“Holy %&#@!*^&%!” I countered.
We passed within inches of each other. I was maxing out at five miles per hour when they whizzed by doing at least 12 MPH – MORE THAN DOUBLE THE SPEED LIMIT.
Some people are just crazy.
Speaking to God
I was raised with faith in God and am at peace most when I am with nature. By no means am I a preachy person or some holy roller. People may even be surprised to hear of my religious convictions. In any case, I had been examining my thoughts about God, asking questions, and pondering a lot about why we exist, what happens next and a whole lot more but at one point, here’s what happened. I talked to God and God, I believe, “talked to me.” Stop laughing. It happened three times! I understand God works through nature in subtle and mysterious ways. So maybe I asked the right questions at the right times and opened my eyes to see the signs.
The first “conversation” came after I turned the dirt in the garden. I was thirsty so I walked briskly through the backyard to the house.
In a fraction of a second, my mind – out of the blue – thought, “God, show me a sign that you really are there, anything.”
I was in full stride, thirsty. But at that very moment, I looked and stooped down in one smooth motion. I saw and picked a four leaf clover in the second it took.
Then I looked up to the sky and joked, “That was a good one.”
My second “conversation” was also unexpected. I had just dropped the car off for repair early in the morning. The whole family was with me. My wife, Becky, had some errands to do with the kids. I was wearing sweat pants and sneakers so, compulsively, I decided to go for a run. I had not gone running in years. I had hiked, biked and walked plenty, but not run. Anyway, I wanted to drink in the morning air, exercise my body and breathe deeply. So we pulled the van over to a new shopping entrance that led to a trail that connected to Voice of America Park.
I stretched and ran.
The way I was supposed to go was blocked. Rather than turn back, I ran on through tall grass and weeds and even jumped a creek in order to get to an old paved road that lead to the lake and an asphalt running trail. When I got to the start of the loop trail around the lake, rain poured down. I had nowhere to go until Becky came back to pick me up. People – joggers and walkers – scrambled past me, in the opposite direction, to get to their cars in a nearby parking lot. I jogged on. Then, thunder and lightning delivered quite a scare. As I ran along the water’s edge, I really thought there was a great chance I could actually be struck down by lightning. By this time, turning back was no shorter a distance than continuing around the loop trail.
Then, in the pouring rain, I stopped and looked down. I don’t know why. And I picked up a tiny muddy cube. I rubbed it and saw that it was silver with a design but it was a quarter inch wide at best. It was really tiny and dirty, not at all shiny. I don’t know how I had spotted it because it looked much like the scattered pebbles.
But instead of pitching it back to the muddy ground, I put it in my pocket.
Later, at home, I showed Becky and she washed it off. She said that it looked like there was paper inside. I was in disbelief but the tiny cube had a side missing in which a two inch by two inch piece of paper was folded and jammed inside so tightly it was not wet at all. It wasn’t dirty either.
We unfolded it together and here’s what it said:
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not
Want. He maketh me to lie down in
Green pastures: he leads me beside
The still water. He restores my soul.
And leads me in the path of righteous
Ness for his names sake. Yea, tho I
Walk through the valley of death, I
Will fear no evil, for thou art with me;
Thy rod and staff comfort me. Thou
Preparest a table before me in the
Presence of my enemies and anoint
My head with oil; my cup runneth
Over. Surely goodness and mercy
Shall follow me all the days of my
Life and I will dwell in the house of
The Lord forever. Amen.
My last “conversation” with God came at my son’s baseball practice. It was a cold and wet spring day. As the coaches and kids took the field, I walked around.
In a direct request, I said to God, “If you really are out there, let me find another four leaf clover.”
I looked down, scanning the ground from a standing position. I saw it within seconds and picked it.
I continued to walk, not staying in any one area and not bending over too closely to examine clover patches, just walking and standing.
“Okay God, how about one four leaf clover for Cara, Dominic and Becky, too? That would be impressive.”
Just like that, I had four – four-leaf clovers – in my hand.
I walked to the car and put the clovers inside and on the way back, I said to myself, “This is just crazy. One more. Just one more.” And there it was.
Then, a little voice in my head – not really a voice but a thought – said, “That’s it. That’s all you get.”
And as much as I searched, I never found another four-leaf clover.
Walkabout
Tucked deep in the Arts & Crafts district of Gatlinburg, we unpacked while marveling at the skyline of mountains piercing a low blanket of marshmallow clouds. Did someone say wine and hot tub? I did.
Meanwhile, my wife, Becky, got a case of the giggles as she rummaged through my backpack looking for something but found pepper spray, a bowie knife, a snake bite kit, an air horn, whistle, bells – oh, and a machete.
Becky couldn’t stop laughing and mocking me.
