A Good Meal.....just a dash away!

It was his good friend’s birthday and he wanted to do something special. He had no idea that even people unknown to them would contribute to the good time.

The best part of Florida is that strip of islands known as the Keys. They were camping down on Bahia Honda Key, complete with lots of sand, tunes, a tent, a Frisbee, and a cooler of grapefruit. And beer.

All three friends attended the same university, grew up in a similar socio-economic backdrop, but had very little in common except for the enjoyment of sand beach, tunes, Frisbee, grapefruit and beer. But on this night they planned on treating the blonde haired one to a real good meal. Spend some money they had saved from traveling so cheaply.

Just over a couple of bridges to a more populated Key provided a first class steak and seafood joint. You know the type, fish nets and shells on the walls, light fixtures made from sailboat tiller wheels, and chilly air conditioning on sun burned skin. However, things warmed up considerably as we downed premium brews, spoke of ideas unthought-of, or so it seemed, and eat combo plates of delicacies from the sea.

Then to add to the lively conversation they ordered fine cigars and more beer. A great event was clearly in the making. The blonde one felt well treated and smiled and laughed accordingly. We had drawn a fair amount attention to ourselves, just being ourselves. He will always remember how it felt to first feel like an adult, be treated like an adult, and yet still have childlike actions on their minds.

They both told their blonde haired buddy to pull the car around front while we paid the bill. Almost simultaneously, as the front restaurant door closed behind him, a gentleman in the corner stood up and grunted while falling to the ground with an apparent heart attack. He and his friend extinguished their cigars and followed the crowd toward the ailing man. Someone was already going through the resuscitation steps, and since there was little they could offer, they just walked out the front door, diving into the backseat of the waiting car, laughing and yelling to “get outta here.”

"Happy Birthday my friend, our treat!”

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On the Road....#24

It was a nice drive alright….but it had been raining all day. He had just reached the outside of Estes Park and he was planning on a dry bed for the night. She was excited for something different and he was always reminding himself that it was her trip also.

So after renting a cabin for the night, he flopped down on a bed that smelled a bit musty. She was not in the mood for sleep after having been confined to the front seat of the truck all day. She wanted some action. So he reluctantly agreed.

Out the back of the cabin they went to the endless mountain framed fields that were made available to them. She was working at a quick pace, traversing back and forth to the myriad of scents released by the fresh rainfall. They walked a couple miles on three different tacks, all the while the rain stopped and the sun shone brightly on the high grasses.

They eventually returned to the cabin and sat for a few moments in the lone chair on the porch. Black Labs look good lying on a porch staring out to the woodlands attentively, and she was no exception. He was very content, until he reached in his pocket to retrieve his cabin key and he discovered his car keys missing. Buzz kill.

He remembered handling them absent mindedly while walked in the fields with the dog. He knew then that he must have dropped them on the walk. Fear surfaced, and resulted in another walk to see if possibly he could find them, in the high grass, yeah right!

He had walked about a mile or so as the sun slowly set beyond the Rockies. She came at him swiftly and circled around him, tail swaging steadily. He did not respond at first as he was feeling ….well…he was bumming at that point.

She was really pestering him now and at one point she stuck her nose between his legs and he just exclaimed “what….what do you want?” It was then that he saw what was in her mouth, clutched between her teeth, his car keys.

Good nose............ good dog........ good friend .....

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Get up and get there.....

He cannot imagine what made him think it was even possible. He wanted to see her so bad. They had met for the first time at her mother’s burial. His mothers best friend’s daughter. She was simple, smart, and serious. Then again, it was a death that gave rise to their friendship.

He was 90 miles North at the university, she attended a community college, not by design, but rather by necessity. She worked in a pharmacy during the afternoon and read books in the evening, and wrote letters. She wrote him many letters.

He wrote back, no e-mail then, and he put much of himself in the words, the words into an envelope, and the envelope into a mailbox across campus, rain or shine. But this never seemed enough.

