The Vines of Our Lives

    “Good morning Mr. Jarkowski,” his secretary greeted him as he hurried past her desk, holding out his hand for his morning mail and messages, “ Your morning is clear until 11:30 when you have your weekly power lunch with Rick Markham. After lunch you’re booked up till 3:30 with meetings,” she concluded handing him a bundle of mail and a stack of messages.
    “Ok, sounds like a full day. Thank you Sara,” he replied, slowing his pace making his way into his office, closing the door behind him. He took off his suit coat, hanging it on the rack near the door. Then rolling up his sleeves he made his way to his desk, plopping the pile of mail and messages down in front of him. He started the unpleasant task of going through first his messages, and returning calls then he would tackle his mail.
    Soon all the calls he had to make were done. He reached for the stack of mail, ”My job is so boring,” he grumbled, opening the first envelope. He was going to own his own business by now. Not spend his days making others money. Sure he was well respected in his field. He made plenty of money, and was even in line for partner in a few months, when old man Baker finally retired. But that wasn’t it. He had been working for the same Ad agency for twelve long years now. And at the age of thirty-six he found his dreams of owning his own successful Ad agency by the time he was forty quickly fading.
    “You  have won $2000,000,00” he read out loud, letting it leave his hand to fall into the trash at the side of his desk knocking some of the mail onto the floor. He was just about to get up to retrieve what he dropped when he heard someone tapping on his office door. “Come in,” he called.
    “I’m sorry to bother you sir, but this just came for you,” Sara said as she came in holding a package wrapped in plain brown paper. She placed it on the desk in front of him. Then after picking up the mail he had dropped she left closing the door behind her.
    Marcus pushed everything else aside then started to inspect the strange box. The first thing he noticed was the postmark and the large number of strange looking stamps it had on it. He was nearly floored when he noticed it had come all the way from the Ukraine. Attached to the box was an envelope which acted as an address label. It had been incased in clear plastic and fastened firmly to the box, but he was finally able to free the envelope and take a better look at it. What he found was the whole envelope was covered with beautiful hand drawn art on both the front and back. The picture was of an old cobbler working in his shop, surrounded by a tiny snow covered village. Even his name and address were weaved into the art work.  His curiosity was overwhelming as he carefully opened the envelope doing his best not to disturb any of the precious art work.
    “It just takes the right tool,” he whispered to himself, sliding the sharp point of the letter opener into the corner of the envelope, slowly moving it across the inside until the contents were accessible.
    What he found inside was a treasure to be sure. Folded into three parts was a letter and three full size hand drawings of the same old man on the envelope each one a different detailed screen. That seemed to show him as he went through his life. The One was of him as a young man dancing with a child in the cobbler shop while another man played what looked a lot like a Mandolin. Another was him a lot older working in his shop by lamp light. The last on was of him older yet, sleeping on the banks of a stream with a fishing pole in his hand. When he got to the letter that accompanied the pictures he was disappointed to find it was written in Polish. A language he could remember his father trying to teach him when he was just a boy, but he was only able to remember very little, certainly not enough to make sense of the letter in his hand.
    He carefully refolded the letter and pictures, putting them backing into the envelope. Unrolling his sleeves he took the letter, placing it safely into his briefcase, grabbing the box and his suit coat he hurried out of his office.
    “Cancel all my appointments for today. I will be out for the rest of the day,” he said as he passed Sara’s desk not giving her a chance to respond before, disappearing into to elevator.
    When he got to his car he paused, taking the envelope from his briefcase to examine it once again. Even though he couldn’t read the words, the penmanship was a work of art in itself. Each line beginning and ending as it melted into vines with flowers he guessed were indignant to the area surrounding the tiny village.  
        “Truly incredible! I can’t wait to see what’s in the box!” he muttered to himself barely able to take his eyes off the letter. Finally he forced himself to put the envelope back into his briefcase. He knew only one person, who might be able to help him read the letter, and would also take great pleasure in what ever the box contained.