On the defensive, I felt compelled to explain my survival tools. The snake bite kit was self-explanatory. It may surprise you that the knife and machete weren’t for bear encounters. Rather, they were reserved for the psychopath roaming the Appalachian Trail. Like the Boy Scouts say, “Be prepared!” For the bear, I figured I’d use my blow horn to scare it away or pepper spray if it got too close.
Snow fell with darkness. We nestled by firelight reading about prospective trails we could explore at daybreak.
After we left Rainbow Falls and the tourists, we only saw one other person on the long ascent to summit Mount LeConte. It was a ranger who suggested we backtrack a bit to see a spectacular overlook. Our legs and feet were yearning for the summit and rest, but the view such as he described prevailed.
Although the detour wasn’t that far, all said, it was far enough to hear my feet bark at me, “Why-whyy-whyyy…”
The swaths of greenery to our sides, stepping stones at our feet and canopy above all rose together to a blue sky at the end of nature’s tunnel. It was a remarkable visual. Thank goodness film is obsolete because we would have used all that we had right here.
Afterward, we walked and talked, “This one or that one?” Delete. “This one or that one?” Delete. “This one or that one?” Decide later. “This one or that one?” Both.
Just a couple hundred feet from the summit was LeConte Lodge. There were also a bunch of tiny, weathered, wooden cabins or shacks and a small provisions store that offered hikers energy by the pound. It was an unusual, but welcome, sight. The tiny shacks provided the essentials; a roof over a bed and a tiny porch. The panoramic view made us wish we had a reservation.
Ironically, the question of the hour was, “Are you staying the night?”
Most people would spend the day hiking up and another day hiking down. We were the fools who thought we could do both in the same day. We contemplated the time it would take for our descent, using a different trail named Bullhead. The daylight hours were slipping away.
We topped off our water supply and checked out the small provisions store. I asked where I might find a rest room and the extremely friendly lady in the store pointed out the directions. I followed them until I was inside someone’s shack. It was a little embarrassing. Tripping over myself, I scramb
led over another row to find the potty-shack.
We chatted with some other hikers when it dawned on me, I don’t think I’ve ever run into a non-friendly person on a trail. The irony of my machete poking me through my backpack struck me.
Relatively rejuvenated, we began down Bullhead. My shin splints and foot-aches shouted out, “Remember me – still here!”
It was just Becky and me so I complained aloud about my aching this and that. About an hour into the one-track conversation I realized what she was thinking of me. I spent the next hour trying to rationalize it. She had fun with me the whole time …at my expense.
Bullhead Trail was a backwoods paradise – not a soul on it except us. Trailside scenery and mountain ledge views made me think of becoming a mountain man – until I took my next step and found myself muzzling my pain.
“I hurt too but I just don’t complain about it,” Becky said, sarcasm dripping from the corners of her grin.
“Bear droppings.”
I moved my pepper-spray and air horn to where I could easily grab them from the sides of my backpack.
Becky wasn’t convinced but I saw more and more as we walked. We were definitely tracking a bear down this desolate path.
“What do I need to prove it – a bear?” I said in frustration.
“If you see one, just know that while you fumble with your weapons, I’ll be running the other way,” she joked …at least I thought she was joking. “Outrunning you shouldn’t be difficult considering you’re limping on bloody stumps to hear you go on about it.”
So this was our memorable adventure. When we hit bottom, literally and figuratively – speaking for myself of course – my mind had prepared for the car to be right there. However, it was miles away so we had to trek yet another trail just to get back to where we had started.
It was dusk and even Becky was finally complaining of her own aches and pains and said we had pushed our limits too far. We were slap happy, laughing as if we were delirious, going on about our sore muscles and joints.
A funny thing happens when you walk as we did for an entire day up and down a mountain and then suddenly stop. And by stop I mean put our feet in the car and drive. When we put our feet back down at a restaurant parking lot, joints like knees didn’t function like the brain intended. We both waddled on rubber legs into the restaurant determined to feast as a reward for our stupendous journey.
On our way out, having had nothing alcoholic to drink, two people wanted to get us a ride so we wouldn’t drive. We were still wobbly and clutching each other to keep from collapsing, laughing hysterically at our zombie feet.
Everyone thought we were three sheets to the wind as we hobbled to our car, giddy as all get out, and waved goodbye.
Fly on the Wall
We were prudent when I experienced tightness in my chest, sharp pains and other symptoms I would normally sleep off as stress or strained muscles.
My wife, Becky, called her sister who said, “Best to bring him in.”
She was a nurse at a nearby hospital and so was her husband. After we arrived at the Emergency Room, tests were done. Becky held my hand loyally by my side, concerned. I tried to lighten the mood with humor. In between my chest clutching jolts and long pauses, I tried to think of my next one-liner.