A couple of times she came to see him on the train. This was good but never easy for her to coordinate logistically. So when his second semester schedule let him out after three early classes at 11:10 A.M. on T & Th, he decided to just go and see her, now. He walked off campus to the highway and stuck out his thumb and planned to only take a ride that was going back close to the Chicago suburbs.

In actuality, he took a ride from the first car that stopped. He spent two or three hours to reach her door. He knocks loudly and stands there reaching for his breath after running the last three miles from the drop off. She opened the door with an amazing toothy grin and wrapped her arms around his shoulders tightly and just hung there as if gravity had no role to play.

They spent the allotted two hours together, talking, laughing, and in the end crying. It was always tough to leave, but he always did. He would jog back out to the main road and begin his trek back to Milwaukee. Often folks would laugh and even blush at his description of his day and would go out of their way to help him out. He always felt his efforts were gallant, but mostly he just wanted to be on the road, moving.

Unfortunately, the friendship never survived freshman year, but he still holds those days close.

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Reflections of ourselves.....

There is something special about it. It goes easily when he’s ready. It can be carried for long distances resulting from its dry weight of 67 pounds. Made of Kevlar, a material used in bullet proof vests, it hold up under pressure, and when being hung up on a large rock can be a good thing, allowing those precious seconds to plan next steps, or should he say, next paddles.

But often it provides quiet time on the water for reflection. Can you see her reflect on the moment in the painting above? More than a favorite Neil Young song, Pocahontas always had his interest in the books he read and stories told.

Like her Indian sister Sacagawea, later to roam rivers as well years later, she possessed a combination of grace, beauty, brains, and compassion. They both were early possessors of a sort of dual-citizenship, allowing them to move about both their own peoples and that of the white man.

He is thinking that we may need to evolve going forward in an attempt to act honorable to not only our own peoples, but also to the many different peoples that flow through societies tapestry.

This may be easy for some, difficult for others, and provide jail time for the remaining, unable to accept the changes occurring. Changes that define us. Look closely….at your own reflection, and see if the water reflects back the same image…the same image of humanity.

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The weight of water......

It has happened to many people. It has happened a number of times to him. There were a couple of times in frozen lakes, and one on a cliff climbed stupidly, and one other in a dream he thinks. But none were actually as well worn as the day in the swimming pool.

Don’t talk of nine lives, or near hits, and lives changed by the calamity parade. Mishaps and catastrophe are not on some fate schedule, but rather brewing around corners, rising up when circumstances intersect. Even though nothing but greater awareness can it steer away, we still tend to feel that the fates are the designated driver of any given series of moments.

He had no business climbing that fence. He had seen his brother and friends in the pool. He was younger then, and still an annoyance to his older brother. He waited till they went in the house to make his move from the secrecy of the hedge row. Once inside the enclosure, he wiped the sweat from his eyes that shook loose from his hair as he hit the ground off the top rail. The cool waters were now within his reach.

The weight of water cannot be explained. It forces the air from your lungs and causes you to stroke harder, which in the end forces you down. Not sure now why in his haste he jumped in the deep end. Eyes tightened shut became wide open as he could not figure out why he was unable to reach the wall. The weight of water.

There was a moment of panic, which morphed in to a surprising acceptance momentarily, and then a flurry of will…..to survive. He reached the side but discovered that he was on the bottom, staring up. He dug his nails into the rough plastered wall and tried to scratch his way to the air available just a few more feet above his near tomb. The weight of water.

Stabbing and then grabbing at the top edge, his lips punctured the surface. The rush of air into his lungs caused him to gag and spit up water. He hunched over the edge and puked as tears streamed down his cheeks. He stood and gathered his balance. He walked home. He still felt the weight of the water.

He never told anyone.

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Sands of time?.......

What is it about the beach anyway? Folks always get reflective at the shore. Walk the sands, sit and bury toes deep, feel the wind, and stare out at the horizon in search of inspiration.

Yada, yada, yada…..but why? Do we sense the edge, the beginning, or the end? Is it the sound of the tumbling waves, the giving and the taking? Then there is the rejection of debris on the beach and the retraction of clean water filtered by the sands.

