A Review: THE BRIDE IS WEARING RED TENNIS SHOES (Part 2 )

Places become familiar even when we don't visit often. Everybody has their spot, their breathing place. The sun slants differently. Leaves falling from unknown trees into curbsides full of mingled species. Fresh enticement from the same bakery every time you open the door, stepping in over the same threshold, this year, last year, five years ago. A slice of your sidewalk. Steps, sights and smells claiming you, refreshing you. Even just for a few days, leaving the touch.

A few years had passed since my last visit. A very full life leaving no moment for connection to my breathing place. While some things looked familiar, nothing stays the same, except for the fact I loved this place. The delightful French-style  bistro we discovered on our honeymoon and enjoyed for many years was now empty. Crusty bread, salad, quiche, French onion soup and our first chocolate crème brulee were served atop crisp table linens with cloth napkins.  Businesses had struggled during the economic downturn but others had run a well-executed course. A shopping mall and entertainment center had finally closed, "some one's dream" as my mother would say.  Our honeymoon bed and breakfast was for sale, as was another B & B we had visited. The roadside was weary with for sale signs but then another curve would be the booming, newest, largest gas station.  Here and there, new was beginning to replace the old because someone always has a new and better dream but unfortunately, most dreams do not last forever.

Monday, I headed to the next town to buy a lamp. The afternoon was overcast. A few years earlier, Cate and I had made a girls' trip to my favorite berg. The confinement of a speeding car offered an ideal environment to visit with your teenage daughter. No cell phones allowed.

We had made the same trek to the other town - less than thirty minutes. She rolls her eyes whenever I mention office supplies. Yes, they are a weakness. A new set of colored felt tip pens, arranged like the rainbow and drawing paper, became the after dinner entertainment. I drew our names in different colors and patterns. The doodled nameplate was taped to her bedroom door until she married and moved away.


My windowful little cottage

I was on my sabbatical with nowhere to be at any time, I let myself wander the aisles of this large retail market place, picking up this and that. When I stepped out of the store, giddy with my new purchases, I was surprised to see a new bank of clouds in the west. The colors were not pretty, the blue, green, grey of nothing good will happen. Hopefully, it was all look and no storm. I had no choice but to head the car back in the direction of my home for two weeks, right into the threatening storm.

The highway travels at the top of a hilly mountain, flanked by green meadow valleys. A couple of old, filled-in dogtrot houses, built by original settlers, hang to the ridge top. When the day is pretty and no clouds overhanging, this is a pleasant drive, back down into the valley below and up again, with an expansive view like the child in Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Swing."

.....Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--

Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!   
  

I wasn't going to make it back to the cottage. The rain started and then hail. I pulled off the highway into an old cemetery. Large cedar branches hung over the drive. For a minute, I thought the cemetery would be my answer but I soon realized I needed more protection.

 Pulling back onto the highway, I headed for the nearest shelter which I had seen a couple of hours earlier, the huge, new gas station. A large network of metal canopies covered the pumps. Every car within driving distance had pulled in. I could not get my car completely under a canopy but I was close enough to partially block the hailstones hitting my car.

My well-loved car. This was the first, brand-new vehicle either one of us had ever owned in our lifetime. We had always driven late model used cars and done very well in our choices. We also had a very good buying agent. My dream come true was being pelted by hail. My ink exterior/camel interior with a sliding sunroof and heated seats, and my favorite - automatic lift rear gate.  High cotton.

The hail was smacking against the sunroof as if glass were breaking. With each strike, I waited for the sound of sunroof failure. Hail was ricocheting off the windshield.  If anything broke, I would have to pack my bags and go home for repairs. Sometimes the hit was so loud, I would shriek. And it seemed to last forever.

And then the hail stopped and I drove away, too afraid to get out and look at the damage. Two miles later I was back in town and the roads were hardly wet.  I stopped the car and opened my door and stepped up on the running board, trying to prepare myself for the outcome.

   

           

signed,

a woman turning off the lamp next to my desk, purchased that afternoon

Originally published  9-18-13