At 7:30am, winter solstice morning, the electricity went out because a garbage truck was on fire. The truck’s driver, warned by a similar past event now knew he had to unload his cargo before the truck itself caught in flames.

The driver pulled the truck to the farm roadside and pressed levers to release the load. While calling his dispatcher he heard the tumble of garbage accompanied by a loud crack and crash. He hadn’t noticed the electric pole when parking the truck. Live power lines fell upon the truck. Blue sparks skipped across the wet road and surrounded the truck with a fearful light.

The truck driver, still stiffly seated before the steering wheel opened his door. He, not thinking, allowing more than curiosity to control him, timidly looked behind him to see what he had done to the electric pole.

This is how the power in the country valley was cut on the shortest day and the longest night and this is how a light-less memory, one of loving each other in a world without electric power began.

The man sat on a drop cloth on the floor, legs crossed in Yoga lotus style with shirt stripped and muscled torso twisting.

His woman photographed. Her face beamed brighter than the camera’s flash.

After 46 years the man shaved his beard. Not since he finished his term in the Air Force had he seen his face. His lover photographed the process. The virtues of digital technology allowed her to take 165 photos in sequence, creating a stop motion of events. He shaved and she photographed one stroke at a time. He posed. Laughing, he changed his role- from Kaiser Wilhelm to Jerry Garcia to Captain Kangaroo and Hitler. For all, he acted the part of an embarrassed and proud man, while the shaved beard hair collected like grey embers on his lap.

The shaving revealed a face so unlike the one framed by the woodsman beard he just had. This new face had the width and romantic flesh of a smiling cherub.

His young lover not yet subject to her own age, wondered about the lines tracing his face. His skin, his shaven cheek now so pleasing to touch and its suppleness, so free from a bearded boundary urged her to offer him more love.

He had not seen himself for 46 years. He didn’t recognize himself now, but he knew he had changed.

She had not ever seen him. She had known the sensuality within his fingers and his eyes, but the beard covered his expression and so she never really knew how much sensitivity he had applied to his way.

A small moment, one where the shedding of hair, shaved with the same steady gentleness of a portrait painter’s stroke, brought odd feelings to life.

She was happy to feel love dancing through her. He felt her love but his stomach cramped, it not knowing the difference between the excitement of fight or love.

Tuesday Country

The town with its Main Street was a relic of the river-logging era. A double row of once fine hotels and business establishments was now a rusty streak along a waterfront. I remember how I came along this town one day at sunset and saw all the colors of the sun, pastels flashing and shifting uneasy motes, in a web of light and hues, lacing the sides of buildings.

Yes that was beauty enough- and I began to think of the river and how the river's mist would roll away from the streets by 6:00 AM in the summer and how he would be there, Old George, settled on his bench, slouched with sleep. His white jaws, slackened with age and spotted with beard and food, silent and peaceful, gripping the moist wood slats as he steadied himself through his dreams.

He always wore a blue windbreaker with sleeves that barely reached his elbows, and donned a blue baseball cap which he removed in the presence of a lady. His hair was very blonde and sparse and he had the nervous habit of chewing his tongue, incessantly, whether or not his dentures were in place. His pants were too short and his suspenders hiked them way beyond a comfortable limit and he shuffled his feet in shoes that never fit, yet he always presented his toothless grin because he was happy.

Old George was a consistent element of this river town and I looked upon him with awe and with love. His simple mind didn't allow him to comprehend the necessity of etiquette. And what did it really matter? He brought a laugh to those witnessing him relieving himself on a storefront flower box and, ultimately he provided the fodder for small talk in this small town.

Every morning he would ramble out of that dreary three-story white washed facade, politely known as the adult home, and cross the empty street where the glare and pulse of the town's only blinking traffic light blushed the black asphalt and absorbed him into its redness. On he would ramble, directly to the cafe without looking up and noticing the circle of turkey vultures hovering way-up, lazily watching him, their stout wings barely affected by the force of the breeze crossing the Delaware River. He would never notice these powerful birds with their scaled feet tucked neatly into the mass of dark feathers, their raw heads and bright eyes always focused downward- down at the little man, old George, who rambled across a street to fetch his morning coffee.

If I happened to be there, at the cafe, settled by the corner window next to the door, Old George would press his face against the window pane and smile, his sagging cheeks bristled with white growth, his nose shapeless and massive against the glass, his mouth stretched like a thick rubber band all smeared against the glass with eyes still staring the kind, innocent insanity I envied. He'd enter and look about himself, reassured by the dark paneled walls, the abundance of plants strewn about the bay windows, the chatter of the river people and he would glance in my direction. Olgie, did you know that I am going to die today? he would ask.

I wouldn't know what to say. And every time I searched for an answer I heard the other men, the group of old men sitting at the eastern wall absorbing the yellow sun.

Tuesday Country

The town with its Main Street was a relic of the river-logging era. A double row of once fine hotels and business establishments was now a rusty streak along a waterfront. I remember how I came along this town one day at sunset and saw all the colors of the sun, pastels flashing and shifting uneasy motes, in a web of light and hues, lacing the sides of buildings.

Yes that was beauty enough- and I began to think of the river and how the river's mist would roll away from the streets by 6:00 AM in the summer and how he would be there, Old George, settled on his bench, slouched with sleep. His white jaws, slackened with age and spotted with beard and food, silent and peaceful, gripping the moist wood slats as he steadied himself through his dreams.

He always wore a blue windbreaker with sleeves that barely reached his elbows, and donned a blue baseball cap which he removed in the presence of a lady. His hair was very blonde and sparse and he had the nervous habit of chewing his tongue, incessantly, whether or not his dentures were in place. His pants were too short and his suspenders hiked them way beyond a comfortable limit and he shuffled his feet in shoes that never fit, yet he always presented his toothless grin because he was happy.

Old George was a consistent element of this river town and I looked upon him with awe and with love. His simple mind didn't allow him to comprehend the necessity of etiquette. And what did it really matter? He brought a laugh to those witnessing him relieving himself on a storefront flower box and, ultimately he provided the fodder for small talk in this small town.

Every morning he would ramble out of that dreary three-story white washed facade, politely known as the adult home, and cross the empty street where the glare and pulse of the town's only blinking traffic light blushed the black asphalt and absorbed him into its redness. On he would ramble, directly to the cafe without looking up and noticing the circle of turkey vultures hovering way-up, lazily watching him, their stout wings barely affected by the force of the breeze crossing the Delaware River. He would never notice these powerful birds with their scaled feet tucked neatly into the mass of dark feathers, their raw heads and bright eyes always focused downward- down at the little man, old George, who rambled across a street to fetch his morning coffee.

If I happened to be there, at the cafe, settled by the corner window next to the door, Old George would press his face against the window pane and smile, his sagging cheeks bristled with white growth, his nose shapeless and massive against the glass, his mouth stretched like a thick rubber band all smeared against the glass with eyes still staring the kind, innocent insanity I envied. He'd enter and look about himself, reassured by the dark paneled walls, the abundance of plants strewn about the bay windows, the chatter of the river people and he would glance in my direction. Olgie, did you know that I am going to die today? he would ask.

 I wouldn't know what to say. And every time I searched for an answer I heard the other men, the group of old men sitting at the eastern wall absorbing the yellow sun.