Summer 1980
"The Colorado Rocky Mountains were my vision of paradise. . .I felt no
spiritual rift with the universe and no emotional rift with myself. "
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Summer 1980
Summertime was no longer the carefree season of my childhood years. In
addition to employment, I broke a once-solemn vow, taken in early
youth, that forbade me to enlist in summer school. Since I planned to
attend the local junior college in the fall and Speech 101 was one of
it's graduation requirements, I rationalized that I should take the
class before all else lest I died of fright during a presentation; I
then would not have taken all of the other college courses in vain.
Breaking my oath for the sake of my life did not seem to be a frivolous
decision and, in my mind, undeniably justified the class.
A second reason I wished to take speech through the summer was my
anticipation of smaller classes. When my friend Steve learned of my
plan, he too decided to follow my lead. Unfortunately, many others had
prescribed to my line of thought, and Steve and I found our class
brimming with students.
Actually the class was rather fun, especially having Steve as my
comrade. Together we endured the awkward moments and embarrassment
and, with sparkling eyes, shared the humor begotten of nervousness.
We looked on as the anxious quirks of our classmates became personal
trademarks which would either be overcome in time or rage without end.
Through the class, whether it was my bombed impromptu on "television,"
or Steve's short but memorable sales pitch for "Billy Beer," we
afforded each other an ample dose of moral support, not only surviving
but succeeding.
Again this year summer was a bit of a whirlwind. A date-book was the
only record of my daily accomplishments, for I seemingly had no time to
write lengthy descriptions of the day's events...or more accurately, I
lacked the fortitude to make time for quiet pursuits. One might have
said I was too busy to be unhappy, but it would not have been quite
true.
Nevertheless, my date-book overflowed.
June 8... Norm and I went sailing; motorcycled to Loud Thunder. We had
pizza and beer at the river. It was nice.
20... Went to Jon's after work. We ate at Frank's Pizza and then to (a
store) Party at Jon's.
23... 40 hours (of work) this week. Think of the bucks...
26... I did my first speech... got an A! Steve and I went out and ate ice
cream afterwards.
30... After speech, Norm and I took the BMW to Galena. It was a terrific
day. I loved it.
July 3... Speech. Work. Mom and I went (shopping) Steve and I went to
West Lake.
4... Work. Jon and I went to (a) nature trail and picnicked, then to the
fireworks.
July 6... Norm and I went sailing on the Mississippi. He lost my straw
hat. After supper, we took off with the "kicker" (Motor for the canoe).
9.... (My boss) thought I was lying when I called in sick.
21... Worked on final speech. Topic: Stress.
29... Steve wished me well for Mayo trip. Norm and I took a long walk in
Davenport.
30... Packed suitcase; spent 45 minutes in the bathroom... left for
Rochester, MN
31...Took tests... shopped...Mom bought me a pair of jeans. Swam for
1-1/2 hours.
Aug. 1... Saw Dr. E. and left.
One might have thought I would have elaborated further on the results
of my examination. After all, it had been five years since my stomach
operation, and this was my last check-up, the famous "five years and
cured" judgment used by cancer experts. However, the trips had almost
elevated themselves to vacation status due to the scenic drive and the
chance to swim, dine out and shop, for the tests were familiar and no
worse than uncomfortable. Of more consequence, though, was the fact
that I did not feel the joyous relief that should have come with E.'s
clean bill of health; I happily acknowledged his statement, "You would
be more apt to die on the highway driving up here than to get cancer
again," but refused to revel in the news. It was too good, and
accepting it as the irrefutable truth was too risky.
Mom was delighted to hear of the test results, but she too, held
elation in reserve. It did not seem credible that I was entirely
healthy. I still grew nauseous after eating and experienced other
stomach-related disorders such as food "Sticking" above my stomach and
gastrointestinal disturbances. The doctor had no concern over these
symptoms. My stomach was not what one could label as "normal"; it was
reasonable to assume I would always encounter some problem with it.
Shrugging off the nauseousness was convenient and logical.
