We Were All Little Once

Julia was there. Commanding attention as she always did when I allowed her to enter my mind, my space.

"When I was little," I said.

And before I could  finish Julia said with such impatience in her tone that one might think she was the only one whose feelings mattered. "We were all little. What is your point?"

"You're a bully," I said. "What happened to me as a child is as important as what happened to you. I care not a twit that your father was Emperor of the whole known world. You are not the Queen of the Universe."

"Ye Gods," she said. "Did I ever say I was. Tell your story-- whatever it is. Who is this when you were little child?"

"The little girl Opal-- that little girl is me. I suppose I should say that little girl is I. But in this day it sounds so-- so-- so like it belongs in your day. Predicate nominative and the such.

MY STORY

It was a fine day.  Opal, just turned six years old, was in her playhouse in the edge of the woods less than a hundred yards from the house but wonderfully isolated by the thick blackberry bushes. "Op--all," her mother's voice called. Opal ignored it. She did not want to leave her playhouse. She was happy here in her refuge, away from the chores, away from the demands of her mother and father.  It had taken her many hours to get her playhouse just right. She had carefully marked off three rooms, a kitchen, living room and bedroom, with rocks. A broken bedspring, dragged with great effort from the dumping heap behind the barn and covered with dry leaves, made a wonderful bed. An old crate covered with a burlap bag made a fine sofa for the living room. In her kitchen two broken cups sat on the plank that served as a table. A hole in the stump of a tree with its standing rank water made a quite satisfactory cistern.

Opal sat very still. "Opp--all." She lay back on her bed and looked at the lacy patches of sky through the tree tops. "Opp--all, where are you? You wanna' go to the store?"

Quietly she crept out of her house, circled around the back toward the barn and ran anew into the woods. "Op--all." Then from a place safely away from her hidden sanctuary she answered, "I'm comin'." She ran breathlessly to her mother. "I ran as fast as I could when I heard you call the first time. What are we goin' to the store for?  Can I get some candy?"

"I'm aimin' to let you go by yourself. You reckon you git there and back without takin' all day?"

"All by myself! I'll run all the way."

"Ain't no need to run, just walk. And don't you go stoppin' along the way to play. Especially with them Davenport youngens. Now get some of that grime washed off. I declare I don't know what you do to get so dirty."

Opal filled the agate wash pan with water dipped from the water bucket and swished her hands through the water. The dirt line above her right wrist would never pass her mother's inspection. She spit on and rubbed it against the back of her dress. 

With the paper sack her mother gave her clutched tightly in her fist she listened impatiently to her instructions. "Now you be careful with them eggs, and don't go runnin'. You might trip and fall down. Tell Fred I need a spool of thread. And, Opal, don't go dawdlin' along the way. I need that thread to patch Daddy's overalls."

She hurried down the hill, past Aunt Rachel's house to the edge of the Snyder farm where she cut through the woods on the "Snyder Pass". Nobody walked past the Snyder house alone. In groups with other children to and from school she and Kaye passed the house. But only after approaching it with extreme caution and then running as fast as they could until well past it. None of them ever really saw Mr. Snyder or his boy B.D. Sometimes the drawn green shade on the front door moved, sending the imaginative children scurrying.

Every child who had passed this way had his own gruesome description of the face peering out from that window. Opal, herself, had never seen it, but even if she had she was not confident enough to trust her own eyes over those of so many who seemed sure of what they saw. Her mother said it not likely that anyone was at the door because Mr. Snyder was bedfast with some bad sickness and BD was too busy taking care of him to take notice. Besides BD was too bashful to be peeking out of windows, especially at a bunch of nosy youngens.  Aunt Rachel, on the other hand, ventured that it was BD at the window. She further warned that he might be dangerous, and  the youngens had better give the house wide berth.

