My husband Andrew and I have both been working from home the past few weeks. There have been some adjustments related to space. We’ve agreed all pooping is to take place in the bathroom farthest from where our desks are set up.
It’s funny the things you notice when you spend 24 hours a day with another person. Andrew discovered I have a “work voice.” It’s like a secret identity where my superpower is cursing.
I binge watched Tiger King last week. I’ve decided Carole Baskin did kill her husband, but it probably didn’t have anything to do with them working together. Maybe. There are no tigers at our apartment complex.
We do have squirrels. They’ve grown used to the both of us being home everyday and they march right up to the glass door on the patio. Like they’re ordering food at Jack in the Box. We’re giving them names. I call the one that knocks over my plants You Bastard.
While we’re in quarantine I’m trying new things. I’ve got a sourdough starter going. Everything I’d read made the process sound pretty easy, but I’ve found it’s like raising a third child. I have to feed it twice a day and keep it warm. I’m knitting it a scarf.
“We should visit Enchanted Rock,” Andrew suggested one evening, not long after we started dating.
I pictured a place shrouded in a sparkling mist and peopled with tiny fairies peeking from behind evergreens. I worried whether the rock, enchanted or not, would provide shade. I’m a great fan of shade, especially when the temperature gets above eighty degrees. When I hike in the summer, I stuff my hydration pack full of ice. I’d carry an electric fan if I could, and string out a bright orange extension cord behind me as I tramp along the trail. Our visit to the Enchanted Rock Natural Area in the Hill Country of Texas was to take place in the unseasonably warm month of May.
I had discovered that Andrew got along quite well outdoors. He always carried one of those multi-function pocketknives and a small, intense flashlight, in case he needed to defend himself against orcs or cut up an apple in the dark.
“What’s enchanted about the rock? Are there trees?” I asked.
“The rock makes noise at night, as the granite cools off, and there are a few trees,” Andrew assured me. “We can climb to the top!”
“Climb?”
I wondered about those rock noises. I pictured myself strapped into a leather harness and dangling from the side of a cliff. I was willing to explore exciting experiences with Andrew, but I didn’t think plunging to my death would make a good impression.
“Oh, it’s really more like hiking. It’s not that steep.”
I was not reassured. Andrew’s legs were shorter than mine, so his center of gravity was closer to the ground. His sturdy legs were built for inclines.
I searched the internet for a picture of the place and found an image on the state park website. It showed a dull pinkish grey, rounded hill of granite set against a backdrop of bright blue sky. Stunted mesquite trees in sparse blotches of green dotted the bottom of the hill. The sides and top of the rock, however, resembled the balding head of a middle-aged man who declined the comb over but wasn’t ready to give up all his hair. Another website suggested the area might once have been the location for human sacrifices. As I wondered aloud if we might still see bloodstains on the granite, Andrew made our camping reservations.
When arrived at the Enchanted Rock Natural Area, we stopped to check in at the ranger station and pick up a map of the area. The helpful ranger, a rosy complexioned, blond young man in a pressed tan uniform shirt and a hat like Smoky the Bear might wear, pointed out the camping spots on the map. Off we went to explore before hiking to our campground. Beyond the parking area the focus of the state park, the Enchanted Rock itself, rose into the sky. Clouds hovered some distance above the summit of the hill, and the pink granite sides shimmered in the afternoon sun. Boulders the size of small sheds clung to the surface. I didn’t see many trees on the slope, or places that looked to afford either shade or an easy stroll to the top.
“We could hike up the Little Hill this afternoon and save the larger one for tomorrow.”
Andrew pointed across from the Enchanted Rock. The Little Hill was shorter than the larger granite hill that gave the park its name. There were however, a few small trees clinging to the granite slopes. The guidebook, “On Your Way Up, a Guide to the Top of Enchanted Rock” cautioned “if you are unsteady on your feet or have trouble with your footing, please consider your physical condition before attempting the climb.” I have trouble keeping my footing when I step in and out of my bathtub, so I agreed with Andrew that we should postpone our adventure on the Enchanted Rock, and warm up with a climb up the Little Hill.
We walked past the brave hikers headed up the main path toward the Enchanted Rock. They were an interesting assortment of age and ability. Many of them had on sneakers instead of hiking boots. I noticed several people leading dogs. A tiny brown Chihuahua scrambled alongside an older woman with white hair held back in a visor. When I pointed out the little dog to Andrew, he reminded me he had once climbed to the summit while accompanied by a Chihuahua. The dog belonged to an old friend, a girl he knew before we met. I had seen a photo of Andrew posed on a barren, rocky, landscape, holding a tiny tan and white dog with a pink jeweled collar, but I hadn’t realized the picture captured the top of the granite mountain.
“Did the dog enjoy the climb?” I wanted to know.
“Yes, she did!” Andrew replied as we started up the side of the Little Hill.
As I shuffled over piles of loose pebbles and searched for the path with the least slope, I thought about that picture of Andrew and the little dog. He posted it on his online dating profile, where I saw it when we first chatted. The dog’s owner was absent from the picture, but in my imagination, she looked something like Scarlett Johansen, Andrew’s favorite movie star.