    He quickly glanced at his watch. His dad would be just finishing lunch by the time he got there. He hoped to catch him before he went down for his afternoon nap. With hope and apprehension he pulled into traffic, heading for the Golden Gate Bridge, which would take him across the bay to the quiet little town of Terra Linda and the comfortable assisted living complex, where his father resided.
    As he drove his mind wandered back to when he was no more then six or seven. He and his father taking a trip to New York City to visit his uncle Cobber, and now that he thought about it he also looked a lot like the man in the drawings.
    While they were there his uncle had taken them to his cobbler shop. He remembered the two men talking about what it was like growing up in the tiny village they came from, and how he had learned his trade from their father, who had learned it from his father and so on. He remembered him saying with great pride that he was the seventh generation of cobblers in their family. Sad to say the art died with him. As time went on factories popped up, that were able to make shoes in mass quantity. As a result small cobbler shops such as his soon faded out of sight and to most the art was lost forever.
    Luckily the traffic on Lumbard wasn’t heavy and was moving in rhythm with the traffic lights, allowing him to make it to the bridge in record time. Once on the bridge it was smooth sailing all the way to his destination. Knowing he was now only minutes away he was finding it hard to keep his eyes off the box and on the road, his anticipation growing to a fervor pitch, as he pulled his car into the parking lot. Fortunately he had no trouble finding a space close to the main building, where he would find his father.  Slipping his car into the space, grabbing his brief case and the box with one hand he forced his car into park with the other and hurried into the building.
     He found his father still in the dining room enjoying the company of several other residents.
    “Marco,” cried the old man hurrying to his feet to greet him when he saw him walk in.
    “Hi Pop,” reaching out embracing the old man.
            “What a wonderful surprise! Everyone this is my Son Marco. He works for one of the biggest Ad agencies in San Francisco,” said his father proudly.
    “It’s very nice to meet you all,” he smiled politely then turning back to his father his consuming purpose for being there over taking him once again, “Dad I need your help. Could we go someplace and talk?”
    “Sure thing Son,” he replied grabbing his dinner tray from the table, “I’ll see you all a little later.”
    A visit from Marcus in the middle of the day was unusual to say the least, but it was the look on his Son’s face that concerned him what ever he had to talk to him about was important, and what was in the strange box he was carrying? He wondered as they made their way down the hall. Neither man spoke until they arrived at his father’s apartment, “Ok Son What’s so important that you would leave work to come here in the middle of the day?” he asked then suddenly his face took on a frightened look, “It’s not your sister? Has something happened to your sister?!”
    “No, no Pop. Sis is fine. It’s this,” he said setting the box and his briefcase down on the coffee table, handing the envelope to his father.
    Once in his hands it was as if he had been struck by lightening. The shock was more then he could handle forcing him to sit down.
    “Where did you get this?” he asked in no more then a whisper as he stared at the envelope then the postmark on the box.
    “It came in the mail this morning. The art is unbelievable! But it’s written in Polish, and I can’t read it. I was hoping maybe you could?” he asked hopefully.
      “A letter? Yes, yes of course. It’s been a long time, but let’s see,” he said opening the envelope carefully, pulling out the papers. He unfolded the drawings first laying them all out on the table before them, laughing joyfully as he examined each one.
    “It’s your Grandpa Franco and his cobbler shop, and this is the village your uncles and I grew up in! And this little girl is Sona, ,” he said pointing at a small girl, who was gaily dancing about with a man, while another played a Mandolin, “and the man playing the Mandolin his name was Masaw he and his wife were like our grandparents. Yes I remember them both. Hum, hum, hum,” he said shaking his head, “It’s just as I remember your Grandfather’s shop. And this picture, I remember this very day! Papa’s asleep and that’s me there in the bushes, sneaking up on him,” he smiled, pointing at a small figure behind some bushes. Marcus hadn’t noticed.
    “So you must know who drew these pictures! Who else was there that day?” he asked his anticipation growing
    “I don’t remember anyone else being there, but it was a long time ago. Perhaps the letter will tell us more,” he said looking at each of the pages for a hint as to who wrote it.
