LINE 6

... as he entered the kitchen of his parents' ranch-style home. Bare feet a little bit too big for his height stuck out from pajama pants a little bit too short. His blond hair reaching in curls below the chin, still tousled from sleep, added to the impression of innocent clumsiness so adorable with puppies.

His mother looked up from her morning paper - her love for her son oozing out of every pore. She was well prepared for John's first words - they had hardly varied since he was a baby. And even then most times his crying had probably meant just the same.

"Morning Mom, is breakfast ready?"

Though John didn't seem to require an answer, she held up her end of their morning ritual by replying: "Not yet but it will be as soon as you come out of the bathroom."

With a sound that could have translated into agreement as well as disagreement, John opened the refrigerator and guzzled a big mouthful of orange juice right out of the bottle. Taking a sip of her coffee, Sarah was tempted to comment - then changed her mind. It was no good to start a day nagging. Putting herself into John's shoes, she certainly wouldn't want to be told what or what not to do before she'd had her second cup of coffee.

While John was in the bathroom, she put cereal, soymilk and a bowl of sliced fruit on the table and a blueberry muffin in the oven. Fully dressed and wide awake, bursting with the energy of youth, John sat down at the table, filling his bowl with several generous helpings of cereal.
"Is this all I'm gonna have this morning?" he asked. "I'm starved."

"The muffin's coming. Enjoy your metabolism while it lasts," Sarah said with a grin. "Judging by your pajama pants you must have grown another couple of inches over night."

"Have to load up, I'm going to the lake."

"How nice. Anybody coming with you?" his mother asked, silently hoping his response to be Ted or Andy or anybody, really.

"I'm going by myself. I've got some thinking to do and I do that best undisturbed. I might take the new book Dad brought me from the library. It's got great stuff about the brain in it."

"Times surely have changed. When I was your age, I couldn't wait for summer vacation to get away from books. All I see you doing is getting yourself deeper into them."

"But mom, you were a girl, that's different. Girls are only interested in clothes and stuff. I have a theory: it's because... ah you're still just a girl, you wouldn't understand," he said with the resigned air of the misunderstood genius.

"Just wait until you get interested in girls then we'll talk again," Sarah said with mock indignation.

For the most part, she had accepted that her little boy was different from other kids his age. Not that he hated roughing around occasionally and he was actually a fairly good basketball player. He was just bored with what he called 'guys showing off their testosterone.' And that from an almost thirteen-year-old whose hormones should soar sky high she thought. Maybe if we would have moved to the city...

"Mom, are you listening or writing a story in your head?" His mother was a writer of children's books, and he was genuinely proud of her having such a cool job. She illustrated them, too. "I said I smell something burning and considering all probabilities my conclusion is it must be the muffin."

Good Lord, where had he learned to talk like that, Sarah wondered.

"Sorry honey, you're right. I was drifting." She took the burnt muffin out of the oven. "I guess it's toast this morning."

"Na, that's o.k. I wanted to ride by Mrs. Livingston's anyway and she always got these yummy cookies right off the sheet. Maybe she can tell me when Julia's coming."

"There you go, didn't I promise you you'd be interested in girls soon," Sarah teased.

"Come off it mom. Julia's not a girl, she's my buddy," John answered, rolling his eyes in a mixture of incredibility, disgust and shock at the strange idea.

Sarah had a dozen comments handy but decided to stop teasing. Puberty was difficult enough without mothers making fun of it.

"Ok. You say hi to Mrs. Livingston for me, will you and don't be late for lunch!"

"Uh huh," John promised, running out the door.

He hopped on his bicycle and was already half a block down the road when he remembered the book. No use in breaking the flow by going back. He would just pick up something interesting at Fragrant Meadows, the Livingston Estate.

Sam Livingston, or Grandpa as John was allowed to call him, owned this great collection of books, and most of the time he was more than willing to lend some of them to John.

"Reality check," John said aloud, pedaling harder to gain momentum for the approaching short, yet steep climb marking the entrance of Fragrant Meadows. "Grandpa used to own, used to lend. Grandpa is no more. Grandpa is dead."

Brought up to always be honest about his feelings, John acknowledged the tears in the corners of his eyes being caused by his sense of loss rather than the wind on his face. With a pang, John realized once again, how much he missed the old man.

As far as he could think back, he had never spent an entire summer without him. Like clockwork, Grandpa could be found at the lake day in day out, rain, shine or tidal wave. John's only living grandparent was his father's mother Kate and he had hardly any dealings with her. She traveled all over the world and they rarely got to see her. However, spatial proximity was only the obvious reason for his close relationship with this ersatz grandfather. Grandpa used to explain that it was always easier to relate to strangers than to relatives because you didn't have relations, and that it was easier to like strangers because you didn't have likeness. Whatever that meant. Grandpa sure was a whiz with words! Listening to his positively far-out stories about nature in general and the nature of things in particular, unfailingly left you with delicious goose bumps all over your body.

