Hobbly Wobbly Meets Stickly Prickly

Sitting on the bench in the lush garden, the sun warming him, Hobbly Wobbly watched a squirrel jump from the tree to the trellis. It reminded him of when he could run and jump, those long-gone days. He threw a few kernels of popped corn. A chatter and sudden leap to the ground brought the squirrel almost within reach. He threw a few more. The squirrel eyed him, measuring the distance, determining the risk before gobbling the corn.

Hobbly loved these days, lingering in this part of the botanical garden, the great oak, manzanita, flowering bushes, and birds, bees, squirrels, rabbits, a frog now and then, and nearly always, a lizard or two. It took him nearly an hour of effort to slowly walk from where the senior transit taxi dropped him to this bench, his special bench. It is dedicated to an old friend and years ago they had come together to this place to talk and eat their lunch. The plaque read, “Robert Miller - Friend, Astronomer, Husband, Father - RIP.” Hobbly always touched the nameplate before sitting down with his sack lunch. Often he would say, “Hello, Bob.” Sometimes he would talk to his friend, who, perhaps, could hear him.

Today was one of those days he had a lot to say. A few days ago, Christmas burst out of its seasonal nostalgic bag. Christmas always brought memories for old Hobbly, and this was especially true this time. It was an anniversary of various events, losses, loves, and some archived times of major decisions. Hobbly sat and thoughtfully spun his mental inventory wheel.

Taking out his jack knife, he began to whittle on a section of broken birch. It looked like the piece had either a face in it or, perhaps, the hull of a boat, waiting to be found by Hobbly’s knife. It wouldn’t take him long to find out. His ornate lion’s head cane handle was evidence he had become a master wood carver in his old age, having nothing but time these days to do new things. He wrote a bit, whittled, played his harmonica and recorder, and, when his eyes worked adequately, he read more than he’d ever read. Today, he whittled. He slowly ate his lunch, carving between bites and chattering back at the squirrel. These times in nature soaked into his searching soul. He regarded nature as God’s body and this botanical garden, the peace and rustic beauty surrounding him, brought him as close to a sense of felt spirituality as he could know.

Down the path loomed a familiar old lady, progressing toward him and his bench. Her walker’s four legs along with her own two spindles reminded him of an insect. He figured he only had about three minutes before she would eclipse the sun, where he sat. He pretended not to notice her, but she had already caught his attempt to ignore her, and her approach was inexorable. Too late. Hobbly could not pretend he was leaving, because he had only a start carving on the birch and his sack lunch was not even half eaten. A knot in his stomach told him he didn’t have the courage to tell her to leave him alone. There was no escape. Not without speaking up, which he could not yet do.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Wobbly. You’re earlier than usual. Mind if I sit here with you?” she announced as she sat down, pushing his lunch sack and cane out of her way. The squirrel escaped to the tree and chattered at them. A lizard close by disappeared under a flowering plant. Several birds in the great oak tree flew away to the south, a rabbit vanished down the path.

“Hello Ms. Prickly,” Hobbly said, without looking up from his whittling. His gnarled hands deftly peeling away shavings, gradually giving birth to a man’s wooden face.

“Be careful with that knife, Mr. Wobbly. I notice you shake a bit and you don’t want to cut yourself. I had a friend who cut himself badly some years ago. He had that same shaky thing you have and he cut the palm of his hand while opening a coconut one time. Had to have twelve stitches. I warned him, too. He died, of course. So many have died. Alice Murgatroid, my friend is sick and I worry that she might not live. You know Alice, the big lady who rides the transit sometimes with you. She goes to the Center on Tuesdays. Every Tuesday she goes there. Hasn’t gone for two weeks, though. She’s sick. She doesn’t eat right. I don’t know why she goes. I’ve gone there and those old people just talk and talk, and about nothing, they just go on and on, and I can’t get a word in, not even edgewise.

