The Year It Didn't Rain

The year it didn't rain, Jamie went off to discover America. he bought an old RV. a big one. he got himself a sheltie. he called her Joanie. she was just the right size for an RV: he named the RV Hio Silver. He billed himself as a singer and a dancer and offered to entertain for suppers and breakfasts but not for lunch - which was usually leftovers or fruit and yogurt. he had a small pension. enough. he had a love for women and children. he had two boys of his own. well. not boys anymore. way into their thirties. two grand kids even. but he had a good body. still strong. from having been a firefighter all of his life. he loved to fish and play touch football and soccer and was good with boats. so he always could make acquaintances at the RV sites. life was not so bad. not at all. he kept trying to follow the rain. or to get just ahead of it. one or the other...he ran the rains for almost three years.

sometimes he was happy. usually he was content. he especially loved the singing. he was getting good. sometimes he was lonely. but people talked with him a lot. they especially loved Joanie. she was such a great pal. she was a kind dog. gracious to everybody in her smart herding-sort-of-way.

when Jamie met Janet he was suddenly happy. it had been raining all day. he was by the ocean and it was wild. the waves were high and violent. the sand was shifting in the heavy winds in spite of the rain packing down every grain. the leaves of trees nearby were waving like some raggedy banners in these winds. Hio Silver was rattling and and rolling with the blow. it made the dry time newly gone seem safe and sound in comparison. but it was good. it was lots of water. these parts needed the water.

Janet come in with the blow. she left the road and went down to where the RVs were gathered like covered- wagons circled in the sandy camp lot. her car had been blowing about on the road so scary that she pulled over and went down to see if shelter was below: in those gray shadows of larger vehicles that could survive this storm. she wanted in. would risk the strangers. in hopes of being warm and safe until the rains would blow away inland. she chose Jamie's first because Joanie was at the window. waching the storm the way some animals do. she made his RV warm-looking. friendly-like. so Janet banged hard on the little door. and Jamie let her in.

she was wet and bedraggled. like torn petals of a flower…all color and dripping and leaves hung down. they introduced each other quickly back and forth. he was sorry he didn't have some nice wife or sister or something to make her feel safe with him. he held up Joanie as a peace offering. Janet seemed to accept that. she hung up her coat carefully, not to get water on his coat. suggested old newspapers to keep the water off the floor. so they did that. he offered her coffee. she accepted. she was accepting and tired and warm all at once. he was explaining who he was and what he was doing on the road. all rapid-fire. like his simple past was part of why she would be safe. just until the squall bit went over inland. they agreed on that. he found a towel and a blanket and put on the heat. low. to preserve the propane. to take the chill off. did she want something to eat? he had cans of soup. she accepted.

there was something slow motion about everything they were doing and saying. time was slowing down quite a bit. the world was narrowing in to these two and a sweet little dog. Joanie was comfy as can be between these two. animals know when things are going OK. Janet ran her fingers just right over Joanie's ears. this was all good. the RV would give a little shudder in the wind now and again. it was like a sigh of content tho. not anything to fear or worry about. they began to talk. casual at first. then as if they had known each other for a long time.

turned out she was from Salinas like he was. they were several years apart in school. but maybe they had seen each other on campus. maybe…she had been all bookish. she had been in way different circles than he had been. he had been all sports and wild parties. he was good-hearted and very popular. she hadn't been wild. but she had been popular in her own way. a good girl. on to college she went. on to the fire trucks he went. separate paths. both OK tho. they eagerly agreed about that. they both thought the government was rotten too...they shared their politics busily. finding this in common was fun. then they had the same ideas about relationships too. they went around this part of life very gingerly. being careful. being that they were, of course, strangers. both divorced tho. she had no kids. he talked about his kids. how they all got along so good... so well.....

