Persimmon Tree: An Online Magazine of the Arts by Women Over Sixty
“Short Takes”
Summer 2024
NB: This is an except from the Publisher’s introduction to this issue of Persimmon Tree:
We can’t be happy every minute, but we can take pleasure in the pockets of joy that come our way.” Persimmon Tree’s contributors have not only experienced moments of joy, even in the midst of trial and sorrow, but can, for our sakes, turn those moments into art that will give us joy as well.
By Kathryn Taylor
Laurie was launching her fifth book, and was holding the event at the school where she teaches. Laurie’s mother Libby, my friend of 50 years, had invited us to be her guests.
The three of us sat in the last row of folding chairs set up in the school’s multi-purpose room. At the front of the room Laurie stood behind a table. In between were rows of middle school kids – mostly girls – holding books in their laps, waving their hands, and pelting Laurie with questions.
“How do you think up your stories?’
“How long does it take to write a whole book?”
“Are any of your characters based on any of us?”
Laurie laughed, then invited her audience to come up to get their books autographed.
There was a mad dash to the front.
Libby beamed.
With a copy of Laurie’s book in my bag, we headed out the door into the spring sunshine. As we turned left down 23nd Street we heard a shout: “Kathy! Jon!” And there was Todd, daughter Annie’s dear friend from college. A pal since freshman week Outdoor Action and frequent visitor during school vacations. Since graduation, professional squash player for Team USA. We had last seen him in 2019 when we crossed paths in Lodon.
“Todd! What are you doing here?”
“I live in Philadelphia now. Off Rittenhouse Square.”
“Are you still playing?”
“This is my last year. I had to miss Annie’s wedding because I was at a tournament. But she told me all about the mother-in-law’s crazy weird toast.”
The three of us rolled our eyes, laughed and hugged, and promised that the next time Annie was home, he would come out for dinner.
Todd continued south and we went north for a walk. The breeze had become brisk and wispy white clouds flew across a cornflower blue sky, but the sun was still warm. At Spruce Street we stopped, drawn to the bright blocks of orange, red, yellow, and green painted on a corner stucco wall, and a sign that read Sally. The black board outside promised small plates and natural wine. It was only 4:30, but we couldn’t resist. The hostess with a bright smile and bare midriff tucked us into a protected outside picnic table. We were easily the oldest patrons by 30 years. Jon had the house ricotta; I had grilled prawns. We both drank a glass of a sparkling wine we couldn’t pronounce. And we watched urban life go by. Runners. Young parents with strollers. Women who knew how to wear scarves.
We drove home—west, into the sun—and found the light still streaming into our family room. We didn’t watch PBS NewsHour Weekend. We didn’t watch Call the Midwife. We didn’t watch Masterpiece Theatre. We sat on the couch, with Buddy the cat between us, and I read Laurie’s book until it was time to go to bed.
Kathryn Taylor 