Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Ron Gold

November 30, 2006

THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

BY Ron Gold

 Alternate title:  June Is In The Wings

Indian summer always looks prettier in Connecticut. Autumn’s magnificence

welcomes the second summer: our fifth season; the all-too-brief return of warm June weather, bathing fresh fallen leaves in newly found warmth.

Everyone is rushing.  Petit June Astin knows exactly where she’s going.  But she isn’t very happy about getting there.  It ‘s assumed June will inherit the family business.

Her grandfather started John L. Astin Funeral Home more than a century ago.  Her late father took over, followed by his soccer-playing son Dan, who takes comfort knowing dependable June is in the wings.

Dan spent a lot of time preparing the vivacious redhead to enter the business.  “You’ll have it made, Junie.  You’ll do well.  The town loves you and they believe in you.  You have a warm way of creating empathy.  And, besides, I’m planning to retire in 5 to 7 years.  When I leave, you’ll be president; good for a hundred thousand dollars a year.  And you’ll be supported by the finest mortuary professionals in New England.

“But Dan, it’s not what I want to do—or what I want to be.”

”I know, but look at it this way, Sis:  let’s keep the family business in the family.  You’ll have plenty of time to draw your beautiful pictures. Grandpa and Dad would love that their third generation is still running the business.”

“Gee, Dan, I don’t know.”

”Take some time and think it over, sweetheart.  It’s your legacy.  No rush.”

A few years ago, when a much younger June enrolled at the Rhode Island School of Design, she saw herself as a professional artist – chock full of ideas, talent, ambition and compassion – she saw herself making the gallery rounds, puting on beautiful one woman shows, selling to the wealthy Fairfield County intellectuals.         

As she reevaluated Dan’s offer, something seemed obviously wrong.  Her eyes kept going out of focus, she suffered from headaches, lost her appetite and became constantly blue.  Because she rarely left her house, she called Doctor Peter Palm, her ophthalmologist, whose examination told him June’s problem went far beyond her eyes.  He recommended a neurologist.

The specialist’s diagnosis was cut and dried.  “Miss Astin,” he said. “You have an inoperable tumor on your brain.  There’s nothing I or any doctor can do for you.  I’d estimate you have three to six months to live. Get your affairs in order.  And take some of that precious time to smell the roses.  God bless you.”

“Take some time … get your affairs in order…and smell the roses” she kept repeating.

She would leave all her estate paperwork to Dan; it’s what he does best.  I’ll move into the beach house and do what I do best: paint.  Not only will I smell the roses; I’ll paint them, too.”

When Dan heard her new diagnosis, he called her cell phone.

“Junie,” he said, “we don’t know much about Peter’s neurologist.  Let’s go to someone else for a second opinion.”

Two days later June and Dan met Charles Hawthorne, the senior resident neurologist at Massachusetts General Hospital, who supervised her new skull pictures.

Two days after their Boston trip, June received a phone call.  “Miss Astin, this

is Doctor Hawthorne.  I just examined your pictures.  I’m sorry to say that

your local physician is correct. Your tumor is inoperable. Sorry.  But don’t lose hope.  Stay positive.  Look toward the bright side. Yale University Medical School is doing some exciting work in this area. Let’s pray they’ll announce a breakthrough soon.”

June thanked him, hung up the phone and went back to her oils, water colors and pastels.  There’s so much beauty to capture—and so little time.

There were those roses and the incomparable New England fall foliage to paint.

There were boats.  Boats moored at the Greenwich Yacht Club, quietly rolling with soft undulating waves. There was innocent youth: handsome young un-combed boys combing beaches and digging clams.  Pretty girls in bikinis, replenishing their suntans.  Children donning water wing and cute colorful tubular safety gear.  There were seascapes and landscapes highlighting

summer mansions and price-y restaurants and bistros with their priceless overly-dressed clientele.

She visited a local florist and helped arrange a bouquet of different colored

roses.  She spent days sketching boats and dock fishermen at the yacht club.

She sat on beaches, drawing sand-splotched people sitting beneath colorful umbrellas.

She captured the final throes of summer as teenagers played in the sand or on beach floats and feasted on ice cream, hot dogs and soft drinks at the food pavilions.

As June was developing her Indian summer portfolio, she began feeling better.  Her eyes focused sharply.  Her headaches were history.  Joy overcame the blahs and blues.  She exchanged coffee and cigarettes for real food.  She started driving again.

Then Dan phoned her.

“Sis,” he said.  “Great news.  Got a call from Dr. Hawthorne at Mass General.

Seems your rare ailment isn’t so rare.  Somebody fouled up.  Fifteen similar rare diagnoses in a single week!  So they double checked the equipment and discovered that they were not adjusted.  You’ll be fine, Sis. Congratulations.”

June inhaled a large breath, smiled, rolled her eyes, said a silent prayer, opened the refrigerator and chug-a-lugged a bottle of Dan’s favorite beer.

They met at a brightly lit restaurant:  June, Dan and Rollo, the arts editor of an avant garde Sunday Afternoon network television show.  June brought her Indian summer portfolio.  They looked silently as June narrated the story behind each print.

“I like the way your approached your subjects” Rollo said. “It’s different; certainly not trite.  Purple people with green hair.  A star-spangled water float.  Beautiful roses set in a burgundy vase in an empty skiff.  Overly muscular beach boys and well-endowed girls in bikinis.  Gray frankfurters with olive green mustard.  Orange clams. Lavender sand. Yellow striped ice cream cones.  That’ll wake ‘em up in TV land.

“Tell me, June.  Is this really how you saw it?  Do you still have hallucinations?”

June put down her iced tea glass and smiled at her two luncheon companions.

“What hallucinations?”

Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com