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All Things Blue - page 2
"I do custom crafts," she explained. "It was always a hobby
for me, but now it's become more of a business. That retirement check
only gets you so far." We loaded the last of the bags into the car and
Ms. Masters thanked me again. Before I left she asked what I was doing
for the rest for the day. I said nothing and she invited me to
her house for a nice hot meal and conversation, if I could make it.
"Oh, and Marcus!" she called out.
"Yeah?"
"Call me Jean." And with that, she zoomed out of the parking lot. I glanced at my watch. It was two thirty-one in the afternoon. That meal she offered sounded better with each passing moment
* * *
Jean Masters lived in a quiet, almost secluded area of town. Her place was a modest three bedroom ranch style house in the Groven Heights subdivision. 432 Turnip Lane. I'd seldom driven by that location in the past year and with the exception of a new convenience store at the end of the street, nothing much seemed to have changed.
She had a garage but the Explorer was parked in the driveway. The light of the setting sun had endowed it with a rusty orange hue that for some reason reminded me of carrot juice. I walked up the walkway, which was adorned with pretty blue lilies and yellow tulips on both sides, and was greeted by the smells of food cooking.
Multi-colored wind chimes rang out as I stepped on the front porch, a testament to Jeans creativity, I assumed. As a matter of fact, there was handmade artwork all over that porch. Surrounding a wrought iron table were three wicker chairs padded with beautiful tan and blue motif cushions. To my left were a couple of clay lions standing on their hind legs, teeth bared and guarding the house. And hanging in the corner was a wire cage with a small orangish parrot inside. He gawked at me and proceeded to peck at some grain in a little blue cup.
"I see you've met Sammy." Jean had been observing me through the screen door and I wondered how long she'd been there. She welcomed me in and hugged me like I was a good old friend.
"So does Sammy talk?" I asked surveying the layout of her abode. It seemed bigger inside than out and definitely didn't look like a three bedroom. My first guess would have been five.
"Only when he feels like it," Jean said. "He's funny bird, that one."
There were brightly colored paintings on the walls. One caught my eye in particular, a huge portrait that hung over an antique hall table. It was a painting of a bold dolphin leaping out of a vast blue-green sea with three others following suit. The colors were mesmerising and you could tell that the artist was dedicated to his work. Upon closer observation, I noticed that it was done in oil paints and the artist scrawled his name and the date underneath it. -- Jeremy E. Banks. August 8, 2005.
The food was wonderful and I complimented the chef profusely. Jean just smiled. "What can I say? Cooking's in my blood."
After dinner I helped her wash the dishes. Her cell phone rang , so she left
"Oh, and Marcus!" she called out.
"Yeah?"
"Call me Jean." And with that, she zoomed out of the parking lot. I glanced at my watch. It was two thirty-one in the afternoon. That meal she offered sounded better with each passing moment
* * *
Jean Masters lived in a quiet, almost secluded area of town. Her place was a modest three bedroom ranch style house in the Groven Heights subdivision. 432 Turnip Lane. I'd seldom driven by that location in the past year and with the exception of a new convenience store at the end of the street, nothing much seemed to have changed.
She had a garage but the Explorer was parked in the driveway. The light of the setting sun had endowed it with a rusty orange hue that for some reason reminded me of carrot juice. I walked up the walkway, which was adorned with pretty blue lilies and yellow tulips on both sides, and was greeted by the smells of food cooking.
Multi-colored wind chimes rang out as I stepped on the front porch, a testament to Jeans creativity, I assumed. As a matter of fact, there was handmade artwork all over that porch. Surrounding a wrought iron table were three wicker chairs padded with beautiful tan and blue motif cushions. To my left were a couple of clay lions standing on their hind legs, teeth bared and guarding the house. And hanging in the corner was a wire cage with a small orangish parrot inside. He gawked at me and proceeded to peck at some grain in a little blue cup.
"I see you've met Sammy." Jean had been observing me through the screen door and I wondered how long she'd been there. She welcomed me in and hugged me like I was a good old friend.
"So does Sammy talk?" I asked surveying the layout of her abode. It seemed bigger inside than out and definitely didn't look like a three bedroom. My first guess would have been five.
"Only when he feels like it," Jean said. "He's funny bird, that one."
There were brightly colored paintings on the walls. One caught my eye in particular, a huge portrait that hung over an antique hall table. It was a painting of a bold dolphin leaping out of a vast blue-green sea with three others following suit. The colors were mesmerising and you could tell that the artist was dedicated to his work. Upon closer observation, I noticed that it was done in oil paints and the artist scrawled his name and the date underneath it. -- Jeremy E. Banks. August 8, 2005.
The food was wonderful and I complimented the chef profusely. Jean just smiled. "What can I say? Cooking's in my blood."
After dinner I helped her wash the dishes. Her cell phone rang , so she left