Longleaf Stories

full circle in the hundred acre wood

Buck was already reading in bed when I came in with a new book to join him. Something about his face in the light was so dear, I put my hand on his propped up knee and leaned in to get a better look. He fixed me with those steady green eyes that see it all.

Buck: “I love to be in your presence.”

Me:  “I’m glad we’re together all the time.”

Buck: “Yes,” in his low rumble that draws the word out. His eyes never leave my face.

Me:  “We’ll never have enough time,” not realizing I have spoken the thought out loud.

Buck: “No, we won’t. We’ll have to find a way  to make it a celebration instead of being sad.”

He patted my hand and went back to reading. I fluffed up my pillows and opened my new book.

 

The photo is from 1990, taken at an old blueberry farm in Machias, Maine, where we were staying for two weeks in a celebration trip after selling my business, Aladdin Communications, to some nice fellows from New York City. 

7 thoughts on “Never Enough Time

  1. Verna Wilder says:

    I love your sweet stories. You touch my heart with your words and with the love you and Buck share. Thank you, Beth.

    Like

    1. Beth says:

      Thank you, Verna. I sure do appreciate you.

      Like

  2. Gullible says:

    Hang onto a guy who gives you writing prompts!

    Like

    1. Beth says:

      Buck is a walking writing prompt, that’s for sure! I’m trying to persuade him to write his memoirs, but he says (darkly), “There haven’t been enough funerals yet.” I’ve told him he doesn’t have to publish them right away, just get some of these great stories down on paper. (His dad was a county commissioner here back in the 1950’s and I’m pretty sure Buck learned where lots of bones are buried.)

      Like

  3. Wally Jones says:

    To paraphrase that famous philosopher (philosopheress?), Mae West: “It’s not the time you have left in life that matters, it’s the life you have in the time you have left.”. Or something.

    Like

    1. Beth says:

      Remember those long summers when we were kids and Mother would have to call us in? I can still smell the grass (St. Augustine?) and feel the long blades that turned cool after dark fell.

      Like

    2. Beth says:

      Or as Buck says (often!) — “Heaven can wait.”

      Like

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