Lost in his memories, he had negotiated the hilly terrain on 'automatic pilot', a phrase his mother adopted whenever she found herself going through the motions without being fully present in an activity. Thus, he arrived in front of the Livingston's house, a huge Victorian mansion of the elegant Italianate style; its three stories dwarfed by the stand of old pine trees next to it. A multitude of flowers in hanging pots on porches, balconies and alcoves, created a stunning contrast to the immaculate white paint. The shutters were of a friendly blue that rivaled the color of the sky. Invisible from the front, John knew of the magical garden-terraces in the back, which were gently sloping all the way down to the lake. Manicured lawns alternated with stretches of meadow, herb gardens gave off enchanting aromas - there even was an orchard with a variety of fruit trees. And of course flowers everywhere. In John's opinion, the name Fragrant Meadows described the place perfectly.

He dropped his bicycle in front of the stairs when Amelia Livingston appeared on the porch. She was of average height and looked like a picture-book grandmother with her coifed white curls around a full, friendly face. John sometimes wondered whether his mother had her in mind when she illustrated the grandmothers of her books. As if to perfect that image, Amelia wore a starched apron complete with a big ribbon in the back, tied around what ages ago must have been her waist. She smelled of lavender sachets, vanilla beans and chocolate. John's mouth began to water in anticipation.

She definitely wasn't anything like his real grandmother who wanted to be called Kate, dyed her hair, painted her nails, and was always in support of this cause or that. Right now she was somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere, trying to stop some foreign government from testing their atomic bombs by detonating them under water, killing fish and reef and poisoning the ocean with radioactive fallout. Of course he thought that was a great thing to do - just not for a grandmother! Amelia Livingston's voice brought him back to the here and now.

"Hello John! What a nice surprise for you to visit," she said with sincere affection. "How are you? How is your family? Everything is all right I hope?"

As it often occurs with people who live alone, she had developed the tendency to talk too much whenever an opportunity for conversation presented itself. She was aware of this annoying habit but incapable of changing it, despite the nagging fear of alienating her callers and consequently ending up completely alone. "I just took some chocolate chip cookies out of the oven," she rattled on, "why don't you come in and have a few? I remember you always liked them." Finally she made herself stop, to give John a chance to participate in their talk.

John was a little overwhelmed by all those questions coming at him rapid fire, making him even more painfully aware of Grandpa's absence. It never was a problem to speak with him.

"Good morning Mrs. Livingston," he said, at last summoning up his manners, "That's very kind of you, thank you very much."

They entered the house. John followed Amelia as she led the way into the kitchen.

"So John, tell me, how is your summer vacation so far? Do you have fun? Are you enjoying your time off?"

John felt awkward, wanting to say something while simultaneously trying to avoid the topic of Grandpa Sam and how much he missed him, especially now. Amelia seemed to read his thoughts.

"It is fine to talk about Sam ... you know ... I miss him too. It is certainly not the same thing, but if you wish to use his library just go ahead. You are welcome to. I am sure that is exactly what he would have wanted you to do. You can borrow anything you like."

John felt relief and gratitude that she had made the situation so easy for him. "Thank you Mrs. Livingston. I was hoping this was ok with you," he said, grabbing a cookie from the plate Amelia had put in front of him. "Oh, my mom says hi. And do you know whether Julia's coming anytime soon?"

He took a bite off the still warm cookie. In expectancy of the fast approaching, deliciously sensuous sugar high, he completely forgot his social training and sprayed cookie crumbs all over his shirt, while talking with a full mouth. "Mmmh these cookies are great. I wish my mom could bake like this."

Thankfully, the propelled morsels of pastry fell short of Amelia, who delighted in watching John's appetite. Sam always had such a sweet tooth himself. Though he had died almost three months ago, she still experienced tremendous difficulty adjusting to her life without him. Small things, like baking cookies in the morning the way she had done for the past forty-eight years, helped her to cope with the situation. Maybe one morning she would wake up forgetting about the cookies, and from then on she would be able to get on with her life. Maybe that day would never come. One thing was clear - she was not there yet. She felt tears pressing behind her eyes. To spare John the embarrassment of having to watch her coming unglued, she spoke quickly.

"I talked to her mom yesterday. They will be arriving the first week of August and Julia is going to stay for the rest of the summer. Now go and find yourself a book, if that is what you want. I will be outside watering, if you need me. And John, do not be shy, take some cookies for the road."

