Purposely Untitled

The shadows across her porcelain cheeks created a contrast so sharp. Slightly rosy cheeks. Soft on the eyes, no doubt soft to the touch. Pink ears, each holding back their own lock of curly brown hair. Parted just off center, tucked behind those pink ears, perfectly sized pink ears. Wavy curls of sepia strands swept behind those cute, coral colored listeners. Round nose, reddened at the tip from the slight chill in the air. She shivers. Slender form shaking slightly. Her smile warms me, her eyes radiate heat like a hearth. She accepts a cold beer. Hand outstretched, her small palm only an inch from the cuff of her azure plaid. Tiny fingers, barely touching her thumb around the cold bottle. Sweet voice, soft, inviting, warm and comforting. Thank you, she sings at me. The syllables spoken to music I can hear in my mind, my imagination. Her arm still extended, covered in blue plaid with lines of red and gold and black. The bottle travels to her lips. Time stops.

 

Her lips. They form a small O. Kissing the opening of the bottle gently. They do not wrinkle. The soft white skin on her face gives way to a slightly darker shade. Corners of her mouth drawn together in perfect angles.  Her sip complete, the bottle falls back toward the earth. Her mouth flattens from O into a smile, her pearl white teeth show, a gorgeous smile. Dimples to get lost in. Dimples to dive in.

Thanks again.
 I melt. She shivers again, how does the radiation she exudes not warm her on its way to me? I offer my flannel shirt. She accepts. Something like static electricity climbs from my heels to my back. I drape my red flannel across her shoulders. Petite, feminine, smooth shoulders. Swimming in my shirt. It's huge on her tiny frame. Dwarfed by a luxurious lap of excess fabric. Thank you so much. Lyrical as it hits my ears. Her accent is huggable. Her voice adorable.  

Time passes. Glances given, some returned. Smiles and waves. Coffee exchanges hands. Fingers touch. More static electricity. The pads of her finger tips are velvet.

 

The final day. Rain and cold and misery. The weather breaks and the party starts. Confidence rising with blood alcohol ratio. We walk alone towards one end of the fair grounds. We stop for a moment. Her hair tucked behind those ears. My flannel wrapped around her shoulders. My hands reach to her hips. They are curved perfectly. between my thumb and forefinger her hip bone. My thumb pointed downward and inward. I lean over. My neck craned so my forehead meets hers. I purse my lips. She doesn’t. I push my chin forward. She turns her head away and leans back.

I melt. My face is hot. My ears are red. I hurt. She diffuses the tension by scurrying away giggling. Her hips swinging gently back and forth and barely grazing either side of my flannel as it hangs below her waist on covers her wonderfully proportioned butt. The party around me rages. The party inside dies.

Shaken off, determined to relax and enjoy all around me. Our eyes keep meeting. Its magnetism. Bumping into one another, close calls and chance encounters. She smells like a woman ought to. Aroma flickering and tickling my nose.

This night shouldn't end. It does.

Youth

You're young

                She kept saying that. Why? I feel old, age is just a number it’s the feeling you have when you wake up in the moring and your back hurts and your knee aches and your shoulders are sore and your hand that you nearly lost in a machine at a job you hated but worked anyway because that's what adults do, that hand hurts like a mother fucker. That's how I feel. I feel old. I do you young things. I paddle. I take chances. I drink. I dance….after I've drank. I drive fast, sometimes…to be honest this one is a lie. I got all my speeding done when I was young…..

See…I told you so.. I'm old.

You have you whole life ahead of you!

                I don't know that she believes that. What does it mean? We can't have our whole life in front of us. Unless we are 1 minutes from utero. I doubt we are conscious enough at that age (10 months? or 1 day old???) Only then is your whole life ahead of you, because you have only just begun to live. At 30 it’s a fair assumption that at least .3333 of your life is behind you. If my life where pizza….I have already eaten 2.5 slices at the very least.