"You know that expression, ‘Can’t get a word in edgewise?’ Don’t know where that came from. Do you know? Be careful there, that knife is sharp. What are you making there, Mr. Wobbly? Looks like a face? Is it a face? Where’d you learn how to carve like that? I can’t do anything like that. Of course, I knit and crochet a lot. Made a lot of things with yarn. I knitted a sweater for Alice. Took a lot of yarn. Alice is sick now, though. Haven’t seen her in two weeks. Have you? Christmas has come and gone. Not much to Christmas without children around. Don’t you agree? We had some caroling young folks come by the home on Christmas Eve. That could have been nice, but they sang too long and too loud for me. Did you have a nice Christmas, Mr. Wobbly? I wonder about you folks who live alone and wonder how you do at times like these, during holidays. Must be hard for you. Yes, it must be very hard, so lonely and no one around to share the food and songs. But, this year, we had some folks try to sing and they sang off key so bad I had to leave and went to my room. The television stopped working, though. I don’t know when they’ll fix it. Nothing good on television anyway. They don’t take care of things there like they used to. You know how help is these days. Just can’t count on people,” she lamented.

Quietly, Hobbly kept on whittling and pretended he was peacefully abiding her chatter.

“You’re not listening to me, Mr. Wobbly. That’s the trouble with you men, you don’t listen. My three husbands didn’t listen to me and I’ve never forgiven them. They all died. Men just don’t take care of themselves. They drink, smoke, and are unreliable. Luckily, they left me secure and that’s what counts, isn’t it? Security is everything. Don’t you agree?”

Hobbly moved his cane closer and took another bite of his sandwich. He stared out at the oak tree for a few minutes, not answering Ms. Prickly’s questions, which, of course, were not questions at all. Carefully re-wrapping his sandwich, he picked up his project, poking his knife blade into the birch just where he wanted the mouth to start. He couldn’t decide whether the mouth should be smiling, serious, or sad. He chose smiling.

Maybe smiling will help. If I can get this wood to smile, it should help.

“Tell me how you spent your Christmas, Mr Wobbly. You must have been very lonely. I have tried to be a friend to you, but you’re very hard to get to know. You could have friends, Mr. Wobbly, if you would talk more, share more of yourself, not be so withdrawn. You wouldn’t be so lonely if you would be more friendly. Did you ever think about that? What are you eating, there? It looks like dark bread. Sometimes at our age dark bread is too much roughage. Do you realize how difficult it is for your digestive system to handle roughage when you’re old? I only eat white bread now. It keeps my bowels working well and I know I’m not making my system work too hard. You can’t be too careful at our age. Our colons get dry as we get old. You must drink a quart of water every day,” she said, pressing on.

A long pause followed this salvo. Hobbly did spend a few minutes wandering through her observations and impressions of him. The mouth forming on his wooden face was trying to smile.

Perhaps she’s right. But, no, she’s not. I’m not lonely. I do miss some people, but I’m not lonely. I’m more lonely when she stops and talks at me. And I’m going to keep on eating wheat bread, too. I don’t care about what she eats. I can’t seem to care about her bowels. Besides, my colon is just fine.

“Mr. Wobbly. I asked a question! Don’t you think you’d be less lonely if you were more

friendly? And, what about changing your diet and eating things that are easier to digest?”

“Nope. Nope to both of those things, Ms. Prickly.”

“Nope? I haven’t heard ‘nope’ for years. My first husband used to say that word. He had a lot of short and strange words in his vocabulary. People now-a-days don’t have good vocabularies? Don’t you agree? They say things like ‘wow,’ ‘no problem,’ and ‘like.’ They say those things over and over. Young people aren’t educated anymore. Don’t you agree? I’m sure you’ve experienced the same thing. Of course, that’s the problem. Experience is something they don’t have and don’t know a thing about. They don’t have experience. That’s one thing we have. We have experience,” she affirmed emphatically, before continuing. “You need to come to church with me, Mr. Wobbly. You’ll meet nice people there. They are real Christians. Are you a Christian, Mr. Wobbly? You need to come to my church. Pastor Milkish is a fine preacher and he knows Jesus and the word of God backwards and forwards. Do you believe in Jesus, Mr. Wobbly? You need to believe, after all, especially when you’re this close to the end of your life. I believe in Jesus and it helps me a lot to feel secure and at peace. I couldn’t live without the sweet peace of Jesus inside of me all the time. You need to have that, too. My church really is a believing church. Jesus died for you, too, Mr. Wobbly, and I’m here right now to help you realize that and invite you to come to my church. What do you believe, Mr. Wobbly?”

