Wayne Michael DeHart  (May, 2026)

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Do not mourn the dying candle. Its flame is forever . . .

“C’mon, get up, get out, get it on. It’s Second Saturday!”

Let it be duly noted that every Saturday night was Flirtin’ Night at Mossy Elms, when old and tired gave way to bold and wired. The men were frisky, the women were feisty, and the vibes were fiery. Elderly, smelderly – long live love, laughter, and libidos!

Second Saturday, however, was traditionally Ladies Night, when the growling geezers begrudgingly become the helpless hunted – quivering quarry to be snatched up by gung-ho geezerettes.

The Elms is a 135-unit condominium community for sprightly, spirited seniors age 70 and over in rural Dribble County, Maine. Mostly singles, a scattering of couples. There were 167 residents (103 singles and 32 couples) on November 13, 2021 – the second Saturday of the month. Sixty-nine of them gathered in the facility’s recreation room in the early evening hours, and it wasn’t for the pizza.

The Primary Players

“The Gerr-iatrics”

Retired Judge Thomas T. Gerrytall, was a widower and one bullheaded brainiac. The man was still lifting weights at the age of 75 – a 6’4” bundle of vanity, vitamins, vim, and vigor. Ol’ Tom was often called upon to settle disagreements, friendly and otherwise, among the residents. Even when his “rulings” resembled mindless mush, the pertinent parties just laughed it up, shrugged it off, and hugged it out. Tom T. had also served a short spell as Dribble County’s Sheriff, until he got distracted one rainy night while giving a tipsy Mona Samore a lift home from Bert’s Bar and somehow drove his patrol car into the cold waters of Caleb’s Creek. Judge Gerrytall was sympathetic and excused Sheriff Gerrytall, the former telling the latter that “it could happen to anyone, ya know” and that ended that.

Gerri Fay Grick, 73, AKA “Cutie Pie”,“Ms. G”, “Condo Babe” and “Grick the Chick” was a vivacious lady who took pride in her annual selection as Ms. Easy Elms and her unofficial designation as the sweetest cup of sugar in the complex. She had outlived two hubbies, divorced another, birthed five children, and sold a lot of cosmetics to the ladies and lasses of Dribble County over nearly five decades. Armed with a perky personality and sharp wit, she could effortlessly blend humor and hubris into the same sentence. Ms. G was not one to fall victim to the traps of lotharios and loverboys – like Gerry Beale.

Gerald Moe Beale, 74, was the resident philanderer and schmooze-talker. He was a retired shoe salesman, had played high school football, and was once married with children. His wife left him after a local politician promised her a forever kind of happiness and swept her away to Miami Beach, where she was swept away by a 20-foot wave on New Year’s Eve, 1999. His two kids, Peggy and Marcy, who were young adults by the time their Mom split, both “married rich” and jointly paid for his corner unit at The Elms.

“The Kewler Kids”

Finley “Finny” Flynn, 77. Now in his third year at The Elms, Finny was described by his closest neighbors as “short, shy, sleepy, and well, sweet, for a man.” He had spent his entire life in fast-paced Kewler County, just to the south of laid-back Dribble. The guy had a short-lived marriage in his 20’s that yielded no children. He frequently lamented about losing the love of his life back in grade school, but never filled in the details. Many residents empathized with the mellow fellow, routinely patting him on the head to express endearment. The Irishman’s favorite meal was pork chops and chocolate cheesecake, which has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but somehow seems worth noting.

Suzy Lynn, also 77. Brand new tenant, so no nickname yet. Tall and trim. A retired librarian, she seemed, in her initial encounters, quite energetic and articulate. Yet her eyes lacked any semblance of a sparkle, and her lips seemed permanently pursed, almost like they had never been kissed. Like Finny, she hailed from Kewler County. Engaged twice, but never married. Said she enjoyed reading, and watching movies on her 50-inch streaming TV. Rom-coms mostly, both heartbreaking and heartwarming, sometimes supplemented with a spine-tingling murder mystery to stay grounded. (She searched forever for one where a librarian beat an obnoxious, loud-talking patron into submission in the ladies room. “No luck – maybe tomorrow.”)
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The buzz was that the mailman, Rocky Ruckoone, inadvertently hatched a hullabaloo on Friday, November 12th. It was his 62nd birthday and he was feeling all bushy-tailed and blabbery, because his retirement from the Postal Service was only weeks away. As he stuffed wads of junk mail into the mailroom boxes, Gerri Fay began to flirt with him, prepping herself and refining her moves for Ladies Night. Rocky gushed, then countered good-naturedly: “So, Ms. G, any plans for Sadie Hawkins Day tomorrow? Gonna invite Mr. Gerrytall to your place, handcuff him to the refrigerator until he squawks like a hoot owl, then wag your finger and say ‘Objection overruled’ in a sassy, but stern, voice?”