When she came to the stream running through "Snyder Pass" she stopped to dangle her feet in the cool water. It felt good on her sore toe, the one she stubbed the day before yesterday on the root of a tree in the woods. Daddy said the toe nail would likely fall off; her mother said it would get festered if she did not keep it clean. A crawdad crawled lazily backward toward her dangling feet. She jerked her feet from the water and sat for a while watching. When the crawdad disappeared under the edge of tall overhanging grass she decided she had dawdled long enough. If she took too long her mother would never let her go again.

With her sack of eggs clutched to her side she went on. A squirrel scurrying up a tree caught her attention, and gawking at it she stubbed her already sore toe.  Her sack of eggs fell to the ground. She did not have to open the bag to know they were broken.

Tears welled up immediately and rolled down her cheeks. Tears for her newly hurt and bleeding toe. Tears for her smashed eggs. Tears for what her mother would say. Tears for having lost the chance to ever again go the store alone

Ignoring her re-injured toe she ran as fast as she could through the woods, onto the road to her grandmother's house. When she arrived Grandma was sitting in her usual position, in her rocking chair on the front porch. With sobs worthy of her audience Opal fell against her grandmother's arms.

"Why child, whatever is the matter?"

"I broke the eggs, and now I can't get the thread, and I hurt my toe.  Mommie's  goin' to skin me alive and my toe hurts so bad."

"Now slow down a might. Let me see if I got this. Marthie sent you all by yourself to Fred's  for some thread?"

"And give me three eggs to trade for it, but I stubbed my sore toe-- see how bad it's bleeding." She held up her toe for Grandma's inspection.

Grandma looked briefly at the toe, and assessing the real problem she put her shaky arm around Opal. "And you broke your eggs."

"My toe hurts so bad. And Mommie's  goin' to skin me, and she won't never let me go the store by myself agin."

Grandma got up slowly and leaning on her cane she hobbled across the porch and down the steps. "I reckon it ain't all that bad. I figure maybe we can make it right."

"But my toe hurts real bad."

Grandma leaned down and gently touched the toe which had stopped bleeding. "It ain't too bad. All you done was knock off a scab. I don't see as how the toe is your biggest problem right now. Do you?  It seems to me the biggest problem is your eggs. Now you come with me." Together they went to the henhouse where Grandma gathered four eggs. "Here," she said. "Them first three is for the thread and this one's for candy. Now don't you go stopping at the Davenports. You know what Cordell's like. I swear I don't rightly know what's goin' to become of that youngen." Grandma tousled Opals hair. "Law child, you got more rats in your hair. You comb it out when you get home, and I reckon we won't have to tell Marthie about these eggs."    

Fred's store was a long skinny building, dark from no windows along the shelved sides.  On the back wall next to a small dirty window was the thread and next to it the yard goods. The red checkered bolt Opal wanted for a dress was still there, but she was not at all sure she would ever get it. Her mother said as long as they had enough matching feed sacks there was no need to go spending good money for material. Besides her cousin was always handing down her leftovers, and how many dresses did one girl need?"

A big black stove stood in the middle of the store. Around it, even in the summer, was a ring of cane bottomed chairs and a green spotted tub filled with sand. Cigarette stubs stuck out of the sand and it was all brown and foul smelling from the tobacco juice. But this day the store was empty.

Fred came from a back room. In one hand he carried a knife; in the other and apple with a coiled peel hanging all the way to the floor. "Howdy Opal." Looking around he added, "You here all by yourself?"

"Yeah, Mommie  sent me."

"Your Ma ailin'?"

"No she's workin'." Opal gingerly handed her eggs to Fred. She sighed heavily secure in the knowledge that if the eggs were dropped now it would not be her fault. "Mommie said send her some thread to patch Daddy's overalls."

Fred not too gingerly opened the bag, or so it seemed to Opal. "And the other egg is for candy, I reckon. What kind you want?"

The jars of candy rowed up on the counter posed an enormous problem.  Finally she decided on licorice sticks, three for an egg. For a long time she held them in her hand. Then one she gobbled down, and held the other two as the priceless possession they were.

On the way home she walked confidently past the Davenports. Cordell, two years older than she and big for his age, was playing at the edge of the road. When he approached her she quickly tucked her two extra licorice sticks in the sack with the thread.