Pretty therapeutic, eh? Both mentally and physically. It is no surprise peoples have been living along shorelines predominantly until they began to farm and use the better soils inland. He feels no different staring out at these big waters than the many other eyes over the last many hundreds of years. We always hope to feel alone, and the first and only to see what we see, but no, that’s just that bothersome ego driving.

There actually is more human value to be derived from the communal aspects of sharing and interacting with our fellows, both past and present. As opposed to reaching the shore and thinking about oneself, the opportunity presents itself to allow the mind to conjure images of others on this same shoreline. He can see faint images of men pulling their large birch bark canoes up onto these same sands, and sitting in the shade of these same trees, under the warmth of this same sun.

We are lost in time. We try to capture it on a timepiece to no avail. It escapes us. But yet, the calmer the present moment becomes, the more the past, and future to for that matter, emerge. Listen, and look closely.

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Signs, signs, everywhere a sign.....

We’re all looking for a sign, something to help us justify our current path. And since we know that these indicators come from some other realm, we are only willing to heed the encouragement, or dissent from fellow humans to a point. No, we need a sign.

So we plod along on the way and associate these indicators with god-like approval of what is really “meant to be.” The natives of this area listened to signs from eack other, signs from the flora and fauna, and of course signs from the spiritual world, none evidently, more important than the other.

In fact, reading has shown him that the Indians of this area gave equal weight to the matters of mind, body, and spirit. No absolutes, no priority ranking, no cop outs behind the unseen curtain. They treated man, animal, and their many gods with equal reverence.

Decision making on next steps, which understandably was as far as they were capable of looking based on their day to day existence, was made upon a rational thought process. If the weather is changing, and if the available game is there, we will move there, now. No waiting for some sign that it is “meant to be”, because it is all meant to be. The only variable is our willingness to follow our collective minds, hearts, and spirits forward, the only way available to us.

One could say that too much is made of these savage, nomadic tribesmen and their “way of life.” But on reflection, they represent the only inhabitants of these lands of any considerable period in its history. We are simply a blip on the linear time chart. They have existed successfully for hundreds of years in this area as simple hunters and gathers prior to our cultural slaughter. So their ways hold water. Big water.

Is it now, or was it then?

Exploring = the research and travel required for discovery.

It was a long ride back in the back of the station wagon. He laid there wrapped in a smelly blanket driving through Tennessee north after a vacation to Florida. Still young, and with a big ego, he wondered if his tan would last until he returned and appeared at school. But mostly, as he lay in the dark looking up at the street signs whizzing by and the slosh of the rain under the tires, he wondered if the beach was still full of people, enjoying their first or last day?

This has always puzzled him and plagued him. During the first few days upon returning from traveling, his mind wanders back to places he has left. In fact, he has only really left in time and space, as his spirit is still clinging to the new and exotic, with resistance to the return to normalcy.

He has of course read that this state of mind is normal, but also childish. Everyone knows that vacations are only intended to be a brief respite from our real lives, one of work and duty. After all, why don’t we jump up and down on our own bed each night? This excitement needs to be limited to just a small percentage of our lives so that we can really appreciate it. Really?

So here he sits wondering if the waterfall is still flowing, and are the brookies’ still idling in the shady still waters under the canopy of trees. Are those ungodly mosquitoes biting each other with curiosity as to where he and the little pup have gone? Is that moon still on the rise over that never ending blanket of spruce?

It all must be of course. Or is our experience really the only reality that matters? This line of thinking does not bode well for the preservation of things yet unseen. But perhaps what we see in our minds eye is really it. And travel simply gives us the imagery our minds so require.

He still wonders.

Get over it.....eh?

Watching the river flow is like watching a clock tick. There is only so much time and one would think, and only so much water. But it just keeps flowing, night and day. He draws some inspiration from the washing and smoothing of the river rock. There seems to be a constant new beginning, rather than a means to a linear end point.