And there it was. Sadie Hawkins Day was falling on Ladies Night at Mossy Elms. First time ever. Not good. Not good at all – for the ladies, that is.

Gerri Fay’s mind worked surprisingly fast. Her thought process? If word spread fast, all it would take is one uppity, high-IQ guy to deduce that Sadie’s “presence” meant there would be no Ladies Night this month – because gender protocol at The Elms would dictate that events be reversed from the norm. Ladies Night meant the women would do the “chasing” on this particular Saturday night, so the opposite rules must be enforced for this event, in keeping with proper society’s implied code of conduct. The men would thus be the designated chasers once again. Judge Gerrytall was sure to rule in their favor because, you know, he was one of them. The gents would say, “Too bad, so sad, dear ladies” and reclaim their flirtin’ rights the following evening.

However . . .

After some deep thinkin’, Ms. Grick put her concerns to rest after remembering that she had been alone in the mailroom with Rocky, gittin’ her flirt on, thus no one else could have heard, and no way in Hades was she gonna spill the beans, or the tea, about ol’ Sadie’s day. “Men don’t know this stuff, bless their tiny little hearts,” she reasoned. Then she went home to work on her wiggle walk.

What she didn’t know was that bombastic Mr. Beale had fist-pumped Rocky in the parking lot a few minutes later – and the postal carrier just HAD to tell him about his Sadie Hawkins exchange with Ms. Mossy Elms. Gerald was no deep thinker, nor was he well-versed in cartoon characters and/or their caricatures that resulted in real-life traditions. He had heard some Sadie Hawkins gibberish through the years, but he needed a refresher course. He did a search on the laptop Marcy had sent him, but was intellectually unable to fully process the significance of what he found, and thus didn’t make the potential connection with Ladies Night that Ms. Grick did. When she saw him in the exercise room later that day, he winked at her and teased “How about that Sadie Hawkins stuff, huh, babe?”

She briefly wondered if the perceived threat was back on, but concluded that he hadn’t grasped what she had grasped, and that it was more likely than not that the rest of the menfolk would never find out. She herself would zip her lip and not mention Shady Sadie to her besties at the Elms. Ladies Night was not in jeopardy after all! Upon returning home, she flaunted her flirtin’ skills in front of the full-length mirror. The foxy female looking back at her winked, and quipped, “Goodness, girl, you are still such a cutie-pie.”

Saturday, November 13, 2021

At this Saturday night gathering in the rec room, there were 31 men and 37 women present at the outset, including the three Gerrs, Finny, and Suzy Lynn. All were single, except meek Martha Maven, whose hubby always encouraged her to attend Flirtin’ Night without him. Marvin Maven often said that he was too old to be jealous and too young to be talked to death. Besides, Marvin knew that timid Martha never fared well in the flirtin’ game, either as the hunter or the hunted. Still, he always waited up for her return, playfully asked if she made out well, handed her a cold beer, then went to bed, alone.

7:30 PM. The gentlemen were reminded by Judge Gerrytall that it was Ladies Night, and that as the males of the species, they would be serving as defenseless prey for relentless pursuers over the next few hours. “If Ms. Twigg, or Shirley Shinn, or both at the same time, want to pinch your cheek, or anything else within range, you will NOT turn away and hurt their feelings. Every other Saturday night of the month you scoundrels try to pinch, pinch, pinch away at these poor women, and I don’t mean like when Sheriff Nutt pinches you for speeding. Their turn tonight. ‘Nuff said.”

