WELCOME TO

Bill and Elizabeth

Bill worked hard a good deal of his life. It was hard raising a family and giving them all the things he had done without as a kid and young adult. He never had the opportunity to go beyond the eighth grade, so he made sure both his sons and three daughters not only graduated from high school, but went on to college. William Baker Martin, the third, was a successful lawyer down in Texas. George had been in private medical practice for nearly fifteen years now.

The girls? Well, that was a bit of a different story. Margie made it through her third year of college, but then brought this young man home with her on summer vacation before her senior year and announced they were getting married. Of course, Bill’s suspicions that she was with child had proven to be true. Either that or she had a perfectly healthy baby only five months into her pregnancy. But, it turned out pretty well. Margie and Earl were still married after four kids and twelve years of marriage and seemed to be as much in love as they were on the day of their pending nuptials announcement.

Deloris had finished college. In fact, she graduated with honors and stayed to earn her masters degree in Education. Bill thought she was going to be a first rate teacher, but she went to work for The New York Post and became a pretty darn good investigative journalist. No telling how far she might have gone had she lived longer. The same nasty cancer that took her mom from them and, which doctors said she inherited from her mom, struck her at age thirty-one. It seemed so impossible to Bill that Delores was gone. He learned of her illness on June first and wept at her funeral on August tenth.

Then, there was Elizabeth, the impish daughter, who made him smile the most. Like her mother, Elizabeth was Petite and lively and she was aptly named after her mom. It seemed she never had a bad day. Even as a small child, when she fell and scraped a knee or elbow trying to learn to ride a bike, never a tear was shed. Elizabeth made a joke of it, got right back up and tried again, sometimes, with blood still oozing from the abrasion. Bill thought back over the times Elizabeth should have cried and realized the first time he saw her brought to tears was at Deloris’ funeral. She held it back until the graveside services, then suddenly rose and ran into the trees alongside the cemetery to hide her crying eyes. He wondered why she didn’t cry at her mother’s funeral and assumed she most likely cried in private, believing it was a sign of weakness to weep publicly.

It was so beautiful here along the small river running through their land in the mid-lower area of New York State. This place was the one extravagance Bill allowed himself over the years. He bought the land sight unseen from an advertisement in a magazine. "Escape from the city to your own little piece of Heaven for your family vacations" the ad read. By golly, the advertisement was close. Twenty-two dollars a month was a good investment. Thirty-five acres of real pretty countryside. That’s what he bought for twenty-two dollars a month for fifteen years; his own little bit of paradise.

The vision of the first time he and Elizabeth saw this place ran over and over in Bill’s mind, like a continuous loop of tape that never stopped playing. Every time, it brought a huge smile to his face and, often, a quiet chuckle heard only by his wild animal friends and the birds. As disastrous and hard as that first trip was, it had been the source of many, many jokes over the years. The one forgiving grace about that disaster was that Elizabeth loved it here since first setting foot on the place. That is, once they finally found it. Their first trip here from the city was anything but easy. In fact, it truly was pretty much of a disaster. Bill had never camped out before and had no idea just what all it would take to survive.

In fact, although he never spoke it to anyone but himself, Bill always repeated the little joke he made about that first visit. "How does one survive two weeks in Heaven? Go through hell to get here." At times, he ran that through his mind and laughed aloud, much to the consternation of his family, because they had no idea why he laughed. But, they learned and eventually spent their two weeks each summer, fishing in the river, walking through the woods or working on what eventually became a very nice four room cottage. Elizabeth said she wanted to live here when the kids were all on their own and Bill retired. It took some talking to get the boys and girls to agree to their mother being buried here, but she lay under the large maple trees, surrounded by wildflowers and wild strawberries in the summer.

It was a beautiful spot for one to spend eternity and, even though Bill couldn’t get here to see Elizabeth as much as he’d have liked to, he knew that one day he’d be here for eternity, also. Hopefully, a few years of it alive, but he knew all mortals must face their final day sooner or later. And, where better to spend his final years of life than the place Elizabeth loved so much and the place where she would always be?