The cycles associated with the natural world have been in motion for so long that we don’t really notice them. For example, the smoothing of the rock, the decomposing of large dead trees, or even the carcasses of dead animals, all happening on an on-going basis, but rarely noticeable.

Not the same with mens lives and their structure. We have such a need to ramp up our existence and “make something of ourselves,” that when time starts working its inevitable duty, the slow down and breakdown become oh so transparent. We choose not to see it in each other when possible because it reminds us of our own narrowing path. There is much to say for acceptance.

Men fix things. When something is in disarray or breaking down, returning to the soil where it came, we see first a duty to rescue, an opportunity to profit, and a calling to preserve.

So the battle rages on, both in our physical environment, and in our personal beings. When many strive to eek out more time, either by covering time's effects and blemishes, or by injecting mental youth into outdated throwing arms, they are generally applauded for the resistance, the persistence, but not so much for acceptance.

He wonders here, what our world would feel like if we did operate closer to acceptance and an arm’s length from denial. What if we attempted to fall into the groove of our own life rhythms?

Nah…forgettaboutit...........it’s un-American, eh?

Driving toward away.......

Miles from nowhere…..guess I’ll spend my time….oh yeah….the way that I choose.
…….Cat

It is the seemingly endless sand roads that traverse the UP that drew him in, and the bugs that drive him away.

Sitting in the coffee shop of one of the far and in between signs of organized humanity, he listens very attentively. These old men, much like the ones you see sitting in a McDonalds back in suburbia, but different…..very different. They are of unquestionable Scandinavian descent, yet born right here, on this soil, in this climate, and some day, perhaps soon, will die here.

They speak of tools and technique, in a near non-decipherable tongue. The men speak calmly and confidently, confident in the understanding that each will have his turn to respond without interruption from the others. Respect is high in these parts. Anyone who has lived up here for long deserves it and receives it. It is a hard life he imagines, but a good one.

Asking directions in these parts is a futile exercise. They do not seem to care much about road names or numbers, as they have simply traveled by habit all their lives. On one occasion he spoke up and said “that’s called Forest Road 565” to which the response returned, “Oh is that it, eh?”

They are actually the most helpful and hospitable people he has ever met, just not soft and cozy folk. They do not waste words, or time. They are either busy working, or busy not working.

These sandy roads go on for miles and miles, and yes, miles. He kept his little handheld locked in on the coordinates for his campsite, and completed near two days of scouting without touching a paved road. The little blonde pup would remind him from time to time how important it is to stop, walk and romp. And so they did, taking to the trails for long treks. She really found her legs on this trip.

The way out of your own thought patterns and into some new thinking, is to eliminate the distractions. The same distractions we employ ourselves to keep us rooted in and focused, can prohibit us from thinking outside the rut. Don’t misunderstand, ruts are good and are certainly needed. The old Scandinavian men are deeply rutted, but they just have fewer distractions in such a remote place that their rut is so well grooved that it no longer is a rut, but rather just smooth.

Fewer distractions sound good, eh? Smooth sounds good also.

Post from an outpost.........

There are few places, maybe none, in the lower 48, that are as remote, as wild. It is the intersection of boundless land left in a natural state, minimal people, and wild life. The UP is nothing but rock, water, and trees. Flora and fauna extreme. It is not a land for everyone, and perhaps for no one, but him, or so it seemed.

It was not the black bears striding confidently across the trail or in another instance, the road, and not the wolf skull he found in the stream while canoeing, or not even the mother deer standing in grief over a dead fawn, that got his attention and awe as much as the turtle. Yes, the turtle.

He could see something from the top of the hill, still a half mile off. As he drove down the narrow, densely treelined roadway, miles from nowhere in a world so large and complicated, he was needed, right here, right now. He has actually never felt as appreciated as he did upon driving away. But on the approach he saw her on her back in the middle of the pavement, flailing her legs with no success.