Cordell gave her a searching look, the kind he gave the little kids at school when he was bullying them. "What's in the sack, Opal?"

"Thread," she said and tried to pass him only to have him step directly in front of her.

"I just bet!  Lemma see. I bet you got candy in there."  He grabbed at the sack.

"It's just thread for patchin' Daddy's overalls. If you don't stop it, I'm goin' to call you Ma." He snatched at the sack again. Opal screamed, "Bertie-- Bertie, make Cordell leave me alone."

Cordell ran off calling over his shoulder, "Opal's a chicken, and a ugly scaredy cat to boot."

Past Grandma's house, up the road toward the Atkins place she ran.  Jeannette and Janann were playing jump rope in the Harrison yard. Jeannette called to her. "Hey Opal, where're you goin'? Can you play?"

"I gotta hurry home. Mommie let me go to the store by myself to git thread for patchin' Daddy's overalls."

"Did you get any candy? What's in the sack?" Jeannette, with Janann behind her, ran into the road.

"Just thread. I done told you Mommie's gonna patch Daddy's overalls."

"Jump with us just once. It won't take but a minute," Janann pleaded.

"Just once." Opal said as she clutched her paper sack to her side.

"The ABC game. Okay? Apples, peaches, peanut butter, tell us the 'nitials of your lover," the girls chanted as they threw the rope for Opal.  She jumped well and got through the whole alphabet.  But on the second go she missed on C.

"Cordell," Jeannette squealed. "Opal loves Cordell. The rope don't lie.   Opal loves Cordell."

Opal stuck out her tongue. "I hate Cordell. He's mean and dumb and a bully. And besides that he's ugly." 

"Come on Opal, let us see what you have in the sack." Janann said.  "I bet you got some candy in there."

"No I ain't. I told you it was thread, and if I get it all dirty Mommie's going to skin me alive. I gotta go."

Chewing on her second licorice as she went down the road, through the woods on the "Snyder Pass",  past the broken eggs which were being attacked by ants, over the stream,  past Aunt Rachel's,  to the foot of the hill up to her house.  She stopped once to remove the remaining licorice stick from the sack and drop it her dress pocket. It would not do if Kaye knew she had candy. Not only would Kaye want some of the candy but she would run right to Mama and tell her. Opal secure in the feeling that she had hidden her candy and her mishap with the eggs walked slowly up the hill.

Her mother was sitting stringing beans under the big maple tree in the front yard looking out over the forested hills in the distance. "I got it Mommie. I got it."  She handed the well crumpled sack to her mother.

"That's just fine, Opal." her mother said on inspecting the thread. "You done real good. You didn't have no trouble gettin' past the Snyder's or Cordell, did you?"

"No, I didn't have no trouble at all.  Fred asked after you.  He thought you might be ailin', but I told him you was just workin.'"

"I'm mighty proud of you, Opal. You're a big help to me. Next time I need you to git me something from the store you can take an extra egg for candy."

Opal ran off to her playhouse.  Exhausted she dropped onto her bedspring and leaf bed and began to eat her last licorice. It was indeed a fine day.

Things are things or not

   I feel a bit miffed with myself that I am so intolerant of Julia when she is irascible. And she is often just that. But in all fairness I realize she had a rough go of it. You have to just read her biography (THE EMPERORS'S DAUGHTER available on Amazon e-books)  to see how trying her life was.  I know, and know well, that she was without some of her most precious things when she was exiled on that isle so far from Roman civilization. I know she did not have her THINGS.

   This got my thinking going. What does it mean --Our things?

   This got me further thinking about MY THINGS

                  MY THINGS
My things
   My things do not hear
   My things do not care
My things
   Where will they go when I am gone?
My things
   in cluttered array on shelves, on tables, on walls.
Would that I could be an Egyptian Pharaoh or Celtic Prince.
My things would go with me to whatever afterlife I have.
My things would not be relegated to the dumpster or a garage sale.

