alter Flynn was justifiably proud of his ball of string. It measured 16 inches in diameter. He began work on it two years before his retirement as postmaster at the small Boulder Lake Post Office. It had cost him plenty—not money, he would never buy string for his ball, that would be cheating. No, he broke his arm last June falling from a ladder. He never should have trusted that old step ladder, not balancing on the top like that, reaching up so high. He had watched the house sparrows carry string to their nests all through the spring, but hadn't gone after it until they left. Half an hour, he was there on the ground moaning before the Burchell woman heard him and waddled over in search of gossip.

Monday morning he was out walking his dog. The truth of it was that Burt died almost two years ago at the age of 17. That was supposed to be over a hundred in dog years. A hundred years is a lot of walking. It was such a habit that, after a proper period of mourning, Walter kept it up. Lest anyone jump to conclusions and report them to the Burchell woman or any of her biddy buddies—Walter was not a nut case—he didn't walk an imaginary dog. He didn't take an empty leash. He just walked. He just thought of his morning and evening walks in the same way as he had for more than a hundred dog years: walking Burt. If Burt had been along Monday he might have sniffed out the string amongst the overgrown raspberry canes at the old burned out Haskell place. Walter, himself nearly missed it. Once he spotted it he started to work on it, carefully working it free from the from the brambles, rolling it into a temporary ball to be worked into his masterpiece back home.

After half an hour it became clear that he was dealing with more than a scrap of windblown packing twine. He concealed the ball, already the size of a baby's head, under some leaves and twigs and took careful note of the location for later reference. He did, after all, have other things to do. He always met the 10:30 bus from Truro. Lorna had left on the 10:30 bus, and, should she ever return, it would, like as not, be on the 10:30 bus—probably on the one day he wasn't waiting on the bench in front of the I.G.A.

"Good morning, Walter. You shopping today or just meeting the bus?" The young Keele woman was such a busy body.

"As a matter of fact, I have a bit of shopping to do today. What is your fruit like?" Actually, she wasn't so young as she used to be, was she? She'd end up an old maid if she didn't watch herself and maybe learn to be a bit more charitable.

"Have a look for yourself. I'd be inclined towards the pears myself. Of course they're not local this time of year, but they're tasty just the same. Nice and firm too."

"I think I'd better have the grapes." He could tell she still had the vast majority of her natural teeth. Firm pears indeed.

"Looks like the bus is running late again."

He only nodded.

"Just the grapes then?"

He nodded again, catching the reflection of the bus in the window behind the cash register. "Well, there he goes." The bus didn't stop if there were no passengers or parcels to drop off or pick up. "Yes, just the grapes. I suppose I'll have to take them on home to the ice box before I can resume my other project."

"What project is that, Walter?"

He hadn't realized he had been speaking aloud. "Just never you mind about that." He was more than a little put off by her brashness—young or not.

The grapes were quite pleasant with their cool succulence. He finished the last of them as he approached the spot where he had left the new ball of twine. The pile of leaves and twigs was still there. He carefully removed the camouflage and found the ball of string, every bit as big as he remembered.

He worked diligently, carefully working the string free of any brambles, leaves, twigs or other debris as he went, following the string, rolling. It was a truly amazing length of string, continuous—not short lengths knotted together, but one unimaginably long piece of string—two, almost three hours long. The ball grew until it was bigger around than a grocery bag and harder to carry. Surely there had to be something truly remarkable at the end of such a string. But as darkness gathered and he found himself in an large open area with the back of someone's cottage visible in the distance, he came, at last, to the rather ordinary looking frayed end of what was, for all its length, string just like the rest of his string—the sort used to bind up Christmas presents to be sent off in the mail or deliveries from the Sears catalog.

But still, his new ball of string—a single day's work, would almost double the bulk of the ball he had been working on for nearly six years.

"Walter! Walter Flynn, where in the blazes have you been? I was beginning to wonder if you had taken a heart attack! And what is that monstrosity you're pushing along in front of you?"

"Lorna? Lorna—where the—I don't understand—string, Lorna—Lorna? It's really you —"

"Of course its me. Why, who else would you expect to find on your own back porch?"

"String, Lorna—I found this most incredible length of string...."

© Gary Eikenberry