The Long Walk

I was out for a walk tonight, heading up Oakwood past McAuley High School when I passed another walker going in the opposite direction. He stopped as I walked by and said, "Can I talk to you for a minute? I'm not going to ask you for money, I promise." I stopped, and when I looked in his eyes, I realized he was crying. Before I could say anything, he said, "I'm trying to find a church--any church. They told me there was one around here, but I can't find it." I pointed up the street, across busy Belmont Avenue, to the treeline where you could just make out the steeple of the local Church of Christ. "Are you looking for a particular denomination?" I asked. I guess it was his tears: there was something about him that broke my heart. That's when I noticed the small plastic dinosaur in hand. "I'm sorry," he said. " I must sound crazy. I'm not crazy. My son died today, and I have to find a church. I'm carrying this like a crazy person," he said, waving the dinosaur. "It was his."

He couldn't see the steeple in the trees, so I walked with him to the corner, and we talked some about his son. He was still crying, but he managed to tell me that his wife had been driving his son down a busy nearby street when another car plowed into the passenger side. His four-year-old son was killed, and his wife was injured. He told me that he didn't know what to do, that he didn't know if he believed in God, but that he knew he had to go to a church. He'd left Mercy Hospital after they'd told him his son was dead --he hadn't been in the car--and he just started walking. We said a few more words; I told him how sorry I was for all he'd been through, for his loss, and then I pointed to the long church driveway winding up through the trees.

After we parted company, I started to worry that the church would be locked on a Monday night, so I turned at the next corner, heading up the street to the front of the church. When I got to the parking lot, I saw three or four cars, and I stood there for awhile, trying to convince myself that the doors were open and that he would have found the pastor, maybe, or somebody else who could give him some kind of comfort. I tried to do that, but I couldn't get myself to walk by. I walked up the steep parking lot, instead, and just as I got to the top of the rise, I saw him walking up the back driveway. I told him that I wanted to make sure he got in. We walked to the door, but it was locked. There was a parishioner in the lot, and I explained that the man with me needed to speak to someone--that he'd just lost his son. I could tell the man was afraid I was trying to con him. He recommended the chapel at the hospital, and that seemed to make sense to my companion.

We started walking again, this time toward the hospital, and my companion introduced himself to me. "I'm Eric," he said. I told him my name, and he started pouring the whole story out to me. The car that had caused the accident was driven by a teenager with three of his friends inside. In the glove box, the police found a couple of illegal guns and speculated that they were up to no good. Eric asked me why his son had to die but these kids were still alive. He told me that he was a veteran, and that the only thing that had kept him going was his son. He said he was a daddy's boy. He said he didn't really feel much for his wife anymore, but that his son was his whole world. He asked me what he should do next, that he'd never had to deal with the death of a loved one, and he didn't know what the next step was. He told me that he'd gone a little crazy at the hospital. The police came to his house that afternoon, saying simply that his wife had been in an accident, and that he should follow them to the hospital. He asked about his son, but the cop played dumb. Once they got there, he asked again about his son--his wife was in surgery--and they finally told him. Actually, he said that all they had to do was look at him and he knew, He said he "went crazy" then, and that the police asked him to leave the hospital. That's when he started walking in search of a church.

"This will sound crazy," he said, "but I knew before the cops came that something bad happened. I heard sirens, and I just had a feeling. I think it was my fault," he said. I asked him how it could be his fault if he wasn't even there, and he said that he'd talked to his son right before the accident and told him he was going to buy him a video game he'd been wanting--that it would be there at home when he got back. He said that his son was so excited that they'd changed their afternoon plans and headed home, instead, and that's when it happened. "If I hadn't of told him about that game, he would have spent the afternoon at his cousin's, and he'd still be alive." Eric really started crying then. I told him that it didn't sound to me like he was responsible for his son's death--that it sounded like he had made his son happy. It sounded like he loved him and would never hurt him.

By then, we were near enough to the hospital that I knew we should part company. He thanked me for walking with him, and I wished him well. I told him to ask them for the chaplain when he got there, and I watched him cross the street and walk off into the night, carrying his burden and that little plastic dinosaur with him. I turned and walked home alone.