    “So can you read it?” Marcus asked eagerly.
      “Give me a minute. It’s been fifty years or more, but yes it’s starting to come back. The first page is explaining the box and what’s inside,” his father went on reading, while Marcus took out his keys running one of them down the length of the packing tape opening the box. “She says there is a small wooden box of handmade toys, a short story about your great grand father, and a pair of shoes? The story was written by Sona’s grand daughter,” he whispered in sorrowful disbelief, “she says she found these things among her grand mother’s things after she passed away, and it prompted her to start asking around. What she learned she compiled into this story. She hopes you don’t mind her, taking such liberty, but she thought you would want to know what a wonderful man and friend he was to all, who knew him,’ he read, as Marcus carefully lifted each item out of the box placing it on the table.
    “Oh my God!” cried his father, “This is the box I made for Sona when she and her mother came to live with us, and inside must be the toys I made for her,” he cried opening the box, “Yes, yes here they all are! I can’t believe she kept them all these years!!” He whispered doing his best to control his emotions. “And here are the shoes. I remember your grandfather making these! He worked on them day and night,” He explained holding them up as they both checked out each detail of the man’s handy work. They were a pair of women’s high topped button down dress shoes, made of fine royal blue, raised brocade silk. Each seam was trimmed with soft black velvet and was dotted with if real looked to be priceless gems. They were without doubt the most beautiful shoes Marcus had ever seen.  
             “He always said they were the finest shoes he had ever made, and that one day he would take them to the coast and sell them to some world traveler for riches untold, “And this must be the story,” he went on putting the shoes aside picking up a thick bundle of papers wrapped in more plain paper and tied together with string. “Yes, yes it is!” he said untying the string, removing the wrapping, “The story is called A Shoemaker’s Dream. Shall I read it?” he asked knowing what his son’s answer would be.
    “Yes father please,” Marcus said adjusting his body on the sofa, until he was comfortable then giving his father his full attention he waited for the story to begin.
    My story begins in the winter of 1902 with the birth of Onna and Franco Jankowski third son. He was among the fifth generation of the family, who had migrated there from Poland in 1864 to the small village tucked away in a valley at the foot of the Windidgo Mountains that rimed the border between Poland and the Ukraine.
    The winters the tiny village suffered through were harsh and unforgiving. The winter of 1902 was harsher then most for the people of the village. The unusually heavy snows of that year caused a major avalanche, killing everything in its path, wiping out over half of the village.  Among those killed were the only doctor for over a hundred miles or more. So when Onna’s time came she had no one but the village midwife to depend upon. Onna’s labor was long and hard, lasting nearly four days. Taking all the strength the young woman had to offer. She died gasping for her last breath just as the child took it’s first.
    This left her husband Franco with an emptiness he had never known before, and three sons to raise on his own. Luckily his first two sons were old enough to help with the care of the newborn, but if the child was going to survive he would have to find a wet nurse.
    “Franco my friend I am sorry to hear about Onna,” said his friend Andrew pushing a stein of beer at him, “tell me. How are the boys doing?”
    “Well enough,” Franco replied, putting the stein to his lips, “look’en for a wet nurse for the baby she left behind. If I don’t find one soon he will be following her for sure. Do you know of anyone?”   
       “Can’t says I do,” he said pushing his empty glass at the bartender at the end of bar then without moving his hand he waited for it to return in the same manner, “Except maybe Bessa Brodski. She lost her husband and all but one of her five children in the slide. She herself barely escaped, and at first it was believed she was the only one, but then the child was found. She will be grieving I spect, but I know she was still nursing her youngest. She should be over full by now. May welcome the chance to help,” he said raising his now full glass to his lips, taking a big drink, “she’s stay’en with the Hanowskis. You know the old couple that lives on the edge of the woods,” he concluded, pointing to a large mass of thick trees lining the village on all sides.
    Franco didn't finish his beer. Instead he quickly abandoned his bar stool, grabbing his coat he hurried out into the street. It wasn’t far to his shop, and the small cottage he had added on when he and Onna were first married, but because of the bitter cold wind it seemed like miles.
