Today, I went to my old home town. I’ve been in New York now close to a year, but since I lived only an hour South, I never really considered it a major relocation. I keep a few friends there and occasionally have coffee and a mull around. I did just that. Caught up with my friend Steve for coffee then walked. Always was a walker, always WILL be a walker.

Usually these times of walking are reflection times; Observance times. It’s amazing what one year will do to a small town.

I’m reading the Grapes of Wrath which was done in the late 1930’s. It really paints a portrait of the Depression era. Farmers who had no choice but to move, barely have enough money to get food, let alone live in one place. When one works in a particular line of work, they tend to observe everything about that material elsewhere in their daily lives. If you worked for a tile company, there’s no doubt you’d notice the marble corridors on a vacation, or the abundance of latex flooring at the local restaurant. This same type of connection relates to other things we do or see, movies or books, blah blah blah.

On my vacation I was hoping to see fields of cotton, like I’d imagined in this book. It was too early. But in my former small town, I noticed the changes when it came to businesses going belly up. The economy has been poor which we’ve all noticed, but in a small town, run by local business and not massive chains, you see storefront after storefront vacant. Others have signs “under new Management” and there’s a “shake out” of sorts. A favorite coffee store of mine, Luccas went out of business, even though it’d been there since the time I moved in some 12 years ago.

I knew changes were evident. I observed the greyed cross which held a sign “campers” and pointed with an arrow. At this same log cabin and encampment in the 1920’s Tuberculousus kids were kept. It was a healthy day camp in the 90’s and was very quiet now with a sign for a spagetti dinner held by the Kiwanis. Around the corner from there lived a sculptor who did local wood indians out of tree trunks. He’d owned a highly decorated house with one cut tree made into an indian that faced his garage. Prior to now, it had always been brightly painted. The paint was peeling and it too, had aged. The weeds were overgrown and construction on hold.

I spun by my old home for a look. It’s the first time since I’d left that I ventured back. I’m not one glorify the past, but move forward. When I pulled by the front, my neighbor across the street Lucille was out sweeping her step. Her and her boyfriend John (both well into their 80’s) were always great people- John always throwing me plenty of wisecracks. When I pulled up I said something like, “Hey, what the hell ya doin?” She turned to me mystified. She squinted to see who I was, but didn’t recognize me. I said, “Remember me?”. She replied “No.” It had only been a year.

I said, “I lived in that house across the street, the yellow one.” She looked again and I could see the spark light- “Steve?” “Yesssssss, Steve. That’s me. How are you?”

“Not good,” she said. “I just got out of the hospital with my asthma. I have a heart problem that developed.”

I looked around and it seemed very lonely. John’s truck wasn’t there. “How’s John?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not good. He doesn’t live here anymore. His daughter took him to South Amboy. He’s been incoherent. I still stop by a couple times a week, but I’m not supposed to be out. I’m not one to be inside. I’ll go crazy. I miss him.”

“Yes, you must keep active,” I said. She had a terminal sadness to her expression. “I miss you and the kids. It’s not the same here any more.”

I gave an understanding shake of the head, “I know. We miss you too.”

“Would you like to come in for some tea or cookies?” She and John were always entertained when I came by to sit on her porch and look at my house. Back then I’d share a Budwiser with John and Ceil would bring out cheese. Always sharp witted the cracks never stopped flying. It was sad when we left, I could see an emptiness in John- always resistant to change.

I responded, “can’t today, I have some things to do before I need to get back. Kids will be out for summer soon and I’ll drop by with them. They’re much more entertaining then me- I’m a dud.” And as I looked to her face, I realized it was much the same as the last time I saw my Aunt Elsie- not really knowing how to say goodbye, not wanting to and not sure if we’d see each other again.

Change takes place, its inevidible. You can’t revisit the past and expect things to ever be the same. They’re not. Evolution takes place on all levels. You can be nostalgic, you can embrace it as a prior stepping stone, but all long walks lead somewhere. We’re built by experience, we’re molded from friendships, we’re rounded by the environment around us. Memory is important and where one starts to fault, it needs to be revisited, if only for a few precious moments. There in lies the hope.

When I drove off, I listened to the Blues on the radio. It was time to go.

Airborne

I’d stepped across the dune for a closer look at the ocean’s rage. From the windows of our beachside home, we watched wave after wave pummel the shore. The storm had built for three days and my vacation had been limited to board games and reading. Surrounded by a family of twenty-five members wasn’t bad, but I always grew claustrophobic after days of interaction.  

They already knew I was “mad” because I’d do strange things; walk miles into the unknown, wear flesh revealing pants, disappear then reappear with some outlandish story- they’d grown used to it. A walk across the wood planks which bridged the beach, led to synonymous head waves and a “you’re crazy” comment.

The best way to feel alive is to be challenged by the elements. I’d seen it every week on the Deadliest Catch, experienced it when I’d been near penniless in London, heard it from the mouth of a Korean War Veteran over an interview on broadband radio. The test was always there, buried deep inside every individual- be it the death of a close friend or, for some, to wake and face a sunny day. Every day we’re pushed and today my psyche said to breach the sands of Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina- in a storm.

I wasn’t alone.  When I stepped across the threshold of the Atlantic dune, the beach was barren with the exception of a lone surfer.  The man stood six foot, was approximately 250 lbs, dressed head to toe in a black wet suit and was doing his damnedest to catch the freedom wave every surfer looks for. I stood and watched his determination, drive after drive washed back like mouthwash swirled violently in the mouth of a giant. Even an enormous sunfish, a school of blowfish, and an eyeless skate washed ashore dead: Every wave, an earthquake; every whitecap, uncountable.

