There is, in this instant, cash in the hand -
Rumi
Corky was tugging on dandelion heads as she came into my line of vision, out for my brisk morning walk on Sylvan Lane, past the cherry orchards pointizling the East Shore of Flathead Lake. I could tell by the way she eyeballed me between her dips to pull off tired heads that I was going to be cornered for a chat.
"Can't keep up with the things," she says, as I still hold out hope I can slip by with a simple, "Good morning!"
"I've heard they are good in salads," striving to keep my momentum going, smiling to be bright, cheerful and courteous, hoping I won't have to abandon my goal to finish the other half of the exercise I've started.
"Well," she responds, "That may be so. I'm Corky. Who are you? I'm a retired teacher, you know," slowing her half-hearted attempt to rid the immediate world of intrusive plants. I have the impression they are a convenient vehicle to begin a conversation with any passerby.
My first impression of Corky is that she is a wee bit taller than a Roman candle, about that wide, topping herself off with a faded rose-toned woolen cap that fails to keep unruly Brillo from bursting skyward, silver springs as obstreperous as a rebellious child in the aisles of the Dollar Store.
"You know I'm eighty years old," she continues, and I soon know she has retired from her work in Helena several years ago.
"I don't know why we have this place," she sighs. Behind her the deep green floor rises to sweep up a slope punctuated with regularly placed mature cherry trees wanting to burst into blossom but perhaps suffering SADS like we all are here in Montana right now because the rain doesn't seem to want to quit this spring.
Her orchard sags a bit, imitating her stance, as if to warn her, "We're as tired as you are and will straighten up as soon as you do."
She stops pulling at the wilting yellow tops altogether to flesh out a story of going to a teachers' conference once in Hawaii. That she footed the bill herself because she wanted to go. She and a few other Montana-hardy souls. Whey they returned to their own school district the principal insisted they put on a hula show. She grins here, says, "I liked that."
"That was before I was married, you know," she offers and I laugh.
"I am bored to tears here," she complains. "I want to go back to Helena. I don't know why we still have this home here, do you? Isn't it crazy to have two houses?"
The next orchard over is owned by Claude. He's out digging trenches for the one hundred and ten baby trees that have recently been snuggled into his stony earth. Claude says he's so stiff by the end of the day his wife has to plop him into bed once he situates himself next to it. He's nearly twenty years younger than Corky. He says he owns a part of Sylvan Lane. His ninety year old mother lives across the road in the mustard house. He left the lane only while he studied at the University in Missoula after high school and has been back on Sylvan ever since.
"Well I've told you all this before," Corky informs me, and I am quite sure that it is really not important to either one of us that we have never met before.
"I suppose that husband of mine is asleep in his chair again up at the house. I guess I'd better go up there and give him a good kick in the patooty."
I laugh again. We've begun to drift away, she up her little lane and to the white house at the top of the orchard, and me to continue the remainder of my walk.
"I'm just the one to do it, too, you know," she barks at me from the distance. "It's the Norwegian in me," she gigles, and with that we wave good bye.