Bill’s own little paradise was at the end of a nearly mile long, fifteen feet wide dirt lane, along which others had found their perfect spot. He was one of the few lucky ones, having bought his place when the advertisement first came out. His land fronted the small river for nearly a quarter mile. And, right in the middle of that frontage was a narrow spot on the river that made the water run faster. This attracted the channel catfish, who love the fast running water. In turn, this furnished Bill with a great fishing spot. He loved catfish.

His land sloped gradually downhill to the river and grew many varieties of plants and huge silver maple, red oak and sugar maple trees. The short little bushes called Johnnie Apples grew in abundance, and Bill and his family quickly learned you didn’t eat the seemingly harmless small apples on these plants. Bill sometime wondered why God would make such a pretty fruit that would make you so deathly ill. Squirrel and bird nests filled the trees. Deer and wild turkey had beaten a path down through the weeds and undergrowth. It seemed the rascally, comical raccoons were everywhere. From time to time, he saw mink, muskrats and some other river animal he didn’t know, swimming along the river’s edge, either tugging an ear of corn along to hide in their den, or with a small fish of some kind between its teeth. And, of course, there was the occasional fragrance of skunk in the air. Bill didn’t even mind that a lot. It seemed the skunks ate right alongside the raccoons at the corn bazaar.

Winters could be severe in this part of the country, but even with their severity, the winters had a beauty all their own. What could be prettier than a flock of cardinals scratching through newly fallen snow to get to the crushed corn and sunflower seeds he put out for them all winter? Or the deer that came and took an ear of corn right from his hand. That time of year the pickings were slim, and it seemed to make the deer much braver. Each time this happened Bill had to hold in a laugh, because he thought, "What does Doctor Doolittle have on me?"

All his children were against his living out here in the middle of nowhere by himself except Elizabeth. She seemed to be the one who truly understood that although he was alone most of the time, he wasn’t lonely. He was with his dear wife and had many friends among the animals and birds. Elizabeth did make him accept a cellular phone as a Christmas gift, when all three of his children came to his snug little cottage for Christmas two years ago. They all chipped in and took turns paying his bill every month. Of course, Bill could afford it himself, but they insisted. He did win one concession from them; never call at sunup or sundown. That was his very special time to be with Elizabeth up in the maple grove or along the river feeding the birds and animals.

He had been a little reluctant about the cell phone, but accepted it as a pretty good idea, when he thought about how he got snowed in a number of times for weeks at a time. Of course when they offered he had to admit he had thought about how hard it would be to get to anyone or anywhere if he had a real problem.

A long row of mailboxes sat where the dirt lane met the narrow two lane asphalt road, so he got his exercise each day walking to the mailbox and back. Most days, he knew there would be nothing in his box, but it was a time to see what the neighbors were about. He subscribed to every catalogue he could, just to get mail and have something to read. Of course, there were the happy father’s day cards, the happy Easter cards and so forth from the many of the folks he had dealt with, selling his art. And, even the directors of the art museum never lost touch with him. During the winter, the mailman couldn’t even get down the road to the mailboxes for a week at a time.

These days, Bill thought a lot about how many more years he might have on this good earth, as he put it. He felt fine and had never had much of a health problem. Oh, he took cholesterol lowering medicine but, as far as he knew, his heart was healthy; no clogged arteries or anything like that. Somehow, he didn’t worry about the possibility of dying. In this, he was sort of a fatalist. Bill knew his day would come sooner or later, and he sure hoped that preacher at his late wife’s funeral had been right about the family all being together again in Heaven one day. If that was true, he almost looked forward to leaving all this behind to be with Elizabeth again. Many, many times, as he lay back on the grass, his fishing rod lain across his lap, he would close his eyes and think about it. Yes, that would be really nice if it were true. He also thought a lot back over the years; the failures, the hard times, the good times and the triumphs. The only woman he ever loved and he had certainly had their share of it all.

