In Love Every Moment

Copyright © 2012 by David Baety.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

Orders@Xlibris.com

125667

Contents

1 Julian

2 Corinne

3 David

4 Anne

5 June

6 Noah

7 Arthur

8 Julian

1

Julian

I was a young, calm tempered and curious little boy. One of my distinct little memories is that of grandmother watching her favorite TV show, fame, with my grandpa. My grandpa is a gentleman of extremely high caliber and esteem. He was raised just after the end of World War 2 and our family moved around the U.S. during the Korean War before settling in Denver, Colorado. My grandma would watch Fame and Cheers together with my grandfather and they would laugh and talk about the episodes for hours, sometimes even after the show turned to other selections on TV. Accordingly, they discussed and planned everything together. They even did chores together and clean the house together. I believe that this is not some trick and it helped their bonding and marriage seven-fold! Just by doing their favorite things of substance together as well as their little routines did they make this finely nit mesh of a love life react like a carefully arranged bouquet of flowers with seedlings that grow amongst each other and visually just feel and fit right. Even my grandparents beheld this one harmless loveable little fact: that is of sharing their lives together, that faithfully, in turn, it would all mutually make sense and produce in harmony. Even though they cannot watch Fame or Cheers now , because the shows are out of season, they do watch some other modern TV genres. They watch shows like Glee, American Idol and Jeopardy. They’re both together watching Jeopardy now, in the family room, answering Jeopardy questions with beguiling accuracy according to its time of the day, taking turns with the questions with cunning accuracy and cuddling with each other on the very antique, well-shaped, large brown leather couch they recently purchased from a neighbors’ home auction and garage sale.

Their world is so dreamy: to be steadily and deeply in love for 40 years without the faintest hint or idea of estrangement or abandonment. Sitting on the couch together, I know they were using the warming blanket my grandma had just finished crocheting this week’s past: sitting in that very couch she used to manipulate the material until it lasted into a work of pristine art. Sitting together, they took advantage of the couch’s warm conformity, recline and soft-down leather brown cushioning. They were in full enjoyment of the soothing bodily warmth of holding each other and in a humble hugger’s embrace, watching television. I’m eleven years old, their love is such a wonderful medley of attraction and foreplay, such a wonderful fixation of visual glee; it was strong enough to withstand any other’s jealousy. By others I mean the whole world wherever they went. They never use each other or forget each other or argue or lose sight of each other or want space. I thought I could never imagine or come nigh to understanding the magic, though I had dreamed about it in school, occasionally about Jenny, but inevitably for now, I was only pre-intimately aware. I’ve had some understanding of the substance of this symphony: I’ve gotten by with a few free gifts from girls that call me cute and think upon me as a desirable catch and giggle a blush. I hope, however, I never forget how I’ve seen my grandparents and how they have been so very many times work well with each other that perhaps through an osmositic activity I might somehow fall in the same kind of pedantically correct love luck like them with myself and another love and yet not requite my manners or moral collectivism.

I’m a freshman in High School, even after being double promoted twice in primary and elementary school. Although I am modest and don’t say overly that I’m impressed with my gallantry and with myself, nonetheless my victories are due devoted to His Godly begotten grace, the Lord’s, and not through my own impartiality. I take pride and wonder in submission, for the sake of both, with his works in my life. I am at home sitting on a high stool, so to speak, unafraid as to being knocked off by some unforeseeable force for lack of attentiveness, basking in the warm light of the kitchen and using the diligently clean counter tops for support and leverage for to write on, and to finish my homework: math, chemistry and English literature. My favorite piece of English Literature as representation of my life is called The Glass Menagerie. I’ve read this play many times through and always whenever I feel loneliness; I feel a comical similarity between the fallen glass unicorn with a broken horn, the isolation and seemingly deceptive tragedy of Laura in the play and my love for horses and crystal

I like the kitchen and dining area, because not only of its appealing views of outside and around and out on the porch, but not of the glistening chandeliers or of all the china stored within for to show in the glass and highly polished wooden dish display cases, but also its quietness: a sturdiness of removing sound and solely striking, gleaming, visual appeal that calls for silence and reverence, like an electronic copyright of the sun’s reflection with everything brilliant and pristine. It’s my idea that it’s the quietest and most attractive room of the house.

I had been sitting studying solutions to homework questions, but quickly my homework became interrupted with a burst of laughter; I looked up to the family room TV, as I couldn’t fully see, I returned to tarry on reading, skipping over the previous lost paragraphs and sections of my assignment skimming within search and distraction, yet ignoring curiosity of revelation and leaked material from the previous study, only to come back to where I properly and promptly left off. Yes, they were quite fond of getting together in the evening always on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but sometimes Monday and Friday as well, but rarely Wednesday because this is when grandma watches NCIS and Law and Order and Noah, my grandfather, does his other chores or to leave off finishing his trapped woodened model boats in glass, miniature size as an aside to his studies in the home library. Sometimes in the evening my grand dad retreats to his library and grandma retires to join at a bingo event at the local community center. This morning, it started out as a clear day; an enjoyable country wind blew in from the northwest shaking trees and beckoning them to lose their leaflets in accusation of the new fall weather. The skin felt warm with a cool overlay that reminded us that summer is although leaving us, but it will come again. But soon and slowly the weather changed, and it rained in the afternoon and late evening, wetting everything and changing the mood to powerful distractions of cracking and snapping bangings of sound as the water reached its leading places on the windows falling from the roof to the ground as light life of lightning and thunder descended from the heavens to the ground merrily off into the distance. There was a small breeze for to rustle the trees with soft sweet water wind like heavenly dew. It also had a thick wet smell and the trees were of some swaying into and out of the wind showing breaths of wind power and motion to fan the lives of its mostly alien but beloved children of nature, yet to them, the trees, all are symbiotic: for the birds, bees, hooting owls and locusts, ladybugs and insects the motion to them was well acceptable and suitable and not without reason. Earlier today one could see a perfect sky well with no clouds through the looking window but after the morning came and went so did the pleasant weather.