I wondered if skepticism was my excuse to undermine happiness; I hated
to think it was an emotion of my own invention, a manufactured
impediment used because I did not desire to be happy. No, that could
not be! Emotional reservation was self-preservation at work. . . it
was security, and the rejection of the thought that health and
happiness were inseparable components of living.
Summer relaxation generally came at irregular intervals, disguised as
hikes, canoe trips and motorcycle rides with Norm. I did not find
total disengagement from my daily cares until two thirds of the season
had elapsed. A week's time was not enough by my way of thinking, but
it was all I had been given; it was better to be satisfied with what I
had than to waste time bemoaning that which I did not have.
This summer Norm and I decided to vacation together. Having discovered
that our day trips went smoothly, we had few qualms about spending a
full week exclusively in each other's company, and with high spirits,
set out at 4:00 on a Sunday morning, bound for Colorado.
We were so psyched about seeing the mountains that we drove through the
entire day and into the evening. When we finally decided, about 7:30,
to find a motel, the choices were "limited" to "nonexistent," so we
forked out $20.00 for a ram-shakle room. Thinking our chance of
finding a decent restaurant would be slightly better than our luck with
motels, we tried to locate the town's business loop. After discovering
the two traffic signals and skirting the streets in both directions, we
gave in to our hunger and raided a 7-Eleven, which would have been
closed in fifteen minutes. Securing some lunch meat, milk, and a can
of pork and beans, we drove back to our humble room, intending to heat
the beans on a portable gas stove.
The gas stove would not light. "It had performed famously at home,"
Norm insisted, feeling somehow betrayed by the inanimate object
sprawling before him. At least our choice of food could be eaten cold.
Norm picked up the can of beans and retrieved a can opener from a sack
of utensils, clamping it on the can like a pro. The can galloped
'round and 'round, but failed to open. Outraged, Norm flew at the can
with a metal punch, flailing and prying with a vengeance until a jagged
opening would accommodate a spoon.
It was not what we had in mind, but it was a Sunday evening in a small
town. We stayed up for awhile, blinking at a show on television. I
felt reasonably content, but Norm stole glances at the traitorous stove
ranging from malice to disbelief. "Man!" he kept repeating, "It worked
at home." I couldn't help but smile to myself; he demanded so little of
life, but on that night, even the smallest favors had been denied.
"Poor Norm," I thought. He was more discouraged than I!
Aug. 4, 1980... Got a great little kitchenette.
We were enthusiastic. $20 per day or $120 per week bought a basement
level, two room, paneled unit, complete with garage-sale dishes and
pans. The toilet was elevated on a step to assure that it would flush.
It also boasted a relic radio and a T.V. with poor reception. The
best things about the place, though, were the river which rushed
several yards from our door and the ability to procure frozen pizzas
from the friendly owner, Marion. After a day of rigorous hiking, I
would ask Marion to heat a pizza and she and I would talk until the
pizza was ready.
I felt sorry for Marion. She was a widow who tried to keep the motel
intact for her guests despite rising costs and the continual threat of
delapidation. The place was in disrepair, but having little help,
change was more of a dream than a possibility. She had endured
hardship in life; she looked poor, but with dignity, not despair.
Marion accepted things in a manner which encouraged trust, making
herself welcome company and her motel a homey place to stay. On one
visit, I happened to mention that Norm was my brother. She accepted my
statement with unparalleled grace, although it was obvious by the
glimmer in her eyes that she did not believe a word; she had seen too
much to swallow that story. Having nothing to hide or defend, I let
her believe what she would. With or without proof, one believes what
he wants to believe.
"That's it!" Relieved of our luggage, the trunk appeared to have been
disemboweled. I slammed the lid and turned around to see one of the
other guests intercept Norm as he strode toward the car. "Hi, there,"
the man bellowed. "See you've got a Dodge Dart, too. Got two of 'em
at home. Darn things just won't wear out... " Within the passage of
five minutes we knew more about him than either of us cared to know.
And we hadn't even asked.
