Terminal Effervescence

Returning Home to the Portland, Maine AirportI started skipping winter without knowing it, a few years back. Today, 1.5-inches of rain into the New Hampshire afternoon, I’m making up for what I missed. The poodle has to go outside to go to the bathroom, and I promised him I’d take him once the rain let up. That was three hours ago. I’d let him out to go by himself, but all he’d do is wait for me at the top of the stairs, his back right leg permanently kipped up in protest against the pain.

This dog is teaching me lessons. They likely all do. Three weeks ago, I held all 60-pounds of him on my lap in the vet office in North Conway. The last time we were there was ten months prior, for what turned out to be a floating bone in his neck. When Dr Alfred asked this time how we are, I tried to let the information out gently. In between talking about Osito’s sudden limp and the skiing that day, I let it slip that he was diagnosed with cancer.

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Left, Right in the Road

It was tourist season in Jackson—an easy excuse for poor driving, over-consumption of sweets, and regrettable decisions on wildlife art. I drove through town thankful I was leaving the mayhem while people honked up and down the street. The van was loud, but it was a van, and it was having issues, and so I didn’t question the road noise until I took a sharp right turn and felt air woosh across my neck. The view in the rearview mirror looked suspicious. I pulled over. The back door—a 8X6 foot panel, in this case-- had swung wide open, with all of my disorganized trappings of life perched in the exposed shelf. Based on quick math, and my recall of the last time I had opened the back, it had been splayed wide for five miles, at an average of 35 MPH....

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Beyond the Next

Getting closer to where I'm goingI’m at my second tire shop in a week, 408 miles apart. This time, I’m in Bozeman; last time, I was in Salt Lake. But it all started in Provo. 63 mph in the left lane, construction cones ahead, and something sharp enough underneath to land me stopped, rimless, on the shoulder.

Five minutes into changing my tire a man pulled over to help me. As we jacked the van up for the second time, only to have it rock and fall forward a second time when a semi passed, he offered his hand.

“I’m John,” he said, “if we die today, it was nice to meet you.”

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Deceleration

It’s snowing in Boulder, Colorado today. I just came from the desert. Before that I was ice climbing.

Three nights ago, I had a dream that my van would not slow down on a New Jersey off-ramp. Even inside of my dream I recognized the symbolism. Determinedly, I brought in the “decelerator” to my mechanic and asked him to fix it. He did. My dream self told my real self, there, it is better now, you can sleep. Never mind that I have not driven in Jersey since college, never mind that there is no such thing as a decelerator. I was proud of my semi-conscious state. I was evolved. And then I got the flu.

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Going Local

...It’s not a bad idea. I could convert the pop-top of my Eurovan to a mobile garden and grow rutabagas, kale, and garlic. It would be the ultimate in green living—I could sell my produce everywhere under the same local label. As long as I was on the move and the dirt stayed in place despite highway winds and snow, I would be my own localization....

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