she got up and washed his few dishes during the time he went to the john. wiped off the table. outside the rain was showing no let-up. The sky was getting darker with night coming on. the clock was showing an hour that was getting too late for leaving. he respectfully bought out blankets and a sheet and pillow and pointed out that the sofa was very comfortable as a bed as well. she asked to make a phone call. she had her cell. so it was strange that she asked. but he didn't worry about it. maybe her minutes were low. he let her use his. she called a woman. spoke low. explained that the storm was wild and she was going to stay in a safe place until morning. that 'they' could call her there to check on her, if they wanted. or she would call them in the morning. it was all OK. in every way. so far...

they both went to sleep. Joanie curled up at Janet's feet. in the dawn, the sun was up again. the sky was almost clear. the sea busy with morning waves. not storm waves. Janet took a shower. looked fresh and clean somehow. made breakfast for them. not bothered by his very basic kitchen. cheerful about the little bit of room.  tidied up the place and her bedding. wrote down some numbers and her address. asked him to come by and visit with her when he'd go back to Salinas. she was still working there as a school teacher. he wasn't wild about going back to Salinas. but he liked her. so he said sure. in just a week or so. he'd come to visit.

he was going to see America. see what it was all about. go lots more places. that was the plan. winter in the south. move to cooler places in the summer. just enjoy the spring and the fall everywhere. it was always beautiful in the spring and the fall. everywhere...but Janet was in Salinas. and he could get her out of his  mind. only that didn't happen. she was always there. somewhere in his head…

he would email her sometimes. he had heard from her that some old boyfriend from school was going with her now. they were getting really close. probably they were going to try to live together. sometimes she would send him her writings. they were good. she was working on her craft. that's what she called her stories and poems. her ‘craft’. he had always thought about writing about his travels. but he hadn't yet. he thought maybe she could write his stories for him. strange thought. why would she want to do that? not a good idea... Joanie watched him pacing the RV. this was not his usual self. he was preoccupied. she sighed the way dogs sometimes do.

he didn't go to Salinas. he went south to the lakes out where it didn't rain much. it hadn't rained for a year in fact. he was getting used to desert. going to Salinas seemed like asking for rain. best to let rain pick its own path. not to disturb what was going to be. not to go after love again. life was good. after all. no struggles. no one washing your dishes when you least expected it. no one being all warm on your sofa at night. you in your own snug bed. all wishing that she would just come into the little bed area. that she would just kiss you once. on the lips. where love was surely probably hiding…

the year it hadn't rained had made the face of the land all cracked and dry. the lake offered some relief. he splashed the lake water on his face. it refreshed his cracked and dry skin. washed away the salt of the few tears that had come down the cracks in his face…

he smiled up to the faces of friends coming down to the water from their RVs to welcome him back. how are things? they asked.

well…

we had some rain… he said that slowly.

it got quiet. like an ending.

yep... he stood up and smiled some more…

we surely had

some rain….

Road Song Man: Part Two: Present Perfect

I forgot to mention that the Road Song Man is a Soccer Player and teaches or coaches that sport too. during the years I lived with an extremely creative and bit neurotic artist, I watched soccer games all the time, because he had played soccer all his young days in Austria and in the US, and coached a couple of the youth teams in Oakland all his middle years. well, anyway, it's quite a game. looks and feels like one of the hardest games ever, once you get to know it. mainly because of how physical you have to be with the ball. with every inch of your body. to control the ball. while being really kind-of 'one' with that ball. so it will move so rapidly. so naturally. exactly where it needs to be. all of the time it's in your possession. how much skill you have to have to even try for a goal. much less make one. and, how much running you have to do. the running is a bear. I could never run that much. even in my best athletic years. the running is like stupendous is big. serious triad of abilities there.
 so, just knowing that Road Song Man is a Soccer Person makes him an athlete. a fine athelete. period. serious one. yet, of course, it is a very fun sport to do at times. I've watched people have a wonderful time. very high 'highs' in this sport. but, lots of anger at times. very intense. so he must be those ways inside as well. it goes with soccer. it's a deep place to venture in and into and from. seriously.

