The we in Tumbleweed

Photo by Leland Zaitz

To the girl born with a pack on her back:

Entwine your pulled-up roots with mine

We'll turn ourselves into a tumbleweed

And ride the wind wherever it takes us

To Rome

Cappuccino to sit or stand
Gloves to fit any hand
The view from the roof
The sound of hooves
Hold me now and don’t let go

Vestments for sale in the window
Lingerie for a merry widow
In the streets children play
Past and present on display
We’ll walk together in the afterglow

A sleek black Maserati
The sweet tenor of Pavarotti
A procession of the broken-hearted
A grave for the dear departed
Everything is done for show

The dry bones of an ancient saint
The tears of a woman feeling faint
A walk to Trevi fountain
Enough desire to move a mountain
Now’s the time to make it so

A bottle of fine Chianti
That song by Harry Belafonte
Bells in towers chime
But we still have time
Let’s forget everything we know in Albergo del Senato

The Time of My Life

Thirty-one years ago today, in a rain-soaked park in Oregon, Joanne and I were huddled under a small shelter with our friends and families.

I was wearing a black velvet suit I'd picked up at the Squire Shop in the Lancaster Mall. Joanne was wearing a long white Gunny Sack dress and looked fantastic.

College buddies played "Here Comes the Sun" on guitar and a borrowed pump organ.

Eleven months earlier, Joanne and I had been among half a dozen students who gathered in Dr. Frazee's office for his course in the Development of Christian Thought. By coincidence, we showed up in similar ski sweaters on the same day, and Joanne was amazed when it kept happening, week after week, on different days.

She never suspected that I might have seen her on campus earlier and run back to my dorm to change.

What can I say? Sometimes fate can use a helping hand.

In the park, with the rain still coming down, it was Dr. Frazee — a bald, robust, and joyous man — who stood before us now with the power to pronounce us husband and wife.

Joanne had earned her art degree a couple of months earlier and was working in the office of Chuck Colvin Ford in McMinnville (home of Linfield College, where we met). I still had a semester to go and had a summer job sorting the empty bottles that came back to the Coca-Cola plant in Salem. Nothing about our future was set except one thing ...

We placed plain gold bands around each other's fingers and promised to love each other for the rest of our lives.

Post Cards from the Edge

This is the story of a road trip we took back in May of 1991 — to Zion, Bryce, and the Grand Canyon — as told through post cards and letters to friends. A trip both awe-inspiring and life-threatening.

SUNDAY
From Carson City, our first overnight stop, we drive straight through the high, flat desert to Ely. On the horizon all around us are mountains dusted with snow. The only shadows are cast by fluffy white clouds with flat, dark bottoms. Very surreal. They look so close, like just a high ceiling. I guess it has something to do with our altitude, which is somewhere around 7,000 feet. Anyway the shadows leave the plain streaked black. It’s beautiful but my butt hurts. At least we have cruise control.

MONDAY
Here at last. The Nevada desert was just a prelude, the casinos a weak attempt to distract us. This is what we came for — the red rock canyons of Utah — and we’re in awe. As we drove along the Virgin River this afternoon, we had to hunker down and peer up through the windshield to find the tops of the canyon walls all around us — as much as 4,000 feet straight up. Joanne said, “Too bad we don’t have a sun roof or a convertible.” Then she thought better of it. Falling rocks, you know.

TUESDAY
Zion is like Yosemite with color. I might have made that up but Joanne assures me she read it to me from a guidebook before we ever left California. It’s true, though. In fact, Zion makes Yosemite look like a rough draft. We ran into a bit of a rainy patch on the trail to Hidden Canyon this morning. It’s really coming down now, but we’re back in our cabin and there’s a fireplace, so everything is just fine.

WEDNESDAY
“Just because the trail’s there doesn’t mean it’s safe.” That bit of advice came from a friendly waiter at breakfast when he found out we’d been hiking in Hidden Canyon in the rain yesterday. “If I’d known you were going to do that, I’d have warned against it. We had a helicopter rescue out there Saturday. We lost a park ranger out there last year when it was dry.” Not to worry. The weather appears to be improving, and we promise to be careful.

THURSDAY
One of the first things you notice here — aside from how much bluer the sky is than you’ve ever known it to be — is how much the sound of wind or running water is amplified in a canyon. Here at Bryce, the Paria River is dry now, but the wind can be very strong and there are other sounds — this morning we were in a narrow canyon photographing two natural bridges, and the sound of a raven’s wings beating the thin, dry air startled and amazed us. The bird flew from one wall to the other and back again in search of a comfortable perch, and if you saw the same thing in a movie you’d say the sound technician got it wrong. It was too loud to be real. But there we were.

The old photos in the lodge are really something. Tourists used to arrive in long touring limousines, often with open roofs, that brought them straight from the railway station in Cedar City. (Union Pacific built the lodge in 1924.) The women wore raccoon coats. The place still has a sort of rustic grandeur, but the staff no longer gathers to sing to departing guests as they did in the thirties, forties, and fifties.

