"The Sailboat" and Other Romances

By W. S. Walton

These collected stories were inspired by personal experience and places, things and people known to the author, and he thinks of all of the stories as romances for which he has a great affection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728332284

W. S. Walton

The author, born in 1938, in recent years has run distances, read and written about the ancient Hellenes. His recent writings include The Demos at Dawn and The Children of Marathon. Previously, he practiced law. His family is a source of great satisfaction to him. He lives in America.

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© 2019 W. S. Walton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  07/29/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3229-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3230-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3228-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedication

For my best friend, Jurdis

Preface

T hese collected stories were inspired by personal experience and places, things and people known to the author, and he thinks of all of the stories as romances for which he has a great affection.

Contents

Dedication

Preface

The Visitor

The Sailboat

What’s Playing at The Pickwick?

Building the Parthenon, Summer 1958

The Getaway

The Bus Ride

Sailing to Byzantium —I Remember

Teddy’s Gone!

Stoke Poges

It Seems Like Only Yesterday

A Day Together

Home Is Where the Heart Is

Her Enchanted Forest

Goodbye

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The Visitor

A lice answered the door bell. She was nine and all alone in the house. Her mother had cautioned her about allowing strangers in.

The caller was an elderly lady. Someone Alice did not know, slender and fragile. Each party seemed a little bewildered by the other. Alice asked whether the lady came to see Alice’s mother. The lady nodded in a kind of uncertain way and said that would be nice. Alice said her mother would be home soon and, contrary to instructions, held the door open, taking the lady’s arm to help her across the threshold. For some reason Alice felt safe with this stranger.

Alice directed her to one of the overstuffed living room chairs, saying This is my favorite chair because from there you can see the trees and flowers so well. The lady nodded her agreement and smiled as she gazed on the splendid view of the lawn’s rich greenery and the gay flowers.

Would you like some tea? Alice asked.

No, no, my dear. I’m happy to sit and talk a little. You are Alice, aren’t you?

Alice thought the lady looked ever so familiar to her, but could not place her. She hesitated to ask who she was. Instead, she asked, Have you ever been here before?

No, but this is a real treat for me, seeing where you live. Tell me what you do, Alice.

Alice talked about school, her violin lessons and the vacation coming soon to Door County, Wisconsin.

The lady said she had been to Door County many times and loved it so much she had written poems about it: the woods of the Peninsula State Park and the sunsets over the lake.

Alice was wide-eyed when she heard this. Really? My grandmother wrote about those things, too. We have books of her poems here. She passed away before I was born, but we have photos of her on the wall upstairs from long ago. Something like her visitor? Alice wondered.

Do you have any of her writing?

Oh, indeed! Thereupon the little girl ran out of the room and in an instant had returned with a slender volume. The lady smiled as she gently examined the book and its poetic contents. She asked who had assembled the poems and published them.

My dad and I, said Alice quite proudly.

The lady clutched the book, caressing it. She then read some lines out loud. Alice was enchanted. The two of them now sat on the couch so they could both read from the volume together, and they did, one poem after another.

Our piano, Alice pointed, that was my grandmother’s and so were some of our paintings, my father says.

The lady scanned the walls, nodding. Ann Hathaway’s cottage, I remember. And the mantel clock, a wedding present so long ago. She paused. Is your father well? Is he happy?

Yes, I think so. The questions made Alice all the curioser. Do you know my dad?

From many years ago, dearest.

Without saying more, the lady jotted a note on a little piece of paper from her purse, placed it between the pages of the poetry book they had been reading and closed it. She gazed at Alice in a reflective way, saying, My dear Alice, I wish we had more time to do this. Alice nodded with enthusiasm. But, I must leave now.

Alice protested, Oh please stay a little longer. My parents will be here very soon, and I’m sure they will want to see you.

The lady got to her feet and prepared to depart, but not without caressing Alice’s cheek, and saying, "Alice, you are all I ever would want you to be…we’ll meet again, when you have lived more of your life…and we will share more poetry, perhaps your own, and talk of the things we both love. It will be wonderful. Read that little note when I have left.

She kissed Alice on the forehead and prepared to depart. Thank you, Alice, for a lovely time. I know it doesn’t say so, but the note is for you from me.

Alice watched her walk down the driveway and down the street, feeling something very special had happened.

Alice was reticent to mention the visit to her parents. After all, we’re not to let strangers in the house. Yes, yes.

That evening Alice’s father noticed the poetry book lying on the couch. When he picked it up, the note fluttered to the floor. Alice tried in vain to retrieve it, but her father was too fast for her. He studied it for a moment and tears came to his eyes. What my mother would say to me, but how did it get tucked away in that little book of her poetry? He handed the note to Alice.

It read simply, I love you more than life itself. No word of for whom it was intended or who was the author, but Alice knew. It was a secret she would not forget all her life, and, after she was all grown up, sometimes when the doorbell rang, wherever she was living, it would occur to her that perhaps it was that special visitor again. She would like that.

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The Sailboat

A s a favor to friends, the lady had agreed to attend a Sunday afternoon reception hosted by people with a gorgeous high rise condo just off Lakeshore Drive with multiple views of Lake Michigan in its full summer glory. She was a trim lady a little over seventy, tastefully attired, and alone.

It had been years since she had been in such a location. Yet, once there had been a similar condo in her life, fifty years ago or so. As when she first visited that other condo, on this day her attention was drawn at once to the lake view panorama. She had never forgotten that view of sea and sky nor the young man who lived there. And then there was the little sail boat which provided cherished shared experiences.