I'm old. Not because I've lived this many years,but because this many years has passed while I wasn't living.

October 20, 2012

Seven. 7. Number 7.

We would throw it around like the Stanley Cup, everyone getting a kiss as if we had won a prize.

Our town, our little city with its little problems and little parking deck. During the Cold War, our little speck on the map was seventh on the Russian’s nuclear hit list. We never once asked: Who would get hit after us? Who would watch a golden red dome rise over our small town? Who would feel the heat, and the concussion and live to tell about “The Time I Saw a Bomb Dropped”
Who was on that list after us?
Who was on that list ahead of us?


6 or 8?

I accept responsibility, I didn’t drop it, I didn’t set it, I didn’t turn it on or even fucking arm it. However, I accept responsibility. I awoke at 5:30am October 20, 2012 from a nightmare, a bad dream, a horrible vision in my head that my imagination concocted , from what, I do not know.

My dream was this:

Halloween, near sunset. The warm glow of the fall sunshine filtered through leaves that were hanging on a lot later than usual for the area. Trees lit aflame by the shortening days, leaves turning to flagrant fluorescents, protesting the earth’s decision to rotate its axis again. What gall the earth has. What pure brutality present in Nature.

Then nature’s real, raw, ravenous, power is revealed. I did not hear the blast in my dream. I did wake up with beads of sweat on my forehead and damp bed sheets underneath me. The heat….the incalculable heat.
To the east the dome of fire rose, I couldn’t bring myself to stare long enough to see the Portabellan plume rise from the land that we knew as our state Capitol. I knew it would, I did not know what would happen to us, here, in our small town. Number 7 on the list.

Wakey wakey

No person has ever “sat straight up in bed”, no person I could ever believe anyway. Eyes opened, breathing heavy, wet with sweat. I grabbed my phone, 5:27am. Fuck. I can’t sleep after that.

Silence

Growing up I would experience déjà vu quite often. Always some mundane idiotic irrelevant scene. Eating spaghetti and spilling the sauce on my shirt. So on, so forth and so what. I never once experienced déjà vu after discussing a dream. It became a rule of mine. Have a nightmare? Talk it over to keep it away. Perhaps a mantra my parents would tell me to help me talk about my nightmares and get me back to bed. I. Do. Not. Know.

I do know this….

I never told anyone. Nobody.  Not A Soul. Ever. About “the dream”
Days passed, time passed, thoughts passed, all into the ether. Clock In. Clock Out. Eat. Sleep.

Repeat.



Danse Macabre

Children were decorated, disguised, and disembarking. The street in front of my home seemingly crawling with life. Where as every other day of the year these brats will hardly walk a quarter mile to a bus stop, dangling candy in front of them like carrot and horse inspires amazing feats of physicality. I was not decorated, disguised, and had no intention of disembarking. I was simply wandering about the apartment, television on but nothing showing. I had become anti-Halloween, mostly withdrawn from the festivities.  Since the first time our little town had moved it from the 31st to the 30th ,because that year, Sunday fell under the 31st, and “We can’t have our little angels collecting the devil’s candy on the Lord’s day”.
Typical in my opinion of the softening of our youth. Softening should be reserved for the late 20’s when drinking becomes paramount and you disappear from societal concerns until you tire of hangovers and empty wallets.

A cold beer in my hand, my work shirt unbuttoned, abandoned atop the bed. Socks discarded, feet bare and cool, scrubbing off a day of containment on the matted carpeting. The couch creaks, cracks then cushions me. I scan the channels I usually watch on the television. News is too depressing; election this, democrat that, republican the other thing. Fuck the real world, I work in it everyday. Give me cartoons and sitcoms.

The sun is blazing in the window, forcing a glare on the television screen. It is for that reason that I get off my ass and lower the blinds. I notice then, some pint sized candy whores headed up the steps to my deck. Despite my stance on the holiday I have candy ready. I will not be THAT GUY. The door swings open, candy is dispensed.