Inevitably, some channel catfish would interrupt his daydreaming by hooking himself at the end of Bill’s line and nearly jerking the rod out of his lap. Then, Bill would reel the fish in and, as he carried it toward the house, would talk to it. "You interrupted my nap, so now you have to pay. You’re just the right size for one old man, fish. You, sir, or ma’am, as the case might be, are invited for dinner. Good Lord, fish, I’m talking to you. I’m talking to a fish! The deer, the rabbits, the raccoons? Well, shoot, they’re okay to talk to. They sort of understand. But, a fish? Why shoot, a fish is dinner, not a dinner companion." Bill had to admit he sometimes got lonesome for a real human being to talk with. There were times when he wondered if maybe his kids were right about his living out here all alone. But, what the heck, what was the worst that could happen? And, he did meet the neighbors quite often at the mailboxes and stop to chat. But mostly, he rather enjoyed his solitude to visit with the animals and Elizabeth.

Then, one day, as he sat on the porch staring out over the beautiful hillside on the other side of the river, he sensed, or possibly heard someone approaching from behind. When he turned his head toward the cottage, a pretty the young woman was walking toward him. As he rose up from the porch step, she stopped perhaps thirty feet away and smiled at him. He returned her gaze and smiled, wondering what in the world would bring a pretty young woman like this to his place.

Finally, she spoke haltingly, "It is you… isn’t it?"

Bill chuckled and answered, "I guess that would all depend on who you think I might be."

"You’re Bill Martin, the artist."

"I’m afraid I’ll have to plead guilty, but how… "

She interrupted him. "My grandparents, the Niemans, live up the road."

"Yes, Gary and Donna. I speak to them quite often."

"Uh, Mister Martin, I hope I’m not bothering you. I… I uh, had to meet you. Your work is so… I’m a great fan of yours." She seemed embarrassed and a nervous tone pervaded her speech.

Bill extended his hand and said, "Yes, I’m the same Bill Martin, but it surprises me one so young would know my work. I’ve done nothing new for a number of years."

"Yes, I know. I recently received my degree in fine arts from NYU. You were one of the artists we studied. I never dreamed I’d ever meet you. Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. My name is Marcia Neiman."

Bill liked her immediately. Her manner and looks reminded him of his daughter, Elizabeth. "Well, Miss Neiman, why don’t we grab a seat on the porch and have a glass of lemonade if you’d like to visit a while. I just made some fresh a while ago."

"If you’re sure I’m not being a pest, Mister Martin? I’d love to talk to you about art. Like, who influenced you in your studies? And, please, call me Marcia, if you don’t think that would be improper."

"Not at all, Marcia. Have a seat and I’ll get us some lemonade."

Bill had always been quick to make friends, and he also had a gift for immediately knowing if a person was on the up and up or wanted something from him. He felt this young lady just wanted to talk to a successful artist, and he was happy to have the company. Long ago, he lost the habit of wondering if they were going to ask how he lost his arm. For years, it bothered him when he saw peoples’ eyes wander to the stub left just above the elbow.

He sat the tray down on the small table between them and offered her sugar packets if it was not sweet enough for her. As he settled back in the chair, he asked, "So, do you think you want to be an artist? What sort of medium are you most interested in?"

She answered with a quick tempo. "Oh, no doubt at all I want to work in oil. Just like your paintings. Oh, uh, I know I’m not anything the artist you are, but I just love your work so much, that’s what I want to get into my work. The detail, the wind one can see moving the grass, as if the painting were alive. The leaves on the trees seem to change color before ones eyes. I just want to be good, Mister Martin."

He smiled at her, as he would an anxious daughter, and said, "With the fervor you evidently have for art, I’m sure you will be a much better artist than I."

Marcia quickly moved her head from side to side and blurted, "Oh, no. You’re a master! No way could I do so well."

He lowered his head a bit, somewhat embarrassed by her admiration for him as an artist, but his soft smile never left his face. "You have to believe that you can surpass my work and do everything you can to attain that goal. That’s the secret of doing anything well. Try for absolute perfection and you’ll end up with something very good."

As if she wished to change the subject she asked, "Could I ask why you no longer paint?" It was as if she couldn’t get answers to her many questions quickly enough, from the intensity in her eyes and the clasping of her hands in her lap.