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The first time she saw it, as it bobbed at its mooring, she did not know what to think. It seemed to be a bit of a plain little thing, something out of an orphanage for used boats. It was a dull gray and with oil streaks here and there. She felt a little sorry for it. Of course, she knew absolutely nothing about sailboats. This one was what they called a yawl, which the young man explained meant that there was a second mast behind the tiller, whatever the tiller was. He said this was very rare on Lake Michigan, but made for a good day sailor and lots and lots of sails to fly. She took him at his word about this, as she did for all things sailing, at the beginning at least…the beginning, indeed.

As it turned out, that first meeting with the sailboat was a memorable beginning like when a child comes along, from the orphanage or naturally, a very important occasion, but of course the actual beginning was some time earlier…when she had met the young man.

That beginning was in a church basement a couple years earlier, a somewhat unlikely encounter. It was not social: it was business, of a sort. Anything other than business took a while.

She had grown up in a modest working- class family, and her parents were proud that their two daughters had become school teachers with college degrees. Yet she discovered an interest in another calling, social work. She had spent summers at an inner- city settlement house and then commenced a program to earn a Master of Social Work degree…with no money. She worked two jobs for three years while taking courses. Actually she made more on an assembly line than she would probably earn as a social worker, but of course that was not the point of her quest. Ultimately she emerged with a new degree in a new profession, and of course no money. But she was excited that life could have a new meaning.

The young man was blessed with opportunities and had become a rising young star, so to speak, in a corporate law practice. So how would he meet a newly-minted MSW graduate? Well, the young man had some tangles in his life, a broken marriage, and a child and a sense of defeat early on. He felt alone, and to some degree inadequate, though he should feel encouraged by the law business and girls were attracted to him like bees to…. Yet, he needed something else.

When he volunteered as a legal aid lawyer for the indigent, friends kidded that he was doing penance, and maybe he was, but he found something there satisfying. The church basement meeting was about an organization to promote child day care, and social work and legal advice were both needed. So the new social worker and the legal aid lawyer answered the call and an unlikely encounter actually occurred. But it was business, though there were some discreet glances to catch whether wedding rings were in evidence. So far, so good.

Later, weeks later, no point in rushing things, she called the young lawyer at home. At that first meeting he had given her his business card, scribbling his home number on it. Not a personal thing; he did that with all his clients, or so he later told himself when she happened to show him that card containing the first words he had written her. She called him to see if he could offer some more advice on a community thing, or something. He was inclined to say no, due to the press of work, but he did remember that she possessed not only a pleasant demeanor but an eye-catching figure. So more legal advice was forthcoming and appreciatively received. And then there was a dinner invitation and later reciprocated. And this was other than business.

She had a cat, her one companion. Felix slept on her bed. So it was disconcerting at first for him when he had to make room for someone else.

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Then, in springtime, they drove down to the Jackson Park harbor to see the boat. The harbor was small and protected, and the boat looked like it was nestled in a watery nest. Not so many days thereafter they set sail in a cleaner and happier boat than when the social worker had first seen it. Out to the water crib with the other Sunday sailors, but when they looked back at the western sky, they saw only black and it was heading their way. At first the young man discounted the storm threat, having absolutely no experience with such things. The social worker was perfectly calm, believing she was in the hands of a knowledgeable sailor. Then the wind picked up, and up, and up. Later, the young man asserted that the strength of the wind snapped the wooden battens in the sails. At any rate, the boat heeled over, bringing water into the cockpit. He commanded the social worker to take the tiller while he hauled down the sails and struggled to get the little outboard engine started. His only instruction was shouted, Pull it toward you, real hard. Then he changed his mind and told her to push it away, Push it away, away!" She did as told, and the boat started to turn into the mounting waves, heading toward the harbor. The sails were down and the little engine was doing what it could, but it was not enough. The boat could not turn into the waves. It just stayed in a trough and the wind took it out to sea. There was nothing to do, but ride it out.

When the young man caught his breath, he said not to worry. This boat will never sink. The center board is too big for that. Until that moment the social worker had not thought about the possibility of sinking. But nothing else seemed to be going to any plan, so…. And for a moment she looked around and saw other sailboats almost flat out against the rolling sea and wondered if they would be casualties as well. Yet the social worker kept calm and quiet and kept the tiller in a firm grip.

Nature was very rough but its tantrum was relatively short-lived. Within an hour things had calmed down, and they could head back to harbor, now some miles away. The harbor lights were on, and the maiden voyage was concluding. The social worker sailor had done her part. The young man captain maybe less so, but no harm done. As they tied up, his heart was beating pretty good, and his hands shaking. The social worker was calm and said sweetly what a lovely day it had been, even with all the excitement.

The young man put on a brave face, being the captain and all, but conceded to himself that his companion was the braver one, unless of course she simply did not understand the situation. As they left the little boat behind, all secure at its mooring, the young man knew the boat, which had been around storms for years, would advise him if it could, You have a pretty good sailor there. Don’t let her get away.

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In the following weeks the captain and his sailor learned the finer points of hoisting five sails on the two masts and eating fried chicken and drinking red wine without making too much of a mess. The sailboat seemed to enjoy being back at sea even with such an inexperienced crew. They sailed up the Lakefront past the skyscrapers. They were magnificent in the daylight and when lighted at night they were pure magic

Then the young man proposed an adventure, not the personal kind just between romantics, but one with the boat. They would sail along the coastline up to Green Bay and then through the Bay on to Washington Island at the tip of the Wisconsin Peninsula. Up and back would take more than two weeks. They would have another couple with them who claimed much greater knowledge handy in sea voyages. Of course, the social worker had heard prior claims of such knowledge. She was now taking a course in navigation, as she said just out of curiosity.

The reality