Idle Chatter: Nice Evening. Sure Is. Getting Dark So Early. Yup.

Interrupting our illustrious conversation is the screaming howl of multiple military aircraft. I step out onto the deck and peer through the sun-filtering tree leaves to see a tight formation of fighter jets and a large air liner. Not completely uncommon, its Air Force One, Air Forcing itself One hell of a lot faster than I had seen it go before.

Idle Chatter: President Must Be Campaigning. Looks Like He Is Late Too.

We say our goodbyes, goodnights, and good lucks. I return to my couch, beer, feet, and remote rehab.

A few more candies get handed out before the sun, first below the tree line then below the horizon, is gone.
One last visit at the door and its my neighbor and her children. They get special treatment, which means the rest of the bowl of candy.

Idle Chatter: They Are Growing So Fast. Tell Me About It.

We didn’t chat long. I heard a whistle. Wyle E Coyote falling off a cliff out of a cloud of his own disbelief whistling. Old World War II movie bombing run whistling. A meteor? There is an orange tail chasing some dark figure through the sky. East. Then it is gone.

Idle Cha-

The light cuts the night hard and fast. Eyes squinting, pupils reacting, retracting, refocusing. Brilliant white and yellow and angry. Then it is gone. Just. Gone. What the fuck? Was that lighting? No fucking way. I realize I am speaking aloud. The children are just in awe, not yet afraid but my language could change that.

The Dome

As I scan the horizon to see the next bolt hit. I see it. My dream comes racing back. My legs begin to shake my heart pounding palpitations into my now pallid coffer. I am frozen, I want to look away. I want to hide in my beer bottle, which has become encased in a vice grip of my terror. This cannot be. I see the faintest glow of orange to the east. Over a small mountain I see grow before my eyes a dome of orange and yellow. A feeling of despair uncoils in my stomach. I know the rest of this story. The dome grows higher and wider, boiling hot. The air begins to smell like ozone during a heavy lighting storm. The heat wave hits. It is intense, I feel instantly sunburned. I’ve seen this show before. I only wish I had waited around after the credits to see what happens next week.

This town is number 7. What number was that town?

Who are you?
Who are you  to make me feel this way?

What gives you permission?
When did you take up residence in my head?
Did you sneak in through my heart while it was bleeding?

How dare you take advantage of my weakness.
How dare you trespass on my person.
How did you become so bold?

So familiar you feel.
So aware of my details.
Intimate with my thoughts

You were here all along.
You, who torment my soul.
Weighing my heart heavy.
Deadening my thoughts.
Muffling my heart‘s song.
Driving this internal pain.

Are you loneliness?
Is your name Despair?

Are you an occupier? Are you a conqueror?
Will you rape me and ravage the countryside that is my soul?
Will there be anything left after you leave?

Does my heart have a chance?
Does my brain have a choice?
Does my soul have a  path?

How can I possibly compete?
What perverse game is this?
Is simply surviving a victory?

Butch

The fire was struggling. Lapping lower and lower into the elevated fire pit. The shadows of those milling around the collective camp site waving back and forth.

                I had a chameleon. Named him Butch, he was cool as shit.

Laughter…from most but not all. The audacity of people to laugh at the name chosen for a pet when they know damn well at home is a poodle, Boogerbutt. Maine Coon cat, Furby McTusslemut. Parrot, Templeton.

The fire painted shadows across her soft white cheeks, dancing dark ghosts sliding back and forth on her dimpled visage. The porcelain like tone of her skin such a stark contrast to the dark, dank, dreary night air that hung over the festival with a humid foreboding feeling of dread. We partied on none the less, no turning back now, might as well enjoy the cold beer and warm converstion before those two switched places. The first thing that struck me was plaid. I enjoy plaid. She wore it well. Properly sized shirt hanging off properly sized feminine shoulders. Huggable. Her hair, a curly mess. Only appropriate after a 10 hour trip crammed into an estrogen packed SUV. We're here to camp, paddle and party, not parle with beauty queens and princesses. Although, so far as survivors of a 10 hour car ride go, she's wearing a smile brighter than any tiara or royal jewel. Her dark framed glasses accent her cheek bones, but hide the eyes. Expressive, pleading and brilliant her peepers peer perillously through her lenses.