We had trudged about halfway up the incline when I realized the slope was getting steeper. The outcroppings where I might gain a handhold were getting further apart. I squinted into the sun and wiped the sweat from my face, trying to gauge how much farther along we had to go. I regretted leaving my ice filled water bottle behind in the car.
“Let’s stop here for a minute.” I panted and clung to a large rock the size of a Volkswagen, poised to slide down the side of the granite slope, with or without me still clinging to it.
“Are you tired?” Andrew asked as he stepped closer to the edge of an outcropping, where he would have a good view of my body as it tumbled unhindered down the hard, rocky ground.
I thought Andrew and I had reached the point in our relationship where I should disclose one of my shortcomings.
“No,” I replied. “I’m afraid of heights.”
“Oh! Are you okay? Should we go back down?”
Andrew walked toward me, sending a shower of loose rocks cascading past my feet and bouncing along to the concrete parking lot below. I risked a glance behind. The gentle incline we had traveled transformed into a forty-five-degree slant covered with sharp bits of gravel.
“No, let’s keep moving.” As I said this, a dark shadow floated across the rock. I glanced up to spot a turkey buzzard, circling in for a closer view.
“How about we aim for that rock up there?” Andrew gestured up the hill, toward a grouping of boulders the size of cattle cars. They did not appear to have anything holding them onto the side of the mountain.
“There are a lot of rocks up there, which one are you talking about?” I leaned out past the boulder to get a better glimpse up the hill.
“The penis shaped one,” Andrew answered.
“That doesn’t look like a penis.”
No matter how much I squinted the rock did not seem the least bit phallic shaped. Maybe he meant a different rock, and I had a moment of panic, picturing Andrew wandering up and out of view while I trekked from one tall pointy rock to another.
“You can do it! Let’s get a little closer.” Andrew marched up toward the summit, and out of view around yet another large boulder.
I realized the mysterious noises heard at night were most likely not ghosts, or some reasonably explained natural phenomenon. They must be instead the cries of abandoned hikers, afraid to venture away from the rocks they anchored behind.
We worked our way to the top, with Andrew stopping now and then to wait for me to scrabble along behind. We made our way from one vaguely penile column of granite to the next. I resisted the urge to crawl, afraid even that might prove too frightening, and I would be forced to push myself up the slope on my belly like a snake.
When we reached the top of the hill, I found a patch of green moss growing in a weathered depression in the rock. This was not the Enchanted Rock, but it looked as though we might find fairies. Birds chirped and flitted about a stunted oak tree as though they were down at ground level. I hurried over to the tree, eager to take hold in case it was a heat induced mirage. If I clung to the tree, I hoped I could convince myself I wasn’t on top of a hill I would have to climb back down. I should plant a flag, if only the surface beneath me weren’t solid granite.
I posed on the summit of the Little Hill and loosened my hold on the scrubby tree. To a casual observer, including the boyfriend I wanted to impress, I would appear to be leaning my hand against the bark, and not clinging for dear life to the nearest object that didn’t move when I touched it.
Andrew positioned himself at the edge of a drop-off and gazed off toward the Main Dome next to us while he snapped pictures with his camera. The pink granite of the Enchanted Rock glowed in the late afternoon sun. If I squinted a little, I might make out a small, determined form on the top of that neighboring rock. I closed my eyes and I could see her clearly, her little snout raised up to smell the fresh wind off the moss, and her four feet planted firmly in triumph on that solid ground.
We arrived at the zoo in a car loaded with boxes of books and mismatched towels, two tennis rackets, and some stereo equipment. I’d been lured into the trip by Andrew, my boyfriend back then. I love the opportunity to view any animal secured behind a fence where there is little chance of it being able to bite me, sting me, or pee on my leg. When Andrew mentioned an overnight trip to Waco to the Cameron Park Zoo, I packed my toothbrush.
“We’ll stop by the zoo on our way home, after we pick up things I have stored in Austin,” he said.
“Wait, there’s labor involved?”
“The zoo has an entire exhibit devoted to lemurs,” he said. “You won’t want to miss that.”
I agreed to a couple of hours rummaging through the boxes stashed in Andrew’s storage unit. We had been dating awhile by then, and there’s no better way to get to know someone than snooping among their possessions.
When we arrived at the zoo, I wanted to go see the lemurs right off, but Andrew suggested we save them for last.
“We’ll walk a big circle through the park, and end up at Lemur Island,” he promised.
After we meandered past the sloths hanging like hammocks in their enclosure, somewhere around the middle of the zoo, we came across a playground. It had a slide, a climbing wall, and a giant concrete snake painted in bright stripes of black, red, and yellow.
“Oh! A snake!” Andrew took out his camera. “We need to get a picture of you with that snake.”
I agreed immediately. Before my divorce I rarely posed for photographs. There are hundreds of pictures of my children growing up. They are almost always alone in the portraits, as though they had no parents and were raised by wolves. I remember a time before the invention of smart phones, when all you had to do to prevent your own picture being snapped was to keep a firm grip on the camera.