Everyone needs a hand at some time or another. Some never ask, and some never offer. But as he and the blonde pup climbed out of the jeep they could hear a real cry of distress. They knelt down and looked at this large dinosaur and realized that once on their back...err shell, turtles are helpless. Then they looked to the side of the road to see what was causing the terror in her eyes, baby turtles in the grass, waiting.

Once righted, she marched defiantly to her young, the little blonde puppy a curious escort. She looked back and said thank you in some universal language. He knew there was a reason for him to be here now. Then of course, he never really needs a reason to go anywhere. He just goes.

Headed North.........

OK......he left on Sunday morning at 5 AM to head up to the Upper Pennisula of Michigan. He wants to camp with the young blonde dog and look at property. He wants to canoe some and hike the rest. He hopes to do some writing in that little popup skampass camper he owns. He plans to be online somehow this week. Look for him.....if not, he's thinking of you.

Back on Friday.......maybe.

Whose land is it anyway?.......#5

Continued from July 13, 2009.....

He queried the old man as to why he needed to make all those calls. He was wearing a baseball hat tugged down over his long hair, and his view was slightly blocked as a result. He never saw it coming. The old man stood over him and said something about the “finger” his wife had directed at his sons, who he was attempting to shelter from the society he feared. He never saw it coming.

The large fist of the old man came in from the side and collided with the side of his head. He was knocked clear out of the chair and on the floor trying to figure out what happened, when the old man went crazy and started pounding on his head, ear, and chest. He went black.

He regained consciousness a few minutes later as he was being thrown down the icy concrete steps in front of the main house. He could see the old man at the top of the steps yelling at him but he could hear nothing. The door slammed and he laid there in the snow, letting the ice sooth the pounding bumps he felt enlarging on his skull.

State troopers arrived and attempted to arrest him. They could not. The old man was barricaded inside and they said they knew of him well and did not want to risk it tonight.

The next morning he took his woman down to Ann Arbor to stay with friends. He called his brother in law who had a raucous response and said he would be there in six hours. He was, and they started shooting of rounds of his 12 gauge shotgun, drinking champagne, and working up the nerve to go over to the main house. It didn’t take long fro them to be screaming at the old man to come out. He didn’t.

So after the truck was loaded, and and they were pulling away, he stopped. He walked up to the main house for one more chance. No show. He spoke out to the old man. He spoke directly to his paranoia and delusional self. He told him that “they” were after him, and when they got him they would lock him up. And his boys would join the rest of the society he despised so much.

As they drove down the long driveway he looked back up toward the house. The old man was now outside and standing defiantly on the hill. They kept going, knowing they still had a life to lead. And the old man needed to get busy running, forever running.

Whose land is it anyway.....#4

Continued from July 10, 2009.....

They returned back to the land after being away for a few days, only to find their place had been occupied. There were obvious indications that someone had been in the place. In a week or so they then received a $400 phone bill with calls made around the world. He brought this to the old man’s attention and he responded that we would talk it over in due time.

One morning while approaching the rental house after returning from the food coop in town, his wife looked over to the main house to see the three boys boxing on a heavy bag hanging from a tree branch. They stopped and stared at her, and evidently, Northup, the oldest, made some gesture that made her uncomfortable. She responded by giving them the finger.

That night, after dark, there was a banging on the door. When he opened it the old man requested him over to discuss the phone bill. He agreed and followed him over to the main house, walking awkwardly behind him a few steps. The main house had no electricity anymore as a result of non-payment. The only heat came from the gas oven that he was sitting in front of, the open door as a table, and a stool pulled up, the phone bill in his grasp. He sat across the open door and starred in at the gas flame burning.

He queried the old man as to why he needed to make all those calls. He was wearing a baseball hat tugged down over his long hair, and his view was slightly blocked as a result. He never saw it coming. The old man stood over him and said something about the “finger” his wife had directed at his sons, who he was attempting to shelter from the society he feared. He never saw it coming.

To be continued.....