and the skiing. he's been a skier. I don't know for how long... I am a wonderfully horrible skier. so I know all about this. having no depth perception to the right, you can only imagine what reading snow on slopes is like to me. I have always just plunged down mountains with the blind faith of an idiot. anything to see the mountains above the snow line. I've seen much beauty in the mountains. I've known what it's like to smile happily at the end of a good run. the feel of powder. the intensity of storm coming in too fast. moving to safely. still, wanting the beginning of the white-out that's barreling in on you. the sounds of skis on the crackle of groomed runs. the no-sound-at-all of being in fresh snow, yet ungroomed. the slip-slide of the ice at the end of the day, when the runs are over-skied with skiers coming down. the way the air and the trees smell...the smells of blues and greens and whites...so I know what it must be like - a little bit I know -  for a 'good' skier, which I expect he is. bet he's even taught skiing...bet he was good at that. is, still....
I have no idea where Road Song Man has skied, but I know he has loved those places... he misses it lately, he's written. I bet he misses all the people he's met. the fireplaces warming you. the whole world of snow. forgetting the whole world below the slush line. for days - maybe weeks - at a time. Skiing is one of the Greatest Escapes ever...leaving the human world behind. just you and the mountain and the runs and the snows and the weathers and the trees and the skies under your feet - part of your feet -of your whole body, really - and, sometimes, even the animals you see at times, if you are very lucky...it's grand. so, I suspect he is a grand person when he's skiing. it's what you do up there: be larger than you usually are. part of something more grand....

he must know boats. sailing. canoes. fishing boats with their little motors. and the oars. I've done all these. they all take their own skills. I'm awkward with sails. but an obedient crew person. so worth the trip. but, I bet he does boats with a natural ease... I love canoes... I think for him boats and canoes are just an extension of his body. ways to take his body into the natural world. Sand's too... if you love boats and fishing, then you have a very good thing in life: two for one in the happiness department. I sense he knows this very well.
wonder if he's worked on boats like I have. it's a wonderful thing to be part of building or refurbishing boats. the wood-working and the up-keep are something you have to like doing. really. or you'll never be a good boat person. I bet he can do some of that....

he writes. I don't know how much he realizes that he writes 'well'...but he does write 'well'. he should write and write. he has written quite a bit about corruption at many levels of government and police enforcement in the state where he owns a home. he rents it out. he left there to go on the Road. so being there, getting bummed about all the corruption. which is really there: he's writing about it. even to the President. wanting to keep his 'say' active. to be a whistle-blower. to be accurate and real and dedicated about that. to insist that he loves his America enough to defend her from those who would tear down her values. for power. for greed. to keep writing about that. for getting the word our there as much as he can. this is a good thing to do with good writing. sharing those ideas with the many others who feel just the way he does. who are active the way he is...
 he's also creative in his writing, tho. creative and fun. pulls in the mythologies of life. especially of the northern traditions of the peoples who communicated in runes on stone and in legends and demigods and gods and goddesses. he's willing to be whimsical at times. to be a story teller in his writings. he is capable of leaps of imagination...
so then. I hope he will write quite a bit. right now he has a wrist injury healing. but, after that. he needs to write. I think that's true. he needs to write about all of his adventures on the Road. with Sand. he has his own style. his own vision. he should let it all out on the printed page. all of it. it's good work. he can do it....

then there's the singing. the singing is quite real for him...he loves to sing. he must make up some of his own songs. he wants to sing them some day to some one he feels love for. who loves him back. that would be a good thing. very happy for him. for now he sings songs for people he's newly met. for people he knows well. for some he will meet once. then not see again. he must have a good voice. a lot of his singing is karaoke. which he seems to love quite a bit. I would like to hear him sing. because he talks about singing with passion. and I understand that. song is important to me.  big, big part of every day of my life. it sounds like song is becoming a big part of every day of his life as well. if so, it's no wonder he has a happy life.