Things changed the year after my divorce. I signed up for an account with OK Cupid and realized I’d need to post photos of myself. The pictures I selected tended toward the silly side. For Halloween, I posed in front of a Christmas tree decorated with plastic bats and skulls. I’d rather be judged for my sense of humor than my appearance, plus I reasoned — who doesn’t love a clown?
When I spotted the shot of Andrew wearing a giant mushroom hat, I knew we would be a good match. It turned out he loved taking silly photographs as much as I loved posing for them. If a compromising picture of me ever surfaces, it will be one in which I am clothed, wearing a funny hat or a tiara, and posed on top of a mechanical bull.
On the playground, I looked at the snake and tried to imagine the best angle.
“What if I climb on top?” I offered.
“No, no — you should get inside, in his mouth, like he’s swallowing you.”
I weaved through the noisy children running around on the playground as though this site belonged to them alone. Eventually, enough tired of this exercise I had a clear path to the snake, and I rushed over and ducked into the mouth. The snake was constructed to accommodate a small to medium sized child, and not a grown, inflexible woman.
“No, turn around.” Andrew motioned circles with his hand.
He lowered the camera as I tried to swing my feet over and onto the slick painted surface of the snake’s mouth. I slid around face down, with most of my body hanging out as I tried to get some purchase on the slippery concrete.
“No! No! The other way!”
Andrew continued to wave his hands about, while I ignored the toddler standing in front of me with a puzzled look on his face. The child, a little boy, frowned and stuck a grimy finger in his mouth. A line of sticky purple that looked like grape jelly trailed down the front of his t-shirt.
“Lay down,” Andrew directed.
I dropped my face toward the mulch cushioning the playground and tried not to think about germs in the wood chips.
“No! Not that way!” Andrew motioned again with his arm, waving it in a helicopter pattern over his head.
Several sets of parents shuffled their children away from the crazy lady rolling around inside the giant cement cobra.
“Lie down on your back and throw your arms out. He’s eating you alive!”
The toddler who had been watching me burst into tears and ran over to hide behind his mother. I flipped over and stuck my arms out past the snake’s mouth, banging my elbow in the maneuver. I hoped the resulting pained expression on my face would add a touch of realism to the photo.
Later, while we were snapping pictures of a giraffe, Andrew discovered the exposure on the camera was set a little too light for his taste. He fussed with the adjustments and then announced, “I’m afraid we’ll have to go back and take that snake picture again.”
“Can we see the lemurs first?”
Maybe on the way over to Lemur Island Andrew would find something more promising than a large cement snake for me to pose on- hopefully a big, soft, stuffed bear.
“It won’t take but a minute, it’s not like the lemurs are taking appointments.”
When we arrived back at the playground, we discovered it covered with children. There were at least five or six of them claiming the snake as a good place to stand and shout out to their parents. I passed the time while we waited staring longingly at the icon for Lemur Island on the zoo map.
The last child left her perch on the snake for the chance to go push her brother off the climbing wall, and I seized the opportunity to dash over and slide myself feet first into the snake. I bumped my elbow again. Andrew snapped off a couple of quick pictures and we left to make our way at last to Lemur Island.
When we got to the habitat, I discovered the exhibit was a lovely place, complete with artfully constructed cliffs and ledges, tall trees, and a thirty-foot moat encircling the land area. The only thing lacking, as far as I could tell, was lemurs. I made out a lone greyish-brown animal sunning on a ledge fifty feet away. Andrew offered me his binoculars, and I watched the lemur scratch behind his ear and then lumber over to another section of the cliff to settle in for a good nap.
“Where are all the lemurs?” I asked.
“I don’t know, maybe they’re sleeping.”
Andrew took out his camera and zoomed in for a photo. We sat at a table at the observation area across from Lemur Island and took turns looking through the binoculars until it was time to leave.
The next day Andrew emailed the pictures he took at the zoo, including the photo of me and the snake. It was the first one, the overexposed photo. Andrew sent it with a little note — “Turns out I liked this photo better.”
As I read the email, I had to admit the picture was a good one, and worth the trouble it took staging it. There I was, arms flung out, the map of the zoo and other assorted brochures tossed just out of reach of my hands. I had a terrified look on my face, as though I knew we would have to stage the whole thing again.
The photo of Lemur Island showed the beautiful landscape and a small dot amongst the rocks. If I squinted just right and put my nose on the computer screen, I might imagine the dot was a lemur. There he was, snoozing alone on the rock ledge. He might not have been lonely, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, with no one to snap his picture should he have the urge to put on a funny hat and dance along the edge of the cliff.
Lemur Island at the Cameron Park Zoo in Waco, Texas — Photo by Terrye Turpin
The truest test of whether someone will stick by you ‘in sickness and in health’ comes from the ordinary ills — the soggy discomfort of the common cold or the excess body fluids that accompany the flu. You’d have to be a complete troll to abandon the loved one who had cancer or needed one of your kidneys, but it takes a strong commitment to pass the Kleenex to someone who just sneezed on you. Show me someone who can listen as you complain about an ingrown toenail, and I’ll show you someone who loves you.