Saw five deer grazing in the field at dusk. They let us get close enough to hear them tear clumps of grass from the ground.

FRIDAY
I don’t know what it is about the dining room here, but I always feel happy when we sit down for a meal. We’re not ourselves anymore. We’re some couple from the twenties, I suppose, since that’s when the lodge was built, and we’ve just come out on the Union Pacific, all the way from Connecticut or New Hampshire.

The food is quite good — especially the Southwest chicken breasts they serve at dinner — and we always pay with traveler’s cheques, which seems to add to the illusion that we came from far, far away in the days before credit cards.

Maybe it’s the exposed beams of the ceiling, the two stone fireplaces, the big windows with their small rectangular panes. Even from a distance the imperfections of the glass are visible — the uneven thickness of the panes. Up close, you can see that some have tiny air bubbles in them.

Or maybe it’s the uniforms. Waitresses wear white aprons over salmon-colored dresses with white cuffs on their short sleeves. Waiters wear bow ties, suspenders, and aprons.

Navajo rugs hang on the wood-paneled walls, and the overhead lights are wrapped in wrought iron with a pine-tree motif. The chairs are made of tree branches with the bark still on them.

It all combines to take you back. In our case, to a time before we were born.

SATURDAY
When we arrived at the North Rim, the park had only been open three days, and it was easy to see why: there were still huge snow drifts along the road. That, along with the white and leafless aspens in among the pines, really gives the place the look of winter rather than spring. The man at the registration desk said, “You’re staying four days? What are you going to do here for four days?” Well, laundry, for one thing. There’s just no getting away from dirty socks.

SUNDAY
Hiked to Widforss Point today, a ten-mile round-trip through forest with numerous canyon overlooks, the most striking view being at Widforss, naturally. It took us three hours to get there, but it was worth it. Didn’t see any of the Kaibab squirrels that live on the North Rim (and nowhere else), but we did spot a screech owl, a deer, and several short-horned lizards.

WEDNESDAY
If I’m calm in emergencies, it’s because I never believe anything bad can happen to me. But later, sometimes, I see how, if we’d done just one thing differently — if we’d made one more mistake — things could have been really bad instead of merely miserable.

Yesterday we hiked down into the Grand Canyon, all the way to Roaring Springs — a drop in elevation of between three and four thousand feet, which of course we had to make up on the return trip.

It took us two hours and twenty-five minutes going down, and they say you should allow twice as long to get back. Not a pleasant thought. We had already drunk half our water supply.

Joanne at least had a hat. I rigged something up with a handkerchief as a headband.

After lunch we decided, to be safe, we’d better fill our water bottles at the pump house. (We didn’t want to take water from the stream because we had no purification tablets.) But there was no trail.

We tried going up the bank. We tried following the water pipe along the stream. We were getting nowhere and expending a lot of energy in the process. Finally, we sat down again and Joanne started drinking long greedy drinks from her water bottle.

“I feel like we’re going to die,” she said.

We started up the trail, but didn’t get far before Joanne found a rock to sit on in a small patch of shade and started guzzling what was left of her water.

“We’re not going to make it. I can’t go on. I feel like we’re going to die,” she said.

My first thought: We’d be fine if you’d just go easy on the water. But I didn’t say that, and I’m glad I didn’t because it could have been our undoing. Instead, I said, “We’ve got two choices: We can go back and get more water from the stream, or we can go on with what we have left.”

“I can’t go on. I don’t feel well, Al.”

We put all the water we had into two bottles, and I took the other two down to the stream. Giardia was the least of my concerns at this point. In about 20 minutes, I was back. Joanne had drunk most of one bottle already, but was feeling better. In fact, I had trouble keeping up with her. We made it to the top in only three and a half hours. We even had time for a shower and a nap before our dinner reservation. All seemed well.

Then, as we finished our meal, Joanne started to feel feverish and then chilled in turns.

The medics came to our room, took her vital signs, and conferred with a doctor by phone. The diagnosis: sinus infection. The treatment: rest, take aspirin, and drink lots of water. The irony: her sinus trouble was probably caused or at least aggrevated by our rapid rise from the canyon.

In any case, to this day, Joanne carries water with her wherever she goes.

Nine-One-One

It was a Sunday night in December of 1996, our first year in the house, and we were about to find out how long it would take paramedics to reach our doorstep.

Joanne had gotten out of bed at some point. I knew she wasn't feeling well, and I heard her moan as if ready to throw up. Then there was the clatter of our plastic waste basket tipping over. Then a heavy thump.

I called to her.

No answer.

I found her stretched out on the bathroom floor, her head twisted in a tiny corner where the wall extends just beyond the edge of the tub. Her eyes were open and she was white.

She still wouldn't answer.

