Chicken Scratch: Signs of Life — by Elizabeth Beggins

I shall gather myself into myself again,
I shall take my scattered selves and make them one,
Fusing them into a polished crystal ball
Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun…

As the weekend came to a close, the man who brings me persimmons showed up at the door with a bag of fruit just starting to ripen, the blush of orange barely outcompeting the yellow-green. But I know what’s coming. Soon enough, they’ll mature into slumping orbs of sweetness, all marigold and Aperol, like homemade jam without the work.

I’d thought his arrival was just another in a string of unrelated events that left me simultaneously fulfilled and exhausted. Introvert math means even the most enjoyable interactions can overdraw the battery. But looking back, I noticed an unexpected throughline.

In the backdrop of each occasion was someone in the late chapters of their story—people who shaped the world in ways large and small, and whose legacies linger, even as the light shifts around them.

A midweek lunch with colleagues ended with a tour of a new home, a single room at the end of a long hall in an assisted living facility, where the couple relocated just a few weeks ago. The farm is closed. The house will be listed soon. What remains overflows in their new space, but it’s all they have.

Before we arrived, she apologized for not making the bed. I was amazed when a spunky little dog greeted us at the door. I asked about the breed—maybe a shih tzu mix—but neither of them could quite recall. Her dementia is more advanced than his.

The fluffy pup made everyone smile.

That evening, prompted by a visit from a friend who recently moved west, we had dinner with neighbors, our first time at their home, just a short walk from ours. We admired their camelback sofa and two cats. We talked about family and kids, especially those who have trouble staying out of trouble. We talked about food and politics, how his father was a career reporter at the New York Post before being canned by Rupert Murdoch.

A night later we joined some of our nearest and dearest to celebrate, Roaring 20s style, the 100th birthday of our library. Guests were smartly dressed, some in full flapper regalia. I spruced up what I had in my closet with a few sparkly bits and hoped enthusiasm would make up for any lack of authenticity. There was a red carpet and live music, speeches, dignitaries, and dancing.

Born at the end of the 1800s, my mother’s parents were married in 1923. Theirs was a world full of confidence and promise, though we know, now, what came next.

Iowa, June, 1923, soon after my mother’s parents were married.

At a No Kings rally the next afternoon, we stood on the shoulder of a main road among strangers and friends. A few elders took up their positions with walkers and wheelchairs, holding signs with practiced hands. Each time a car honked or someone waved from a window, I felt the lump in my throat rise again. It’s hard to name that particular emotion. Relief? Hope? Maybe just gratitude.

A trio of men in Trump-emblazoned pickups circled the block for two hours. I wondered what their protest cost them in fuel. Behind us, a mural of Harriet Tubman stretched out along a grassy lawn we were told not to use. Irony and inspiration are unlikely partners.

“Don’t make me repeat myself!”

A birthday gathering the next day capped off the week of activity. New faces mingled with familiar warmth. We met Mary, a former truck driver now caring for elders like the 87-year-old honoree and his wife, whose cognitive decline has been advancing for years now. The things this couple has endured would have broken many. Surrounded by laughter and applause, the birthday boy offered words of wisdom.

“Don’t put off your adventures,” he said.

The man who brings persimmons doesn’t come every season. Sometimes the tree bears no fruit. This year, he says only a handful of branches are still producing. The others have died. He’s driving the same white sedan, but the curve in his shoulders is more pronounced, his beard a little less tidy.

Persimmons like these take patience. Eat them too soon and they’ll let you know, all astringence and cotton. But wait, and they soften into something lush and generous. The pudding I make each Thanksgiving is the kind of dessert that tastes like it belongs to someone else’s memory.

We go on.

…I shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent,
Watching the future come and the present go,
And the little shifting pictures of people rushing
In restless self-importance to and fro.

“The Crystal Gazer” (1926)
Sara Teasdale 1884 –1933