Root

To the memory of Aaron Root who I never spoke to, but who was a fascination and an inspiration.

Byron Root was in his sixty-second year of life. In his first eighteen he followed the path set out before him, attending school as one is expected. In the following twelve he joined the military, participating in the largest war the world had ever seen. In the next twelve he carved his own way in the entrepreneurial style of his family before him. The subsequent twelve were fraught with bad investments, periodic mutiny, and, eventually, bankruptcy. The last six were spent in abject poverty as Byron worked pushing carts in the parking lot of the local grocers. It was in this last year that life blossomed.
Byron was an un-assuming character at the grocery store in which he worked. Physically he assumed the role of a vagabond, with a large unkempt beard, small eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and puffs of white hair pushing out from underneath a weather-worn cap. He wore the store sanctioned uniform which was always moderately well kept save for the eroded sneakers that had seen their share of rainy days.
Byron worked the over-night shift in the parking lot of the grocery store. He enjoyed the serenity of the evening coupled with the hours of uninterrupted silence as he pushed carts left over from the previous day’s shoppers. It was for these reasons that Byron enjoyed working alone. He shied away from the other employees which was not a difficult task as they were often put off by his physical appearance, calling him ‘Grizzly Adams’ in their quiet corners.
Byron used these quiet hours to evaluate his life. He felt that he had met all the expectations, but there were still questions left over. He had done what everyone had expected. He had been there for every important event. He had learned and he had fought. He had built and nurtured, but it seemed that there was no reward for doing as is expected in life.

On a night not unlike any other night in the parking lot of the local grocery store Byron was pushing carts under the summer sky when he began to hear the sound of a distant violin. He turned in the parking lot, but saw nothing.
He was alone in the black sea of concrete.
He turned back to his carts and, again, heard the sound of a violin. This time it was coupled with the light strikes of a glockenspiel. Byron turned back to find, still, nothing. As he pushed his carts the music continued. The violin played a simple melody as the glockenspiel tinkled a mild accompaniment alongside it.
The song reminded Byron of cafes in Paris where he had spent so much time in the war with his friends. His friends, with whom he had been so close in those hard times, had been like brothers. They would cavort and drink for hours, telling stories of happier times to push away the bad ones. They listened, laughed, and danced until the sun went down.
Byron had purchased a concertina during his stay in Paris and began playing along with the musicians in the café. At first his playing only inspired laughs and jeers from his comrades, but as their regiment moved farther from Paris and closer to the front lines the concertina became a valued possession. The men would gather around and Byron would take them back to the cafes in Paris, back to the laughing and the dancing that was so hard to remember.
Byron listened to the music as he pushed the carts and imagined the sunlight on the café tables. He remembered the flowers in every window, the skinny roads winding between every building, and how every day looked like a postcard. The music brought back his broken French, his failed, but valiant attempts at pursuing the French waitresses, and all the wonderful sights and smells of the countryside.
At the end of his shift the music came to an end and Byron walked home with sounds of the past still ringing in his ears.

The next night, and the night after that, and the next were the very same with the music playing a forgotten tune that had for so long left Byron’s ears. The music had brought a color back into Byron’s life. As the violin played with its percussive gusto and the glockenspiel rang out Byron felt a certain call, a need, even a pleading for something else, something more. Byron searched his possessions and after heavy deliberation resolved that he had found the missing piece.

At the end of the night’s shift the carts were all pushed away and the employees had all gone home. The music came to a close as always and Byron walked to the middle of the parking lot holding the missing puzzle piece. He wasn’t quite sure of what might happen, but he knew his part. He held the concertina close and with a deep breath began to play. At the first note the violin and glockenspiel chimed in.
Byron stopped and his accompaniment disappeared.
He hesitantly played another note and the ensemble reformed.
He searched his mind for a song and remembered the favorite among the regiment of men. As he began the two instruments grew behind him. He heard their supporting figures and played out louder and more vibrant. The ensemble grew with him and together their trio burst forth in sound. Byron felt his body surge with memory, warm with the feelings of remembrance. Byron played into the night, remembering all the time that had crept away from him and rejoicing in those glorious days.

The next day Byron was found in the parking lot by his fellow employees. He was leaning against a tree with the concertina in his hands and smile on his face. It was reported to the employees that he had finally succumbed to a long fight with lung cancer contracted from his action in the war. Byron had passed away finally discovering the source of the music. The songs had always been there, he had but to listen and play along.

We all have a Twin

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who was perfect in every way.
Once upon the same time there was an ugly princess who needed some work.
These two princesses lived in two completely different far, far away kingdoms that had little in common. However these two princesses were inexplicably linked from birth. When one smiled the other cried. When one lost five pounds the other gained five pounds. When one smelled good the other smelled bad. This was the way of things for seventy-five years.
At seventy-five the beautiful princess was, as expected, gorgeous, happy, and surprisingly pleasant smelling.
The ugly princess was in a worse state. She was nearly three-hundred pounds, always crabby, and constantly emitting an odor conjuring the image of two dead skunks embracing a heated dumpster of spoiled cheese. The ugly princess had, understandably, had enough of her downward spiral of a life. She summoned her court magician who was a lecherous old man with problems of his own. She commanded him, in her creepy and witch-like tone, to make her beautiful and pleasant like any other court magician should want for his princess.
The magician, having recently failed in his pursuit of a lovely young handmaiden, was in no mood to be ordered around, especially by this particular fat, old crone. He waved his magic wand and shrank the ugly princess to the size of a mouse.
It is said that when the beautiful princess grew to the size of a castle she just giggled as her subjects ran in terror towards the next kingdom which was apparently ruled by a hideous, fat princess who was no larger than a mouse, but who had recently fallen into good favor with her people.