Julia do you have such thoughts? I wait for your answer. I think I need your answer.

My Muse is Miffed

   Lest anyone who might read this wonder Julia is pissed. "Ye Gods", her shrill voice assaulted my consciousness. "My father's favorite threat, when things were going wrong, was 'or as quick as spoiled asparagus I'll ---'.  I always wondered just what that meant. Now I know. How in Hades do you have the audacity to say I or Tanaquil or Carti have abandoned you?" I would have interrupted with my explanation, but interrupting Julia is akin to holding back flood waters. "So you've lived 75 years. Big deal. And what, pray tell, have you learned in those 75 years? Nothing as I can see. Nihil."
   Then silence. My assumption that she had left was wrong. I had barely read one paragraph in the Great Course Guidebook I started yesterday. "Tell me, Jewellee, what are you doing right now? And you need not pretend I am not here or that I don't know."
   "Trying to learn about meditation."
   "Ye Gods, what is there to learn? Just close your eyes and think."
   "Think-- think about what?"
   "Whatever goes through your mind."
   "And you call that meditating? Wrong. So wrong."
   "And just what is meditating?"
   "It;s not letting your mind wander willy-nilly all over. It's controlled. Did you ever think that we have a past, a present and a future. The wandering mind tends to think about the past or the future-- never the present."
   "And," Julia 's tone was derisive, "that is why you can't deal with me? I am, if you will notice,  here-- now-- in the present - not yesterday and not tomorrow. It's now; I'm here; I'm trying like Hades to talk to you. So do you deal with me or not? Or do you keep pretending I have abandoned you. I'm here-- in your precious present."
   "You are an incorrigible pest. Or an awful bore. What do you want?"
   "To talk about you the state of your lethargy. Your word-- not mine. You could just decide to get over   it."
   ""How in Hell do you suggest I do that?"
   "Let me tell you a little story. Don't scowl. I listen to you; now you listen to me. It was 19 AD. I was confined to this god-forsaken island. Why at the moment is not relevant. But if  you so badly need to know,
check out THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER. Which you shouldn't have to do.  Anyway my black hair was dusted with gray; my gray eyes had lost their clearness. The bits of my former self were few and disassociated. Sometimes I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up Rome. All I could see and hear was Livia, my demon filled step-mother who kept telling my father I needed taming. Let me assure you life on that isolated island tamed me.
  I remember the day I came to terms with my condition. Then it came to me-- what I had to do. It was a clear afternoon in August. With flushed face, disheveled hair and breathless, without knocking I burst into my mother, Scribonia's room. 'Creeping cyclops, Julia, where have you been?'
   'Running, and thinking and deciding. Mother I want you to leave.'
   'When and why did you decide this?'
   'I've been thinking about it for a while-- going back and forth. But now I've quite made up my mind. I know it was your decision to come here with me. And I do appreciate it. But I have quite made up my mind-- I want you to go.'
   Mother held her steady stare. "Am I being exiled? Or do I have a say?'
   I could not look her in the eye. I knew she was staring at me. 'Mother,' I said, 'you're old. Nearly 80. You can't have many years left.'
   'Thank you, Julia, for that information. It never occurred to me that I was nearing my death. Now you listen to me, daughter. No one forced me to come. No one even suggested it. I came of my own volition and I would prefer to think I can leave the same way. It delights me to see you so self involved."
   I felt like striking her. 'Self involved? Do you think that's  what this is?'
   'Oh indeed I do and, I rejoice at the thought. It's time you showed fire and faced what you're feeling.'
   'And you know what I'm feeling?'
   'Of course I do. Something like this.' She hesitated with lowered head. Then looking into my eyes said, 'Your beloved daughter, Juju, and your youngest, Posti, have been given harsh inhumane treatment. And you think it's all your doing. And poor Ovid, because of his poetic talent, has been exiled. That's your doing too. There's a lot afoot here-- and far it be for me to prick your bubble of self importance. But dear Julia, you had little, if anything, to do with Juju or Posti or Ovid. Get over it."
  'And what would you have me do, oh wise mother?' I didn't even try to hide my annoyance.
   'With a faint smile she said calmly, 'As befits your heritage.'
   'And pray tell, just what is my heritage/'
   'To be mistress. If not of the world, if not of Rome, then of yourself.'
   Julia's image grew; she filled up my mind. Her voice commanded my attention. "Knock off the bitchin' That is the colloquial, isn't it? So knock of the bitchin'; kick your lethargy from your mind and get on with it. Be mistress of yourself."    

