Excerpt from Short Story
The next morning in Sag Harbor, a quaint little town on the South Fork of Long Island, Doris Horowitz glanced out the bay window of her home which overlooked the water. The previous night’s storm had purified the air. Pristine light reflected off the rippling waves. In the distance, a small sailboat rocked idly at its mooring. A cool breeze hinted that summer was ending and fall was arriving.
Doris Horowitz had steel-blue eyes that reflected a fierce independence fortified by age. At eighty-three, she managed to keep a schedule that rivaled those of most middle-aged people. As much as she could, she volunteered at the local hospital where she visited anyone who needed visiting. During the evenings, she played bridge with the gals. Sometimes they traveled by ferry to Foxwoods, a casino in Connecticut built by the Native Americans. She tried to do her weekly food shopping on Wednesdays and would occasionally buy a six pack of Budweiser, which she drank straight from the can. Every other day, she stopped at the local convenience store to buy a pack of cigarettes, a habit she started as a teenager; she could have bought a carton, but she enjoyed talking to the clerk, Sam Cunningham, a retired engineer who had always been a bachelor.
“Good morning, Doris,” Sam would say. “You look dazzling!”
“Oh Sam,” she would say. “I’m twenty years older than you are. I’d be accused of robbing the cradle!”
On Thursdays, she walked one mile around town. Her steps were short and brisk. If it rained, she brought an umbrella. If it snowed, she walked faster to keep warm. Her grandchildren even bought her one of those fancy pedometers to count her daily steps. After exercising, she rewarded herself by taking a few puffs from a Virginia Slims.
On Fridays, Doris Horowitz wrote letters. Not emails. But actual handwritten letters that were placed in an envelope with a stamp. Having been taught by the School Sisters of Notre Dame, Doris wrote in script that looked like calligraphy. She wrote her grandchildren; she wrote to the local newspaper. She even wrote to her neighbors, although she saw them every day. Sometimes, they even wrote back.
During the spring and summer, Doris tended to her garden, a hodge-podge of colored flowers and vegetables. She devoted one section of soil to her sunflowers, which flourished in the bright light reflected off the harbor. During the fall, she raked the leaves in her yard, bagged them, and put them out to the curb to be collected.
Her family worried about her. They were afraid that she would fall and not be able to get up—like the woman in that commercial. When her
family suggested that she move into a retirement community, Doris Horowitz, with her steel-blue eyes, became indignant and said,
“Why don’t you just ask me to sit in God’s waiting room!”
On the morning she glanced out the bay window, she ate a poached egg, a small fruit salad, and drank black coffee from a mug that said “World’s Greatest Grandma”on the side. She wore a white dress wrapped with a black satin ribbon. A set of pearls, given to her by her late-husband as an anniversary gift, hung loosely around her neck. Doris Horowitz always looked her best, even if she decided to spend a rare day home alone. She looked up from her coffee and a ray of sunlight reflected off her curled, white hair.
After rinsing her mug in the sink, she walked into the living room and sat in a rocking chair. She picked up a daily prayer book and began to read.
Although she was raised a Catholic, she married into a Jewish family. She didn’t go to church or synagogue, and never associated herself with any particular religion; she believed in God on her own terms. On this particular morning, she didn’t feel inspired by the reading. Instead, she decided to write about the overnight storm:
Dear God,
I couldn’t help but thinking about the storm last night. Wind. Rain. Waves. God, why do you make storms? Why do they have to be so threatening? You know they scare us, so why make them? Do you enjoy seeing us scared? Or are they your way of reminding us who’s boss?
I guess I’ll never know. I’m sure you have your reasons. I think the only good thing about storms is that they clear the air. Last night, for example, the air was so heavy and oppressive. This morning, it’s light and crisp, like a new beginning. Maybe storms are just your strange way of giving us a second chance.
Love Always,
Doris
Doris spent the rest of the morning cleaning the house. When she was vacuuming the stairs, the phone rang. She still had a landline. Her family wanted her to get a cell phone, but she refused. She doubted she would even be able to figure out how to work it anyway.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Hi. Mrs. Horowitz?” a tired young man asked.
It’s one of those snake oil salesman, she thought.
“Yes?” she replied without revealing her annoyance.
“My name is Matt with Pro-Sweep Chimney. We cleaned your chimney several years ago. You remember?”
Doris didn’t even hear the words the young man said. All she heard was the depressing tone of his voice. He was in
trouble.