And that’s when the 69th attendee strolled into the room for her very first Flirtin’ Night experience since becoming an “Elms girl.” The tallest female in residence, still in the mysterious newbie role, immediately commanded everyone’s attention. The scholarly librarian was stunningly glitzed up in sequins and silk, while exhibiting an eye-catching air of self-confidence, paired nicely with eye-pleasing décolletage. As Napoleon once said to Josephine, “Quelle surprise!”, which is French for “Holy mackerel, guys, check it out!”

Suzy Lynn had instantly stolen the show, just minutes after it started – and the other ladies had clearly been caught off-guard. Martha Maven whispered, “Big Brooke Shields there must have overdosed on those rom-com movies. She’s clearly not in spinster mode tonight.” Grick the Chick offered back, “Well, ya know, she DID just manage to stun every man in the room into an immediate dead silence. That ain’t easy, even for a librarian.” “Don’t mean nothin’, Gerri Fay. Men don’t go into libraries, don’tcha know. Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation with any of these fellers while they were pinchin’ on ya?” “Good one, Martha. But you know, if you dress like her next week, you just might break your strikeout streak, and wake Marvin up as well.” Martha snickered and snorted, then nodded in agreement

As several men gathered around Suzy, she coolly cooed, “Hi guys, I’m told Saturday nights are Flirting Nights in this place. So let’s see what you got.” (She said the “F” word correctly, not knowing that in Dribble County, slapping that “g” on the end of it was simply not a thing. The men didn’t even notice.) “Can’t do that, Ms. Lynn, it’s Ladies Night, so you get to do the pickin’ and pinchin’.” And that’s when Ms. Suzy herself inadvertently re-opened the proverbial door.

“Well, now, wait a minute, boys. No one told me about this Ladies Night thing. I prefer to be chased and unchaste, not unchased and chaste. I guess I should have known, seeing as it’s Sadie Hawkins Day and all.” And with that last part, Retired Judge Gerrytall, a quick thinker himself, pounced.

“Whoa there, Missy.” (Uh-oh, she had never been addressed as “Missy” before, even by her father when she came home late.) “Sadie Hawkins Day, you say? Hmm. Let’s think this through. That means the tables are turned from the norm in the wooin’ game. I can hear the prosecutor making the case that since it’s already Ladies Night, then the opposite applies and now we’re back to regular flirtin’ rules. Do I hear any objection from the defense table? No, didn’t think so. I declare this Ladies Night null and void, according to the powers invested in me as the Judge Pro Tem of Mossy Elms. Gentlemen, start your engines!”

The guys smirked. The women seethed. The guys cheered. The women cursed. The men strutted. The women strutted right back, with much more zing and zeal. Then all went quiet, and no one moved.

The two sects faced off against each other, 38 women with crossed arms on one side and 31 gents with hands on their hips on the other. It was the Montagues vs the Capulets in Verona, the Sharks vs the Jets in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and the Mice vs the Men in California’s Salinas Valley. In that place, at that moment, no one present was old or broken. Fresh fire burned in their loins. The tension rose. The pressure built. And the pizza was getting cold.

The Judge finally ended the standoff, breaking the silence and making his move. He was, after all, the tallest man at The Elms, so he stepped in front of the librarian with the sequins and the cleavage and said, “I proclaim that the tallest dude and the tallest dudette present do hereby have to slow dance, his cheek to her chic, while everyone watches in awe.” Then he reached out to embrace her. The Lady smoothly backed away, looked him in the eye, and asked him how it felt when he drove that patrol car into the river. His face flushed like a dollar store toilet. “Touche’, Missy, but it was a creek, and how’d you know about that? You’ve only been here a week or so. Who’s the rat?” Without hesitation, Condo Babe raised her hand, waving it around like a third grader who knew the answer. “Right here,“ she purred. “Guilty, your honor. So step away from our new neighbor and use the power vested in you to seduce and sweet talk yours truly when the music starts. I promise not to have you arrested as long as you obey my speed limits, take it easy on my curves, and heed any and all stop signs.” The Judge and the Sheriff smiled warmly at their favorite female firebrand, and together they escorted her to the dance floor.