"Come here every year," he stated. We also learned the man delivered
mail for his bread and butter; he was married and had kids. There was
something very unpleasant about the man, apart from his obnoxious flow
of conversation. He was the type of person who was oblivious to his
own abhorrant characteristics, a man who would drown his victim
unwittingly and not realize that he had died.
When I thought the conversation could grow no worse, his eyes took on
an eerie glow and he related to Norm the events of one of his past
vacations, wherein he and several relatives traveled to Montana. From
a previous trip, I knew Montana was a state resplendent with ground
squirrels, and had enjoyed feeding them on one memorable occasion. The
man, however, found the animals satisfying for quite a different
reason; he, his son and another man spent an afternoon gunning down
approximately 400 squirrels. It was a lavish affair which had afforded
him pure delight; his excitement over the reckless slaughter was
complete and shameless. He had done some ranchers a great service, he
raved. As he blasted away, I am sure that service was the last thing
on his mind.
I gritted my teeth, glad that none of the conversation had been
directed to me, while Norm, visibly unimpressed and equally disgusted
by the man, inched toward the car. Fortunately, the man's wife
appeared from the darkness of a motel room and we were spared further
discussion of the ground squirrel Armageddon.
"Be seein' ya'," he offered.
"Yeh," Norm's tight-lipped response almost had to be cranked from his
throat.
Pulling from the motel lot was a relief. "Now there is a guy who likes
to kill," I said.
"Yeh," Norm replied. "A good ol' boy. . . nothing like blowing up a
few rodents on a weekend..."
The sheer number of his kill was enough to astonish, yet more
disturbing was his unrestrainable enjoyment of the event. There was no
nobility whatsoever in his action, for no one had asked for his
assistance or solicited a need for a specific harvest of the animals.
Certainly the grazing cattle injured themselves in rodent holes, but
killing aside, the man took no interest in filling the holes in the
line of duty. Thus, amid hundreds of bodies, the real menace remained.
In context of need, hunting was natural, but when utilized as an
outlet, a fulfillment of the need to kill for its own sake, hunting
terrified me. I voiced my sentiments to Norm and we wondered aloud
about the possible outcome if no such outlet was available. How would
the killing need be vented?
We drove into the park and experienced the reminiscent awe of the
mountains. It was unparalleled beauty.
After twisting through the pines we pulled off the road at a scenic
turn off and roosted atop a pile of boulders for the rest of the
afternoon. Occasionally a timid chipmunk would appear, nervously
twitching its tail until our presence caused it to scoot behind a rock
or bush. Once again, the sadistic mailman crossed my mind, and I
wondered how the Colorado rodent population would fare. With luck, he
had left his arsenal at home.
The Colorado Rocky Mountains were my vision of paradise. Their immense
proportion, viewed against the surrounding pines, deluged my senses
with an all-encompassing wholeness and an aura of well-being. No other
place produced such an effect within me; I felt no spiritual rift with
the universe and no emotional rift with myself.
I could not understand the stop-and-start tourists who drove through
the park simply to justify their bumper stickers; or those who, at a
scenic turn off would jump out, peer over the railing and pronounce,
"Nothing special here" if there were no chipmunks to feed. They wanted
artificial, invented forms of entertainment. If there were no buttons
or knobs to pull, no tour guide, nothing that spoke to them through a
speaker or took them on a ride, the place had no significance.
Whirlwind tourists rarely ventured onto any of the trails, or if they
did, seldom walked further than one mile. Since all social amenities
had to be packed in, few sight-seers prepared themselves for adversity
of even the kindest temperament. They generally had no poncho, wore
heeled shoes or sandals, carried no energy food, and of course, no
water. Once their mistakes were evident, they wasted no time retracing
their steps, trundling down the trail with parched mouths agape and
pouting loudly for the lifestyle they had momentarily misplaced. Norm
and I generally encountered these people on our return from a long
hike; since our trek had begun early in the morning, we avoided the
afternoon rain and completed our hike long before the sun dipped behind
the mountains, washing the surrounding land in darkness. When I saw a
"typical" tourist attempting a hike while toting a radio or blandly
surveying the scenery, I realized how different I was... and how
thankful I was concerning the former statement. I knew also, that if
it were not for the differences in people, I could not revel in the
solitude that was mine to enjoy.