Where have my Muses gone?

   I think I might be in trouble. Seventy-five years I have lived and for sixty-five my imagination and spirit have pushed and pulled, prodded and poked, keeping me restless and creative. My self concept in recent years has been inextricably linked with women about whom I wrote, with whom I spent much of my waking and sleeping time, into whom I put my very being, whom my imagination and spirit have heretofore easily summoned. They have been as real to me as Anne and Jerri with I lunch weekly, or Gary and Edri who keep my spirits centered on what can be, not what has been or will be.
   Those women about whom I wrote-- Julia, the feisty fiery daughter of Rome's Emperor Augustus-- Tanaquil, whose indomitable resolve was influential in the movement of a mud-hut village into the Rome of Julia's time-- Queen Cartimandua, forced by necessity to yield to Rome's imperial power.
   These women, whom my imagination could easily summon or be summoned by-- these women who have been my Muses.. They have abandoned me. There was a time when keeping Julia at bay was a struggle, which I managed to prove to myself I was sane. Now summoning her is a struggle, and thus my fear of senility or insanity is more a threat. For now I know full well that the health of my psyche lies not with their absence but their presence.

Threat to Democracy

   "It seems to me .."
   I recognized Julia's voice, Julia, my mind's frequent visitor or what a reputable doctor might call my hallucinatory friend. As if I were ill.
   But I know, and Julia knows I am not sick, just as we both know she is real. As real as you or I.
   'Something always seems to you,' I thought but did not say.
   "Testy are you?" I knew as she spoke that I was as much in her mind as she was in mine. How could that be? Was I really...? Did we both have hallucinations?
   "It seems to me.." Julia would never entertain retiring because I asked. So I did not ask. What would any reasonably informed, intellectually curious person expect. Julia had if, nothing else, staying power.
   Don't laugh. Don't question. True Julia did die a long time ago and at a relatively young age. But not without leaving her mark. Who of my circle, or that matter yours and anyone else you know, has ever been at the very center of a political movement that changed the very nature of government?
   Bit I digress.
   "It seems to me," Julia's voice rang. "that the predicament of your country is dire." I could not restrain my cackling giggle. "And that cynical cackle says what?"
   "That you are long dead and cannot know of my country."
   "Oh but can't I? Are you so naive you don't see that -- What is that trite cookie statement you use?  What goes around comes around."
   "That's how the cookie crumbles, I think you mean. It seems stupid in this case and has no relevance to what we're talking about.
   "Let us forget the cute quips," she said. "and get to the subject. I repeat your government is in dire straights. Just look at the mess brewing in Washington." I scowled and waved a dismissive hand. "And in case you think I do not know what I speak of, let me allay your doubt. Your political parties-- Republicans and Democrats you call them-- are at such loggerheads that compromise is about as likely as... I know nothing, absolutely nothing that seems less likely at the moment. That happened to us you know. And what did it do for us? War and war and more war. Then a whole new form of government. An Empire was born. Any notion of representational government -- if in fact any remained then-- shrank into a 'toady man assemble'."
   "I am well aware of the dangers of our stalemated government," I said. "But I hardly compare us to 1st century BC/AD Rome. War ran rampart in Rome for 20 years before you became an Empire. Are you suggesting war here and a downfall of our government?"
   "Jewellee, my dear naive Jewellee," she said with a tenderness in her usually curt voice. "You surely don't mean what you're saying. There is war, and there is war. War that destroys with swords and blood-- war with gradual bloodless destruction of what my father called rabble. Your patricians are destroying your rabble -- slowly and bloodlessly.  But it is war as surely as if they wielded  swords. I think you and your kind ought to be more aware. I will now go and let you ponder Or at least I hope you ponder."
   She was gone.