I quietly did my homework, fantasizing partially about the late evening weather and fantasizing greatly about my love for Jennifer, my friend of five years. I am forced to focus on the pain of not being with her with that old familiar sting of a warning solitude I’ve had presumably and exaggeratively since birth. I occasionally looked out of the kitchen window onto the porch and beyond up to the street that surrounded our yard as if I’m staring and trying to locate her house amongst the dwellings I see, none of them being of my Jenny’s home or bearing any resemblance. Only apparently did I study my answer to a question on my assignment, but partially I observed the weather that soothed and comforted me. Now, almost suddenly, it was raining harder; I could hear the spare water droplets start to beat like thrown nails or hooks against chalkboards, although softly, upon the window, announcing their intentions for interceding and villainously, doubly begging for entry. They would first bead and then trickle down the panes collecting trails along the way and bottoming out following a path only designed for each particular drop, yet a quiet and insinuating composition of asking for more room to spread: like a shared secret between the heavenly divinity and the motherly nature; it was a cure for my fixation to follow the trails and see wherein one would beam over or into or lead to another, each trail and each drop a perfection in pattern like a carefully planned strategy for the consideration of coming of the rain and for becoming alert of mind with the teachings of a higher, heightened concentration.

We lived in a five bedroom half brick and half large wooden light brown house. I lived upstairs with my sister June, my mother and my father. Every few moments my grandfather, as I was in the kitchen, would enter the room to fetch something or to ask how I was coming along, or to refill his water jug; he would sometimes prance about as if happy with some new gadget to exhibit that he’d bought or architected and made earlier in the day or alternately brought from his auction and garage sale hunting, then he would flex his arms to me exposing his "biceps of steel", so I silently discounted the point of the idea of his display not garnishing resentment but the quaint boyish curiosity I’ve had all spared all in my youth and assigned it that playful trick of the gadget as a quirk.

Once, when I was eight, I remember sneaking into the den and catching my grandmother crocheting a sweater. She would crotchet and laugh at the television never minding what her fingers and knitting needle were doing, and they worked quickly and cleanly, and never did she change her gaze even though she seemed to notice a small boy crawling into the entrance, knee high, wondering about the commotion: then she would look at me certainly and smile as soon as I started to believe she wasn’t noticing and she would return to her work with both of us smiling at each other and I would call her grandma.

My mother came home early from work carrying groceries and a wet umbrella. She stepped inside, hugged me and patted my back and said to me softly using her mother’s voice, Julian, Could you go and seek your father’s assistance for to help me with the groceries. There’s still some left in the car. So I ran upstairs jolly and happy yet on a mission and found my dad I did, fully concentrated on his work, or so I thought. His projects were undoubtedly relenting to create for him in his line of work and he was doing his study in the library with one book on his desk and another in his lap. I felt he could use a small distraction but I wasn’t quite sure the kind of the sort. So I decided to be quiet in waiting and letting him sharpen his literary senses of his finishing treatise to the Biological and Chemical Sciences Committee (BCSC) and his senses of thought at my pleasant interruption. As I opened the door, he motioned for me rightly to come in. How are you; how’s your homework. I’m so busy, but I’ve found a clue to a quandary I’ve over-heard and have begun to read about ratio and its relevancy in human anatomy and expressed disease diagnosis, so I’m a bit happy; I’m so sorry I can’t help you with your algebra tonight. Though, he was always happy to see me and seeing him was so pleasing: he has a confident air about him that’s so attractive and safe, like my grandpa. It’s no small wonder that they’re both well educated: He has a doctorate in medicine, while my grandpa is now a law professor, having previously been a medical doctor. He always beseeches my understanding of his work as if he would like me to garner some respect for his field. I’m sure he gave my arrival a second and third thought. I remember I would sometimes jump into his lap or tug on his shirt when I was little, now he gives me attention so generously. But, this time I decided to carom my way, zigzagging the furniture and book stacks into the library, while waiting for him to notice I would sit in a reclining chair, and whistle and fidget to a quiet song, a song of my mind; when I was young sometimes I crawled up the carpeted stairs like the cat on all fours when I needed to get up there quickly, and I was always singing a song. So I said from a seated position, Daddy, Mommie needs you. Some groceries are left inside the car. Daddy said to me, as if he’d known