That was not something he needed to hear twice. "Great! Thanks," he said, jam packing shirt pockets as he vanished down the hall and out of Amelia's sight. Cautiously he opened the door to the den, barely refraining from knocking first, half-expecting for the familiar baritone to invite him in. Since grandpa's death, John had surprised himself a few times already by having involved conversations with him. This usually worked best at his secret spot by the lake close to where they used to fish together and where John knew himself unobserved. He most certainly would not want to be caught mumbling to dead air, yet he could hardly wait to tell Julia all about it. With a combination of apprehension and excitement, he entered the study. Maybe it would happen again today? Maybe it would happen here? The house where grandpa had lived practically his whole life seemed predestined for that purpose and there was no danger from anybody prying. There was only Amelia, and he had a suspicion that if she detected him engaged in a discussion with her dead husband, she'd join right in.

It had started about a month ago. John had been at the lake, sitting on the ground playing with the knotted rope hanging from his tree house. All of a sudden he felt grandpa's spirit so intensely that upon turning his head in surprise, he saw grandpa standing right next to him, a big grin on his face. At first, John didn't mind in the least. They chatted, laughed, even walked a bit. It was no different from all the countless times in the past when they had met at the lake doing just the same. It was only when grandpa started to tell him about the pixie living in the tree right next to John's tree house, that he had realized with sudden shock what he was doing: he was talking to a dead guy. He got a weird-out faster than anyone could say spooky, and grandpa's presence disappeared at once. Since then, John even had considered thinking of him as Sam rather than grandpa in this context. If he was a ghost now, it just seemed safer not to be too intimate. However, while alive, grandpa used to make a distinct difference between spirits and ghosts in his stories, but it seemed inappropriate to ask him about that now. Maybe he would find something helpful among the books. He stood there inspecting the titles. After a deliberate and time-consuming search, he found a book with a promising title: 'The Alchemy of Death and Birth.' Maybe he would get some answers there. He could hardly wait to start reading it. Lost in thought he even forgot to say good-bye to Mrs. Livingston. He jumped on his bicycle and was on his way to his tree house where he hoped to explore the book undisturbed. It looked old and worn, and because of that he had at first hesitated to take it along. But then he remembered Mrs. Livingston telling him to take whatever he wanted and besides, he would take good care of it.

"Of course you will!"

John almost lost control over his bicycle when he heard grandpa's voice as if responding to his thought about the book. He looked around but no one was there.

"Grandpa?" he dared to mutter under his breath. "Grandpa, can you hear me? Are you there?"

When he received no answer, he knew he could stop straining his ears. He had learned this past month that it was easiest to get in touch with Grandpa Sam when fully relaxed. The more he tried, the less successful he was in contacting him. Now that seemed a paradox. "I need to make a note of it and think about it some more another time," he said aloud, which he considered to be definitely one of his less desirable habits. Maybe I should get a dog, he thought, at least then I could pretend to be talking to the pooch. If I'm not careful, I'll end up with a reputation, like hey, do you know John, the guy who's talking to himself whenever he's not talking to the dead!

Laughing at his joke, he arrived at the tree house. He threw his bicycle on the ground and as usual marveled at the impressive construction. The tree house was the biggest gift he had ever received. His parents surprised him with it on his eleventh birthday, and grandpa had helped him select the tree, a huge old oak at least seventy feet high. It stood at the fringes of Fragrant Meadows and grandpa had handed him a roll of parchment - official stamp and all - that secured his right to use this tree for the rest of his life. A copy of it decorated the door of the tree house and John was immensely proud of it. He remembered the building process as if it was yesterday. Because his birthday was at the end of October, the leaves of the oak had already started to turn and fall off. That exposed the naked branches and made it easy for them to decide where to put the platform for the foundation of the house. They found several perfectly angled limbs, approximately twenty feet above the ground. When his mother heard about this she tried to veto on account of such a height being way too dangerous. John had argued that if they wanted him to be on the ground they should have given him a tent. That settled the matter. So, after a flood of motherly advice and a promise to be extra careful, construction could begin.

At this step of the project, grandpa proved yet again what a great friend he was. He had just torn down an old barn and allowed John to use the wood. There was more than enough to build the ten by fifteen feet house John had designed, and because there were also some leftover shingles from the construction of the new barn, they were able to put on a real roof. Thanks to grandpa's generosity, John had enough money left for a few simple pieces of furniture. Technically John considered the tree house as much a gift from grandpa as from his parents.

He carefully climbed the ladder and went in. He sat down on a mattress by the window, opened the book and set the alarm on his watch for 12:30 pm to make sure he would be back home in time for lunch. From past experience he knew that upon entering the world of books he was transported to a place where time did not exist and the alarm helped him to deal with that fact in a responsible fashion. He fished another cookie out of his shirt pocket and began to read.