassing her, and the Union woman was trying to get him to stop. He began to get hostile toward the woman, and to hassle the girl in earnest; the woman kept getting between him and the girl, and they moved in a slow circle around the girl, the man pushing inward, the woman, probably six inches shorter, thrusting her face toward his. Soon other people began noticing, and two or three folks yelled at the man, who flipped them off. One guy, also middle-aged but maybe a little younger, blond hair and weathered tan skin, in a white tank-top, apparently an acquaintance, jumped in and threatened to hit the man, who got into a fighting crouch; they stood there a few seconds, then the guy who had jumped in backed off and walked away, muttering to himself.
The man and the Union woman then resumed their slow circling dance, the girl, with tears beginning to show on her cheeks, continuing to sing and strum from the center. The man apparently grew frustrated with the situation and pushed the Union woman, who pushed him back. He then grabbed a folding chair and bashed the Union woman across the back with it and lunged at the girl; the fighting guy jumped back in, and the two of them began hitting and lunging and eventually rolling. They rolled toward the lake, toward us; I grabbed my daughter and moved in one direction, while my wife grabbed our eight-year-old autistic son, and tried to go the other. The two men rolled into my wife and son and over them, and into the water. The man who had come to the Union woman’s defense quickly scrambled out of lake, with help from a couple bystanders. The man who had been hassling the girl ended up standing in the lake, several feet from shore, looking like a damned and embarrassed fool, no longer blustery. My wife was writhing in pain, her leg gashed open under her right knee, having been rolled across the edge of a slab. Our son, fortunately, was unhurt. Eventually the University cops showed up, first a female bicycle cop, obviously confused as she tried to take in the scene. Soon four burly male cops showed up and things began sorting out. The hassler continued to stand in the water, and the crowd began backing off a little.
A rescue squad came for my wife, and bandaged her knee, and checked out my son, who told them that he had hurt his head, though they could find nothing. I stood next to my wife, alternately trying to comfort her, to check on my son, to comfort my daughter, who was clinging to my legs, trembling, though I also found a few moments to yell at the man in the water. The cops dragged him out of the water and sat him down a ways down the terrace, on the other side of a pier. After some talk, we decided that my wife didn’t need the ambulance or a stretcher, though she couldn’t walk easily; the rescue squad people wheeled her to our car in a portable wheelchair. I drove her and the kids to a nearby hospital emergency room, ironically the same place I had gone with my heart attack some two years earlier. We sat there for about two hours; a large part of that time a 40ish woman, appearing "normal," made incessant and often irrelevant conversation; the rest of the time was filled in by a pair of heavy-set, garrulous, older women, from some nearby small town, waiting for one woman’s husband to get out of treatment. Around 10 p.m. we called a friend, who agreed to come down and wait with my wife, then drive her home, so that I could take the kids home – over my daughter’s strenuous objection because, once she had recovered from the trauma of the events, she wanted to stay and watch the stitching. My wife came home around 11:30, with nine stitches across her leg, some bruises and nasty scrapes.
And, tonight, the stitches are gone.
Her scar, ugly and permanent as it may be, is still, fortunately and apparently, the only scar inflicted upon us. I’m here to sit and write about it. The kids are asleep now, no nightmares, no frightened conversations or phobias, no physical reminders. We’ve even been back to the Terrace, sat on those same stones, let the gentle waves wash away those memories. But as I sit here, in the faint aura of this summer’s lilies, I know it could have been so much worse. If those men had rolled only slightly more to one side, my son could have been crushed beneath them, or pushed into the water, and who knows what other trauma, physical, mental, spiritual, could have been thrust upon him. Perhaps that man, clearly no paragon of rationality, could just as easily have pulled out a knife or a gun, and that sudden, unpredictable, eruption of frustration could have ended in a flash of death instead of the black comedy of a fat idiot standing waist deep in murky water, midst the ducks and debris.
It could have ended, not with these lilies, alive and full of promise in our garden, but with other lilies, greenhouse- grown, cut and shaped into wreathes of promise, in funereal scents and somber faces, with a life cut short and dreams destroyed. It could have, but did not. I breathe deeply of the lilies of my garden and close the door, with special appreciation of these lilies and this life.
But it’s full summer now, and a time for appreciation of the garden as it is; the time for quiet reflective memories is not yet. Still, perhaps because of the lilies, I am keenly aware tonight of the fragile nature of life, and how tenuous our hold is upon it. Perhaps it’s because of the lilies, but it’s also because my wife had her stitches removed this afternoon, and she will be okay. Our garden is still in bloom. But our winter very nearly came.
It happened like this.
Our city has a general gathering place, the Student Union Terrace at the University – a broad terrace between the Student Union Building and the city’s largest lake. The terrace is an expanse of concrete and stone, with big trees and chairs and tables, beer counters and a bandstand, declining gradually, in several wide mini-terraces, linked with stone steps, down to the lake itself; the lake is lined on the shore with large flat limestone slabs, in three broad steps, the lowest one at water level and usually lapped across by the water on even the calmest days. The place has piers and boat slips and swimming areas, sailboats, motor boats, canoes, swimmers, cyclists, students, retirees, street people, seagulls and ducks. My family and I were there on a recent Saturday night. We arrived around seven p.m., sat on the limestone slabs, our two kids with their feet in the water, my wife and me immediately behind them, on the next highest level, all sharing a couple ice cream cones, watching the waves, surreptitiously slipping the ducks a few bits of cone (we parents, usually fairly law-abiding, conveniently ignoring the algae-encrusted sign reading"For Swimmer’s Health, Please Don’t Feed the Ducks"). Several motor boats in front of us were lining up and tying up so that the rich folks could take in the concert – setting up behind us -- from the water, while we less fortunate ones watched from shore. The weather was calm, the sky filled with scattered clouds, the breeze gentle and the temperature in the upper 70s.
