Images & Reflections Sample Short Story from the PALO ALTO WRITERS 1996 ANTHOLOGY COPYRIGHT 1996 BY THE PALO ALTO WRITERS Second Edition Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Palo Alto Writers Palo Alto Writers 1996 Anthology 1.Writing. I. Palo Alto Writers II. Title.Images & Reflections ISBN 1-57555-36-9 (soft cover edition) ISBN 1-57555-37- 7 (electronic Book-On-Disk edition) All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing by the author(s) or representative(s). Requests for such permissions should be addressed to: Palo Alto Writers, 1520 Sand Hill Rd. #406, Palo Alto CA 94304-2039. Manufactured by CEDAR BAY PRESS L.L.C. in the United Federation of the Takelman-Kalapuyan Released January 1996 PALO ALTO WRITERS 1996 ANTHOLOGY 116 PAGES 8.5” X 11” comb bound $12.95 + $1.00 shipping Cedar Bay Press LLC Box 751 Beaverton OR 97075-0751 Table Of Contents The Road Less Traveled by Eleanor K. Prager Tablemates by Kate Kellogg Remnants of the Past by Myrtle Carey Tuesday Afternoons at Bubbie’s Dining Room Table by Carol K. Rainwater Holidays in Helvetia by Kendall Moll The Day I Lost My Faith by Louise Burton The Fire Boats by Kay Weis The New Year’s Eve Party by Mary Kate Spencer Rain Drops at Dawn by Shepard A. Insel Family Secrets by Inge Golovin Half Chinese, Half Irish by Leah Brooks McDonough The Tree Left Standing by Vicky Kelly Serendipity by Estelle Schultz The Patrol by Walter Winterburn The Player’s Party by Charles Shoens Doing Something by Joanne Pasotti Night on Ben Lomond by Jerry Lundquist Josie’s Shooting Stars by Dolores Stevens The Boar Hunt by Estelle Schultz Hang Loose by June Swan Too Much Togetherness by Anne W. Busterud Earthquake Talk by Hans J. Schmidt Trivializing Ezra by Don Volkman The Baths at Atami by Kay Weis Christmas is Coming by Helga Hardy Home Sharing by Kathleen Chamberlain Two Days of Surprises by Anne Marie Waller Darly the defiant by Dan Meyerson The Writers (Biography) Images & Reflections Sample Short Story from the PALO ALTO WRITERS 1996 ANTHOLOGY COPYRIGHT 1996 BY THE PALO ALTO WRITERS The Tree Left Standing by Vicky Kelly The house was a low-slung ranch house, in a neighborhood of shake-roof ranch houses with well-trimmed lawns and neat shrubs. The movers had lugged, pulled and shoved furniture, boxes and a lifetime of junk out. The children had come and taken what they wanted, Goodwill had come. The house stood empty, after thirty years. Jane stood in the quiet house looking through the expanse of picture window, across the patio to the sprawling, neatly fenced backyard. It was summer. Bees swarmed among the bright green leaves of the lemon trees, and the apple tree was laden with a crop of tart Gravensteins. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the old peach tree. It showed its age, its trunk gnarled and weathered, wounded by insects, it continued to struggle to produce. "What do you want a peach tree for?", he had asked twenty-five years before. "I love peaches, and so do you." "Oh hell, it'll be nothing but work." But when he turned to look at her, he knew he would plant a peach tree. At the garden shop he had asked, "Which one? You pick it out. I don't know anything about peach trees. You're the farm girl." That's how it had started. He had grumbled, but planted a bare-root twig, watered it, sprayed it, pruned it, and swore at it as it produced box after box of peaches. When the children lived at home, she canned peaches, made peach pies, cobblers, jam. Later, when the two of them were living alone in the house, it became a race. What to do with the peaches before they spoiled. They had boxed them up to share with the neighbors, carted them to the church to feed the hungry. He joked that they would stand by the side of the road and sell them. He demanded to know why he couldn't have a peach tree that only produced enough peaches for him to slice on his morning cereal. "That damn tree is killing me," he told her grinning. Everyone told him how good his peaches were, the sweetest they'd ever tasted. He was proud of his tree. He knew he had grown something good. Jane thought about the huge leafy avocado tree that shaded the patio and cooled the kitchen. I'm going to chop that avocado tree down," he said. "It's shading the house too much, and keeps dropping leaves all over the patio. Too messy." "You'll be sorry." "Nonsense." They had stood in the bedroom that first morning after the tree was down, looking at the yard, at the blank space where the avocado tree had been. “Why didn't you stop me from cutting that tree down?" He smiled at her as he pulled her into his arms. "I miss that dumb tree." A week later they picked out a Camphor tree to replace the old avocado. It was flourishing now, twenty years later, didn't drop its leaves, either. At the back of the yard was a huge old native oak tree. Once there had been two oaks, growing so close together it was difficult to tell where one began or the other left off. The two oaks had prospered on the property decades before this housing development. Jane remember the night of the big wind storm. It had knocked over the neighbor's fence, shearing it off flat at the ground. As she lay safely in his arms, they listened to the wind, unable to sleep. Suddenly they heard the sharp crack as one huge oak had split and fallen, its limbs bouncing and shattering, as the other tree struggled to hold it up. With a final shudder it crashed to the ground sending leaves and splints of limbs out across the yard. Now as Jane looked at the remaining oak she could clearly see the silhouette where the other tree had been. It was a kind of hole in the foliage, a reminder that once there had been two trees. Although the remaining tree was weakened, it had survived. But the shadow of the fallen oak had left its mark. As she wandered slowly through the house, she unexpectedly began to hum to herself. The old Helen Reddy song he had loved leaped into her memory. As she hummed, she thought of the lyrics--how did they go? Was it something like this? “When one of us is gone And one of us is left to carry on, Then, remembering will have to do Our memories will see us through. Think about the days of me and you, You and me against the world." Suddenly the front door opened. The song slipped away. "Are you ready?" the voice called. She turned to see the outline of a man with the sun's brilliant light behind him. There was something familiar--the shape, the angle of the head. As her eyes adjusted to the bright light, she saw the man was her son. This was not the little boy she had run along beside, hanging onto the seat of his first bike as he struggled to get the hang of balancing. Instead it was a man with the shape, the look, the voice-- vaguely like, but different. His voice was gentle, "You OK, Mom?". "Yes," she said slowly, "I'm OK". She didn't look back, instead Jane pulled the door closed firmly, for the last time. # # # ---------------------------------------------------------- Cedar Bay Press, L.L.C.: http://www.teleport.com/~cedarbay/index.html About Cedar Bay Press, L.L.C. . . . 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