His soft smiled turned quickly to a frown, his chin lowered even farther and his eyes moistened. "I’ve not had the heart for painting since I lost my wife."

She squinted her eyes, got a pained expression on her face and told him in a soft, strained voice, "I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry."

Bill looked up at her through teary eyes and said, "Please don’t be sorry. You had no way to know. I’ve just not been able to get too enthused about much of anything but making friends with the animals and birds here and feeding them." He chuckled and said, "Shoot, I even found myself talking to the catfish I caught down at the river the other day. Perhaps your visit was divined to keep an old man from losing touch with reality." He chuckled softly as he spoke.

She smiled broadly and asked, "So, did the catfish enjoy your conversation?"

Bill threw his head back and laughed loudly. "He did until I put him in the frying pan. I doubt he enjoyed that much."

They were both silent for several moments, Bill smiling out at the river below, and Marcia looking around at the beautiful landscape that begged to be preserved on canvas.

"Mister… "

"Look, Marcia, if we’re going to be friends, please call me Bill."

"I... okay… Bill." She said it as if speaking a forbidden word for the first time.

"Good. It’s good to hear someone speak my name. Of course, my kids all call me dad, and the neighbors just call me neighbor, so it’s rare to be called Bill, anymore. Feels good."

She was so much like young Elizabeth. Not his daughter Elizabeth, but his wife as a young woman. It was good to have her for company and it was even better when she agreed to stay for supper, which he, of course, would cook. She called her grandparents up the road and informed them she would be a while so they wouldn’t worry, then settled into a more comfortable role of opening up about her studies, who her professors were and what her aspirations were. It was nearly dark when Bill walked her to the road for her journey back to grandparents. He wished she could stay to watch the night sky come upon his bit of heaven. The night sky was so crystal clear out here away from the city lights. One could see billions of stars it seemed, and only the sound of night birds interrupted the complete silence of solitude perfected. Of course, he knew he shouldn’t keep her too late, or her grandparents might begin to worry.

The next best thing was to walk a short distance up the road with her. When he knew he had gone about as far as he should, knowing he would have to walk back, Bill stopped and said, "I guess this is about as far as these old legs should attempt, Marcia. You can’t believe what a truly enjoyable pleasure it has been to visit with you. I really enjoyed your company. Please come back to see me anytime."

She looked up at him, a slight smile on her lips and asked, "Could I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You know how you told me I should shoot for perfection and such? You should do that, Bill. You’re such a fantastic artist. You should paint all of this. Show the world on canvas how beautiful this place is."

Again, he couldn’t help but smile slightly at the young, enthusiastic woman and think of Elizabeth, and finally said, "Well, I don’t even have the tools of the trade out here. Left them in the house in town and they were there when it sold. Don’t know what happened to them."

"Okay, I get the idea. Marcia, mind your own business. Sorry, Bill. Perhaps I’ll drop back by in a few weeks. Would that be okay?"

"You’d better drop by anytime you’re in the neighborhood, or I’ll be sorely disappointed."

"I’ll take that as an invitation. Goodnight, Bill. Can’t tell you how great it was visiting with you ag…"

She turned and jogged up the road, leaving him to stand watching her until the darkness swallowed her. As Bill walked back toward his cottage, he wondered what she almost said, but cut short. It almost sounded as if she started to say, "again." Naw, couldn’t have been. He would have remembered meeting her.

Bill thought about Marcia’s visit and hoped she would return, as he cleaned up the supper dishes and suddenly realized for the first time since burying Elizabeth here, he had not spent the evening watching the night sky creep into his world with his beloved wife. When things were cleaned up and put away, he walked to where Elizabeth lay and sat down on the ground. As he stared up at the stars, he told her all about the young woman’s visit and how it brought back such beautiful memories, as to be almost unbearable.

The following afternoon, as he walked out the front door to go to the mailboxes, he stopped dead in his tracks and stared. There, on the front porch, was a large artist’s case, an easel and a stack of blank canvases. A note hung from the easel.