 
 

    Rome's royal Julia as usual took great pleasure in holding court. The Celtic queen, Cartimandua, chose not to join us. But Tanaquil, never lacking in confidence in her own being listened patiently, if not raptly, to Julia. When at last Julia was done with her performance (for you could call it nothing less), Tanaquil spoke. "I don't take pleasure in thinking about or discussing old age. What is the point? The old already know what is to be known. The young find it boresome. But I note that getting old myself I recall watching people I loved grow old."
   "What have I spawned? Julia's eyes widened; her nostrils flared. Every inch of her body showed disdain. "I was not the one who started this 'getting old' business."
   "Perhaps not," Tanaquil's half smile reminiscent of the stereotype of an Etruscan lingered. "But you took your turn. Now I shall take mine. Would you deny me?"
   "Ye Gods no", Julia said "Pray continue."
   "I begin my story when my grandsons were ready for proper schooling in Etruscan Discipline. I made it my task to check out schooling in Tarquinia for the boys. On the pretext of visiting my aging parents lest they die without seeing my success, I went to Tarquinia. The city was as I remembered. The wide Cardo running its length north and south was traversed by equally wide streets. Covered drain culverts ran along the sides of the streets carrying away sewage from the houses. The shop was still there-- the shop where I paid far too much for a scarf when my mother sent me there with the hope that shopping would relieve my ache for the unacceptable  Greek boy.
   My re-union with my parents, Urnilla and Metius, was stiff and unrewarding. Time had taken a great toll on their eyesight, hearing  and memory of a daughter they had not seen for so many years. Had the reunion with my parents been my only reason for returning to Tarquinia I might have left with swollen eyes and deflated spirit. But I had come, not to seek a reunion with my aged parents but  instruction for my grandsons.
   I stood before Tarquitius's door, not sure if was still his door, not even sure he was yet alive. A torrent of memories flooded my mind. The times he had tolerated me only because of his affection to my father. The times he had tried to save me from the mistakes of my petulant nature. The efforts he had made to prevent me from making the mistake of marrying a Greek who would never be accepted by  upper class Etruscans. He had been right about the refusal of society to accept my Lucumo, but he was wrong that I had made a mistake. Just as I hesitatingly reached to knock the door swung open. I gasped at the bent frail old man squinting at me. "Tarquitius?" I asked haltingly.
   His toothless smile softened the hardness of his leathery wrinkled face. "Can it be? Can it really be? Or do these poor tired eyes and my feeble wits fail me?"
   "It is I, Tarquitius. It is I, Tanaquil. Come to pester you again."
   His bony fingers tightened around my arm. "You seek yet more signs? And again you need my expertise? I have heard of your successes. To what new heights have you now  set your sights?"
    I met his warm smile with loving eyes. As a child I had considered him one in a string of adults who would thwart my desires. As an adult I looked on him as a loving protector. "I come, not as a child seeking to side step the rules, but as a grandmother wishing to guide my grandchildren.." His eyes twinkled. "Yes I am a grandmother. And I come about my grandsons. They are in need of instruction. The kind the cannot receive in Rome. The kind they get only here. You will find them intelligent, polite, astute and dedicated. I assure you they will meet your expectations."
   Tarquitius sighed heavily. "I rarely take on students myself anymore. As must be obvious I neither see well not have much stamina. But there are several priests who do''
                                                   *                  *                    *
    Tanaquil tilted her head to one side and stared into space. Three people whom I had loved had become old-- old enough to remind me as I left that none of us will escape old age." Julia impatient as always with anyone who spoke at length, although she could cold court for endless time said. "Unless we are relieved of the process by an early death."
    Tanaquil's eyes met mine. Before either of us could conger up an appropriate comment Julia said, "What is the point?"
     Both Tanaquil and I burst into laughter. "There may ne no point at all", I said.
    "Or there may," Tanaquil added.
    "Ye Gods, how did we get onto old age? Nothing could be more depressing. Please the next time we meet let us pursue some topic with more -- with more anything that we have had the last  three times."