because, I think he does have a happy life. "really happy", he once wrote...he's on the Road. he  visits with his friends and makes new friends. perhaps he has intimate times with his women friends. perhaps he chooses other ways to love people. I don't know. he travels with the weather. with the waters. to where it's warmer. to places where he'll be comfortable in his RV. comfortable with the people. where the singing is good. where the fishing is good. where nature is easier to reach. to live among... where there are like-minded people who want America to be a meaningful country for people to live out their dreams. for there to be places where the birds and the animals and the fish will thrive. where nature is abundant. where people can be natural with each other. can defend each other from human harm and violence. where ever that is. whoever is hurting them: stopping those who hurt the people. even if that means trouble. working against trouble. like the fireman he still is. but, being happy in the here-and-now, too. doing OK on the pension. being well. playing his sports. playing with the boats and the fly rod and the skis and the soccer ball and the songs and with his imagination. playing with life. in a good way. in a kind way. a gentle way. with Sam. with those who understand him. who love him. who like him. even to play with those who don't do so well with him. he'll deal with that, too...

I think there's other stuff he's told me about his life, but I can't recall it all right now...I do wonder what he sees for his future...a 'home' again? some one to love who will love him right back? some one who will see him wholly? who will like him just as he is? who will not want him to 'settle down'? who will not nag him into ordinary ways of dealing with life? who will be there, thick and thin? who will embrace all this life the way he does? who will not bore him? who will delight him? or maybe, he feels he needs no one person at all. maybe he finds everything and every body he needs simply being on the Road. maybe he'll want to just keep going until the going stops. stops him. in his tracks. maybe when Sand dies. then he'll change something. find something else to do. some way to bring his creative self to even more. more 'what'? I don't know. only he would know that. maybe he makes no plans at all. just lives in the real 'moment' the way people talk about doing. the way the zen of life is supposed to go. but rarely does. the way he may know well. but maybe not. I don't know him well enough to know.

probably it could be thought that I love this Road Song Man. I don't. not because I couldn't. my love is all tied up with another right now. that kind of love. more important: I have never actually met him 'in person'... just written. pictures. fine communications. good ones. love usually has to have bodies and faces and voices and the ways someone touches and how you touch back. so no. no love....do I like him? maybe. 'like' is a tame word. has restrictions sometimes... do I understand him? I'm older now. I rarely presume to understand any body any more. it's not important to understand people any more, for me... it's important to try to know them a bit. I do that. to be with them as is natural. to do what naturally happens. not to worry about pushing or pulling in any direction. just being there for them. in this instance, for him. so, I'm there. just watching and listening and reading. just paying attention. perhaps that's what we all just need. some attention without judgement. maybe even without love, if love isn't there. if it is, good. if it's not, good.

The Road Song is good. the Singer is good: that much I know...

so here is the end of this story as I know it. I've paid attention. here is my attention...

sing this as you will....

The Road Song Man: Part One...and Fishing...Fishing....

 he was a fireman. I've taught firemen how to deliver babies. so I have a very fond attachment to firemen. because of their - such a generalization - very good hearts. no kidding. never met one who didn't - after all he had seen and done and been through - still have the kind eyes of a man who has true compassion - not pity or sympathy or even empathy - but compassion. a passion for seeing that things go right. for whoever he comes across who needs him. I'd say the same for fire women, I suppose...just never met any. the point is that it's good that he was a fireman for so much of his working life. because that work is important and righteous...and good....

 I've been in human services all of my life. nursing for twenty five straight years. teaching for seventeen. I've known blood and guts and people's pains and sorrows and human needs and wants. I've worked hard to help everyone who crossed my path, to learn how to take care of themselves and the others they had to care about. to handle human problems well. or I've taken care of them if they were truly unable. so I know that part of the work of a fireman.

 but I've never risked my life battling flames and heat and fumes and buildings coming down and rescuing people from fires. from heart attacks. strokes. births that didn't reach the hospital. burns. breaks of bones. blood in need of staunching right away. death happening without much recourse. losses of limbs and lives right before my eyes. one emergency visit after the other in conditions unknown until you get there. for over twenty some years...but, he did....

