Sanguine Tenacious Tidings

Listen to the Muse

You've been on an extended vacation, your luggage is packed full of souvenirs and acquisitions from several countries. You have to cross a border into a small country with heavily armed security and many large warning signs written in a language you can't read. You and your luggage are pushed in front of an angry border officer, who proceeds to yell at you in an unknown language. Just then, your muse materializes in its physical form, and says to you, "Don't worry... I got this."

Tell us how the rest of your day went.

Hope this does not have to be a total fiction story.

I'll start out with a fictitious hopeful paragraph.

The Muse would tell me to open the luggage. My muse can be quite practical. Before I went to the border crossing, I would have packed knowing what I could and could not cross with. I would speak plainly in my native language and the muse I hope would put some sense into the armed security guard. My willingness to participate in search and seizure might calm things down, unless the guard was intent on making trouble. With passport in order the rest of the day would go well since I managed to cross the border in a peaceful way. If the guard was obnoxious maybe I could find an interpreter to help solve the problem. I find when there is a muse involved, things just unfold. Not necessarily the way I think they will but usually with some semblance of order.

Now I'll proceed in a more nonfiction story. I was married at the age of 18. My first husband was killed in an automobile accident. He was an airman stationed for a while At Howard Airforce base at what was then, the Panama Canal Zone. My 9-month-old son and I flew there on a MAT flight to join him.

Richard had acquired an automobile while he was there. One day soon after we arrived, we went to the local. Bureau to register the automobile. My first husband was a red-haired person. Our son was born with red hair and the complexation that goes with this physical human traight. There was a very long line at the registration booth that day. Richard left us resting in the parked car while he joined the line.

The registration bureau was only a booth manned by a Guardia National officer. The officer would stamp previously filled out paperwork for a fee. The booth was situated in a large parking lot, so we were in sight of the line of people the whole time.

My son was jumping up and down on the car seat watching everything around us as a baby of that age is likely to do. It was hot outside. He was wearing a sleeveless jumpsuit that left his chubby arms and legs bare. The line was long, so we sat there quite a long time. All the windows in the car were down and I had a fan to fan us with. We were parked so the sun was not coming into the car, and we were comfortable enough even though it was a very hot sun shiny day.

Suddenly a Guardia National officer complete with weapon rapped on the side of the car. He pointed at my son and began to speak Spanish. He seemed very agitated. I could only speak English. He became more excited as he tried to get across what he wanted me to know. He waved his hands and tried to find English words to use. He finally came up with oh, oh, poor baby. Over and over. Then he would point at the sun. Then at the baby. I was confused, shook my head. No, he is OK. It went back and forth. Poor baby. No baby OK.

Then after a few minutes it struck me. My son's skin had a reddish cast to it which is a Red-haired child's natural skin tone.
The officer's idea was that the child had a bad sunburn, and his mother did not know it. Just then my husband returned to the car. I pointed at his red hair and complexion and then to my son.

The officer took one look at my husband and realized what I was pointing out. He pointed at the sun and shook his head No? In a questioning manner. I shook my head and pointed at my husband again. He laughed and laughed. So, did I.

There is a reason red haired people are often nicknamed red. The rest of the day I smiled at the incident and even today it gives me a good laugh to think of it many years later.

I can remember the situation well enough to believe there was a muse helping us communicate somewhat in spite of the language barrier. A muse communicates in whatever the situation may require. It's the thought you did not expect, that makes a comment you did not know you were going to write.


Word count: 838 includes prompt













apondia#1781748