I found this one in a notebook of mine from about six months ago and wrote this second draft.
Gooseberry Pie
The rain was falling when Mr. Sumption died. He always did enjoy the warm summer rain.
If Mr. Sumption had lived even one day longer, it is unlikely that his life could have been any more full. He had experienced joy and sorrow in nearly equal amounts.
He climbed a few mountains, raised several healthy children. He even jumped out of an airplane once, just for the fun of it. He toured the Pacific with the Navy, ate French Cuisine in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, and married the prettiest girl in his class.
He saw friends and loved ones pass on before him, including two of his own children. Little Jimmy was hit by a car at age seven and Lilly died just five minutes and twenty-three seconds after birth.
The world had changed around Mr. Sumption throughout his many years. Styles, trends, language and music- he watched them all evolve. One of his favorite pastimes was sitting on a bench in the mall, watching so many different kinds of people walking by. He never thought mean or unkind thoughts about any of them, even the ones with rainbow colored hair or silly tattoos and piercings. Rather, these adornments were a source of entertainment for Mr. Sumption. He figured that people dressed themselves based on their belief or lack there of, in their own self worth. He felt bad for a few of them, especially the scantily clad young ladies he saw flaunting their bodies. He would have liked to have told them what he knew of their real worth.
Mr. Wilber Sumption honored women. His mother, Mrs. Dorothy Cox Sumption, had made it clear through daily instruction that women were special and that it was a man's duty to treat them with the utmost respect and dignity, even if they did not respect themselves.
Mr. Sumtion's wife, Lillian Andrews Sumption, considered herself fortunate to have found such a good man to be her husband. She spent fifty-three fruitful years appreciating and enjoying his companionship. Mr. Sumption missed her at least forty-five times each day while waiting to join her in Heaven. When his time finally came, his last thoughts were of Lillian's polka dot apron, the one she always wore when baking pies. Why did she save it just for pie day? She had never explained it to him and he looked forward to finally solving the mystery.
He also hoped she would have one of her delicious Gooseberry pies waiting for him on arrival. He liked gooseberry best with a generous dollop of fresh whipped cream on top. To have his lovely wife and her award-winning pie, that would be Heaven for Mr. Wilbur Sumption.
One man might leave a lasting impression, having spawned new and exciting ideas, ideas that might be studied in schools for centuries to come. Mr. Sumption won't be that man. He will be remembered by those who knew him and nice things will said in his memory. Soon however, life will go on. Only those who were closest to him will still catch themselves lingering on the past. A thought now and then.
"Dad would have enjoyed this halibut."
"Grandpa would've had something to say about that boy's jeans being so tight."
Little things like that, moments here and there. After a time, as is the case with most people who have lived, our legacy will fade and be mostly forgotten, aside from old photos and journals.
Perhaps one day, many years after his death, someone will read Mr. Sumption's journals. They will unwittingly stumble on his meticulous accounts of secrets long since buried. Some secrets dark and unnerving, others mundane and of little import. We all have secrets.
The revelations found in Mr. Sumption's journal, if in fact anyone ever does read them, will show this quiet, unassuming man in a different light. It wouldn't be wise to judge him. How can you know what you would do in another person's shoes?
Hadn't his mother always taught him to respect and honor women? Mr. Sumption did that well. Most especially, he honored his mother, the woman who had given him life. The things an adoring boy will do for the mother he loves; the lengths he will go to in order to maintain her dignity.
You can't judge him. To do so would be to expose your own ignorance and naivete. How many times should a boy watch his mother be hurt by the one man who should treat her best of all? How is he to accept the beatings, all the while believing women to be of great worth? How long before that belief will promote action? A good boy loves his mother. Mr. Wilbur Sumption was a good boy. He upheld the honor and dignity of Mrs. Dorothy Cox Sumption.
The old wood shed at the far end of the family property was Mr. Sumption's proving ground. Moving stealthily through the evening shadows, he passed into manhood. His rite of passage complete after he swung the axe with all of his might. Secrets. Buried mysteries that gave rise to rose bushes and colorful bulbs.
Mr. Sumption's own father was the first but he would not be the last. No woman should have to endure the pain and indignity of abuse.
If you had asked the old man if he had any regrets, he would have looked out at the rain from his comfortable old rocking chair and simply replied, "I only wish I could have done more."
The rain was falling when Mr. Sumption died. Warm rain that would wash away the dark stains of an otherwise clean life. How do you measure the worth of a man's existence? The line between hero and villain is a matter of perspective.
As the steady flow intensifies and falls in a non-stop deluge from a grieving sky, the water will erode the grassy knolls and rend the manicured beds laden with tulips, hyacinth and primrose. The saturated ground will give way to the torrents, revealing secrets undeniable. Perhaps we need not wait for the obscure chance that an old journal will be read.
The old family property, a depot manifest with testimony of one man's choices. Hero? Villain?
The rain falls. Do you smell gooseberry?
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