 then: he's a fisherman. a fly fisherman...do you know how hard it is to be so good at fly fishing that you teach people how to do it? I was always a spin caster myself, so I can tell you how difficult this skill is. See, when you spin cast that six-pound-test monofilament line with its lure tied to it, off your spin rod with it's nice, maybe automatic, spinning reel...well, you use three wrist movements. they take some practice to do well. you hold the rod at about a ten o-clock position in front of you. you use your wrist to bring the tip back to about twelve-thirty, kind-of behind your shoulder. then you snap your wrist quickly to bring it back to ten o-clock at about eye level. at that same time, you straighten your index finger, which you've had crooked around the line. this action snaps the lure off across the water. about fifty or sixty feet away - if you trajectoried the lure with the right momentum - the lure hits with water with a gentle plop or splat. so then you turn the crank on the side of the reel, reeling in the lure with a minnow-like wiggle or swimming motion. leaving about a few inches of the line with the lure hanging below the tip of the rod, you make another cast. unless you catch a fish, of course. I've sat for hours doing this when I was younger. with my dad as a kid. then, with others. for years. it's good times.

fly fishing is not this. it is an Art. with the capital A. I have never ever been good at it. not even close. I would give a great deal to be able to learn from a master. which he is. here's the difference. bear with me here...this is important...ok: the lure is now just a hook dressed up in silver bits like tinsel, and feathers. it's like a tiny body of a minnow with wings of a fly...it takes maybe ten or more of them to weigh as much as one lure on my spin tackle. these are called streamer flies. since they weight like feathers, they have to be cast completely differently. first you have to have a weighted line to deliver this bitsala. the usual cast is about thirty feet. this thick fly line is attached to a leader monofilament. this leader makes the fly look like it's not attached to anything - like it's a real insect in the water....ok. so you tie the fly to the leader. you pull ten or so feet of the line out beyond the tip of the light fly rod. the you pull about thirty feet of the fly line off the reel and hold it, coiled in your left hand (if you're right handed, I guess...) then you start up a quick back-and-forth flicking motion, using your right forearm and wrist, moving the tip of the fly rod from straight out in front of your face to just past your own vertical stance. you're making a tight, elongating arc, which is called a casting loop. the arc is flattening, of course, parallel to the water behind you and in front of you. you actually do this three or four times, without letting the fly or the line hit the water...releasing some of the coiled fly line with your left hand during the finish of every forward stroke. when you go for the fourth cast, the fly, leader - which may sink 'wet' - or rest 'dry' - nice and gently on the water, about thirty - forty feet away. you retrieve the line the same way the spin fisher does, I think. only: the fly kind of skits around more naturally...like a real living minnow or insect would. when the fly is about ten feet from the boat, you start your cast again.

 so. what's the point. well, as you can read and maybe imagine: fly fishing is very, very hard for most to master. you have to really want to be just as much like nature as you can be and still be a human separate from being a minnow or an insect or a fish. you want to feel 'fish'. 'water'. 'insect' with all your might. deep inside somewhere. somewhere the rest of us rarely go. it's going to take years to learn to do this style of fishing well. you're going to learn to read water. read weather. read river and lake and pond banks. understand fish. what they eat. when they eat. where they eat. how they eat. with much more intensity than the spin fisherman does. I have not yet had that intensity or patience or presence with the natural world. but he does. that's the point.

 this is the past of the Road Song Man. I don't know his personal past at all. he was married once and has two grown sons and maybe a couple of grandkids. he's fond of women. he had some women who were important to him. especially when he had cancer (I think it was cancer) of the prostate gland. which is a bad deal to handle: he had a lady then who helped him through that. he is still very fond of women. I'm not sure what he wants to have in relationship to women at this point in his life - in his late sixties...he must have many friends...but he has many acquaintances as well...it's not like he's close to everybody in some hippy-dippy way...and his God is Nature. he's said as much....

he spent his time when he was supposed to be in catechism class, as a kid, down by the river. learning all about God there. to watch one of his videos about animals - like the one about beavers - is to hear someone talking personally about worship. matter-of-fact, natural worship...of the world just as it is - the natural world, that is...separate from where thousands of humans are all together...I respect him for this....