I am not a good patient, I don’t like to rest when I’m ill and I resent having to use up a day off just to stay home in bed. Because I have a hard time remembering to take prescribed medications, I’ve resorted to one of those plastic boxes with compartments for each day of the week. The box is the size of a wooden ruler, like one I used in elementary school. It’s filled with vitamins. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever get stricken with a serious illness.
Last year I gave in and scheduled the dental implant surgery I’d been avoiding for twenty years. The first step would involve a bone graft. I opted for sedation after my periodontist, a sincere young man who resembled Ron Howard and who might have just stepped off the set of Mayberry RFD himself, described the surgery involved. I volunteered my husband, Andrew, to accompany me.
Every time I visit the dentist my mind replays that scene from the movie Marathon Man where they torture the hero by drilling into his teeth without anesthetic. I had my surgery at the dental college. Not only did they remember the anesthetic, they gave me two little blue Halcion beforehand. The last thing I remember of the surgery is resting my head on Andrew’s shoulder while we sat in the waiting room.
When I came around, I sat in our living room while Andrew steeped a tea bag for me to place on my gums. My mouth was numb, a dark purple bruise bloomed on my cheek, and there was a trail of blood and drool in the corner of my lips. I looked like an extra from The Walking Dead. Over the next few days my diet comprised blended food, an antibiotic pill the size of a small grape, a steroid, and pain relievers. For dessert I enjoyed a prescription mouthwash with a name I couldn’t pronounce and a taste like something used to exterminate wasps. I spent most of my time reclined in a chair in front of the television, with an ice pack made from frozen peas pressed to my jaw.
To prepare for the surgery, we stocked up on soup and ice cream, but by day three I was glaring at Andrew every time he tried to open a bag of crunchy chips. He hopped up and down so many times fetching my ice pack he wore a trail in the carpet. If only I could have unhinged my jaw like a snake and swallowed a fried chicken wing.
I developed a craving for mashed potatoes with cream gravy and convinced Andrew I was well enough to go out to dinner. After applying a layer of concealer I considered the purple and green bruise hidden, and we headed over to a diner near our home. On the way I imagined how wonderful the mashed potatoes would taste. Hopefully they would be made with a generous amount of artery clogging butter and drowned with cream gravy so thick with dairy products they resembled pudding.
When we got there Andrew ordered the all-day breakfast special with scrambled eggs and biscuits, and I had a bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy. When our food arrived I was dismayed to see the potatoes came, not with the delicious smooth cream gravy I had been dreaming of, but a watery, lumpy brown gravy. I noticed that Andrew’s eggs were runny, which he hates, but he ate them anyway.
“How are your potatoes?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied. I didn’t mention brown gravy on potatoes should only be served north of the Mason Dixon line.
As soon as we returned from dinner, I took a pain pill, and hoped the throbbing in my jaw would ease. It hurt too much to talk, so I tried my best to send an “I love you” telepathically as I gave Andrew’s shoulder a little pat. He sighed and got up from the couch to go into the kitchen. He came back with my bag of frozen peas, which I accepted, certain he understood.
I didn’t miss having a dryer until I bought my washing machine. For the two years after my divorce I made do with the community laundry room at the apartment complex where I lived. It seemed a little self-indulgent to complain about the lack of a washer and dryer when there were women dodging land mines instead of worrying whether they would lose a sock to one of their neighbors. Carrying my laundry up and down the stairs and back and forth the fifty yards to the laundry room was good exercise. If it was a cold and rainy day, at least I didn’t have to carry my clothes down to the river to beat them on a rock.
In the middle of my life, when I thought my laundry future set, divorce thrust me back to a college dorm room status. I left a bad marriage with what I could carry in my arms, plus the futon from the upstairs game room. Possibly the last person over 50 to sleep on a futon, I tried to keep my material possessions down to the bare minimum, in case I ever needed to make another quick escape. Back then, I envied the homeless people standing on the corner, tied down to nothing but a backpack and a small, brown paper bag of booze.
“You need a dryer,” my boyfriend, Andrew, said one Sunday morning. We lounged in bed, by this time I had replaced the futon with a full-sized mattress supported on a wooden frame. When Andrew spent the night, we would wake tangled in the middle of the covers, each of us fighting for our share of the space.
Andrew and I met online, matched up by a mutual affection for cheese, Scrabble, and hiking. On our second date I asked him to assemble an IKEA dresser for me, and to my surprise he returned for a third date after that.
“I’ll get a dryer soon,” I replied. The new washer was less than one week old, and I was still adjusting to the idea that my belongings would no longer fit in the back of my car.
“Look, here’s one on Craig’s list, and it has a picture,” Andrew persisted as he held out his phone toward me. “You deserve clean, dry laundry,” he said. He seemed earnest, but I wondered if he’d grown tired of dodging the damp clothes slung over the shower rod.