“Hello?” the young man repeated.
“Young man,” Doris interrupted. “Do you like your job?”
The young man hesitated before replying, surprised that anyone actually cared.
Doris Horowitz had steel-blue eyes that reflected a fierce independence fortified by age. At eighty-three, she managed to keep a schedule that rivaled those of most middle-aged people. As much as she could, she volunteered at the local hospital where she visited anyone who needed visiting. During the evenings, she played bridge with the gals. Sometimes they traveled by ferry to Foxwoods, a casino in Connecticut built by the Native Americans. She tried to do her weekly food shopping on Wednesdays and would occasionally buy a six pack of Budweiser, which she drank straight from the can. Every other day, she stopped at the local convenience store to buy a pack of cigarettes, a habit she started as a teenager; she could have bought a carton, but she enjoyed talking to the clerk, Sam Cunningham, a retired engineer who had always been a bachelor.
“Good morning, Doris,” Sam would say. “You look dazzling!”
“Oh Sam,” she would say. “I’m twenty years older than you are. I’d be accused of robbing the cradle!”
On Thursdays, she walked one mile around town. Her steps were short and brisk. If it rained, she brought an umbrella. If it snowed, she walked faster to keep warm. Her grandchildren even bought her one of those fancy pedometers to count her daily steps. After exercising, she rewarded herself by taking a few puffs from a Virginia Slims.
On Fridays, Doris Horowitz wrote letters. Not emails. But actual handwritten letters that were placed in an envelope with a stamp. Having been taught by the School Sisters of Notre Dame, Doris wrote in script that looked like calligraphy. She wrote her grandchildren; she wrote to the local newspaper. She even wrote to her neighbors, although she saw them every day. Sometimes, they even wrote back.
During the spring and summer, Doris tended to her garden, a hodge-podge of colored flowers and vegetables. She devoted one section of soil to her sunflowers, which flourished in the bright light reflected off the harbor. During the fall, she raked the leaves in her yard, bagged them, and put them out to the curb to be collected.
Her family worried about her. They were afraid that she would fall and not be able to get up—like the woman in that commercial. When her
family suggested that she move into a retirement community, Doris Horowitz, with her steel-blue eyes, became indignant and said,
“Why don’t you just ask me to sit in God’s waiting room!”
On the morning she glanced out the bay window, she ate a poached egg, a small fruit salad, and drank black coffee from a mug that said “World’s Greatest Grandma”on the side. She wore a white dress wrapped with a black satin ribbon. A set of pearls, given to her by her late-husband as an anniversary gift, hung loosely around her neck. Doris Horowitz always looked her best, even if she decided to spend a rare day home alone. She looked up from her coffee and a ray of sunlight reflected off her curled, white hair.
After rinsing her mug in the sink, she walked into the living room and sat in a rocking chair. She picked up a daily prayer book and began to read.
Although she was raised a Catholic, she married into a Jewish family. She didn’t go to church or synagogue, and never associated herself with any particular religion; she believed in God on her own terms. On this particular morning, she didn’t feel inspired by the reading. Instead, she decided to write about the overnight storm:
Dear God,
I couldn’t help but thinking about the storm last night. Wind. Rain. Waves. God, why do you make storms? Why do they have to be so threatening? You know they scare us, so why make them? Do you enjoy seeing us scared? Or are they your way of reminding us who’s boss?
I guess I’ll never know. I’m sure you have your reasons. I think the only good thing about storms is that they clear the air. Last night, for example, the air was so heavy and oppressive. This morning, it’s light and crisp, like a new beginning. Maybe storms are just your strange way of giving us a second chance.
Love Always,
Doris
Doris spent the rest of the morning cleaning the house. When she was vacuuming the stairs, the phone rang. She still had a landline. Her family wanted her to get a cell phone, but she refused. She doubted she would even be able to figure out how to work it anyway.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Hi. Mrs. Horowitz?” a tired young man asked.
It’s one of those snake oil salesman, she thought.
“Yes?” she replied without revealing her annoyance.
“My name is Matt with Pro-Sweep Chimney. We cleaned your chimney several years ago. You remember?”
Doris didn’t even hear the words the young man said. All she heard was the depressing tone of his voice. He was in
trouble.
“Hello?” the young man repeated.
“Young man,” Doris interrupted. “Do you like your job?”
The young man hesitated before replying, surprised that anyone actually cared.