During one long pause, I thought of my dad. Several years earlier, we anxiously waited to see him at the hospital. I had wanted to make sure I got to talk to him in case it was for the last time. When we saw him, he was so calm and peaceful. He just smiled and spoke slowly and softly. He made a point to say who would get his toolbox.
I made a point to make eye contact and say out loud, “I love you,” and then fought off the tears as our smiles connected.
He recovered.
Now, here I was. I knew I’d check out okay. I always did. But this was necessary. I had my kids to worry about. I felt Becky’s warm soft hand squeeze love into me. I looked up, made a quip and she smiled, warming my heart. I apologized for going to work and minimizing my time at her side in the hospital after she gave birth to our children years ago.
Test results showed I was in no danger so I was left to rest. That’s when serious activity picked up. The tempo went tilt. My room was needed for a real emergency. Nurses rolled me into the hallway and parked me against the wall. I was left in a semi-upright position. My wife wasn’t with me.
The doors flew open. An elderly lady was rushed inside the room I had just occupied. She was on life support. This was the real deal. It made me feel silly for being there in the first place. I wanted to get up and go but I was still linked to too many things I’d have to rip out. I didn’t want that kind of attention so I just watched what was going on around me, like a fly on the wall. Nobody saw me, really, but I saw everything.
A family had gathered in seats outside the room from where the elderly lady was being treated. They were just across from me and down about 10 feet. They seemed alarmed but hopeful. Looking at them, I felt like the old lady would pull through. There were three generations. The hand-holding, praying family included the spouse of the old lady, her children and their high-school or college age daughters. I felt I shouldn’t be there. I was invading their privacy. Just once did one of them look my way as if I revealed myself for a second and disappeared again.
I tried looking elsewhere but it was difficult. When the treatment room doors opened, the entire family leaned forward as one, hopeful. There was a millisecond of anticipation that loomed much longer than expected. Then, as I was drawn to the old man’s face, I saw hope morph into hopelessness. He was devastated. His world crashed down and ended just then. He was in shock. He sat down, staring into thin air, silent. Then, his body shook violently and he sobbed heavily and loudly into his hands. I closed my eyes out of respect for the old man’s privacy.
I had seen death before. I had seen heart-wrenched loved ones mourn. I had experienced loss. But I had never experienced what this old man was experiencing – not even close.
Sometimes you know it is coming but sometimes you don’t get to say goodbye at all.
Only in San Francisco!
It was early morning in Fisherman’s Wharf. While waiting at a street corner, a strange sight grabbed our attention. A lady was walking backwards, ever so casually, at a pace somewhere between not too fast and not too slow.
I quickly reminded the kids, and myself, not to snicker when she neared. We missed the “walk” sign because although we faced it, we were concentrating on our peripheral vision. She passed us, backside first. Our eyes shifted to the other peripheral. Now we could see this lady’s front side as she faced us walking away. She kept a steady pace, looking in our direction, totally without expression. And we looked in her direction, no longer coy, with wonderment written all over our faces. Straight-faced, she crossed a couple of streets as if she had eyes in the back of her head. We were mesmerized. How could she see where she was going? Why was she doing this? She seemed so at ease as if this was her daily routine. It probably was. We held a downright stare until she finally turned a corner. We looked away, scratched our heads and wondered out loud what the heck just happened.
Mixed in our visits to the usual tourist attractions – Alcatraz, Chinatown, wild sea lions at Pier 39, Little Italy and Lombard Street – we got in line to do that thing you feel you must do because you’re in San Francisco, ride a trolley. We waited in the trolley line for a very long time. It was near the bay and chilly. The park next door had a lot of people chilling out. Then, I noticed a smell wafting in the air. It made me think back to my college days. So, we passed the time talking about hippies while we watched them dancing and singing around a man strumming an acoustic guitar.
Later in the afternoon, while resting in a park, I remembered a documentary – The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. I convinced my family to walk up to COIT Tower on Telegraph Hill to go find this fascinating flock of wild parrots living there. It was a steep, long walk but we got there! By the way, the views of the street-laced hill
s were incredible. So, apparently was my lung capacity.
A group of college students were lying in the grass by COIT Tower. I approached them thinking they were locals and could direct me. As I stood over them, they casually looked up at me as if to say, what’s up with this dude? That’s when I asked where I could find the parrots flying around.
This awkward exchange made me think they might have had a hippie discussion of their own after I left, especially as I backpedaled away, not unlike the lady at the crosswalk.
Motel California
Desolate roads stretched into evening before we reached our destination just outside of Lava Beds National Monument in northern California’s inland no-man’s land.
When I pre-booked this motel, our travel lady at AAA warned that it wasn’t in their guide books at all. I had found it on the Internet and in my mapping of our trip I decided that this motel was all about location-location-location. There was nothing else around. Besides, the pictures looked decent enough. I was proud of my “find.”
Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief Page 20