                I had to go away and left Butch with my cousin, and when I came home he was dead.

More laughter. Most but not all. The audacity of people to laugh at a pet dying. My hamster, Molly lived 4 years. That's a long time for a critter so small. I had to have her put down when I was 22. Twenty two towering years, Six feet and 2 Inches. Cradling in one hand a small, almost perfectly still, Molly, black and white. Panda Bear Hamster. She would move her feet. I could feel her little nails through my callusses. The Doctor delicately delivered devastating news. I chose mercy and sent My Molly off to sleep. All six foot 2 inches of me heaved and shooked as I left the Drs office with Molly in her purple plump palatial eggplant sleeping spot. I buried her myself next to my cat Mittens. I cried the whole time. Hands dirty with red Virginia clay, making clown make up streaks on my forehead and cheeks. Help was offered and duly refused. She was mine, this was my chore. She rests under a big oak tree. Tucked tightly into her eggplant, wrapped in a towel and in a nike shoebox.

 

I didn't laugh about Butch. Butch and Molly and Mittens wouldn't appreciate it from their side of the looking glass.

A letter to Loneliness.

Dear Loneliness,

I am writing you because I have tried to communicate my feelings in a multitude of other ways. You seem to be hard to reach. Have you checked your voice mail? What about your email? Have you looked inside your mailbox? Did you get the memo? It is obvious you did not.

You are my unwanted friend, and I say “friend” because nothing else would be so persistently and willingly available for companionship . There are spaniels that would grow weary of the way I persistently walk away from you. Reporters working a story that would give up pursuing my answers to breaking news questions where as you have continued to follow me. My shadow, my unrelenting, even at high noon, shadow. The rain cloud that follows a cartoon character. My unwanted friend, you have become the most devoted partner I have. I fear there is nothing I can do to separate you from me. Nothing so terrible could I formulate that would force you to break this bond. When will you tire? When will you waver?

You crept between us. Sliding in where there was no room for anything else before . A devastating wedge of unhappiness. Who let you in? How did you know the combination to the lock that was our marriage? What gives you the right to decide it wasn’t valid? How did you come to encapsulate me when I was never alone? Are there other victims? Do their heads line the wall above your mantle? On cold winter nights do you stoke the fire in your hearth and reminisce while viewing the trail of destruction that is your trophy room?

I have so many questions, hours and hours of inquiries. I could interrogate you for days. Yet when you appear my mind is muddled. Cloudy with insecurity. Hazy and foggy with self loathing and regret. How nimbly you avoid my query. A skilled politician dancing around questions about a nasty scandal.

I hate you. I hate you. I HATE you. To hell with you. Be you side affect or cause, your purpose is none but misery. There is no purpose in you. There is no divinity about you. Reason has no answer for you. To simply be the opposite of something good for no reason other than to exaggerate the juxtaposition is a worthless cause.

When will you no longer take every advantage to diminish me? How long before you, Loneliness, no longer can anticipate my every move? Will you soon tire of swooping in at the first available second to overwhelm my soul and immediately make me assume the worst? Is there an eternity of unrequited torture in my future? Must you always turn my thoughts from the simple and innocent to the dark and angry and cynical? Is there no end to the depths which you will dig to find the pain you soak my ragged heart in?

Will you ruin what comes next?

Will you allow what comes next?

Will there be an end to you?

Will you ever answer for your actions? Will you be held accountable?

