travel

Second Installment

Roxy’s shout penetrated Alex’s absorption with his iPhone. Next, he heard a loud clap of thunder and immediately glanced at his son, who had his earphones in and was listening to a cartoon on his iPad. Jason was terrified of thunderstorms, but could not hear the rain or the noise above the voices and music in the cartoon scene in front of him. He was okay. Roxy’s cry had sounded hysterical, though. Alex slammed his phone down on the coffee table, jumped up, and pulled the baby gate from the door. Jiffy slipped through, dashing toward Roxy and the lakefront.

From the porch, Alex could see Roxy standing on the dock, drenched, staring at the lake. But where was Deborah? A current of fear shot through him. He started to run and reached the dock in a few strides. It was clear from Roxy’s terror and from the storm surrounding them that Deborah was in danger of drowning. He couldn’t see anything beyond a couple of feet. The rain was a dense curtain, the waves churned, the thunder was deafening, and the lightning sizzled. Jiffy ran frantically along the edge of the water, then forward and backward on the dock, barking hysterically.

Alex turned to Roxy and shouted, “Call 911!” He heard the flatness in her voice as she responded that her mobile did not have international service. “Use my phone!” he screamed. “I don’t know how,” she stammered as if in a trance. “Well then, at least get that damn dog back in the cabin!” Roxy noticed Jiffy for the first time. He was pawing at her wet pant legs, trying to get her attention. While he scanned the roiling water in front of him, out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Roxy take hold of the dog’s collar and drag him back to the cabin, closing the glass door on him. He could hear the Jiffy whining pitifully, as Roxy, with blank eyes, joined him on the dock again.

“I’m alone,” Alex thought, “there is no other responsible person here. Roxy is in shock and useless. It’s my job to save Deborah, take care of Jason, Roxy, and Jiffy, too.” He was terrified and confused. What should he do first? His mother would never forgive him if her sister drowned and he had not tried to save her. What if Jason suddenly heard the thunder and, seeing that his father wasn’t next to him, freaked out? Trisha had left him in charge of their son. She would be furious if anything happened to Jason. Two demands battled within him. Save Deborah, protect his son. Alex could swim, but he wasn’t a trained rescuer. Besides, he could see nothing through the rain. Finding Deborah in this downpour was impossible, and what if he drowned trying? Despite the confusion of his thoughts, he shook off his sandals and strode into the water. Tearing off his T-shirt, he dove in and flailed away from shore.

Thirty seconds in, Alex knew it was hopeless and turned back, dragging himself, soaked, across the lawn and into the cabin. As he opened the door, Jiffy darted through and returned to Roxy’s side on the dock, whimpering and staring out into the storm. Alex retrieved his mobile and automatically dialed his mother’s number instead of 911. She picked up on the first ring. “Call Search and Rescue. Deborah went swimming and is missing,” he gasped. Meredith was silent, but Alex knew she was not falling apart. Her competent, hyper-organized mind would be rehearsing the most practical steps before she flew into action. She would stay calm, call his father, who was a member of the local volunteer fire department, and help would come quickly. But would it be too late? He had done what he could.

The line clicked as Meredith hung up. Alex looked over at Jason, who, addicted to his iPad since he was three, sat placidly in front of it, not even noticing that anything was wrong or that his father was pacing back and forth, dripping water everywhere.

*************************

Deborah stopped swimming and, treading water, peered around her. She couldn’t see a shoreline in any direction. Instead, she saw rain slapping the water on all sides. A lightning spear shot toward the lake, and thunder boomed, vibrating in her ears. She wasn’t afraid. A fleeting thought that water is a superconductor of electricity passed through her mind, but she said to herself, “Oh well, I can’t do anything about that.”

As she circled in place, looking for a glimpse of a shoreline, any shoreline, Deborah did not feel in danger. The lake was small, and she knew she had become a strong swimmer during her year of training at the community pool. When she began lessons, she had not swum for 40 years. Work and other responsibilities had intervened, and there was no nearby lake or pool. When she and Roxy retired and moved to New Hampshire, their town had a YMCA pool, so she started swimming again. Characteristically, she didn’t do so casually. She set goals, pushed herself, and gained back her strength and technique.