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In-Flight Entertainment

Tonight I flew through some of the most astounding clouds I've ever seen: solid mountains of gleaming white that originated far below what I could see from my plane seat, and rose up what looked like miles above our jet. It was right around sunset, and every now and again, these cumulonimbus clouds (I had to look that up) were lit from behind or inside and glowed shell pink and soft gold. And then they turned dark and grim looking, and the lightening started sparking though them with big blasts of white light. That was when the clouds stopped looking gorgeous and started closing in on the plane, and we started bouncing around. There were two off duty pilots on the other side of the isle from me, and even they were dazzled by the clouds. I caught the eye of one of them and made an intelligent comment like, "those are some clouds, huh?" and he looked serious and said, "oh yeah, those are some clouds." This was not a comforting exchange. I wanted a lighthearted, "nah, that's nothing." That was when the pilot--the real one, not my off duty pal--came on to tell us it was going to get a little choppy and ordered the flight attendant to strap herself in for the duration. "There's some tornadic activity in the area," he said. Those were some clouds, all right. Honestly, I've had worse flights. But I've never seen an in-flight show like that like that one. What a ride.

None of the photos I've found on the internet are as stunning as what I saw tonight, but this hints at it:



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Early Ohio Spring

I've been enjoying our early Ohio spring. Right now, I'm sitting in my living room, looking out the window at the blooming magnolia tree in front of my neighbor's house. Some years, this tree blooms early, and then a cold snap comes and turns its heavy pink blooms brown and soggy. This year, though, I think it's safe to be its true floriferous self. My garden is a yellow haze now with daffodils, primrose, and epimedium blooming. Last night, I went to Home Depot for a bag of grass seed, and I came home with that and three pots of mixed flowers and greens: pansies, Johnny-Jump-ups, chives, and alyssum. This is a dangerous time of year for me. I walk into any store with a plant nursery, and I walk out with flowers I simply have no room for. Theoretically, that is. I search and search and find a spot for them, eventually. My overpacked garden has a serious population problem at peak season.

Last night, I mowed the lawn for the very first time this year, and it was a serious workout. I don't have much property, but what I do have is a 1950s reel mower, passed down to me from my father. He bought it from the Montgomery Ward catalog before I was born, and this thing is made to last. It weighs a ton, which is probably why it works so well. New reel mowers tend to be light and just knock long grass over. Not mine. It cuts like a charm. I have found exactly one place in the Cincinnati area that has the machine needed to sharpen the old girl, so every year, I make the fifty-minute trek to drop her off and pick her up. Every year, the guys at the mower shop say the same thing, "wow! That's an old model.". I don't think there've been more than a handful of times over the years when I've mowed my lawn without commentary from neighbors or passersby. I get comments about the age of the mower, about the shade of purple my face has turned from the workout, about how beautifully the thing mows the lawn. One guy came by once and said, deadpan, "you know, they make mowers that run on gas now." Whatever. I love my mower. Until the heat of summer, that is. Right now, I'll just keep enjoying this way-too-early spring.



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Owl Prowl

My stress levels are through the roof right now: it's exam week and the ungraded papers are piling up, the book deadline is squatting over me, and study abroad work is exploding. I came home on Friday feeling cranky, signed onto Facebook, and noticed a post from Spring Grove Cemetery and Arboretum announcing this event: an Owl Prowl. I'm not sure why it seemed like the perfect antidote for stress, but it did, so I registered. I should say that I am absolutely crazy about this cemetery (and about birds of prey, for that matter). It is just magnificent. It was established in 1845, and it is the second largest cemetery in the US. The cemetery owns 733 acres of land, but only 400 of them are currently developed--and the place is spectacular. I guess for people who think cemeteries are depressing, that sounds strange. I grew up visiting cemeteries on Sunday drives--not necessarily to commemorate the family's dead, but more to look at the flowers and trees, to hear about Erie or family history, to practice my teenaged driving, etc. I love cemeteries. I do. And Spring Grove is the best I've seen. There are so many varieties of trees and shrubs--including 20 something state champion trees and a couple of national champions. Here's a link to the history of the arboretum and a few photos I took last night. This place is worth a visit, Ohioans! http://www.springgrove.org/sg/arboretum/history.shtm












Last night, the Owl Prowlers--at least a hundred of us--met at the cemetery's 19th century Norman Chapel. A local rescue group called Raptor, Inc. brought three owls and a peregrine falcon to show us--all of them had been injured (broken wings) and rescued by the organization.