Sincerely,
_____________

The ME

The canoe is red. It is fifteen feet long. Weighing 65 pounds as it is outfitted. It is outfitted with a plastic saddle that has rounded wings that hug the thighs and a seat that is most similar to a dirt bike seat. Just wide enough to make kneeling and sitting on it with a slightly open stance comfortable. Knees spread and on padded squares for long term comfort. Toes pointed towards the stern of the boat, ankles laying nearly flat. This is not a painless position, but the gains are worth the pains.  There are two thwarts installed that are directly mounted to the pedestal. Three more thwarts cross from rail to rail at varying distance from the centerline of the canoe providing rigidity and shape for the nearly 30 year old hull that has aged incredibly well. When sitting on solid ground the front and rear ends of the canoe hang nearly four and one half inch above the terra, when in the water both ends just barely kiss the surface. This shape gives the boat an ability to spin on its center axis that is not common in most. The boat looks like a banana, and is just as slippery in the water as the aforementioned peel is on solid ground.

The paddle transmits what the water is saying. The water says it is thick, the boat responding to each stroke more profoundly than before, as if the paddle is being dipped into heavy cream instead of thin water. The waves of the rapids smack against the hull, the sound is hollow but thunderous. The vibrations of each impact travel through the layers of the canoe, through the padding on the knees, through the tops of the shoes. The knees tickled by the sounds, the toes rattled. The whitecaps of the standing waves send sprays of cold water into the pilot’s face, onto the pilots chest, hands, and arms. Sunburned chest, sunburned arms scream out in joy, the cooling effect of the freshwater spray is magnificent. The gloved hands are jealous.

Mountains, beautiful, vivacious, teeming with life. Rising on both sides of the gorge are luscious green forests. The curvaceous ridgelines riding up and down against the blue sky like the canoeist down below riding the waves of the rapids. The trees seemingly trimmed into a perfectly smooth line, certainly an arborist must have made those adjustments.

A gentle breeze blows across the water, the surface ripples and millions of tiny reflections shine light in millions more directions. The gentle white noise roar of water crashing over rocks fills the empty quiet of the remote locale. A subtle hush from Mother pleading with us to listen for what she has to offer. Leaves rustle, birds of prey call out a war cry as they dive towards an aquatic buffet. Fish leap from the water and splash back down as they chase damsel flies across the surface.

The paddle reaches the end of its stroke, blade turned vertical and pried off the side of the canoe to adjust the direction slightly. Ahead a large boulder protrudes boldly from the depths, the water giving way and parting to either side. Breadth of six foot or so, the rock has behind it an eddy, water that is filling the void behind an obstruction and is not being moved downstream as part of the current. Aquatic animals hide here in wait for some unsuspecting passerby to float near the edge of the eddy, striking out for a quick meal, then scurrying back in for safety and easy swimming.

The canoeist directs his paddle to direct the canoe towards the eddy. Waves smack and thunder against the hull. On the approach the canoe is angled slightly towards the target. As the tip of the front of the canoe and the lead of the rock pass one another, it begins.

Leaning forward slightly, rotating the shoulders away from the target so as to get maximum reach the paddle is dipped into the heavy cream. The shoulders and torso rotate back to perpendicular with the boat. The hull slides forward, waves booming against the bow.  As the front of the canoe passes into the flat boiling water of the eddy, the rear is still in current being pushed downstream. The paddle is jabbed into the flat water and pulled upon, the boat responds by beginning to spin. The outside knee lifts, the inside knee pushes down and as the boat leans it rotates faster, the current pushing against the rear of the hull, the front of the canoe pulled further into the eddy by the paddle.

All that was behind, is now in front. One hundred and eighty degrees has passed.


Time, however, has stood still.

Big Water.

All was not lost, yet.