The dryer in the picture looked functional, and the price was right. Andrew read the phone number off, and I called about the dryer. A man answered the phone in a drowsy Sunday morning voice, accepted my offer of $50 for the dryer, and gave me directions to his house.
When we arrived at the address, I noticed a large storage pod, the size and shape of a railroad boxcar, stacked on the drive way. I wondered if the dryer came from some abandoned unit. Were the people in the house divorcing and dividing up their possessions? I hoped not. I didn’t want to wind up with a vengeful dryer, one that would burst into flames from spite, or chew up my underwear and spit them out like a cat hacking up hairballs.
We made our way past several rusty metal filing cabinets lined up on the sidewalk and toward the open garage door. As Andrew texted that we had arrived, a tall man in flip flops walked out to meet us. A barefoot woman I guessed to be his wife, stepped up behind him.
“Sorry about the mess, we’re moving,” the man said. He motioned at stacks of boxes in the garage. “The dryer’s right in here, if you want to look at it.”
I followed the woman inside to the laundry room. “I can turn it on,” she said as she moved towels to a laundry basket on the floor. She turned the dial on the top of the machine and the dryer responded with a quiet hum and a little quiver as the drum inside tumbled around. I smiled and nodded that she could turn off the machine. As I counted out the money, and her husband and Andrew got ready to load up the dryer, a young girl with the same brown hair as the woman strolled over to us. A small black cat huddled in her arms, a cast on one of its legs.
“What happened?” I said, as I reached out and touched the kitty.
“We don’t know. My husband found her one night on his way home from work. Someone had run over her, or thrown her out of a car I guess.”
“Does she have a name?” I asked.
“That’s Maybe,” the woman told me. “As in, ‘Maybe we can afford the vet bills!’”
This must be a happy dryer, taking care of the clothing for a family that took in and cared for stray cats with broken legs. I imagined the machine tossing my clothes in its warm embrace as Andrew shut the hatch on my SUV, and dryer loaded, we headed back to my apartment.
Later that night I washed a load of clothes, put the wet items in the dryer, and went to the living room. I settled down on my futon with the book I had been reading and listened to the gentle thump of the dryer. The scent of lavender fabric softener drifted through the apartment, a reminder this was what we all deserve- a comfortable place to sit, clean, dry clothes, and someone to help us carry it all upstairs.
I hesitated in the candlelight in front of the locked metal gate seven hundred and fifty feet underground. The cave was slightly warmer than the inside of a refrigerator and smelled of mildew and the earthy scent of bat guano. As I inhaled the cool, moist air I glanced around me at the dark rock walls. My fiancé Andrew waited beside me, listening to the gray-haired park ranger give our small group last minute safety instructions. At the end of his speech, the ranger mentioned a story about a kidnapping in the cavern. Four armed men held several people captive for hours near the spot where we stood. Had I paid better attention, I would have heard him say this crime occurred in 1979. I was, however, busy calculating how long the candle in my lantern would burn before it left me in the dark.
I glanced at my fellow tourists and tried to imagine one of them pulling out a gun. The flannel clad young couple in running shoes had two small children with them, so I expected they would behave. The retirees from Florida, dressed in matching Hawaiian shirts, did not look menacing. I decided at the least I could outrun them if they turned out to be dangerous.
Andrew and I chose this tour from the comfort of our home, weeks before our trip to New Mexico, and we bought the tickets online. I don’t mind spontaneity, but my first love is a well-planned itinerary. I browsed the options listed on the Carlsbad Caverns website and rejected the “Spider Cave Tour” based on the name alone. Andrew lobbied for the “Lower Cave Tour”, but after spotting the words “crawling” and “rope ladders” in the description, I knew this would not work for me. When I was a child I broke my arm, swinging from a plastic jump rope tied to a tree. I didn’t think the experience would improve if I recreated it underground fifty years later.
“I wonder if they have a senior discount,” I asked, as I clicked through the Park Service website.
“Oh no, don’t fool with that, just pay full price,” Andrew insisted.
I am happy to accept any age related savings given, while Andrew searches for and plucks out his gray hairs each evening. I once offered to sign him up under my AARP membership, and you would think I had volunteered to donate one of his kidneys.
After some discussion, we agreed on the Left Hand Tunnel tour. It promised to recreate the caving experience of early explorers. The only warning listed described walking on uneven surfaces in dim lighting. I can find my way to our bathroom in the middle of the night, so I thought I would be okay.
Photo by Terrye Turpin
When we arrived at Carlsbad, Andrew tried again to convince me I had the skill and flexibility to navigate the Lower Cave Tour. As we strolled along the paved path through the main cavern, the Big Room, we stopped to peer over the railing, down into the deeper portion of the cave. A narrow dirt path wound through stalagmites and disappeared through a dark opening in the cave wall below. Lovely formations like lacy curtains flowed from the ceiling, but I wondered how securely they were attached. “Crushed by beauty” might be a nice epitaph, but would be small consolation once I was buried.
