On the mountain road

On many a summer childhood day the declarative call went out to the kitchen door, "We're going on a bike ride" and the answering maternal call bounced back, "Be careful and be back by suppertime."

That simple.

Yes it was the country and we had simple bucolic roads to travel where the largest danger lurking was a mean dog on Billy Snyder's farm. He would run out and nip at your heels. Terrifying. To be avoided. But still, to get to those side roads meant navigating stretches of the heavily traveled Rt. 322. I still shudder when I think of our sometimes wobbly passages on pavement with no shoulders, high drop-offs, sometimes horse-and-buggy traffic snarls when cars would shoot out behind the slow moving vehicles, and always, always steady traffic. But once the secondary roads were reached we could amble at our leisure. And we often stopped at creeks, ponds, and shady trees to while away the time,whistling through blades of summer grasses.

One afternoon, however, bored with the usual, we decided to stray a bit further. I can't remember if we ever even broached the idea to our parents of riding up to the mountains, a ride far off our beaten path, to visit the radio station there - one we listened to all the time and thought it would fun to explore. We rode and rode - the actual mileage way beyond our scanty memories, anxiety mounting as we kept going. We knew that my friend's grandmother lived on the same mountain road and if worse came to worst, we could stop there and have our parents pick us up. Once committed we just kept riding. The trees got thicker, the road steeper and more lonely.

 All of a sudden a car roared by us and then stopped and backed up. I'm remembering at least three men, all scruffy, I'm sure from my now adult perspective, all high on something, called out to us "Hey girls, want to go for a ride?" Petrified, we said no and kept pedaling as they trolled along beside us. Then one of them said, "lets get 'em". The words tumble down through almost 60 years just as clearly as when they were uttered. And one guy opened the door and got out.

So who else was on the mountain that day? I didn't notice the rush of wings, but as we were pedaling indeed as though our lives depended on it, another one of the guys said, "Aw, let 'em go." And guy No.1 reluctantly climbed back in and they roared away.

We stopped. We had to because you can't ride bike with legs of jelly. We probably cried. And you know, my memory stops at that point. We may have pushed on to Grandma Fry's house. We may have turned down the mountain and literally sailed home. We obviously got home somehow. Everything is obliterated from the moment the car sped off. Horror does that.

I'm sure we were reprimanded. I'm sure parental hearts beat much faster at the telling of our story. I'm sure we never ventured beyond the known again. But we still were allowed to ride freely - now with fresh eyes.

So, yes, we lived and biked among birds, butterflies, creeks, dairy cattle in idyllic meadows, small towns with grocery stores, schools and churches in those long summer days.

But up in the mountains where life had shadows, it was not the same.

Pass the fans

The other day I heard that one of our high schools in the DC area was closed for the day because the air conditioning wasn't working properly. And I had to smile.

If that were the yardstick, my entire education experience would have had to be canceled!!

Not from the hot buzz of May days in a two-roomed schoolhouse to the swelter of June in college classrooms did we have air-conditioning. And, surprisingly, we lived to tell about it.

What has happened to us?

I am among the first at the library to mention that the a/c doesn't seem to be functioning well and prompt the call to the HVAC crew. I hate being uncomfortably hot now.

But when I stop to take a cleansing breath, I have to realize that while I don't want to go back, I would like to think that I'm not as pampered as I am!

Forward motion

My Zen calendar's thought for September is "Move and the way will open"

Hmmmm.

I guess I know one thing for sure. It won't open if ones does nothing! Movement will at least guarantee a scattering of molecules in some direction.

But I like the concept. Sometimes the enormity of the situation immobilizes us when taking that first tentative step brings at least a ray of light.

I have friends facing huge challenges right now and I can only guess how much courage movement - any movement takes.

A toast to first steps!

Mary

Our book club - largely composed of women - contains a woman of a certain age - 95! Yesterday, after our discussion, her daughter arrived with the makings of a small surprise luncheon. It was a celebration of pure joy. Mary's body is frail, but her spirit is boundless. She was traveling through a vale of depression following her husband's death a few years ago, and discovered our group. While we have brought life to her, she has invigorated us as well. She reads every book and her comments and observations are just as pertinent as the woman in the next seat.

95. Should I live that long, I want to be attending a book club and reaching for the heart of literature and life, too!

To your health

I heard a most interesting quote this morning on NPR : "the inability to forgive is like taking a poison and expecting someone else to die."

Forgiveness.

Such a sweet sound but in reality a jagged concept to swallow.

How, when people - from criminals to family - cross your line of sensibility can you forgive, really?

Survival, pure and simple, when all is said and done.

That poison doesn't digest easily.

dance my way to heaven

Garrison Keillor had a group on his show singing the following:

"Two Hands" by Townes van Zandt!

"I got two hands
gonna clap my hands together
I got two legs
gonna dance to heaven's door
I got one heart, gonna fill it up with jesus,
and I ain't gonna think about trouble anymore"

That shining bubble of lyrics, rhythm, music and theology jumpstarted my day

Maybe my week.

Maybe even longer.

Lying in one's bed and making it

Lets take the concept of making one's bed.

Each morning, every morning you make your bed, don't you?

Why? You will crawl into it approximately 12 + hours later and mess it all up again.
Some say, why bother?

But bother I must! Nothing makes me feel less like leaving the bedroom and starting the day like an unmade bed! I smooth the spread almost fanatically free of wrinkles and see that the hem is hanging evenly, stepping back with a critical eye.

Somehow it seems to me that in the back of my head, I believe the day will be neater too if that bed is shipshape!

Or is it the desire to banish the night? Any evidence that the darkness was here and may return.

No, for me I think its just a desire to get one small step in the day off to a good start! No Freudian overtones, just, thank God, one thing under control!