Gerald Moe Beale then extended his hand to a surprised, but thrilled, Martha Maven, and followed close behind, as sweaty French Frank turned on Pandora. (The music app, not that box-openin’ lady.) The rest of the folks read the room, merging together into one group, yakkin’ and flirtin’ and dancin’ like teens at the prom. Though most of the men had been exhilarated by the librarian’s alluring appearance, they sure weren’t emboldened, remaining wary of her intimidating stature and self-confidence, and had thus veered away as she sashayed slowly in a circle around the group.

Most of them, but not all. Surprising everyone, Finny Flynn marched his 5’6” frame right up to 6’0” Suzy Lynn like a man on a mission. Just inches apart, and seemingly seeing each other for the first time ever, the two Kewler County refugees eyed each other closely, their minds in overdrive, racing fast, thinking hard, remembering . . . something. Yes. Hell, yes!

They had been positioned exactly the same, literally, on Friday, November 12, 1954, at St. John’s School in the town of Garner. The nuns had arranged a Sadie Hawkins Day observance for the mostly 10-year-old students to learn about suitable boy/girl interactions and socialization. With no school on Saturday, it was called – you guessed it – “Flirting Friday for Fifth Graders.” (Flirting with a “g” again because, you know, Kewler County.)

Finley Finny Flynn had been outgoing back in ‘54, and was the smartest and most popular boy in the class. Suzy Lynn, already gangly at that age, didn’t communicate well, and didn’t fit in with the munchkin kids. The boys showed no mercy while relentlessly disparaging her when the teachers weren’t around. Except one. On that dark, overcast day, an emerging hero stepped into her personal space right in front of the whole class, stood face-to-face with Suzy, looked up, and launched a smile that rocketed from his eyes to hers. Nervous, anxious, she managed to smile back at him. Their bellies churned, in a good way. For the first time in her young life, Suzy’s deep blue eyes sparkled. Outside, the sun suddenly broke through the clouds, its rays bursting through streaked windows into the classroom, illuminating the enraptured youngsters’ faces. Sister Mary Scholastica beamed at the divine timing of the universe. The entire class clapped wildly. It was, all agreed, the very best day to be alive.

The two kiddos became fast friends, by 1954 Catholic school standards. But when the school year ended in June, Suzy’s family moved away – unexpectedly, abruptly, without warning or goodbyes. Thirty-seven miles away to be exact, to Fairleigh, in a far corner of sprawling Kewler County. The short lad and the tall lass never saw each other again. Until now, that is. Sixty-seven years later, at heavenly Mossy Elms, while observing Sadie Hawkins Day. Of course.

From that magical Saturday night in 2021, until she passed peacefully on Christmas Eve in 2025, Finny Flynn gazed upward into Suzy’s eyes each day and every night. His pulse quickened as her bright blues danced with delight, sparkling like the purest of diamonds and twinkling like the brightest of stars – every single time.

Most folks at Mossy Elms agreed that Finny Flynn was a good man indeed, and now understood why his own eyes had flickered furiously whenever he alluded to losing the love of his life back in grade school. Before Suzy arrived, he had always skipped past the details. The ladies still pat him on the head, more tenderly now, and remind him that he really is “sweet, for a man.”

As for Suzy Lynn, after a long wait, she suddenly got to star in her very own rom-com, and cherished every moment she spent with her beloved Finny. She now rests under the shared canopy of twin stately elms, in the peace and quiet that every librarian often seeks and always savors.

Life lingers on at The Elms. The Judge and Gerri Fay are both still around and frolicking like they were 50 again. And ever since rascally Mr. Beale asked Martha Maven to dance, Marvin accompanies his wife to the rec room every Saturday night, never letting go of her hand. “It’s not just marriage, but something more” – quoth the Mavens, evermore.

Goodnight, Rocky, wherever you are. Cutie Pie said you know her number, and to call her if that retirement thing gets boring.

Sometimes, a story worth telling comes full circle, its opening message echoing along its pages, its last hurrah captured at closing time.

Post-passing, Suzy still stands tall. Her comforting voice silences Finny’s fears and softens his sadness. Her sparkling eyes dance boldly and brightly across his night sky.

Sweet lady. Sweet man. Sweet dreams.

Suzy’s flame flickers on, lights Finny’s path, and warms his heart.

Do not mourn the dying candle. Its flame is forever . . .

 

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May we dance in our dreams.