He could not get his carved image to smile. The mouth seemed almost grim, no matter how well he worked his knife. He put down the birch wood and the knife to unwrap and take another bite of his sandwich. His water bottle had a tight top, which he suddenly had the strength to open. He twisted the cap off the plastic bottle with almost no effort and took a long pull on the crystal clear water. He noticed the rainbow of colors as he peered through the water at the sun. Prisms always intrigued him as did everything to do with science, nature, engines, instruments, and craftsmanship. Hobbly suddenly felt a bit freer and he realized how grateful he was for his interests and for the grand oak tree just a few yards away, deeply rooted and reaching for the sky.

“Well, Mr. Wobbly, you’re being very quiet. I suppose you’re thinking about my invitation to join me at church? You could find peace there, I’m sure. To know Jesus is to know peace, hope, and salvation,” she claimed fervently.

It was inevitable. He would have to say something. There was no escape from her. He took a deep breath and turned to look at her, really look at her. Her tight little mouth and her deeply set piercing eyes bordered the topography of her sharp, exclamation-mark nose. She wore a green sun hat and sported a green silk scarf, wrapped tightly around her skinny neck. His courage gripped him, along with his deepest convictions. He had to speak up, or else!

“Ms. Prickly, I have no use for church and all the goobledegook of religions. None of it makes any sense to me. I cherish beauty, science, and nature. That’s what I like. The most important thing is to be aware, that’s all. Ignorance is sin and so is it sin when we refuse to become aware. If there’s a god, I find him or her or it in the habits of nature; astronomy, geology, botany, quantum physics, mechanics, and even anthropology. I guess I love people, though, especially in the abstract. Humanity is amazing to me, but often I want nothing to do with most people. That’s strange, I think. I guess I like people at a distance, Ms. Prickly. Like you, right now, you’re too close. If I had my way, honestly, I’d rather have had my morning on this bench without you. I don’t feel good saying that to you, but it’s the truth. I don’t think there ever was a Jesus and I think that all the stories in the Bible are allegories, metaphors, all symbolic stuff. People who need to believe in what they call sacred books don’t have anything to say to me. Life is sacred. Books are just books. People who take them literally are just nuts. They’re tied to old stuff that has some philosophy, the wishful thinking of desperate and dead people, and, I guess, some wisdom, but, if we’re aware now, we don’t need that old stuff. I think........”

Ms. Prickly abruptly stood up, blowing a huffing sound, looking very stern. Her tight jaw became even tighter, her lips looking like pink Velcro, almost no lips at all. “I’ve heard enough! The Devil has you in his grip! I’ve never been so insulted and I’m leaving! Do you hear me? I’m leaving! As a Christian, I must say I hope for your soul, but I cannot imagine how you can live with yourself, especially after saying these rude things to me! Like all men, you’re a thoughtless, selfish person. Goodbye!”

He held his silence and began whittling again, not looking up at her, beginning to feel lighter, freer, even happier. She maneuvered her walker into departure mode, and shuffled to leave.

“Goodbye, Ms. Prickly. Be careful on the dirt path ahead of you. Do be careful,” he said, surprised that he sincerely cared.

Her tall, wiry, brittle figure’s backside awkwardly departed, step by step, keeping her walker just ahead of herself to be steady–step, plunk, step, plunk, step. With each step she took away from him he felt even lighter, freer, and happier. In a few moments, he noticed a lizard was back on a warm rock just a few feet away. A branch in the great oak suddenly waved up and down as the squirrel chattered and jumped even closer to where he sat, lured by popcorn still on the ground. A few birds flew from the south to the oak and a dove cooed from the ground nearby, behind a beautiful, flowering, sun-illumined bush. His knife busily found a smile on the emerging face carved in the piece of birch. The work was almost completed, except for some small details. He looked at what he’d carved: lined, old, smiling, and he thought how this piece of birch held hidden within its rough exterior this human face. He thought how much he wished he could see the essence that is hidden in everything, galaxies, trees, all the plants, rocks, animals, bugs, birds, people, drops of water, ocean waves, clouds, and the wondrous nearby mountains. He finished his sandwich and refreshed himself with the crystal clear water in his plastic bottle. Just inches from his left foot, the squirrel bravely scavenged the last of the popcorn.

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Remember, don’t believe everything you think.