Our days in the mountains were excellent. The rain never lingered,
leaving the nights clear and cold. We often returned to the park after
supper to drink in the darkness and listen to the wind dance in the
pines. Apart from society, but for an occasional passing automobile,
we felt delivered, not deprived. Cool winds swept through the
silhouetted trees and curled between tight crevasses, producing a
melodious rhythm which conjured the impression of silence. The noise
of society was stilled in tranquility.
By daylight we roamed the trails, packing our essentials and my camera.
I never hoped to confine the actual beauty of nature on film, but
toted my camera as a pictorial diary.
Photographs had become my favorite souvenir for their dimensional forms
recalled statements attesting to one's destination... they were almost
like eyes into the past.
Aug. 8, 1980... Sandbeach Lake (a 4 mile hike). It was gorgeous. Got
sunburned. Felt great...not tired at all.
Our last hike was to Sandbeach Lake, which was nestled in the high
country at the end of a rigorous trail. I label the trail in such
terms because it did not simply travel upward; it repeatedly involved
many declines as well, thereby creating a hike which was as difficult
upon returning as it was at the outset. However, despite the evils of
the trail, the lake was a reward more than adequate; it was a rippling
sapphire wonder clenched in the palm of the mountains. Its white
shore-line was hemmed by gnarled, yet dignified pines, while the cold
and bloodless splendor of Long's Peak presided over all things, living
and inanimate.
After reaching the lake, our day was spent lolling about its perimeter
as a cool breeze modified the naked heat of the sun. The place seemed
a virtually untouched remnant of land; we assumed the lake's crystal
water was no less than pure and wholesome, and without hesitation,
drank our fill. As the numbingly cold liquid ran into my cupped hands,
it brought back memories of mountain streams and the unspoiled lakes of
Minnesota. Such draughts were ambrosiac delights.
When the sun began its westward descent, we regretfully pulled
ourselves from beside the lake and shouldered our packs. Both Norm and
I had come to view my legs as unstoppable, but my energy level after
such a trek was a surprise. As he prepared to rest his legs following
supper, I suppressed a grin and asked if he would like to take another
walk.
"Noooo. . . " Norm moaned in obvious protest "We've done enough, you
dummy," he asserted, one eyebrow cocked above the other.
"OK," I smiled, having received the expected reaction. We often
bounced our known foibles off each other for the purpose of mutual
amusement. He was not mad at my suggestion, nor did he think me dumb;
consequently I never expected an affirmative response and would not
have pursued the issue because of its illogical quality. Besides. . .
he was bigger than me.
Aug 8, 1980... Both of us are feeling sorta' sick. Probably from
drinking lake water yesterday.
It was a bitter pill, but it had to be swallowed. The lake must have
been the culprit. We knew that pools of water were more questionable
drinking sources, but Sandbeach appeared pure beyond question. It
would have been easy to say "Things just aren't what they used to be,"
but more likely than not, a passing animal had polluted the water
previous to our consumption and we were victims of chance.
By evening we felt much better and prepared the car for our early
morning departure. Before trying to indulge in some restless sleep,
however, we drove to the park and made a final circuit of our favorite
scenic views. I branded the magnificence into my mind so I could later
return to the mountains in envisioned thoughts.
At 4:00 in the morning we were off, drifting down the black road which
wound silently through the mountain pass. Above, rocky sentinels
observed our progress, their formidable figures etched against the dark
mat of the sky. As we coasted deeper into the rocky crevasse, the
stars receded into the morning light, bowing to the far greater sun
which sought dominion over the earth and sky.
With the coming of dawn, the spell of silence was broken. and we gained
relatively flat land.
"You know," Norm said, "Once I leave, I can't remember what the
mountains look like; I just can't see them in my mind."
I was glad that I could; I possessed a hoard of images for reflections.
Unfortunately, though, mental pictures could not be shared.
Aug. 9, 1980... Drove straight back. Norm didn't feel good. I helped
him get downstairs and all.
