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Location : 1903-1969 Autumn Grove Ct, Salisbury, MD 21804,

Running in the Rain

I feel certain that the neighbors think I've lost my mind. Secretly, I fear they may be right.

I awoke this morning to the sound of the rain, lightly tapping on the roof and window, sliding down and dripping into pools below my bedroom window. The morning carried that bluish-haze of not-yet-morning; I just listened.

Shiloh, our bassett hound/golden retriever, was whining. He is, as we say, "weather sensitive" and this morning meant two different things for us. For him, it was a terrible punishment; for me, it was a sweet punishment. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and Shiloh looked at me with those sad, big brown eyes. "It's ok, boy, it's just the rain." I rubbed his head and he whined again. He is not easily pacified.

I grabbed my running gear, iPod, and headphones. This was the first test for my waterproof jacket. I was counting on it to save my beloved iPod. On second thought, I grabbed a set of dry clothes... yes, I was certain I'd need them. Shiloh followed me to the door, tail tucked between his legs. "Come on, Shi. It's ok. Really. Just rain." I smiled at him, but he was inconsolable.

The drive to the old neighborhood took a few minutes. The rain was coming down pretty steady; the temperature gauge said it was 45 degrees outside. Cold. Wet. Run. It started to sound like a bad plan, but I tend to follow the worst of my ideas. I turned up the radio to drown out the wipers and it was an old country and western song. It was awful and it made me smile. Soon, I was pulling into my favorite running haunt: the old neighborhood.

This is the part where I began to question my sanity.

I stepped onto the road. The rain was coming down, not in sheets but not lightly either. Just sweet and steady. Music filled my ears; water was seeping through my running tights. Stretch. Stretch. Deep breath and the cold filled my lungs. Was I drowning? I exhaled and an evil smirk stretched across my face.

Run.

The first thing I lost was my hood. It flipped back and exposed my dry head. I tried to pull it on again but it just kept slipping off. Forget it. Without any cover for my poor head, I knew I'd have to cut this one short. Damn it. Well, I decided, if it will be short, then it will be fast.

I lowered my head and pushed my legs faster. Rain drops were collecting in my hair, slipping down my neck, and sliding down my back. The chill on my spine was unnerving and satisfying. I kept moving, stretching my stride and splashing in puddles. I could feel the water beginning to bleed into my shoes. Rain trickled into my eyes. I ran faster.

The second thing I lost was my mind. As I rounded the corner in the back of the neighborhood, I realized that this was absolutely crazy. What am I doing? Wait, I know what... but why? Why do I do things like this? Then I remembered and that evil smile stretched back across my face.

"Come on, girl. You can finish this." My lungs were burning and I was soaking wet, rain dripping from my hair and my chin. And I was freezing. The folks who lived next door to my mother drove past me in a pick-up truck. I couldn't even lift my eyes to see them. I am insane. And they probably think so too.

God help me.

I finished my run. My body was cold and numb - fingers, toes, thighs, forehead. But I felt alive. I walked a few paces, spitting and stretching. It was a bad idea, running in the rain. I knew it before I did it, but I couldn't help myself. This is how I'm built: crazy ideas with forceful and relentless follow-through. Once I was full of self-destruction; now I temper myself with days like this.

A raindrop fell from my hair onto my cheek and slid down to my chin. That was enough.

Hello New Year

The new year came in and I barely noticed. We were laughing, drinking, dancing... the room was spinning so fast. The music was loud and I felt each note in my bones. Surrounded by friends, cameras flashing, catching us in wild poses and making strange faces, smiling with ear to ear grins, we could not stop laughing. Someone dropped a wine glass. We kept dancing. My focus was slow and uncertain. I heard my name and answered with a glass raised in the air. Everything was out of control and I was at ease.

At the countdown, I was in my Thomas's arms, smiling up into his sweet face. Nothing else mattered. I kissed my husband and hugged my friends. More loud music. Another round of drinks. Camera flashes. Laughter. A deliciously spinning room. I know how to navigate my way through this sort of madness.

Flashes of images and disjointed phrases comprise the remainder of my memory for the night. The sun came up before I went down for the count.

In the haze of the next morning, I only had one resolution. Find my camera.

Old Eyes

The photograph fell out of the book and slowly drifted to my feet. I picked it up, curious, and flipped it over. Recognition gripped me: I knew her long ago, in a time so far away. I stood rooted to the floor but my heart begged me to look away.

"Put it down. Put it away. Forget about it." My heart pleaded.

"I can't help it." I said.

Those eyes. Her eyes. That sweet face pulled me backwards through time into decades long forgotten. She was the picture of innocence. She still is.

My heart spoke again, "I can't take this, please, I'm begging you. Stop looking at it."