Whose land is it anyway?....#3

Continued from July 8, 2009………

There were many unusual moments. On one of those days the old man asked him to drive he and his three sons into town in an old school bus that was parked behind the barn. This was strange enough just attempting to do this safely without the odd scenes that followed in the wake of the old man. In town he bought ice cream for his three boys. It was an weird sight alright, them looking like people out of the previous century, both in dress and mannerisms. When the woman accidently dropped the cone of the youngest on the floor, the old man became unglued. He eventually needed to be escorted out of the shop on a threat of calling the authorities.

On the way back he was pulled over by the police for obvious reasons. The old man got out and started belittling the young trooper. He told him that he spends his time “imprisoning the youth” while the real crime (white collar) is happening right under their noses. He intimidated this officer so intensely with his imposing size and demeanor, that the officer just sort of gave in and got in his squad car and left.

Driving back from classes one fall afternoon, he pulled in at the end of the long gravel drive to see the old man sitting in a wooden chair in the field with a shotgun. Evidently some utility company men were trying to run some cable across the front of the property, in the right of way as best he could tell, but the old men threaten them and they capitulated also.

One might get the impression that the old man just did as he pleased. And to some extent that was true. However, there were some folks after him alright, the banks. On one morning he asked for a ride to Detroit to attend a court proceeding. When he arrived in front of the main home to pick up the old man on the day specified, he was amazed at the sight. Down the steps came the old man wearing the hat, coat, leggings, and high boots of a World War II General. All wool, leather and brass. He looked to be the spitting image of General Patton. It was to be a day of war alright, in court.

As we ascended up the concrete steps of the city courthouse, people just moved in waves out of this man’s way. He just followed, steps behind the old general, carrying his leather brief case. Once the trial began, and with the two of us sitting at one front table, and the prosecuting team at the other, the judge looked up from his paperwork and asked on what grounds the defense was requesting a continuance (after nearly two years of delays by the old man). “Due to an unfair and obvious disadvantage to those defending themselves against a conspiracy of power,” the old man responded. “Can you demonstrate this disadvantage”, the judge inquired. And with that opening, the old man stood and walked slowly across the room with a tape measure. He proceeded to measure the distances from the defense table to the judge, and that of the prosecution. They were closer to the judge by some six feet. The judge had no choice but to announce the proceedings were flawed due to an imbalance of power between the parties in dispute, and declared a continuance to another day. And on, and on.

To be continued………

Whose land is it anyway?......#2

This post is a continuation from July7, 2009…….

Strange as it all appears, he liked the old man, or at least had a curious respect for him. During their many conversations as they walked the land, the old man began to share his story. It was a story full of conspiracy wrapped in a deep paranoia. After wrestling with the steel company to get his settlement, he became convinced that “they” were after him. He put money down on this remote, but pristine land, buying it from a band of outlaw monks, who used it briefly as a monastery. The old man never made another payment, and soon he really had people after him. He would query the old man, “Well whose land is it anyway?” “Let’s concern us with other matters, shall we Mr……” But in the end he would refuse to go, without a fight.

Their talks often surrounded politics and the abuse of the establishment on the common man. They would sit together on warm afternoons in the dark shade of the once formal dining room. The old man would get so riled up in discussing things that he would take the old black dial phone and call his congressman and really rip into whoever was on the other end. He was actually very intelligent, but it was also delusion run wild.

Once while in the large barn on the property, the old man asked him to climb down to the cellar below to fetch some item. After he lifted the heavy steel door built into the floorboards of the barn, he stepped down the first few wood steps and then looked back at the old man holding the door over his head. The old man harshly said “Mr……don’t ever trust another man with your life this way,” referring to the steel door he grasped, “because he may have had a bad morning with his wife and mistake you for her.”