The sun was hot, not warm. Burning the skin and evaporating the sweat and occasional cool spray that rose from the river. Slick perspiring hands slipping on slick wet paddles. Fingers aching from fighting the current’s grip on the blade. Each stroke inducing popping and crackling in the left shoulder. Pain with nearly every movement of the paddle. The knees sitting comfortably atop foam one and one half inches tall by six inches square. Thighs snugly pushed forward into the bulkhead of the saddle. Pointed directly aft are the toes, the tops of them laying against the hull of the boat. The tendons and muscles connecting the tops of the feet and the shins are screaming out in agony. Pins and needles in the soles of the feet and toes, soon to move up and encompass the whole foot. There is but one relief afforded, the numbing adrenaline that comes with big water.

Don’s booming voice could barely be heard above the roar of the flooded river valley. While loading gear and preparing boats he asks a question.

Can you handle yourself?

It has become obvious now, far past that point of no return, as this question echoes off the canyon walls of the mind, perhaps oneself cannot be handled as well as previously boasted.

Can you handle yourself out here son?

All around the scenery is different. Rocks and boulders are not where they should be. Wave after wave occupies the surface where mirror flat water once was. Time is different, as bend and ledge and ledge and bend are passed long before enough time and effort has expired. This is not usual.

This is big water. Big fucking water.

The small ripples are gone, smooth fast water carries over them. The ledges are exaggerated, extremely so. What was once a simple two foot drop in elevation with a small splash and tiny wave train is now a rolling hydraulic monster. Wave train extending from the drop like the tail of an angry Japanese dragon’s tail. Flailing and waving in the air, wanting to fight. The smooth watered mouth of the drop is deceiving, it is not until the bow of the canoe starts to lean forward that the depth of the waves are revealed. The bow of the boat drops and drops and drops, sliding forward on the water and gaining speed. Will it start to rise? Will it plow into the wall of water traveling back up? A small pierce by the tip of the boat into that wall of water defying gravity, it grows, smalls white curls of water peel off to the sides of the canoes forward most point. The bow begins to lift, the stern soon to be buried in the trough. Looking forward one can only see that mystical magic water flowing towards the sky. The boats attitude changes, riding the wave skyward now. The bow crests the frothy whitecap, breaking the liquid horizon. Leveling as the canoe’s center mass reaches the crest the bow settles swiftly with a resounding smacking thud onto the next wave in line, smashing the smooth surface of the water, sending pleasing cooling spray backwards to the pilot. Thwack thud thud smack. Water is crashing into the canoe, collecting and collecting, becoming sluggish with the added weight.

Can you handle yourself…..self……self……….self………..elf…….lf…..f

The sloshing ballast is growing, each movement the river forces upon the canoe causing an echoed response by the water contained within it. Destabilized, the craft begins to roll side to side. Countering by lifting one knee and pushing with the other helps. No time to empty the sloppy stowaway. The next drop is approaching and it is approaching quickly. Time is different now.

T-bone

There is nothing of substance to eat. The apartment still smells of new paint. The furniture is a hodge podge of hand me downs and rescued junk. Seating consists of a folding camping chair and a desk chair rescued from the dumpster at work. The coffee table a gift of unwanted wood and white paint from Sister.

It remains that there is nothing of substance to eat. It is Thursday night. Temperature outside creeping above forty degrees. There is also no coffee creamer. This requires a remedy. The carpet is brown, and clean. Linoleum on the kitchen floor, brown as well. Clean as well. Everything is in its place. Coffee Maker on the counter next to the refrigerator. Toaster on the counter next to the stove. Sink is sunk into the counter where the sink had ought to be. Dishwasher tucked under the counter next to the stove and book ended by the sink.

The kitchen is open, charming, clean and bright. It has one of those ridiculous attempts at space utilization that is the turn table corner cabinet. It does not spin freely, therefore it is left open. Shelves exposed. Decorated with the meager collection of food stuffs that a newly singled male would have. Cheez-its. Popcorn, for a microwave that is possessed. Crackers for cheese that has been eaten. Bread for sandwiches. Knick Knacks adorn the top of the empty refrigerator.