Her stamina had increased dramatically in the last year. She could easily reach some shore, any shore of this small lake, if she could see one. She felt confident in her ability to survive the storm. Her primary concern was those she had left back at the cabin. Roxy would be terrified. Alex might put himself in danger trying to rescue her. She hoped they would stay rational and do nothing foolish. Surviving this was up to her, and it was a challenge she felt she could meet, even welcome. A niggling worry crouched in the corner of her mind. They would be angry with her. They would see her determination to swim in dangerous weather as reckless and would blame her for frightening them.

“But I need to focus!” she thought. So, pushing this worry further back into her consciousness, she circled again, looking for shore. A slight slowing of the rain revealed a Canadian flag in the distance. It was blowing frantically, but the pure red and white maple leaf was a beacon. She knew from previous vacations that there was a dock beneath that flag and that a couple who lived in her sister’s village owned a cottage there. She took a deep breath, relaxed, and started stroking slowly and rhythmically toward the flag. As she did so, she felt the joy of swimming surge within her.

To be continued tomorrow

“Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.”

—Anne Brontë

One morning, a couple of years ago, as I accompanied my dog on his first walk of the day along a well-worn trail through the woods near my home, I was surprised by something I had not noticed before. I saw a path, intentionally bordered on either side by clean barkless branches, which led away from the beaten track over dead leaves, broken sticks, and brown ferns shriveled by frost.

It was the height of tick season in Maine, so I hesitated to step into the underbrush, trailing my dog on his lead, but my eyes followed the branch borders of the path deeper into the woods. There, on a stick wedged between two conjoined tree trunks, something brown and out of place dangled. I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I had to get closer to be sure.

Taking a deep breath and hoping no deer ticks would crawl up my legs or bury themselves in my dog’s curious muzzle, I stepped onto the path and gingerly picked my way about twenty paces into the woods. My eyes had not deceived me. A sturdy pair of men’s walking shoes hung by their laces, artfully draped over the stick. What could this mean? Who would leave their shoes behind in the woods? These lace-ups still had a lot of life in them.

Something prevented me from touching them—some intuition that this was a holy place. I took a picture of them, and retraced my steps, my dog tugging me back to our usual route. However, the image of the shoes stayed with me for the rest of our morning walk, and the place where they hung became the destination for frequent pilgrimages in days to come.

After several visits, I began to suspect that these were my neighbor Simon’s shoes, and that they had been lovingly arranged in the woods where he frequently walked, his camera dangling from his neck. Simon had died several months before, and I surmised that his widow deposited the shoes in a setting he loved near their home, where she could visit them often to commune with her husband. I took the risk of asking her if I had guessed correctly, and she, blushing but shyly pleased that someone else had discovered her memorial, confirmed it.

Over the last couple of years, my pup and I have visited Simon’s shoes countless times. Cynthia, Simon’s wife, adds bits of flora to mark the seasons—sometimes delicate wildflowers in spring, ferns in summer, red, yellow, and golden leaves in fall, and, of course, winter provides its own decoration. Each time I set out on my pilgrimage, I look forward to discovering these simple but artful adornments.

All I know of Simon are these shoes and the few memories of her beloved husband that Cynthia has shared with me. By the time the couple moved into my neighborhood, he had already begun to decline. I would pass him on my afternoon walks and receive a silent smile in response to my cheerful hello. He was, by then, not much of a conversationalist, especially with strangers. His soft-spoken words were sparing, but the few I heard were direct and gentle.

I marveled that the memorial shoes were in such good shape. According to his wife, Simon had worn them on hikes all over Europe and America. Once, on a walking trip in Ireland, amid a powerful wind and rainstorm, he and Cynthia took refuge in a farmhouse along their way. The family welcomed them to warm up and dry off at the hearth. So, Simon propped his feet in front of the open fire, scorching the soles of his shoes before he realized what was happening. Thrifty as he was, he saw no reason to replace the singed footwear. Like his shoes, Simon was humble, loyal, and resilient.

Simon’s memorial shoes, their constancy, adaptation, and beauty in every season, have become an icon for me. A symbol for the humility that embraces and accepts what is, even when the reality is absence. Gradually, these old shoes will succumb to the elements and disintegrate, but not before they have taught many passersby a profound lesson. We continue after death, transformed surely, but ultimately, reunited with the elements that made us, enlivened us, warmed us, fed us, cleansed us, and sheltered us. Finally, we come home.

Simon and Cynthia are not the real names of my neighbors.

Perspective (2)

Love in All Seasons