He turned momentarily to see me, then back.

It’s easy to get lost when you step away from technology. Nowadays, people can’t live without it: Televisions have internet and screens made of plasma; Ipods have music, video, and recording; Cell phones have alarms and even global positioning. It’s become a world defined by electronic gadgetry. It’s no wonder the United States suffers from an obesity problem.   When I crossed that barrier between the million dollar four story mansion we’d rented and the dune which blocked any sight of it, you could feel the irony of being so close, yet so far. Here- it was me the observer and him the fighter, getting back to the basics: man versus nature.

When I first saw his hands wave, I casually waved back. His ankle cord had been pulled loose from his surfboard and the white water had pulled it inland. A wave crashed over his head.

On these shores three centuries ago, pirates proliferated. Blackbeard was killed by Lieutenant Robert Maynard and the famous female pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read roamed. Back then, it was a lawless nation. New to the Europeans and home to thousands of Native American Indian tribes, who’d walked these shores generations over. Shipwrecks by the dozen lay off the banks and these weather conditions were perfect for the recovery of gold doubloons with the aid of a metal detector. The detector was technology and so was the cell phone I’d left back on my bedroom dresser.

I watched him disappear momentarily and pop up like some balloon held down by a child below the water surface. I stood up. He waved more frantically. His board came ashore.

I remembered the magnet on the refrigerator in the game room. Rip Currents- Break the grip of the Rip: If caught 1) don’t fight the current 2) Swim out of the current, then to shore 3) If you can’t escape, float or tread water 4)If you need help, call or WAVE for assistance. Was he waving to me? Was he caught in the grip? No, couldn’t be. He knows better.  

When I first saw his head and its battle against the ocean it was the size of a dime, now it was the size of a pea. His waves had died down and I reserved my glance to broken shells at my feet.  When I looked back up, he was gone.

I felt for the cell I normally carry and dismissed it. I walked the battered sands, kicked at small rounded stones, listened the gulls – “caw, caw, caw”, and watched the salt as it built layers on my reading glasses. I looked North, then South, and saw nothing but open coast. I looked to the ocean and saw nothing but white caps and salt water.

I’ve been called a blind optimist. In the shadows of reality, there’s a solution to every problem, a way out of every poor moment, a denial of every point of contention: A will out of every way. Danger is faced every day, every time we step out of the door to work, every time we cross the street, every time we shake the hand of a stranger. On the Deadliest Catch, if you fall in the Bering Sea without a life jacket, you’re dead in five minutes. First, your body stops blood to the extremities. It saves the internal organs by rendering the arms and legs useless. Without help, the soul ceases to exist. The water off the Outerbanks must be fifty degrees.

In the battle against nature, one must be resourceful: even the strong die.

I bought a sculpture from a small store in Florida that imported goods from Bali, Indonesia six months after the devastating tsunami killed over 120,000 people there.  The statue is a bald muscle ridden man like the kind you’d find in any Gold’s Gym or body building facility which, like the white water of the Atlantic, fill the East Coast. He sits in an Indian style position, bent over. Every muscle defined with strength, every vein popped, every tendon shaped to perfection, yet his face is buried. His head held by the strength of his hands like a block of granite that’s been unearthed for the first time.  I imagined an artist, an observer, who saw the subject at this time; hollow and defeated.  The sculptor captured his fleeting spirit and created a masterpiece in the face of adversity.

I came to realize that no matter how strong your physical strength and how you shape yourself physically, you’re not immune to shots at the human spirit. It’s your ability to be resilient and overcome, despite the odds.  The statue sits by my computer.  

I looked to the ocean, and saw nothing.  I continued to walk.

The salt and sand pelted my skin. The force of the waves eroded the beach line. A man of war jellyfish lay upside down in my path- its stinging tentacles all held tightly beneath its soft circular exterior. Close enough to the water to be recaptured and released. I thought I might watch for a few minutes, but instead found myself and my sand filled shoes walking into the rain, not sure of my destination.

I followed a break in the dunes; one which led to a road- a man made, tar soaked entity between two enormous buildings; a channel that led to an even bigger road- a highway. I made a right down this highway and was confronted by a sign- Orville and Wilbur Wright Memorial. I looked to the Monument on the hill erected in the 1930’s- a distant reminder of achievement, and historical reference. I crossed the field to the museum, attended a lecture and learned that when Wilbur curled a piece of cardboard back and forth in conversation, he had a moment of inspiration. He realized if the wings of his plane could imitate the cardboard, it could flow with a crosswind- the plane was born. I went out back and noted the distances marked by large headstone like markers of each flight taken on December 17^th, 1903. The first being Orville, the second Wilbur, the third Orville, the fourth Wilbur and realized the nature of competition drives achievement, in this case, sibling rivalry at its best. 

I looked for the ocean, and it wasn’t there.

I climbed the memorial which was the highest point at Kitty Hawk; A place where you could see everything around you. I walked around it.  The sides were engraved:  In commemoration of the conquest of air by The Brothers Wilbur & Orville Wright conceived by genius achieved by dauntless resolution and unconquerable faith. On the nearby airstrip, a plane took off.

I saw the house we stayed in and the ocean rages behind. It was far off in the distance.

Even though I’d seen that surfer come ashore safely with his board hours earlier, I’d learned enough to know, without a “what if” scenario and a venture into the imagination, a story ceases to be a story and an existence fades away.