 then there is his dog. a standard poodle named Sand. he is very close to this animal. and she is very close to him. they are best friends. she is a really intelligent and fine looking creature on this planet. she makes and keeps friends for him. she keeps him company all of the time. they are inseparable. she is a good thing in his life. and he in hers. I think they are lucky to have this. he is close to the animal world and she is close to the human world. they are worth the relationship to eachother. and their relationship to the world that they share together....

so...as far as I know it - which isn't far at all - this is my understanding of the past life of the Road Song Man. there's a lot more I don't know at all. but these bits are a lot to know about the 'light' side of this man...the side where he is a man of the light. I don't know his dark memories in his life. the places and ways and people with things did not turn out well. the times he may have been unkind or cruel. or when he lied. when he was disappointed. when he was a disappointment. I know nothing about that. so Part One here is the shiny side of this coin. the ways he is a good and fine person. the ways he is an artist in life. I'm calling this Part One. there's more to this story, and I'll tell it best I know how. a person doesn't become a man on the road lightly. he doesn't sing lightly either. singing is very personal. very true. going on the road is very brave. very risky too. you've got to give up a more settled life. there are reasons for that. Part Two will be what I know about this part of the story. it's only what I know. only: really a 'part'. still it's a good story to tell.

so then.  I will tell it.

#52 One Thousand And One Nights: The Lucidity Of Ice

I have a dear friend who rescued his friend on the River where my sisters and I spent much of our childhoods. he pulled the friend out of a frozen immersion through ice. thin ice. naturally... tho I imagine the friend didn't know that until he went through. I myself personally know someone who went out on thin ice to save a fine dog: who had gone running off across the ice on this very River: chasing an unseen animal far off: saved him out of the cold deep jaggeds of broken ice....I believe most people won't try the ice over a river. because you imagine that even under the deepest ice: the river is really alive and running its way to the sea or the big lakes far off. the power of that flow seems terrible. but very exciting too...maybe that's why some of us skate on such rivers....I love to pretend that all the ice I skate is that River...the Fox River...Illinois. winter.....

my sister Pat and I were ice skaters. I am still an ice skater. I have my skates, and they fit and are fit to skate on as well. sharp enough. tho the burrs could probably use a sanding. I last was skating with my son's triplets and their Auntie and her friend. one for each kid. we were at Iceland in Berkeley, California, which was a very wonderful old rink with old wood bleachers and floors and tables. and old concession automats for buying foods and hot chocolate. an ancient Zamboni to clear the ice. music piped in from across fifty years of skating on that rink: thousands of times to that very music. and old painted back-drops of conifers and snow and sky all around. adequate but antiquated lighting. in other words: the Perfect Ice Skating Rink. even the skates you could rent were old brown leather. nicely maintained and sharpened correctly...

Iceland is closed now. it's just sitting there. I guess some of the more desperate skaters have gone over to the big, heartless, garishly-lit Rink in Oakland by now. I bet a lot of people just stopped skating. like me...
we are waiting for Iceland to resurrect. any day now....

so there's Pat and I back in time far away. in Batavia Illinois. learning to ice skate... who taught us? I don't remember...maybe Dad....maybe we just kept trying and falling and trying until we got it.
anyway: we were nothing fancy. stopping was our chief skill. and was done effectively in time. but never actually with style. not that I can recall....we were maybe nine and seven? a little older?
we were bundled up in layers: so we were not actually athletic or graceful. we spent ample time in the Warming House. which also took the nip off our frozen faces and feet and hands...I have a great great fondness for Warming Houses....

