Watermelon Ice Cream

We sipped on two medium-sized Starbucks pumpkin lattes while sitting at an outside table, reading The New York Times. Starbucks always has the latest issue on hand for us to purchase and enjoy. It was a beautiful day with a slight breeze disturbed only by business travelers from a nearby Westin Hotel jogging near our ornamental table. Their running suits reminding me of some I had seen at Lord and Taylor's, bodies firm and faces beautifully tanned.

Two obviously well educated men held hands as they walked over to their BMW, its parking lights blinking approval they had received the remote's command. I waved a few fingers of recognition as they had passed by, and, they whispered nothings into each other's diamond studded ears as they approached their beemer.

I just love it here in the spring and summer when the world is so filled with life. Not only are the lattes and smoothies so very well made, but every time we purchase from Starbucks we know a bit of our money is going to support our representative in office. The company is so progressive, sending 100% of its contributions to the DNC.

The frothy liquid in our cardboard protected cups was getting low, signaling that our relaxed time sitting here in the warm sunshine was coming to an end. After a few more minutes of chat and sips on our drink, we left our table leaving the Times behind for another Starbucks' customer to enjoy. We had been talking about how pleasant the day was and that a stroll down Cottonwood Lane along its tree-lined streets would be a perfect place for our next destination.

Cottonwood Lane was located on a six block stretch of quaint and fabulous storefronts that had been carved out of old wooden buildings constructed in the 1920s. The wonderful window dressings visible from the street were filled with delights imported from all over the world, making it a popular gathering place.

As we walked along the brick pavement, we noticed one window filled with extraordinary shapes of pottery created by local artisans. Investigating the store, a lovely aroma of cinnamon incense met us while the old wooden worn planks creaked beneath our slip-ons. We noticed the name of one artist whom we had met several times in our spiritual classes, my remembering his saying he could feel as one with the clay when he ran his hands across its sensuous wet exterior while it had spun in front of him pulled by the weight of the kick wheel.

We continued walking and stepping into different stores, my not being able to resist buying a silk scarf imported from an exclusive vendor in Singapore. I grabbed the arm of my spouse and pointed to an antique that would be just sumptuous sitting in our foyer, a small oak distressed writing table said to have once been in the ownership of the Vanderbilt's western North Carolina estate. I couldn't resist the history that spun around its surface, and made arrangements to have it delivered on Monday afternoon.

We must have walked for at least an hour, finally coming across the familiar ice cream shop owned by a neighbor who lived in our gated-mountain community and had moved here from Malibu. We ordered two of his delightful watermelon ice cream bars that had been formed onto thin oak-honed wooden sticks, the coolness just right for our thirsty mouths, watermelon seeds showing through the partially transparent red-frozen liquid.

Giving our friend an approving nod, we walked back to our car and drove back to our villa with the top down, the sun lowering in the clear, blue western sky, still warm. Arriving home, we quickly shed our clothes and slipping naked down into our private backyard spa for a quick dip and some cocktails over ice. When done and fully relaxed, we dried off, put on some loose clothing, and dropped our tired bodies in front of our large wall-hanging plasma television screen in our family room.

We looked through the titles of two DVDs that had arrived in the day's mail from Netflix, not missing the drive down to the rental video store located in the small shopping mall a few miles down our winding road. We had always felt uncomfortable standing in line there with renters who were dressed as if comfortable in their latest Wal-Mart special. I felt our having been there was not without purpose, reminding us that life is filled with choices; some are born to be the leaders and role models while others adjust to the life station they had born to.

We never forgot how blessed we were compared to many others, our child not having to serve in the military's nasty war machine the Times had warned us about. Our entire family's life had been the result of good decisions formed around the seeds of solid family genes passed to us from old European blood lines. It was like our destiny had been frozen in time like those sweet-tasting Watermelon ice cream bars.

Using the remote, I turned on the set. The last channel we had viewed came up from our watching the CNN news the other evening, its images suddenly disturbing from what had been an enjoyable day. I had so disliked those disgusting pictures caused by the continued fuss over a disabled women dying now for almost a week, her husband saying she should have died years ago. The mother and father acted like two blubbering children. Why couldn't they just get on with their lives, their issue bringing all kinds of religious freaks out of the woodwork. That so irritated us.

We had commented about the article written on the front page of the paper that reported at least 60 percent of Americans polled approved of her removal. Of course, it reasoned it wouldn't be right to inject her, so the natural removal of all her food and water instead allowed her a natural and humane death, the article saying she wouldn't even realize she was dying . . . like being in a hot tub and then floating away. What a vision that was for us.

So then what was the point of allowing all the Christian propaganda surrounding her to continue on television channels owned by our government airwaves? I'll have to remember that when having lunch with my friend next week, who is president of the local ACLU chapter.

Our son, who had come home on leave from Princeton, said his professor assured the class that soon emotional religious nonsense, like this one founded on myths, would be banned when political parties changed in the next election.

He told us that another of his instructors, a professor in the ethics department, had come to realize that Darwin's theory of natural selection of the fittest had proven his lifelong theory, his believing that a reasonable and educated society should be justified in the extermination of malformed disabled humans soon after their birth. It was, in the end, the best decision for the society and mankind in general, preventing them from later reproducing. He felt this theory could eventually become accepted, delighted maybe sooner than expected in the country's growing secular population.

While we disliked talking about this annoying and boring subject, we were excited that our son was enjoying his studies so much and took them to heart. We are looking forward to his opening a business near us after graduation next year, our putting an investment aside for him and his delightful girl friend, her father a managing newspaper editor.

Thomas Jefferson must have understood our way of life, coming from excellent bloodlines. Even the French loved Jefferson along with the luscious stories that had come from his many affairs when living in their countryside. We had been delighted to see our country finally accepting the Secular movement that the French had already discovered decades ago.

I had thought, as the evening closed, what another fine day this had been, our living in a wonderful country created for those of us who really could appreciate it, supporting our expected living standard. A unique palm tree situated in the backyard, given to us several years ago by a former houseguest, seemed to understand. To this day it projects an obvious aura around it that blesses our health and our home.

I had sometimes found myself humbled praying under it at night, the barely visible spreading palms of life providing me with a sense of safety and protection as they stood there in the shadows above my soul and body. The earth and her sisters have obviously chosen our country for ancestors like us to live and thrive in.

We finished watching a wide-screen documentary, as I looked forward to slipping into our king bed and pulling the soft ensemble of fabrics over my naked skin. Once settled in and snug, I had always enjoyed looking up and drifting off to sleep under stars that shined through the tempered glass of adjoined skylights built into the ceiling of our bedroom. On cloudless nights they blinked at me as if giving approval to my day's wonderful experiences.

Dedicated to the lifestyles of many living in or near Sebastopol, California.

Cindy Sheehan

The Smoking Gun






"Freedom is Knowledge"