It is 10:30 pm. Thursday Night. The fourteenth of March. There is nothing of substance to eat. There is a persistence of hunger. There is also no coffee creamer. There is also a persistence of morning coffee desires.

The door of the apartment leads to a small common area. Directly to the right are the laundry machines. Old technology. Low efficiency, used by the masses. Abused by the masses. The door that hides the laundry machines does not do it well. Slats are missing. The knob simply decoration as the people who use it insist on leaving the door open and therefore in the way of egress from the apartment. There are four apartments per floor, two floors.

The door, the barrier between the outside and in. It must be locked with a key when leaving. The entrance to the foyer is a swinging door with no knobs or handles to hinder the residents. The truck is parked outside, facing the apartment that contains nothing of substance to eat and no coffee creamer. The truck is outside and outside it is cold, the inside of the truck is also cold. It smells faintly of cigarettes. Primarily the chalk smell of Marlboro Menthol Lights. Some of the more baroque browns and tobacco smells of Parliaments.

The carpet in the truck is brown, and dirty. The floor mats, brown as well, dirty as well. Seating consists of two bucket seats. Cloth covered and brown, the drivers seat worn on the edges due to exiting the truck and sliding off the seat. The truck starts and the engine runs smoothly. Idling high in the cold weather until the lubrication reaches optimal temperature. The heater blowing cold air on to a cold windshield. Dark green on the outside. Scratched and dinged from a life of use as a truck. Mud under the fenders. Empty soda cans, empty beer cans, empty beer bottles, empty cigarette cartons, and a tire iron litter the bed. A black bed liner installed. There are racks mounted to the bed rails on which boats are carried during warm weather expeditions to rivers and streams. The boats that get loaded are canoes, both red. A few kayaks, red as well. They are not loaded now. It is cold, and there is nothing of substance to eat and no coffee creamer.

The gear shifter is cold. It clicks down, the little red light next to the letter “R” on the dashboard lights up. Lifting the brake pedal the truck lurches backward. The steering wheel spinning to the left as the truck backs up to face the right. The parking lot is paved. There is a steep shoulder at the first right hand turn. Residents in smaller cars will often cut this turn too tight and the right rear tire of that car will fall off the pavement. The tire gets dirty, the car bumps up and down. There is cursing inside the car. The truck does not turn too hard. It does not drop its tire down into the mud next to the pavement. The entrance and exit of the apartment complex is reached by a road that is limited in speed at 25 miles per hour.

Right turn, barely accelerating, barely remaining under the speed limit of 25 miles per hour. Passing a stop street on the right. A car sitting patiently, another stop street on the right, another car, sitting patiently as well. As the gentle incline of the hill begins a two way stop street approaches. Traffic crossing must stop and look both directions before proceeding across the road that the truck is traveling. On the right, a car is stopped, sitting patiently. On the left headlights indicate a car approaching the stop sign. That car does not wait patiently, there is nothing of substance to eat and no coffee creamer.

Headlights are bright. That is the purpose of them. They shine in front of the car they are installed on for a reason. Illuminating the road ahead after dark. Road signs, are reflective. There is a purpose in that. When headlights shine on a road shine, the light is reflected back. It is bright, easy to read. Attention grabbing. Stop signs are the same in every place of this country. Octagonal, red, white letters, and reflective as well. The car that is about to attempt to occupy the same space as the truck has a driver that does not pay attention to these signs, and their reaction to headlights. There is no sign of the driver observing that reflective national symbol, it is cold, and there is nothing of substance to eat and no coffee creamer.

It is 10:35. It is cold. It is dark and headlights are bright.

The sound made when the car makes contact with truck is loud, is violent, and is without much more character than a boom that is heard when slamming a van door. The tires of the truck, which has decided it does not want to occupy the same space as the car, are loud as they slide sideways. Tires are designed to roll, and when they do not roll and yet are moving they protest loudly. The truck tires doth loudly protest.