“I don’t think I can climb down a rope ladder, and there are no lights down there.” I pointed over the side. In contrast, spotlights in the Big Room illuminated both the cave formations, and the paved trail with gentle lighting. There were no rope ladders in sight. Instead, people traveled up and down in elevators, dined at a snack bar, and relieved themselves in restrooms with running water and flush toilets. Still, it touched me that Andrew had this faith in me; that I could scamper down a rope ladder and crawl through bat infested tunnels in the dark. We pledged to grow old together even though I have a head start.
When Andrew and I first met our age difference didn’t matter. We seemed to be in that sweet spot of time between middle age and infirmity. However, I remember that I will retire eleven years before he does. I agonize over broken hips, and Andrew scoffs I am too young to worry about falling.
While we waited for the tour orientation to start, I looked at a photo display of early explorers to the caverns. The women wore their finest silk dresses and caps with feathers. I wondered how they managed the cave while wearing high heels. The men wore sensible loafers and looked dashing in wool overcoats and fedoras. All of them looked out of place as they dropped into the cavern in the large bat guano mining buckets used by visitors before the cavern upgraded to wooden stairs.
“How historically accurate is this tour? Will they lower us down in a bucket?” Andrew asked.
“No, I believe they phased that out,” I replied.
As we assembled in a small classroom, the park ranger who would lead the tour checked off our names. He asked us to affirm our ability to walk across a dim, rough dirt path. I felt confident about my “Yes!” until he opened a metal cabinet filled with hard hats, elbow pads, and head lamps, things a coal miner would use. When he took out a box of candles and left the crawling equipment in the cabinet, I sighed and sat back in my chair. We all lined up to select a candle, and I picked one with a fresh wick that looked like it would last until the end of the tour.
After the orientation, we rode the elevator down, and walked over to the Left Hand Tunnel entrance. We picked up our lanterns, and the ranger lit the candles placed inside. He warned us of the danger of spilling hot wax on our neighbors or the fragile cave formations and off we went.
As we entered the tunnel, my eyes adjusted to the dim light. I managed to spot my feet, fearful that I might wipe out a small, irreplaceable artifact with my sturdy hiking boots. We came to a slight incline in the path, a slick little hill about four feet tall, and the ranger offered a hand up and over to anyone who needed it. I hadn’t met my insurance deductible for the year, so I accepted. Everyone else–except the elderly couple from Florida — scrambled up and over the top as though they were stepping up onto a curb outside Starbucks.
The lantern did a fair job of lighting up a one foot perimeter of the cave around my feet, so I had a great view of the crushed rock on the dirt path. I kept my eyes trained on that path as the ranger mentioned the deep pools of water and the steep drop offs that we passed. I listened as he described other points of interest, the sparkling pyrites and ghostly pale calcium carbonate formations. When I felt steady enough, I lifted my gaze from my feet and focused on the backs of Andrew’s legs as he strode along. At one point we stopped and the ranger pointed out an area where an early visitor used a flare to burn their initials into the cave wall, proving that even decades ago people were assholes.
About halfway through the tour we came to a spot leveled out by thousands of tromping tourist feet, and we set down our lanterns. The ranger continued the kidnapping story he mentioned at the start of the tour. It turns out there was alcohol involved, which explains why the would-be terrorists thought it was a good idea to isolate themselves 750 feet underground and demand a million dollars, an airplane to Brazil, and an interview with a reporter. They got the interview, but not the money or airplane, and everyone came out of the cave without injury.
“With your permission, I’d like to do something exciting now,” The ranger said. I worried that here at last we would be asked to rappel down an underground crevice or scale a rock outcropping. I prepared to protest that the tour description failed to cover this.
“I’d like us to blow out our candles and experience the cave in total darkness.” When no one objected, he continued. “We will stand here in silence and then I will come around and light your candles.”
I breathed a sigh, standing still I could do, even in the dark. The cave dimmed as each person blew out their candle, and one by one I watched my fellow tourists disappear. The darkness enveloped me like a soft, thick blanket, and there were no sounds of trouble, no heavy breathing or whispers from a drawn pistol.
When the ranger suggested that we each hold up a hand in front of our face, I kept mine at my side, fearful if I couldn’t see it, then my hand would cease to exist. I knew my hand was there, I felt it dangling at the end of my arm, but it was disconcerting to know something was there but not be able to see the physical proof of its existence. This was the price I paid for a lifetime of reading scary stories.
A slight breeze brushed my cheek, and I heard a rustling, flapping sound that was either a bat brushing by or Andrew waving his hand in front of my face. I bumped him with my shoulder and he reached down to clasp my hand. My fingers intertwined with his while the ranger came around to each of us and relit our candles. We made our way back along the path, through the metal gate at the entrance to the tunnel, and dropped off our lanterns at the end of the tour.
When we stepped off the elevator at the surface, I left to browse the overpriced souvenirs in the gift shop while Andrew stopped to look over a table top diorama of the caverns. I came out to see him studying a map of the Lower Cave.
When I turned fifty, I traded in the recklessness of my youth. I chose my clothes for comfort rather than sex appeal. Then I met Andrew, and I took a chance on dating a man eleven years younger than me. Chance implies a risk of loss, but as we grew closer, I realized there was no risk here. The loss was in the years before we met. Here was a man who would find my hand in the dark.