He could already hear the baby’s faint cry as he stepped on to the porch. Up till now all they had to nurture him with was the small bits of goat’s milk they managed to get in the child. Luckily he had remembered his father, feeding a litter of puppies by soaking un-died cotton twine in goat’s milk, then letting the puppies suck on the twine.
Once inside Franco wasted no time bundling the baby in the warmest blanket he could find, then closing him into his coat, he latched it closed and hurried back into the street. His destination was clear. He had to get the child to the small cabin tucked away in the woods, and pray that even in her sorrow the, grieving widow would show compassion for his starving child, and would share with him the nourishment he so desperately needed.
He would have no trouble finding the tiny cabin. He had passed it many times, while out hunting, but the piercing cold snow blowing into his face, and the never ending drifts of deep snow caused each step to be more of a challenge then the last. As he stumbled, fighting his way through the seemly endless drifts he cursed the bitter cold wind that was piercing him to the bone. He was nearly frozen by the time he reached the cabin. He was unable to feel his nearly frost bit fingers, but still he managed to pound on the door with his fist. When the door opened Franco nearly frozen to death just stood there as if he was a statue.
“Dear God Margaret. It’s the cobbler Franco Markowski! Lord man come in,” he said taking him by the arm leading him in side, “Margaret quick get him some broth!” he cried sitting the man down near the fire, “What on earth would bring him out on a night like this? We need to get this coat off you, and then a bowl of cool water for those hands. You wouldn’t be much of a cobbler if you lost your fingers,” he chuckled, unlatching his coat. As he did he was shocked to find the tiny bundle tucked inside his coat. The man himself may have been nearly frozen to death, but the baby inside was warm as toast, but was so undernourished it scarcely had the strength to cry. 
Instantly Margaret sensed what was going on. She quickly grabbed the infant from the man’s chest, racing him to the young woman, who lay weak with grief in there upstairs bedroom.
Bessa couldn’t help but hear Margaret coming as she hurried up the stairs, and knew right away something was wrong. Weak from grief she forced herself to sit up just as Margaret burst into the room, holding the starving baby to her breast.
“Margaret what is it? Is something wrong?” Bessa asked. Margaret had stopped suddenly and stood there as if frozen with fear.
“Dear one,” she found her voice, “I know your grief and share the pain of your great loss, and would not trouble you if God would provide another way. This child,” she went on pulling back the blanket, “is sure to parish. His mother died giving him life, and he has no one to nourish him. I beg you even in your grief. Share the honey of your breast with this poor child and let his life be an honor to those you lost. And as you watch him grow you will see your own in him and know God gave him his life twice. Once through the labors of his mother and again through a gift only you can give him now,” Margaret smiled hopefully, laying the baby at the foot of the bed before, backing out of the room. She left her praying the woman would be able to see beyond her grief to save the child’s life.
Bessa just sat for a moment staring at the squirming figure at the end of her bed. She could hear the weakness in the faint whimpering cry of the child as memories of her own baby girl, who was only a few months older, filled her mind causing her tears to flow freely. Then she let her eyes wander to the corner of the room, where three year old Sona lay sleeping. “Praise You Father for letting one of my children live.”
“Margaret’s words hold the wisdom, if I would have perished with the others, and my sweet Sona would have lived. I would pray another would do the same,” she said pulling on the blanket until she could easily lift the child to her breast. As the child drew nourishment from the honey of her body she repeated Margaret’s words.
“Let the life giving honey I give you now. Give you life and let your life be an honor to those God chose to take from my sight, and gave to the care of the angels.”
The nursing of the baby gave her comfort from both her physical pain for the milk she held was abundant, but more so that her own spirit was being restored.
When the child had it’s fill she looked down to find him fast asleep. She gently laid him down next to her, hearing Margaret gently knocking on the door before entering. Margaret smiled warmly when she saw the now satisfied sleeping child at the woman’s side.
“You can tell the child’s father his son will not be joining his mother just yet,” she whispered.
 “I shall let you tell him yourself,” she replied stepping aside as