Old Is Not So Bad

      Julia gave me little time before she insinuated herself into my every thought. "You have had your time for what you call your little project. I must say I am not that impressed. You seem to think that because one is not old one does not see and appreciate old. Let me share something with you about old"
   "You are telling just me, or are Cartimandua and Tanaquil invited?" I could not imagine she did not want Tanaquil and Cartimandua. They have always been a part of our meetings.
   "of course they can listen. I must do it story form just as you did. First person accounts of what one has done can get so boresome."

   Thus began Julia's long winded story.

   A heated argument with her father had left her unhinged. As so often she had done she went to see Maecenas. A long time friend/foe/ally of her father, the Emperor, Maecenas understood both Julia and her father better than anyone. She arrived at Maecenas' lavish house on the Esquiline Hill. She had not sent word of her coming. Such was their relationship. A slave ushered her into the small library. The room was cluttered with excessive furniture and memorabilia collected over the years. A bust of Bathyllus stood on the large desk in direct sight of the chair obviously from its wear and disarrayed cushions was used often. The wall paintings were political and military scenes. She was inspecting his collections when he entered. She was taken aback. His color was so grey it was nearly blue. His skin stretched over his bones seemingly devoid of flesh. Despite her efforts to control her reaction she gasped.
   "Pretty sight, am I not? I have little time left." As he took her had in his his smile was reminiscent of other days. He lowered his head and kissed her hand. "Don't be alarmed. I'm not as uncomfortable as you. I don't have to look at me."
   She tried to laugh but could not. He sat in the large heavily pillowed chair. "Sit, my dear. I have ordered wine. And don't wince. I saw that you should not get --sweet gunk I believe you once called it."
   Julia managed a laugh. "Oh Maecenas, I have missed you."
   "And I you. How long has it been since I rescued you from your father's wrath after our all night therapy session? I don't get out much anymore. The comfort of this place offers help for my infernal restlessness. But I do not, as you might think, sit here stolidly awaiting death which is near now."
   Julia grimaced. "Now let's not start that. I know all about your astrologer. I also know that are wrong as often as they are right. How do you fill your time?"
   "With my books and friends. Horace is ever faithful. He comes when he can be coaxed off his Sabine farm. And dear Bathyllus has been a rock." He sighed heavily as a slave entered with a flagon of wine and two cups. Waving the slave away Maecenas filled two cups and handed one to Julia. Taking the other for himself he sipped cautiously. "The gods preserve us, how can you like this vinegar? How do I occupy myself. Besides seeing friends, I read and go to the theater. And I have been working on my poetry. I shall never be as erudite as Horace not as witty as young Ovid. But I have fun." From a cedar box on the table next to his chair he took a sheet of parchment. "Here. You can see I do not sit morbidly waiting for my death. Here read this." He leaned back abd with a grimace sipped his wine. A sudden cough sent wine dribbling down his cheek. Julia looked at him with concern as he swabbed his chin. "Don't mind this. Just read. Read it aloud. I should like to hear it.

   She read
Make me feeble of hand
Ma me feeble of foot and leg
Saddle me with a hump back
Knock out my loosened teeth
Life, as long it clings, is good
If I should sit, prop me up on my crutch

  Her eyes met his. His smile had a touch of impiousness. "So Julia, you can see I am at peace with my fate. I owe much to Horace who urges me to live each day as it comes with no faith in what tomorrow holds. If you're here to comfort a dying man, I assure you there is no need".
   
                                                      *                  *                      *

   Julia's  story was over. She addressed us --Carti, Tanaquil and me. Especially me.  "I suggest  we stop this wallowing in our own problems and take a page out of Maecenas' book. Let us live  today and  let tomorrow take care of itself. And Jewellee, your Carlie is doing all right. She has been propped up."