I pointed over to the information desk. “Why don’t we stop and see if there are tickets for the Lower Cave tour?”
When we asked, the ranger informed us that there wouldn’t be another tour until the following week. “It sells out quickly” he told us, “It’s our most popular tour.”
“I’m sorry.” I told Andrew and tried to hide my relief. There is nothing like reaping the benefit of sacrifice, without actually having to make it.
“That’s okay.” Andrew said, “We will come back sometime. We can practice climbing up a rope ladder.”
I calculated how many years we would have to wait before I qualified for the National Park Senior Pass. I pictured a much older me, leaning on a walker with one of those cloth bags on the front to hold snacks and a book I was reading. I told Andrew I would be game to try the rope ladder, and he took my hand as we walked across the parking lot to our car. If the rope ladder doesn’t work out I thought, maybe they could just lower me down in a bucket.
My fiance, Andrew, loves Wichita Falls. We drove up there this weekend and he pitched an earnest plea for us to buy his childhood home.
Besides the lack of a down payment, I was not swayed by the quaint architecture or the quiet neighborhood.
“They had Fox News playing in the hotel dining room,” I said.
The hotel featured full length mirrors at the end of every hallway. Every time I passed one it startled me, as though I were encountering myself in some other dimension. They also served to remind me that I didn’t need that cinnamon bun from the breakfast buffet. The atmosphere was somewhere between The Shining and The Biggest Loser.
“Oh that’s just the hotel,” Andrew replied. “The only public liberal arts school in Texas is here.”
The oil boom and bust left Wichita Falls stranded like a second string prom date. The city is filled with empty high rise buildings, evacuated like the set of a dystopian movie. Something with zombies or plague. But it’s also lovely and stocked with my favorite sort of shops – cheap antique stores and artsy coffee shops.
I took this photo standing in the middle of the street while Andrew was distracted by a window display.
Wichita Falls is home to the World’s Smallest Skyscraper, the Newby – McMahon building. A con artist collected money from investors in 1919 and proposed to construct a high rise office building, but the oil men he conned didn’t notice that the blueprints listed the size in inches, not feet.
World’s Smallest Skyscraper
There are also several breweries in downtown Wichita Falls
We’re getting married in October, and I found this floofy hat that I thought I might wear, but Andrew made the same sort of face I made when he suggested moving to Wichita Falls.
I’ve been thinking about wedding vows, and I don’t think I will include Ruth 1:16 “Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people.”
I had to kneel down to get this shot. When I tried to stand up my knees locked and I waved at Andrew to try and get his attention, but he was looking at real estate listings on his phone and didn’t see me. I grabbed his arm and managed to pull myself up as I decided all future photography would be taken at eye level.
I don’t know if this was an actual cat before it was stuffed.
As we drove around Wichita Falls I noticed an interesting art display near a large, spooky building that turned out to be a grain elevator.
I convinced Andrew to pull over so I could take some pictures.
Here’s Andrew, peeking out to see if I had finished taking pictures.
As we strolled past a construction worker spray painting a store front, Andrew remarked on how well they were doing, renovating the downtown area.
“I still don’t want to move here though,” I said. “And don’t think the 6,000 liberal arts students will sway me either.”
In the last place we stopped I wandered away from Andrew, drawn to a display of vintage clothing. Nothing fit, the folks were all much smaller back then. You never see that in time travel movies, but really us future folk would be giants. I turned a corner, looking for Andrew, and ran into this guy.
I don’t know what’s more startling, the lion head or the bare feet.
I weaved through aisles of antique glassware, stacks of crumbling books, and bins filled with old records in cardboard jackets. I couldn’t find Andrew and just as I stopped to take a deep breath, he popped up from behind an antique wardrobe.
“I’d know that sigh anywhere,” he said.
I was glad to see him, and glad to load up the car with our purchases and head home. Maybe I could change that verse a bit, make it “Where you will go I will go, as long as it’s convenient to a nice shopping area and has a hospital with a good reputation. Along with reasonable real estate prices and a decent commute to work and a theater.”
I’m cheating on my fiancé. I’d feel bad about it, but I suspect he’s cheating too. The little foil wrappers are evidence of his infidelity. I’m smarter than that, mine are stashed in my trash can at work.
Andrew and I met online, matched up by our interest in hiking and our affection for cheese. His profile listed his food preference as “Vegetarian”. I envisioned cozy evenings at home, where I would prepare eggplant parmesan and Indian curries. I soon learned that his idea of vegetarian does not include many actual vegetables. He likes beans and potatoes, and sometimes expands his menu to include a salad. And cheese, of course.
I grew up with the ideal of the happy homemaker in the kitchen, nourishing her family with love and meat filled casseroles. There are only so many ways you can cook a bean. Eventually I gave up cooking for Andrew. We prepare our own meals and buy our own snacks.
