Click

Because tomorrow is closing day for my parent's home, I stopped to get some cuttings of my mother's last rosebush in hopes of propagating the stems.  The original belonged to my Aunt Doris, it being a vigorous, tall hybrid named "Aloha" that puts out scores of pink, fragrant flowers on long stems.  I used one of Mom's old glass jars she used to start roses with and filled it with cuttings, some in blossom.  Drove home, and carried the jar up with the mail from the post office, a cantaloupe I had forgotten was in the back seat from a day ago, a satchel filled with work, my purse, and a piece of masonite to be used as a paper support for paintings.  I try to get in everything at once from the parking lot.

Scooting out of the elevator, the mail slid out of my bundle and fell piecemeal to the floor; with my arms full, I kicked the bits of mail forward with my sneakers, put the sodden melon on the doormat, and opened the door while balancing the precious roses.  Put what I had in my arms down inside, turned to retrieve the sad melon and mail, bent down, and click.  I am now locked out of the apartment.  The door is leveled to swing shut, the lock is geared to close without forgiveness.  The cats who had run to greet me now wondered where I went so quickly.

You stand up and take stock of the situation.  No front pockets in these pants, so no keys.  I only had a small toy attached to some string in one back pocket which offered no solace whatsoever.  New management charges $25 for getting you back in, but then, it was 4:30 p.m. and the office was closed.  No longer is there an engineer on duty, you need to call a far away central number and my phone was sitting next to my keys, locked inside the apartment.  In a pinch, I could have called them from the store after begging money for the pay phone from the cashier, then waited for two hours for someone to show.  However, there is always Plan A.

I give keys to trusted friends, and one of them lives just over a mile away.  I set out for Ginny's, where I knew a key to my apartment door hangs.  It is through a bit of a desolate area behind the Arena, through Bunny Town, past the old smithy, turn at the Malamute to the Swannie House, shortcut through Conway Park, past Master Market, and up her street.  And this is when I noticed that every few feet lay a chicken wing bone.  I felt like Hansel and Gretel following the trail of white stones Hansel dropped, as the stepmother led them into the forest.  From where I live to the end, a bone appeared as a strange talisman, most likely because the path I took went by several bars that offer wings.

But think of this: does Buffalo have a higher rate of discarded wing bones than other cities?  I would say Yes.  Then in hundreds of years from now, will archaeological diggers be carefully scraping away dirt from wing remains after this vibrant, hot-sauce era closes?  Again, I imagine layers of bones just as significant as the piles of clamshells found in the middens of early Native Americans.  A midden is kitchen leftovers from domestic waste, found wherever people once lived.  The Whaleback Shell Midden in Maine was in use from 200 BC to 1000 AD accumulating a thirty-foot depth in oyster shells with a length of 1,650 feet.  What is further fascinating is that the shells at the very bottom are from 12-20 inches long, and become progressively smaller as the layers get nearer the top.  Commercial human appetite decimated Maine's oyster population by 1875, when they were declared no longer native to New England.  Imagine an oyster, almost two feet long.

I got to Ginny's, got the key and was given a sandwich.  One of the men drove me back and kindly waited as I foisted myself upon my neighbors who let me in the apartment building, my security tag being attached to the key ring upstairs.  The emergency key worked, the cats ran to greet me but not as interested as the first time, and I handed the double back to my friend, who would hang it back in Ginny's kitchen.  Glad to be home, inside, artifacts in place.

Plans are twiddling in my head regarding the next time.  It has happened three times in ten years, but this is the first without an all night engineer staff to let me in.  I will secret a key away, perhaps secluded by a prominent rock at the shore, or squirreled under a local bridge, a railroad tie, or a significant piece of driftwood.  Taped to it will be fifty cents for a phone call.  A wee box to be buried with phone numbers, a pillow, and a blanket so I can sleep on your porch.  Toss me a chicken wing, to be added to the pile of history this town is accumulating.

Time to turn in, the roses have filled the apartment with an essence so calming, so rare.  I knew my Mom would stick her face into an open bloom and sigh with quiet delight at the beautiful fragrance.  I could carry the immense jar into the bedroom for sleep, and so fall into a dream of garden gloves and clippers, thorns and petals, water jars and cabbage rose blossoms big as an open hand.  Good night, good night, good, peaceful night.