One very cold and heavily snowing winter evening there was a banging on the side door. Opening it he found the old man visibly upset with his face pressed against the cedar entry. “Mr. ……I request your help immediately, please dress warm.” Once they walked back to the main house and into the dark hallway he saw that the old man’s Great Dane had died and the dog was laid out on a wooded palate, normally where a dining room table would be placed. “Mr…..I need you to haul our friend here to the top of the hill and bury him immediately.” “Tonight?” “Now Mr……”

Hooking a rope to the palate he pulled the dog out and down the concrete steps, across the gravel drive and up the hill through deep and continually piling snow. It was tough going but he was young then, and stronger. The old man wore all black trench coat and wide brimmed black hat, revealing streaming tears whenever the flashlight shone up toward his hard reddened face.

At the top he was left alone to do what he was asked to do, what the old man couldn’t do, bury the dog.

As he rested momentarily on the shovel handle, staring out into the falling snow, he sensed the oddity of his time here on the land, but at the same time recognized that this was exactly where he needed to be, even though as events progressed he would not wish them on anyone.

To be continued……..

Whose land is it anyway?..........

They were huddled over this local rag in a small diner, swilling joe and searching for an abandoned nest. “Rustic Sophistication” the ad read, leaving one to wonder if this was unaffordable for this newly married graduate school bound kid from Chicago. But then again this was Ann Arbor, a city much like Madison, liberal, educated, interested, imaginary, and certainly sophisticated. And the times, which are always changin’ by the way, were ripe with protest. Ronald Reagan had just become the top dog, James Watt was running the Interior Dept. (into the ground, actually), Princess Diana just had her historic wedding, and some ass shot John Lennon dead.

As fate goes, he went, 15 miles out to a small rural area known as Whitmore Lake, where he drove back deep into this 50 acre wooded land, once a ski resort, back when skis were wood and the tow rope was turned by an oil drum engine. The 80’ spruce trees got his attention and the large hills and valleys lured him in like a carrot on a stick. Once to the top and parked, he approached the old man’s main home cautiously (he now wonders why cautiously at that point, not knowing of course all that would happen in the days and months ahead, the strange occurrences that would unfold, woven in the psyche of the old man, and culminating in a near death experience) and watched as the door opened before his hand could complete the knock.

This large old man was large (6’-5”, 260 lbs) but not really old. He looked 70 but was really about 50. But his years as an iron worker had taken a toll, both physically and psychologically. The accident had given him reason to retire with a large settlement check, which he promptly used to buy this hideaway land (or so he said) and enter into a life as a reclusive hermit. He had an Amish-type wife and three sons. None spoke, but him of course. His name was Bryan, but he responded only to sir.

The main house, made completely of large fieldstone, obviously the ski lodge many years prior, sat on the very top of the hill, while his new rental was in a nice private spot about 300 yards down in the woods. He and his young wife would have to park at the end of the ½ mile gravel drive and walk a ways up through he trees to get to the small red cedar framed home with white shudders. It was the Northwood’s kind of place he had always had in his mind since first reading Thoreau a few years back. Everything was as they both wanted, everything was good.

To be continued.....

On the Road....#23

Getting off that bus was enough. It really didn’t matter what was next. For in that small dusty and cold mountain village, there wasn’t much next by anyone standards. In the Indian villages of central Mx., once the sun leaves these high elevations, the air temperature drops to freezing.. Once darkness falls there is none to be seen or heard. We needed a place to crash, something to eat, and a beer.

He always likes that feeling of needing something to eat. Not a place to eat, but something to consume for simple but essential nourishment. Often they would walk by small partially shuttered dwellings and just announce our presence and intention. Then moments later a woman would emerge, having just fed her own and offer us some leftovers of sorts. A tortilla can wrap itself around just about anything.

The old man was sleeping on the dusty couch near an old barrel stove, smelling of wood smoke. Yes we could all three share a small room for nearly nothing by American standards. Everything dark but for the dried bug florescent light buzzing overhead. He turned it off as usual and lit some small candles retrieved from his pack. He liked to sit and look at the map in the candlelight. Strange, but relaxing, and possibly comforting. Now how about that beer?