Here are the raptors I met last night. First, the Peregrine Falcon:



This is a Great Horned Owl:



This next one was a real screecher--it's a Barn Owl.





Finally, here is the Barred Owl.


It was fully dark out by the time Raptor, Inc. had finished introducing us to the owls. Some people took off, but others of us took off for a remote part of the cemetery to see if we could hear any owls in the wild. My little group was led by a naturalist who did the owl calls himself--fabulous. He apologized four time for not brushing his teeth, so I stayed downwind of him ("it dries my mouth out when I brush my teeth, and I need a little saliva to make the owl calls." TMI!). The other group got a naturalist wannabe who called the owls by playing a recording. I'd like to tell you that we heard owls, but we didn't. We did see a great night sky, and our naturalist pointed out planets and constellations, and told us more about owls. It was a nice night for a new thing.

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Chinese Cooking Class

If you read this blog while I was in China last year, you probably noticed that I was dumpling obsessed. I ate dozens of them over the course of the six weeks I was there. Some of them were meat-filled, some veggie-filled, some were even soup-filled! I came home determined to learn to make them myself. Last night, I did that. My friend, Karen, contacted me and our friend, Wanda, a few months back about taking a one-night cooking class at a local college--dim sum delights from Hong Kong. The class was held at the local community college which has a culinary arts program and all of the kitchen classrooms that go with that.

Our chef for the evening was the head chef of a local Chinese restaurant, and he led us through the creation of four dim sum dishes: shrimp toast, spring rolls, spare ribs in black bean sauce, and pot stickers--or fried dumplings. Here are a couple of our spring rolls. We made these! Somehow, that seems like magic to me.



The dumplings were filled with ground pork, green onions and lots of seasoning, and we did a pretty good job of mastering the folding of the dumpling. You take a ball of dough, you snake it out, and cut it into small bits which you flatten into a circle with a rolling pin. You put some filling on half of the circle, fold the dough over, and start crimping the edges. Honestly, the crimping is trickier than you'd think.


Since these were pot stickers, we fried them in a little oil until browned, then added water and let them steam a bit. Sadly, we over watered them, so our dumplings were soggy. Still, it would be easy to make them at home.


We spent a good portion of our time eating our creations. I have to say that the spring rolls were my favorite. All in all, it was a fun evening. Thanks to Karen for my new thing for March!

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Poetry Reading

Well, it's time for my February new thing report. It wasn't a huge month where novelty is concerned, but I do one thing to report. I went to poetry reading--certainly not my first ever, but it was a new poet for me. Mark Doty. I must admit that I love him most for his memoir, Heaven's Coast, though he is a wonderful poet. My friend, Nell, recommended the memoir to me just after our friend, Lee, died, and it was a book that really affected me. Doty's partner had AIDS and died from complications associated with it, and the memoir is the story of his sickness and death and the way Doty handled both. It is a wise and terribly moving book. I recommend it to anyone who has been touched by grief.

The poetry reading was pretty good; the sound system was not, sadly. Afterwards, I thought about going up to Doty and thanking him for the book, but I get pretty shy around writers I like. I think because I'm so in awe of their words that I feel incapable of stringing my own words together to praise them. I've been in the presence of a few of my favorites in the past--Russell Banks, Tim O'Brien, Richard Russo, Tillie Olsen, Edward Albee--and I'm left tongue-tied. I had a conversation with Banks on an elevator, and I interviewed Albee for my college student newspaper, so I'm not totally mute around famous writers, but I couldn't get myself to talk to Doty. Still, he's one of my new things for February. If you're so inclined, here are a few Doty poems for your reading pleasure: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/doty/onlinepoems.htm

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