An invitation in a jar
Unexpected gifts
My guy came home for lunch to discover a gift on our doorstep. I’d taken a late morning shower. Perhaps that’s how I missed the delivery, though I can’t be sure the man even knocked.
We know him the way people do in a small town. We nod and smile, exchange a simple greeting if we happen to be within earshot. We’re neighbors, acquaintances, nothing more. His name is Peter.
Every day in the vacant lot across from us, and next to him, he throws a ball for his dog. We notice how she sprints for it, returning at more of a prance than a run and lifting up on her hind legs in anticipation of the next toss. Her name is Sunshine.
Two weeks ago, walking back from the annual holiday parade that filled the main road with homespun floats and cheerful onlookers from communities near and far, we enjoyed one of our longest conversations to date with Peter. It wasn’t much more than a handful of sentences. He and Sunshine were out playing their usual game, and we called the dog to us as she sped past. We were advised to not expect much acknowledgement, owing to her lack of interest in anything other than her ball. But she came, and we all let go a laugh, and Sunshine sniffed our feet, and turned her face toward us, and let us rub her soft, blonde fur.
The way people know people in a small town, we also know that Peter’s wife, Jera, died in 2019 at 75. They had been married 53 years. Despite ongoing health issues, it was massive smoke inhalation that took her life the night their townhome caught fire that April. He recovered from critical injuries and eventually relocated here.
Tucked into the gift bag was a quart jar of pasta sauce, still cold from refrigeration. A simple masking tape label identified the contents. Peter signed the card with his full name and, in parentheses, added a post script – (the guy with the small white dog playing catch in the lot)
A day or so later, Jim stopped by his house to thank him and learned how Jera had assembled a book of her recipes for their two sons.
Her obituary describes a woman of many talents, including cooking. She was known, it says, for her pasta sauce. Peter wants to have us for dinner sometime.
“I have no idea how to cook,” he says, “I just do what she tells me.”
~Elizabeth
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"This is the kind of story that illustrates, for me, the need we have to connect - across time and distance, across fences, even across to the other side." Stewart has the essence of your poignant story.
In a way, your piece reminds me of the book I'm currently reading called The Book of Beginnings.
Here's to connections of all kinds in 2024, Elizabeth.
See you soon! XXXX
This is the kind of story that illustrates, for me, the need we have to connect - across time and distance, across fences, even across to the other side. A beautifully spare piece of writing, Elizabeth. Nothing needs to be added. Like a good sauce. Happy holidays!