Close to eight o’clock, a young girl showed up with a banjo, set up a music stand on the first level of the terrace, behind us, laying her open banjo case on the ground beside her. She began singing folk music, starting with "If I had a Hammer," her thin and still undeveloped voice (she couldn’t have been more than twelve) barely audible over the general hum of the crowd. Even I could tell she knew only a few basic chords, but she was clearly sincere if not all that good. My eight-year-old daughter, among others, threw coins into the open banjo case. A couple songs into her set a middle-aged man, heavy in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, with a salt-and-pepper beard, vaguely unruly curly black hair and round wire-rimmed glasses, carrying a lit cigar, came up to her and started talking into her ear. My first thought was that he was her father, and that he was more or less exploiting her by making her perform on this fine Saturday night. He seemed to be on intimate terms with her, and continued leaning in, whispering in her ear. They soon appeared to be having some sort of disagreement, at least she seemed to be trying to move away from him while continuing to sing.
A woman of about 30, blonde and trim, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, carrying a clipboard and with a name badge hanging around her neck, approached and began talking with the man. She was obviously an employee of the Union, and I assumed she was telling him that a scheduled act was about to perform and asking him to take his daughter elsewhere if she insisted on busking. But it soon became clear that he was not associated with the girl, he was simply harassing her, and the Union woman was trying to get him to stop. He began to get hostile toward the woman, and to hassle the girl in earnest; the woman kept getting between him and the girl, and they moved in a slow circle around the girl, the man pushing inward, the woman, probably six inches shorter, thrusting her face toward his. Soon other people began noticing, and two or three folks yelled at the man, who flipped them off. One guy, also middle-aged but maybe a little younger, blond hair and weathered tan skin, in a white tank-top, apparently an acquaintance, jumped in and threatened to hit the man, who got into a fighting crouch; they stood there a few seconds, then the guy who had jumped in backed off and walked away, muttering to himself.
The man and the Union woman then resumed their slow circling dance, the girl, with tears beginning to show on her cheeks, continuing to sing and strum from the center. The man apparently grew frustrated with the situation and pushed the Union woman, who pushed him back. He then grabbed a folding chair and bashed the Union woman across the back with it and lunged at the girl; the fighting guy jumped back in, and the two of them began hitting and lunging and eventually rolling. They rolled toward the lake, toward us; I grabbed my daughter and moved in one direction, while my wife grabbed our eight-year-old autistic son, and tried to go the other. The two men rolled into my wife and son and over them, and into the water. The man who had come to the Union woman’s defense quickly scrambled out of lake, with help from a couple bystanders. The man who had been hassling the girl ended up standing in the lake, several feet from shore, looking like a damned and embarrassed fool, no longer blustery. My wife was writhing in pain, her leg gashed open under her right knee, having been rolled across the edge of a slab. Our son, fortunately, was unhurt. Eventually the University cops showed up, first a female bicycle cop, obviously confused as she tried to take in the scene. Soon four burly male cops showed up and things began sorting out. The hassler continued to stand in the water, and the crowd began backing off a little.
A rescue squad came for my wife, and bandaged her knee, and checked out my son, who told them that he had hurt his head, though they could find nothing. I stood next to my wife, alternately trying to comfort her, to check on my son, to comfort my daughter, who was clinging to my legs, trembling, though I also found a few moments to yell at the man in the water. The cops dragged him out of the water and sat him down a ways down the terrace, on the other side of a pier. After some talk, we decided that my wife didn’t need the ambulance or a stretcher, though she couldn’t walk easily; the rescue squad people wheeled her to our car in a portable wheelchair. I drove her and the kids to a nearby hospital emergency room, ironically the same place I had gone with my heart attack some two years earlier. We sat there for about two hours; a large part of that time a 40ish woman, appearing "normal," made incessant and often irrelevant conversation; the rest of the time was filled in by a pair of heavy-set, garrulous, older women, from some nearby small town, waiting for one woman’s husband to get out of treatment. Around 10 p.m. we called a friend, who agreed to come down and wait with my wife, then drive her home, so that I could take the kids home – over my daughter’s strenuous objection because, once she had recovered from the trauma of the events, she wanted to stay and watch the stitching. My wife came home around 11:30, with nine stitches across her leg, some bruises and nasty scrapes.
And, tonight, the stitches are gone.
Her scar, ugly and permanent as it may be, is still, fortunately and apparently, the only scar inflicted upon us. I’m here to sit and write about it. The kids are asleep now, no nightmares, no frightened conversations or phobias, no physical reminders. We’ve even been back to the Terrace, sat on those same stones, let the gentle waves wash away those memories. But as I sit here, in the faint aura of this summer’s lilies, I know it could have been so much worse. If those men had rolled only slightly more to one side, my son could have been crushed beneath them, or pushed into the water, and who knows what other trauma, physical, mental, spiritual, could have been thrust upon him. Perhaps that man, clearly no paragon of rationality, could just as easily have pulled out a knife or a gun, and that sudden, unpredictable, eruption of frustration could have ended in a flash of death instead of the black comedy of a fat idiot standing waist deep in murky water, midst the ducks and debris.
It could have ended, not with these lilies, alive and full of promise in our garden, but with other lilies, greenhouse- grown, cut and shaped into wreathes of promise, in funereal scents and somber faces, with a life cut short and dreams destroyed. It could have, but did not. I breathe deeply of the lilies of my garden and close the door, with special appreciation of these lilies and this life.
posted by GrahamLewis at 5:53 AM
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