PART I – Tapping the Spider Web:
I expected my life to be a journey from point A to point B. I expected the usual checkpoints: high school, college, jobs of increasing complexity and rewards, marriage, kids, grandkids, garden parties, retirement, Winnebago.
Of course it has not been that simple, or that linear.
From the perch of today, I see a series of expansions and contractions:
—————————
Expansion first. My lungs – a noisy infant arrival. Contracting quickly. The world is not an endless buffet of smiles and cooing. There seems to be much about me that is wrong, and it becomes apparent that much of the world is about hiding.
Expansion again. High school parties, worries drift away on the sea of drinks and drugs. Contraction again, after reaching too high and dropping too low.
Incubation. Repairing tender membranes. Breathing quietly. Keeping the lights low. Re-schooling. Re-tooling.
Expansion into the world of work, approval from the corporate world. Contraction. The edges of my moral compass are singed.
Incubation. Repairing tender membranes. Breathing quietly. Keeping the lights low. Checking how many fingers, and how many toes. Year one, the hyacinths bloom. Year two, the squirrels eat the bulbs. I still have all my fingers and toes.
Expansion into the next world of work. Buying a place in the world. A house.
A stupefying contraction. The losses begin. Hope. Hyacinths. Light. All gone. Hibernation.
And, yet. Again.
Spider webs gather news from the farthest reaches. Consider the opposite. When I take a step, the whole web shimmies. I thought I was signing up for yoga dance. Six months later, I am in a small writing group.
After the drowsy solitude of a years-long winter sleep, I measured myself against the group members and found myself unformed, lacking. Painfully singular. Different. Alone. Finally, I email the leader. I say this and that, but what I really mean is that I do not know if I can ever fit in.
Expansion had been feeling so good. I attempt to ward off a backslide. I put on my old winter coat and boots and take Shiloh, my 80-pound Dogue de Bordeaux (French Mastiff) to the biodiversity bog (they call it a preserve) for the first time in ages. Temperatures had been roller-coastering, melting and freezing, so the crust supported her only sporadically. She couldn’t really take off and run like I wanted her to, but we clambered about a bit, and I forgot how alone I thought I was in the world of humans.
—————————
PART II – The Adventure Begins:
It’s late afternoon, and cold. There’s about 90 minutes of daylight left when I get back to the car. Oh. No. The only thing I find in the pocket where I put my car key is a HOLE.
I consider the efficacy of a tantrum. (I should do that more often, come to think of it.) What will serve me best is action, not reaction. I re-trace as much of my walk as is reasonable before the sun goes down, checking closely where I knelt to retie my right boot and where we had to climb over fallen sumacs.
No key. We return to the parking area.
The cell phone, which may not have had coverage anyway, is in the car, with my wallet. Even if I call AAA, they could get me in the car… but then, without a key, how to start it?
There is an extra car key at my house. It’s three miles north to my road, then about a quarter mile home. I can see the West Danby Fire station. Probably not manned. The temperature is dropping, the sunlight thinning. Shiloh’s not looking happy.
I’m not totally in the middle of nowhere. There are houses. I’ve seen a man with three pitbull/ Rottweiler-looking dogs at the one directly across the road. Don’t really want to knock on that door. His lights aren’t on anyway.
The other nearby houses are dark. Someone will come home. I will ask to use their phone.
The road between the biodiversity preserve and my house is a through-road, 55 miles an hour, driven at 65+, narrow and curvy. It is a dangerous road to walk during the day. I decide that I will not walk along it in the twilight with my dog.
At this point, I am sure of three things:
- I have lost my car key.
- I will not walk along the road with Shiloh.
- I will knock on doors when people get home and I will either get a ride from them, or call a neighbor for a ride.
As long as it’s light, I realize I do have one more option: I end up hitchhiking for the first time in years. With a big, muddy dog.
It’s a good place for it – oncoming cars can see me for a long time as they come up a rise. They can pull off into the preserve’s dirt parking area.
I want to go north, back towards Ithaca. Most of the cars are going the other way, heading home after work. Anybody going north this time of day is probably on their way to an event. They won’t have the time to mess with car trouble and a big dog.
I don’t even know what time it really is – watch, phone, car clock – all inaccessible. It’s really weird to be separated from EVERYTHING. Not absolutely everything… anyone can see that the sun doesn’t have much farther to go before it sets.
I’m there with my thumb out for 20 minutes? Maybe 30. Ten cars and pickup trucks? Maybe 15.