The real problem, the forbidden love for both of us, is chocolate. The five month gap between Easter and Halloween barely gives us time to lose the weight we gain from discounted chocolate bunnies. Each holiday we vow to ignore the seasonal candy aisle, but I cannot resist a bargain and Andrew cannot resist the sweets.
When I mention to friends that my fiancé is a vegetarian, they give me a pitying look. What they don’t understand and what they don’t know, is that my loving a vegetarian means I get all the bacon, but I better hide the chocolate.
“Often when we realize how precious those seconds are, it’s too late for them to be captured because the moment has passed. We realize too late.” — Cecilia Ahern
I never thought I would miss you. We met at just the right time in my life, but too late in hers. After my divorce I took up disc golf, a silly pastime for a late middle aged woman for sure, but it led me to you. I should have realized that a man whose every Facebook photo included a “Rock On!” hand gesture would not be disposed toward a long term relationship. You introduced me to “Prog Rock”, a genre of music adored by men dressed in leather kilts. Your own wardrobe choices led my son to ask “Dude, do you even own a shirt with sleeves?”
You had two cats. The younger cat was an aloof Russian Blue and Tortoiseshell mix. You named her after some Egyptian goddess with an unpronounceable name. I always felt intimidated by that cat. Precious was older, a shy solid black sweetheart that snuggled up to me at every visit. I could feel her bones shift underneath her skin as I carefully stroked her fur. She rumbled her approval while Younger hid, jealous and sly.
One time you accidentally shut Precious in the pantry, where she survived a day and a half in silence. I would have noted her absence.
We broke up in modern fashion, by text message.
“I just want to stay home with my cat”, you said, and I knew which one you meant.
I stayed friends with you on Facebook for a while, and saw when you posted that Precious had died. A short while later there was another post. You adopted a cat, a black Tortoiseshell. I understood your need but it saddened me to see her so soon replaced in your affections.
I never thought I would miss you, and I don’t. But sometimes I really miss that cat.
I spent a good part of the morning on Christmas Eve searching our apartment for a book. The missing book was a collection of fairy tales that I received for Christmas in 1968, when I was eight years old. The book was a present from my parents, and I first saw it while it was still wrapped in a Treasure City shopping bag and lying on the floorboard of our Oldsmobile. I remember teasing it carefully from the brown paper sack while I kept an eye out to make sure my mother, in her place in the front passenger seat, didn’t spot me. After I flipped the book over and traced the outline of Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf on the back cover, I stuffed it back under the car seat. On Christmas morning I pretended that it had been placed there by a generous elf, but I knew the truth. I convinced myself that my parents were in direct communication with Santa, and were merely helping him out by picking up a few things on their own.
Now, half a century later, I couldn’t find it. It sounds odd to consider the loss of a fifty year old book unusual, especially from someone who regularly misplaces her wallet, but this book had followed me from childhood. My fiancé Andrew and I searched every book case and every stack of books in our 1200 square foot apartment. “Where could it have got to?” I asked as I bent over to look under the couch.
“Did you put it up here with the children’s books?” Andrew pulled out and glanced behind Richard Scarry’s “Best Word Book EVER” before sliding it back on the shelf in our dining room. I walked back to our bedroom, to look once more at the small bookcase there. I hoped that the book had somehow found its way back to the last place where I had seen it. It seems we are often falling into this, some version of “Have you seen my…” The older I get, the more things seem to go missing. I am either growing more forgetful or my possessions have decided to free themselves before the inevitable estate sale.
“No, it’s gone, I don’t think we’ll find it.” I continued to drift from room to room, including the bathrooms, in case I had tucked the book away amongst the collection of toilet paper I had stashed under the sink. Andrew followed along behind me, a terry cloth sweatband stretched across his forehead as though he were about to go for a jog. He is good like that, he often puts aside whatever he is working on to help me look for my phone, my purse, that book I was reading. He has adjusted very well to the responsibility of looking after another person’s possessions, while I drag along, resenting the imposition of caring for anything that can’t look after itself. I’m often setting down my phone next to a sink full of water, or leaving a plastic cup too close to the hot stove top.
I pictured the worn green and white cardboard cover of the misplaced collection, patched with clear tape. As I described the book to Andrew, he mentioned that I could probably buy a replacement on eBay. “But it won’t be the same!” I protested as I recalled the black and white illustrations that I colored in with crayons. I prepared to gather myself into a ball of self-pity, moaning something about lost childhood treasures, when Andrew asked where I had last seen the book.
“I think I put it with my photo albums,” I answered from under the bed. A moment passed and then Andrew called out.
“Here it is!” He found the book tucked away in a cardboard box in our spare closet. He handed it to me, and I flipped through the pages. Just as I remembered, every story began with “Once Upon a Time”, and generally each had a happy ending, but in between there was danger, often in the form of wolves or a wicked sorceress. Most had a handsome prince, trying to win the love of a beautiful princess. Sometimes the hero wandered lost in a dark forest, in need of enchantment to discover the magic castle. I put the fairy tale book back on the shelf and thought that this is what love really is, just two people, helping each other find things.
Let's Get Out of Here 