Warming Houses are different than any other place on earth. they are not actually warm. they are Hot. Very Hot. there is always a big stove of some kind, or a fireplace. it's usually a pot bellied stove with wood. but it may be gas or electric...it is always always Hot in there. at first it feels necessary. then it just feels great. finally: it feels soporific. you just want to lie down on the sawdust over the ice. it feels right and proper to do so. you sit on the bales of hay or on the wooden boxes or wooden benches. you don't take off your coat. only maybe sometimes...only your gloves and hat...and you don't take off your skates. you sit until you're warm enough... but then you over-do it: you want some hot chocolate. which you have in a thermos. you eat the marshmallows before they actually melt. to get the sugar. sometimes you have potato chips. or cookies. or maybe an apple. maybe you eat those. the hot chocolate is a 'must' tho...now, you are too warm. full besides. and you don't want to feel so cold again. you're sweating because of the heat. it is very cold out there. anyway: the sun is going to go down soon....you bundle up and head outside again. you go around the rink a few more times. but your heart is no longer in it...so you sit on the bales in the Warming House again and take off your skates and put on your shoes and your boots over them. you have to search for your shoes under the benches or in a pile by the door. they are damp. you are damp. but you don't care anymore...you've been skating. you are done skating...out of the Warming House you go. with your skates over your shoulder bumping against your back with each step...trudging home in the quickly darkening twilight of a Midwest winter....

that is what a Warming House is for. every one knows that down to the cockles where their hearts lay...always waiting for warmth outside of the cold....

what besides ice is for is ice fishing. of course... and skating...skating around the holes in the ice the fishermen leave behind, hauling their ice shacks on and off the ice with their trucks and jeeps and old chevies and fords...they are all serious and sometimes drunk. quiet. we skaters are kids. loud. silly. make lots of noise. scare away fish...so we don't go near the holes until the guys are gone....we look into the holes...no fish. they are at least a foot-of-ice deep cuts in the ice. under is the black water flowing and eddying in the hole. usually they are deeper. maybe not now, but they were then. it was probable that we felt safe on that ice. it was so deep. but a crack in it could move fast. this truth we had heard about. none of us had ever heard a crack moving through the deep safe ice...we listened for cracks tho. sometimes we thought we heard them. Shhhhh. no. just the ice shifting its weight in its sleep over the river.

the trees on either side of the river bend over it with the weight of iced snow. sometimes a branch cracks sharp like a real rifle shot and the branch falls with its weight of ice and snow. That's Scary! but nothing much else can be heard...all cracks of Ice doing its shifty dance over water and trees and earth...and the sounds of our skates, trying to make a path through the heaves and irregularities of the living ice...trying to make one full and perfect glorious glide on the long wild river of ice....

mostly though: we skated in parking lots in Batavia and at Potowatame Park in St. Charles. round and round the rinks in the sun and on cloudy days or in light snowfalls: just as good as a river...the ice was perfect as a mirror. sometimes... but usually it had a thin film of water. or a thin layer of slush. slowed your skates somewhat. of course: if you fell: you got wet. everybody always falls... even the really good skaters. so: maybe not as good as a river. but good enough for us. being just kids....

ah: the 'falls': you fall to your knees or directly on your bottom. some people just fly. with their feet shooting out from under them and up into the air. still: usually it's a direct down and crack: hit the ice. sometimes people are hurt. usually kids cry about it. it always hurts a bit. or a lot. you get up. you start to skate again. you forget.

here's what every one does on the ice: goes around in circles. all in the same direction. then you break out in to the middle. meet you friends. practice going backward. practice twirling a little bit. practice stopping with more than a skier's snow-legs. practice doing toe-toe-glide. practice doubles-skating. try to keep your ankles still and upright instead of flopping into your belly-button-line in the middle of your balance. try to balance: period...glide and glide and glide without falling. for a long long time. then fall again. get up. start again....

here's what my head is doing when I'm skating......pretty much nothing.
there is the cold on my face. the heat in my muscles. the concentration on the ankles and where the skates are taking me. the delight of the frozen-ness of water. the sound of skates on the nature of ice. the trees and sky overhead in the cold cold day or night. night with the stars and maybe a moon. the lights on the ice. sunlight on the ice. moon light on the ice. the parking-lot lights. and the glow in the Warming House. the smells of trees and wood and crisp and frozen water. the smell of the wood smoke from the Warming House. the smell of cold air. of hot air and chocolate. the warmth of my own breath into my wool scarf over my lower face. the weight of my body on ice crisp cut and swirl of blade...

feeling the integrity of ice. trusting ice. enjoying ice.

my oldest daughter beautifully danced on the ice for years and years. you see: it is in her and in me....

my feet in the skates are: every time: new feet: more like wings...