Then along comes a minivan. Soccer Mom’s going to stop!
Oh, no, that’s no Soccer Mom minivan. It’s a minivan from the wayback days. When I open the passenger-side door to thank the driver for stopping, I see bucket seats for the driver and the navigator up front and nothing but metal floor in the back. With a couple of old quilts. Just like Oregon.
I slide open the back door and urge Shiloh to jump up and in. She skitters like a horse in a barn fire. She could slip her collar if she really freaks out. The woman is asking me to spread out one of the quilts for the dog, because it’s not really her van.
It’s not really her van? I hesitate. I know deep down she’s the only one who will stop. I close the passenger-side door, get in the back, and with both hands on Shiloh’s collar, haul her in. She’s shaking. Her eyes are really big. I get half a quilt under her, and leave it at that. She may have put her head on my leg, but I was so busy talking and being non-threatening that I don’t remember if she did or not.
The driver is busy talking and being non-threatening as well. It’s an old minivan… it’s not hers… her car got totaled… she’s supposed to have returned it to her friend in Cayuga Heights at 4:30… she’s really late… her friend is trying to sell the van… somebody is waiting to look at it. She saw a car in the parking lot and saw me with a dog and figured the car was mine, and I must have had trouble. Because nobody in their right mind hitchhikes with a big dog, although I was probably safer that way.
She said she saw a woman around her age with a dog and even though I could have gotten in the van and then made the dog attack her, she just had to stop. How many cars passed you by? she asked. How many pickup trucks? They could have just put the dog in the back.
She was from down near Waverly. I decided she was probably some old (i.e.my age) hippie with ties back to Cornell. She’s just starting to tell the tale of having to walk with a half-cast on her leg when we get to my road and I have to interrupt. Shiloh and I get out. I thank her profusely.
We walk the rest of the way to my house. I call a neighbor, who says he’ll come by after he finishes dinner. He gives me and my extra key (which I had never tried out to see if it started the car, or was merely for opening the trunk) a ride back to my car. The key works, the car starts, and I’m home ok.
I build a fire, and as I’m drying Shiloh off, it occurs to me that I’ve been reminded that I am not alone in the universe.
I check my email – the group leader has written back, reassuring me. I decide not to quit based on one day.
—————————
PART III – I Even Got My Keys Back!
I wanted to put up a “lost keys” flyer. But I didn’t want burglars to find the keys, see my phone number, figure out where I live via my phone number, and come rob me.
I emailed the preserve, asking for permission to use their phone number instead of mine. The director says go right ahead. He’ll also notify the caretaker (who lives next door to the preserve) to keep an eye out for the keys.
It was Thursday when I lost them. It snows on Friday. Saturday, when I post my notice, it is raining lightly. The trails are slush and mud. Because it’s so crummy, Shiloh and I retrace only half of our Thursday walk, without luck.
When we’re almost back to the parking lot, a couple with dogs is starting down the path towards us.
Shiloh and I had run into those dogs before. I may have even seen them in the yard of the next house south of the preserve. Out of the blue, the guy says, “Are you the one who lost her key?”
What? Do I look like somebody who would lose a key?
Later I figured it out. There were only two cars in the parking lot. As I was pulling in, the driver of the other car was taking off down the trail, dragging a kid in a jogging cart, looking like they’d been there many times. They probably showed up around the same time every weekend. The caretakers most likely recognized their car.
The other car in the lot was a Honda. There was a new posting on the info kiosk about lost Honda keys. Good guess. Small world.
He’s the caretaker. He lives in the next house down. I’m Kathy. He and his wife will look for the keys.
Later that day, I go online, and there’s an email – they found them! They’ve included their phone number. Yee ha!
I call – they’re on their way out for the evening. They will leave the keys on their front door. I drive down and find them hidden behind a note on the door. Lost and found within 48 hours! Better than I ever expected!
—————————
PART IV – Signing Up, Participating:
I was grateful. I made sure to notice that I had been forcefully reminded how “un-alone” I really am in this human universe.
The woman in the van picked up a hitchhiker with a large, muddy dog; my neighbor drove me back to the parking lot; the writing group leader reassured me that every week was not going to be like the first week; the secretary forwarded my email to the director; the director let me use the foundation’s phone number on my flyer and notified the caretaker; the caretaker and his wife looked for and found my keys.
So, today I quit procrastinating about volunteering somewhere and signed up with the Finger Lakes Land Trust.
Signed up to participate, once again, in this human universe.
cayugaview 