"Dear, Mister Martin, Bill, I could not leave without leaving these things for you. I know you will make good use of them, and I would surely enjoy seeing an oil of that beautiful hillside across the river.

Marcia

Bill stood on the porch staring at the things she left for some time, then turned to walk slowly to the mailboxes. He was surprised to find a letter from his daughter, Elizabeth, which he immediately opened. It was a surprise, because he had received a letter from her just a few days earlier, when normally she wrote perhaps on the average of ten day intervals. He leaned against the mailboxes and read:

Dear Daddy,

No doubt, you will wonder why I am writing again so soon. Nothing’s wrong, which I’m sure was your first thought. I was just sitting here in the back yard, watching a couple of squirrels playing in the trees and thought about how much you enjoy your animal and bird friends out there in the country. Then, for some reason, I had an overwhelming sensation that Mom was close to me. As you know, Daddy, I’m not much of a religious person, but the feeling was so strong, and Mom seemed to be trying to tell me something. My thoughts suddenly changed to your beautiful art and I knew I had to write you to ask you to continue painting once more.

As I think back on all you have done for your children and, I know at times it was a sacrifice to what you needed or wanted, I am so proud of you. I also realize I have never truly expressed not only what a great father you are, but what a great artist you are. If Mom is indeed watching over us, I know she would be heartbroken if you never painted again. So, please do it for her, do it for me and do it for yourself, Daddy.

I’m going to try to get back to see you in a few weeks. It would be nice to find you doing what you were meant to do and what you are so gifted to do. I love you, Daddy

Elizabeth

His eyes filled with tears as he read the letter, and Bill knew Elizabeth and his new friend, Marcia were right. Even if not for the sake of his own soul, it was unfair for others that he was not using the gift he had for recreating on canvas what God had created for him. Now, he walked more briskly back to his cabin than he had in some time. Yes, it was time to get back to work.

He moved all the supplies Marcia had given him to the rear porch, set the easel up with a twenty by twenty four canvas and began doing a charcoal sketch of what was to be probably the best landscape he had ever painted. It would be so because, now, there was more to his art than just enjoying it and earning a handsome living. Now, it was an all-consuming passion. When he had finished the charcoal details, he began mixing oils to get exactly the right blue for the sky. As he began applying paint to canvas, he thought back to the times before he knew his wife and was nothing but a struggling house painter, trying to survive a nationwide depression, not knowing for sure from where his next meal might come.

For three days he worked feverishly on the painting to get every tiny rock, every leaf, every knot it the trees, everything he saw onto the canvas. When it was finished, he stood back and was completely satisfied that it was the best work be had ever done. Now, he was anxious for Marcia to know she had done him such a great favor and that he was painting again. He took the still wet canvas inside and placed it in the protective acrylic box that kept the dust off it as it dried and immediately set out to the Neiman’s house up the road.

As usual, Mrs. Neiman was pulling weeds from her prized flower beds as he approached the gate. "Hello, Mrs. Neiman"

The old lady rose up and smiled. "Hi, there, Bill! Haven’t seen you getting the mail for a few days."

"I’ve been painting. That’s why I’m here. I want you to let Marcia know I am painting again."

"Who? You said Marcia?"

"Yes, Marcia."

"Marcia who?"

"Why, Marcia Neiman, your granddaughter. It’s because of her I started painting again. She even bought me canvases, oils, brushes, everything to start painting again."

The old lady moved toward the fence, a strange look on her face. "Are you making some kind of a cruel Joke, Mister Martin?" There was a harshness in her voice he’d never heard before.

"Uh, I don’t understand, Missus Neiman."

"Marcia, our beautiful granddaughter, passed away just three weeks ago." As she stared at the astonishment on his face, her tired old gray eyes filled with tears and she said, "I don’t know who you are talking about Mister Martin, but it could not have been our Marcia. She’s an angel now."

Bill was dumbfounded, as he turned without answering and slowly walked back down the dirt road. When he walked onto his property, he went directly to Elizabeth’s grave, sat down and cried. Then, he smiled through the tears and quietly said, "Thank you, Elizabeth. Thank you so much, my darling."