I cradled her neck and eased her down flat. Then came the horrifying second when I looked down into her vacant eyes and thought: she's dead.

I didn't want to believe that. I said her name again and again. I couldn't find a pulse. She was so white. I tried to remember CPR and mouth-to-mouth. Make sure her breathing passages are clear, I thought. When I pinched her mouth, I heard her suck air. Good. But her eyes. They didn't move. Didn't even blink.

Back in the bedroom, I dialed 9-1-1, then dragged the phone as far into the hallway as the cord would allow. The part you hold to your ear stretched almost to the bathroom. As I was babbling incoherently, Joanne said, "What are you doing? I'm fine."

I told the operator, but she said the paramedics would be here soon.

A fire truck arrived a few minutes later, followed by an ambulance. Though Joanne seemed to check out okay, they took her to the hospital just to be safe. (Here's the thing: In the morning she was going to quit a job she once loved but now hated, and she had been stressing about it so much she passed out. Breaking an 11-year bond is not something Joanne takes lightly.)

The next day she was resting on the sofa and asked me to fix her some toast.

Grudgingly, I got up and walked to the kitchen.

"You know," I said, "I’m only doing this because you’re alive."

Shedding Tears

My wife and I have been married 30 years now, and the last time we checked, our auras were almost identical. And yet we’re very different. Her goal is to cry less; mine is to cry more.

Tears come to her easily and often. Sad movies. Sad songs. Parting from relatives we may not see again for a year or more. Random acts of kindness. All these things bring tears to her eyes.

Me? When I was a boy I cried a lot. Now, hardly ever.

Breathe in, breathe out.

A woman I know said she would choose joy over enlightenment. I can respect that. We know what joy is and it’s pretty cool. Enlightenment is more mysterious.

Beyond emotions?

I don’t think that’s it. I’ve been beyond emotions (or pretty close to it).

The great thing about my wife is that she feels things. Deeply. I know sometimes she wishes she didn’t. But I love her for it. Everyone does. For her, it’s frustrating to have the words she wants to say get stuck in her throat. She’d like to have more self-control than that. But I think tears say more than words sometimes.

Still, no one wants to be a slave to their emotions.

As a young boy I cried over things like striking out in baseball. The ball was small and hard and I was afraid of it. Afraid of failing, too. When it was my turn at bat I would just stand there. Finally a classmate said, “Just take a swing. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Good advice.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I learned not to cry for silly selfish reasons. In fact I learned not to cry at all. Almost.

A few years ago I cried uncontrollably when I thought I was going to lose my job. As it turned out I kept my job while others lost theirs. Then I began to think of them as the lucky ones ...

The most enlightened people I know are not beyond emotions. They feel joy and sadness, but are not controlled by them.

By not crying I appeared to be in control of my emotions, but I was not free. I was controlled by them in a different way.

I cried, for the first time in a long time, during an initial energy checkup at the Dahn Yoga center in our neighborhood. My aura changed dramatically. I don’t really remember what the headmaster did or what all we talked about, but I came out feeling a lot of compassion. For others and, surprisingly, for myself.

Since then I’ve learned that a new friend at the center carries in his wallet a picture of himself as a young boy.

“It reminds me that I need to take care of little Louis,” he says.

At times, Louis explains, he has denied himself things he wouldn’t keep from his worst enemy.

When I finish writing this I’m going to find a picture of little Freddy (my nickname as a boy).

Breathe in, breathe out.

Lately I’ve allowed myself to cry more. I cry listening to Sting sing “Fields of Gold” and watching the romantic comedy “Love Actually.” I cry rubbing my wife’s hand in yoga class.

“While you are crying, watch yourself,” the headmaster tells me. “Ask yourself why you cry.”

Good advice.

“When we purify our emotions we can cry less,” she says. “When we have a deeper soul's connection we will cry more.”

Such Small Hands

Where to start ...

Summer 2005. I'm sitting on a yoga mat in a tiny hole-in-the-wall training center — in a strip mall, between a camera store and a post office — and my heart is opening in a way I seldom let it.

In one sense I'm not doing anything I haven't done thousands of times over the past 29 years. I'm simply holding my wife's hand. In this case, however, she is lying on her back and I am rubbing her fingers, pressing each fingertip with my thumbnail — an acupressure technique we learned weeks earlier.

My heart opens as I feel how tiny her hand is in mine. It's like a child's, and I know she has the same innocent spirit she was born with. At the same time, I see the tiny spots on her skin that give away the secret that she, like me, is already 50 years old.

Then, in my head, I hear the words our instructor spoke when she first met my wife: "Such small hands, but they hold so many people."

Now I'm crying because I know just how true that is.

I see us growing old together, older and grayer than we are now. Already we have been together longer than we've been apart. I think about the moment when her spirit will slip away and it breaks my heart.

Yet in this moment I am more alive and more thankful than I have ever been.