I flipped the picture over. Someone wrote 1988 on the back in blue ink. Kodak paper. My heart slowed its tremors but my stomach was churning. I almost hadn't notice that my fingers were pale and a bit unsteady. I wandered the house for a moment, book in one hand, her photograph in the other.

The book was Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" and the photograph was a girl that I once knew. I finally found myself outside, sitting on the back porch. The sun was setting behind the cornfield, casting a golden glow over the impending twilight. A cool breeze drifted over me. I felt feverish.

There are things in this life that are hard to admit and there are some that you simply cannot admit. I am struggling for words. The book slips to the floor. The photograph is curled in my hand. My heart begs me to leave it alone, but I am a fool, a glutton for selfish punishments.

I look out over the golden twilight. It is a gift to be alive, to see such things as this set against a backdrop of crickets and emerging stars. I have come so far... only because I... This is what drives my guilt: with every glance at that photograph, I see someone who got hurt, someone who never deserved a thing that was pushed on her, someone who was changed forever. I see a girl I left behind.

How do I make amends for that? Tell me now, heart of mine. What am I supposed to do for her now? You beg me not to look at her face, her eyes... but doesn't she at least deserve the acknowledgement? Tell me now. All the days and years that have grown between then and now... my eyes are older and sharper. My stomach drops at the sight of her. It tears me up inside. What am I supposed to do?

I opened my hand. The photograph remained curled. Somewhere in the distance, I heard an owl. I closed my eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

Tonight

I cannot close my eyes. I never rest when you are far away. What would you have me do?

Mornings find me weary. I struggle to keep the fear inside my skin. That it might show terrifies me more, but these days, I am fighting something all the time. You said it would be fine. I wanted to believe you.

I tried. But I remember that night. When it all changed. The night I changed.

There are broken pieces, love, and they are scattered about us. Pieces of you and me and our life. How do you reconcile innocence and poison? It seeped in like rainwater, like pride. We can run or we can stand against it. You know I'd follow you into hell.

What would you have me do now?

Tempest

It is always the same dream.

The storm is approaching. I know the tornadoes are spiraling down. Or, I can see the tidal wave headed for shore. Maybe a hurricane looms on the horizon. Either way, I am caught in a tempest with no sign of escape.

I watch the sky grow dark and pregnant with fury. Someone I love is nearby but doesn't understand the storm is coming, that it is going to be devastating. I begin a maddening dash to warn them, to save them. Sometimes, I find them and they won't take me seriously. I beg and plead for them to come with me. Sometimes, I find them but we can't get far enough away. We race upstairs to avoid the water coming in through the doorways or we jump in a car and try to out run the funnel clouds touching down all around us. Sometimes, I just search until the sky rips open. But I always wake up just before I know it's too late.

In waking hours, storms give me peace. In sleep, they are monsters.

I remember in one these dreams, I was at the beach. Surfing. Sea glass hunting. I noticed that the waves were getting higher, crashing with more ferocity and foam. I backed out of the water and saw the sky turning purple. The color of a traumatic bruise. I looked around but all the other beachgoers were happy and clueless. Lightening struck. Thunder rolled. Waves crashed. Still, no one noticed. I ran for the boardwalk to warn my mother and sister. As I ran off the beach, my legs felt heavy and each glance over my shoulder made me panic. The sky was alive with destruction.

I often wonder if it means anything at all. A long time ago, someone gave me a book about the interpretations of dreams and imagery. I read that dreamers of tempests will be beset with calamitous trouble and friends will treat them with indifference. I'd rather face down a real tornado.

Letters from 1938

I just read through a stack of old love letters that my grandfather sent to my grandmother when he was stationed at Fort Monroe, Virginia. The letters start in October 1937 after a vacation they spent together. I assume it was the beginning of their courtship. (I'll have to verify this with my mother.)

The letters have yellowed with time; the edges of the envelopes are fragile. Three one-cent stamps adorn the tops. In the middle, my grandfather's neat handwriting addresses the letters to "Miss Mae Chapman Greenbackville, Va" and there is only one interruption: an old postmark stamp. I handle them with care. These are a part of my history.

I read the letters in which my grandfather announces that he wants to marry her, that he is in love with her, and that he's just sick over it. In one letter, he says he was nearly heartbroken when he discovered she had taken another date with a young man. He said he feared the new man might be a better man than him and he hoped that she wouldn't fall in love with him.

I never really knew my grandfather. He had a massive stroke when I was about 3 years old and he never really spoke much after that. I have always wondered what I missed, what experiences we could have shared, what I might have learned. He passed away a few days after I turned 16. Our story ended there.

Until tonight. Luckily for me, there are many letters left to read.