Empty soda cans, empty beer cans, empty beer bottles, empty cigarette cartons, and a tire iron slide around in the bed. The truck comes to a rest. There are truck parts and car parts littering the road like a young child has emptied a jigsaw puzzle box on the floor. When the car struck the driver’s side of the truck it hit just behind the middle of the driver’s door. The front bumper of the car making complete contact with the truck. Perfectly perpendicular. There is no part of the front of the car that is not damaged. The doors on the drivers side of the truck are no longer simply scratched or dinged. They are smashed as well, scraped as well. The step boards that were color matched to the same dark green of the truck and installed on both sides are now only installed on one. The driver’s side step is gone. Removed by that car which tried so valiantly to occupy the same space as the truck. It lays on the road several feet horizontally and vertically away from where it was installed. The truck is now facing the direction from which the car was traveling. The car now faces the direction to which the truck was traveling. There is 10 feet of space between the completely damaged front end of the car and the damaged driver’s side of the truck. Neither vehicle having been moved after the energy from the impact was dissipated it is obvious the level of speed attained by the driver who chose to ignore the laws of physics and highway navigation was quite high. Emergency dispatch is called. Authorities dispatched. Tickets are written. Information exchanged. It is cold, it is dark, there is nothing of substance to eat and no coffee creamer. Now there are no more cigarettes.

Blue Ridge Endless Summer

It rained. It poured. The heavens opened and water was flung upon the earth. It was not a monsoon, it was close. Creeks ran like rivers. Rivers raged like oceans. Everywhere there could be seen small plastic boats attached to the tops of cars and in the beds of trucks. Running hither and thither in the backwoods of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Gravel roads washed out by the downpour being traversed by compact car and four wheel drive alike. A motley cadre of different folks using different strokes to navigate streams that are usually the stuff of wet hikes. Casual paddlers beware, this is the stuff news stories are made of.

“WOMAN TUBER FOUND DROWNED”

“6 PULLED FROM RIVER BY SWIFT WATER RESCUE CREW”

“TEENAGER DROWNED WHILE INTOXICATED”

The warm weather brings out the recreational, the casual, the ignorant. The high water should be enough of a warning, however in society today it seems many have forgotten there is no safety net between us and mother nature. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best and expect the unexpected.

The first ledge is a muted version of itself, normally a tight funnel with a noticeable increase in water speed, today the water has crested the whole ledge. There is no funnel. There is only a wave, river wide, with choppy white caps afterwards. The following stretch of water is paddled, not briskly, but not leisurely. Saving strength and energy are paramount. Fun is to be had, Fun requires calories. The next drop is a decent surf wave, the kayakers twist and spin and loop and side surf, seemingly effortless gymnastics on water. The canoe bounces lightly in the eddy, seeming to enjoy the kiddie pool quite thoroughly, not daring to venture out onto the smooth convoluted surface of the river wave. The glass like surface of the water only giving hint to the ferocity of which if speeds by when a leave or twig or spot of foam goes racing by. The kayaker sits facing upstream, bow of his tiny boat piercing that glass wave and bouncing back up, water rushing over the top of the boat. The hull glides effortlessly down the backside of the wave towards the trough, then slides back up towards the crest, simple touches of the paddle to water to keep the direction and attitude necessary to maintain. A quick snap of the hips and a flick of the blades and the kayak is 180 degrees about face. Another flash of movement and the circle is complete, glass wave barely disturbed, a full turn by the kayak.

Two quick strokes and the nose of the boat is buried in the wave, the head of the kayaker, helmeted in bright orange tucks quickly towards the bow of the kayak. The boat starts to go vertical, the pilot pushes down with his feet on the pegs inside his boat, the stern begins to lift higher, the speeding glass wave grabs the bow of the boat rocketing it downstream, the stern comes flying over, catches where the bow just left, gets thrown downstream and the boat lands on its hull just as it was before. A loop. Aquatic acrobatics abound.

This is OUR Endless Summer.