Walking the very quiet street they saw the fire light burning from beneath an old wooden swing door. Men were talking. And upon entering, he could see 8-10 men huddled around a woodstove rubbing their hands together, sharing tales, and drinking as men do. A few were startled by the two gringos, but their Mexican friend smiled and assured them of their good intentions. Smiles all around and a moment later they were warming up well and wetting the dry dusty well, as well.

The limited language exchange poses obvious barriers. However, he had learned how to engage with the eyes. This universal understanding goes far in foreign environs, along with the passionate interactions of a good friend and interpreter. “Ask him to tell me more about his father growing up, and what does he think about during the day while tending his farm fields?” It was in this way that he was able to see behind the great curtain of Oz.

The sounds of summer......

He was walking further and further up the trail, in step with all the male members of his family. His brothers were ahead and the old man was bringing up the rear. They were moving away from the connection to “the world” that we know, the world as we are told, the world that we have become spectators of, and toward what we all crave mid-summer, the back country of our lives. However, the Chicago Cubs were one game away from winning the pennant. It was 1984.

The trail out of Grand Lake, CO was easy walking to start, and saved its steepest grade for last. Those last few miles are naturally designed to weed out the lesser 95% and welcome those willing, to the top. Great views, clean water, ecological diversity, and maybe, just maybe, reception on the little red transistor radio wedged into the rock at the peak.

The conversation was as usual, food acceptable, fishing extrordinary, weather cooperative, bugs missing in action, and according to the fading static, the North-siders were up with a few innings remaining.

Getting away is so difficult anyway. But with such a historical event on the horizon, one just needs to know. It makes him think of the days when the market was moving so well, he was surprisingly invested, and he promised her to leave it for a week, and forgetaboutit. He would ask other smucks at the cantina if they knew anything about the market. They would only state the obvious, that they were on vacation. He just whispered back that they must have promised the wife as well. “Yeah”, they would respond sheepishly.

For some reason the need to know has become a modern indicator of control in our lives. Even though the moment required more firewood, or a better drained tent site, one more fish to catch, or some other “real-time” skill or challenge to overcome, they chose rather to allow their minds to wander across the mountain range, the prairies, the cornfields, and then the suburban tapestry, to that ball diamond and the moving rotation of those nine on nine.

Huddled around the campfire now, feeling the air chill from lack of sun, they stopped talking and began staring at the little red box perched on the rock. “What did Harry say?” I don’t know, I cant’ hear it.” “Did they get the last out or not?” “ I think the batteries are dead.” Arrrggghhhh!

So they went the last two days without knowing about the game, and began knowing other things, perhaps more important, perhaps not.

Yeah..."we always did that".........

Those things that ‘we always did,’ those things that we said were like traditions, likely only happened once. But that’s cool. The reason we remember it and recant the event is because it stuck out as being one of those moments that we wish had happened more often. But we are alright with that.

Those big hands were always rubbing through his crew cut hair, with a shake at the end, a smile, and a “remember this kid………” His father was part of a tribe, within a tribe, within a larger tribe. By simple demographics it was the whole 1966 suburban dad thing, inside of our whole subdivision which was a community in itself, and then the smaller group of immediate neighbors on our block. This is the group that “we always went to the Blackhawks game on the school bus from the local restaurant with,” once.

In the back he sat quietly because they were anything but. At that age, all you ever needed to do was smile genuinely, and say yes sir, or no thankyou Mr……, and they liked you plenty. Never ask for things and they would take care of you. Never lag behind the men when they walked, and never tell your mother things you heard. Simple.

His father was a gentle sort, not one to use language, or speak of woman much. Certainly not like the others. But on these sorts of experiences he attempted to loosen up and fit in, not because he enjoyed that manly banter, quite the contrary, but he wanted his son, I think, to understand the world as it is, and not as we see on the television.

Crawling in between the familiar sheets late that night he thinks back on the game. He smells the smoke, the beer, the grime from the handrails spiraling up the concrete ramps, the butter, and the corn. The whole night can be smelt in his low cropped hair from the big hands of the men on the bus, from his block, in his neighborhood, who were just like his dad.

It was always like that, a tradition.