Weston Lewis had lived in his home for 26 years.

Lately he’d get a lot more self-invited visitors calling on him, but he didn’t mind Weston firstly loved to sense people, sit on the porch, and thirdly loved songs and dances in general.

“Don’t be afraid ! Come on up, it’s a theater for gentlemen here” he’d shout, “and I been practicing for 20 years”

Weston Lewis had 2 brothers and his home was an old Victorian house set on a river basin fronting the Mississippi that his great grandfather purchased that dated back to the 1900’s, he was always told it was a cumulative consequence of character that the house ended up with his people. The son of the original owner tended towards fast games. His grandmother would always make it sound more glorious than a firesale of a bankrupted man child, probably cause she was a poet. He himself was not, Weston was in his handsome 50’s, bright eyes, lean and sharp when it came to doing.

Weston held a special love for his grandmother, she raised the boys after his grandfather and father died in the army, and his mother prematurely dying at 34. Weston loved his grandmother special not so much for her protection or stability, but because Weston saw her as a great artist. And not an expressive artist but one that dealt with people and matters which lived in your hands.

Weston always noticed her like he noticed the weather, and she’d get a look in her eye that you could feel if you practiced. He always knew because it gave him a rush, usually in sight of some intractable conflict or problem and always a person involved. His grandmother would get that look of being suspended in the curved line between death and eternity. “Holiness” is the only way Weston could ever think of it , in his head.

As he grew older, he’d often think of Eleanor, the songs and dances she’d make up for the kids, she was the wind around which he sailed. She’d always involved him in her wiles , and it had cumulatively led him to this day. He’d smile with two tears and think to himself “Eleanor made me a decent sailor”.  One day as he was thinking in this line, he received 2 visitors, a young couple looked like.

“Hi! I was wondering if we could take a picture here! Your house if so beautiful!”

Weston welcomed them up and in, his reminiscing had him in right spirits for a visit.

“I’ll have some tea out in a just a second, take all the pictures you like, stories everywhere you look” Weston brought a pitcher of cold tea and arranged the visitors in what used to be known as the parlor, each in their own chair.

The young man of maybe 30 introduced himself as Neal, the young lady of about the same age named Lauren.

“Thank you so much this is so nice, we are passing back through the new park, your house really stands out on the hill”

“you could say that”, Weston smiled,

He knew the park, an old mangrove forest with 2 paths worked up you might fit a kayaks through, Weston always wondered how they’d chose which way to cut the path, why only one forked path, and why nothing else done save a few signs marking the new park boundaries.

“It’s really crazy that this is the only park in this whole county, there really should be more ways for people to come out here and see how beautiful it is” Neal said, “We just bought a home in town, with all the craziness these days the county really ought to put some resources into this place don’t you think?”

“The downtown is cute” Lauren slipped in

“Well sure” Weston said, it was the response he could afford, as to not being sure what was being talked about. “Do you like milk and sugar” ?

“Neither, please,”

“Well , hopefully things gain some momentum here, we really like it, I’d love to see an expanded park area or some reserves , it’s a special place, you hate to see it left alone like this”

“I’d say it’s special because people have made a living here” Weston responded

“ Right, well with how our country is run, it’s hard enough to make a living anywhere,  people ought to really have more of a voice when it comes to these questions”

Weston was unsure how to respond, he seemed at once like a cloud of fog came over him , and though he could tell it was here, he wasn’t sure it’s meaning, only that it was brooding.

“ I think this place can surprise a man if he does not deprive himself of usefulness” Weston said

Neal examined the parlor , with its high ceilings, crown molds and dusty corners. There was no coherent order to the furnishings and it seemed that each room was tailored to fit varying moods. He liked the scent of the house, though, reminded him of a sweet cigar. He wondered if Weston might be one of these country people which were considered “disenfranchised”.

Neal smiled, he wanted to ask “what’s useful ?” But figured against it. He had a tendency at times to ask pointed questions, and instead let it go.

Lauren seemed to flash between ease and unease. “ I do love these flowers you keep, are they peace lilies?”

Weston looked at her honestly, noticing the clarity of her eyes and voice. At that moment she seemed to him a fresh spring, expressing with a cleanliness of voice refreshing and lovely as women are sometimes.

“We call them Eleanor lilies, after my grandmother who justly created them”

“Gorgeous” she confirmed.

“I’ll fetch a handful for you, be just a moment”

“Oh that’s kind, thank you, we ought to get going”

“I’ll just be a minute” Weston went out the back.

With peace lilies you want to find the highest stems and those that grow outdoors should maintain a wide brim of petal , with a pointed curve to a tip, the color of milk.

Weston picked out 4 from the garden , on the way back he wondered  how the couple got along, “isn’t that a mystery, how can any man get along with any woman” musing to himself.

When Weston returned with a handful of lilies, the couple was gone.

What stung first was that he had not heard their car pull out, he had been mumbling to himself and trying to pick out the best stems. Weston sprung back from the sting but with nowhere to go reasonable he cornered himself in thought as the cloudiness returned. It made a strange combination of confusion as he held his grandmother’s flowers on his 200 year old house for no one in particular.  Late afternoon was starting into dusk at his home, and the heat was beginning to fade, the scent of honeysuckle came around. The only reference he could make out for that cloudiness was a point in time about 10 years ago when we would sit in the Carpenters union- 254. He’d always felt a cocktail of infantile shame and nervousness there, especially in the speeches. He thought of Neal , wondering if he might be one of those types. Those meetings were around the time he’d been married, and lived in town, felt poor.

“Well God Damn it”

he took a seat on the porch and turned to the flowers, a feeling came over him like when a train is loaded too heavy, but he pulled off his usual charismatic grin. He’d remembered what he said earlier about usefulness, and wished he’d also mentioned beauty, “A man ought not to deprive himself of usefulness, or beauty”.

Eleanor pollinated those flowers for the first time on this river, about the time the public road work ended. She’d sell them in the market and even got them into a few cookbooks. Weston built the stands, drove her around. He set the flowers on his porch in a vase until nightfall, the chorus of the river rose and a warm breeze fell down through the basin.

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