I too can dance with such white wings on my ankles...

I can feel myself dancing down the winter on the River of my memories...

on this lucidity

of Ice....

#125 One Thousand And One Nights: The Apple Latitudes

latitudes. isn't that a wonderful word? Joy Lee thought geographical words were splendid. splendid was a word she often used as well...every thing was very splendid. or quite splendid. or would be splendid.
loving Paulie was going to be splendid too. she just knew it. her big and very white teeth crunched the redly red apple with delight. this is a splendid apple!
Paulie was beyond intrigued about Joy Lee. she was the most loving and in love lady he had ever known. in love with love. exciting and sexual and sexy also. every guy friend he had which was six of them felt that way. except for her getting caught up in one word superlatives all the time. the last time had been sad. every thing was sad. splendid was at least upbeat. boy though. that Paulie had himself a different one all right. he was one lucky guy. only they lived so far apart. that was hard. long distance relationships are hard. every one agreed about that. they cost a lot.

only Joy Lee pointed out that they lived in the same latitudes. the apple latitudes was what she called them. they could both pick apples at the same time of the year. in october. that was a good thing. different apples in the main. but still the same time of the year. they both loved foods in season. especially apples.

relationships are built on very very odd likes and dislikes and ways to agree and disagree. on magnets and desires and discountings and rationalizations. and on sex naturally or not. rarely on apples. but apples it was for Paulie and Joy Lee. they even talked about having orchards. she in california and he in wisconsin. both in the north of their states. where the apples would grow. heirloom apples. no doubts about that. the ones people love to eat but not to grow. hard to grow them . on account of the fertilizers. and the insecticides. neither wanted to deal with the commercial stuff. they would only have wonderful old varieties and sell at farmers markets and organic outlits and so on. they talked about all this like it was real. neither had any money to start up with the trees and land and so on. but it was a wonderful dream of a sort. a splendid idea they both shared with almost a smug satifaction. they were happy thinking and planning about these things. these apples and love and how they were special and also splendid. because they were in love. unlike others.

there was a saying his grandfather used to say. his grandfather being from Ireland. the holy ground takes care of everything. it sort of meant that every thing and every body  ends. loves end. apple trees end. apple seasons end. long distance relationships have a hard time of it. Paulie and Joy Lee were sure they could beat what ever odds there were about this. they had love. sex. splendid sex. they had to admit that. and the apples ideas. how they were going to live. how they'd make their money and live well. they were pretty sure it would all work out. they had their dreams. the apples were just a symbol of what would be ok and even great about life together. they understood each other well. pretty well. things wouldn't end the way they did with other people. the holy ground idea didn't apply.

well of course. it didn't come true in the end. they went their separate ways. only little by little. in the apple latitudes there is always a winter of sorts. in her west coast one. in his midwest one. the apple trees have their harvests. the apples are eaten totally ripe and delicious. they are made into apple sauces and ciders. the trees slowly and then quickly drop their leaves. the houses are prepared for their winter. where she lived there was rain. where he lived there was snow. there was less light. there were quieter days. they were capable of trips to see each other. but not of seeing each other all of the time.

then he started to see his exgirl again. she laughed at the apple idea. she said that was a great fantasy. but not a real thing that could happen. he didn't have any money after all. she understood that about him. she understood him better than any body so far away could. she knew he couldn't change. she knew women couldn't wait for men to change. she won't wait. that is what she said. the holy ground takes care of everything. well it sure does.

Joy Lee married an apple grower in northern california two years later. Paulie never married again at all. he retired and went to work part time as a computer consultant. he showed no imagination what so ever. Joy Lee actually didn't either. but she showed a little bit more than Paulie. she was proud of her husband and his apples. when she said the holy ground takes care of everything. she meant something different than Paulie's grandpa had meant. she meant they had good soil. and the right climate along with it.

they were in the apple latitudes after all. there were splendid apples to be grown.

the holy ground takes care of everything.