It was a long shot, to be sure, but by the time we hit Des Moines, it
seemed ridiculous to check into a motel when home was a mere four hours
away. We kept driving.
We rolled up to an empty house since Mom and Dad were still on
vacation. Opening the door a certain stagnancy assailed our nostrils,
proof that no one had disrupted the air for days. It was home,
nevertheless, and a few brisk passes and several gusts of wind sucked
through the screen windows dissipated the stillness within minutes,
transforming the house into a breathing creature once again. I was
happy to be home.
Upstairs I found Norm seated on his bed, his eyes unfocused and
restless. I stopped and he looked up at me.
"I feel strange. . . it's hard to describe. Nervous and out of touch."
His appearance made me wish I could hold him, shelter him from some
undefinable evil. When I asked if there was anything I could do, he
wanted me to stay and talk; far more than all else, he did not want to
be alone. I sat down on the twin bed opposite Norm's; later he decided
to watch television, so I brought his pillows downstairs and made
certain he was comfortable. After awhile, he announced that he felt
better, and I rose to go upstairs.
"Thanks," he said "I'll stay up a little longer."
"Are you sure you're OK?" I asked.
"Yeh. . ." The fear and bewilderment had gone, leaving a rather placid
figure to stare at the television. Despite his stature, there was
something about Norm. . . an innocence... a vulnerability... that gave
him a child-like quality; and within myself, something instinctual made
me alert and watchful of his needs. Involuntarily, I always kept an
ear peeled for Norm; I never asked myself "why " and it never seemed to
matter.
Aug 15, 1980... Went to (the mall) with Mom. Got china.
Before summer's end, I was able to realize a dream I had maintained
since I was 13 years old; Dad submitted to my desire to purchase a set
of china, regardless of the fact that it would be in the attic for at
least several years. I was elated, after five years. I still liked
the same pattern, and I simply wanted to buy the pieces while the
pattern was readily available. The rich, coffee hued plates bordered
with muted gold vines would one day bring further enjoyment to my
dinner table. I wondered when I would first use them. . . in an
apartment, to mark the beginning of a new job?. . . or in a house,
the first meal prepared for a husband. . .
Mom and I carefully packed the dishes in their boxes and I watched as
Dad pushed them, one by one, into the depths of the attic. How could
such a plan be a mistake?.
Aug. 22, 1980... Rehearsal dinner with Steve.
Mary, one of my first playmates, was about to be married. It was no
shock, she had dated the same young man for eight years. The only
comment that seemed to abound concerning the event was, "It's about
time!" I had no qualms toward the success of the marriage, for if they
had not seen the myriad facets of each other's personalities by now,
they were either blind, deaf and stupid, or extremely keen actors.
Personally, I believed in them entirely.
I asked Steve to accompany me to the rehearsal dinner, and to my
delight, he accepted the invitation without hesitation. He was my
first choice and, in my opinion, best suited for the occasion. Not
only was he personable and well-dressed but he knew the bride as well
as I did and would have no difficulty engaging in conversation with
the other guests.
Aug. 23, 1980... Mary's wedding reception 'til 12:00.
It was a lovely summer evening, and as one of three bridesmaids, I felt
elegant strolling down the aisle in my peach gown and picture hat. The
wedding progressed smoothly, with no disruptive children or sideshows,
thus ending a veritable storybook romance in the typical style.
Once the ceremony was over, several neighbors and friends remarked
that, dressed as I was, I looked like a bride; indeed, after such
processions, I could not deny that I heard my own imaginary wedding
bells. Situations like these were a jaunt from the ordinary, and
indulging in a bit of personal fantasy seemed a natural benefit.
At the reception Steve and I enjoyed ourselves on a grand scale. The
food and drink and dancing were merriment of the finest proportion, and
we hovered at each other's side throughout the night. Those who did
not know us thought we were married, and although I over-step the
bounds of modesty, I do believe we made a fine pair.
After the celebration, I held more memories to carefully tuck away.
Mary would not be living on 7th Avenue any more. I suddenly felt a
million miles from trikes and trinkets and Barbie dolls.
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