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Lightning Storm Alley "The love we give away is the only
love we keep." If I thought it humid while standing in the shade talking to Todd, I soon discovered I had merely been taking up room in the sauna's doorway. The thermometer smacked up to a sweltering, treacle-sticky, 29 degrees Celsius. Pedalling felt like churning slow-motion through a bucket of Maple syrup. We spent the day sweating past poor farm boys' huge manor brick estates with paved drives a half-kilometre long. Apparently tobacco was a far more lucrative crop than wheat. In late afternoon, in the paper-thin town of Springfield, I slipped into a small grocery store just before closing to buy ham and cheese for our pasta. The tiny store had neither ham nor cheese. From the sparse items stocking the store's near-barren shelves, I tried to conjure another plan. But before I picked out supplies, a slim 30-something woman entered. She strode directly to me. (Sharon later told me that while sitting on the curb nibbling an apple, the woman had approached her. "Looks like you're travelling," the woman said. "Yep," Sharon replied - ever the great conversationalist - and resumed munching her McIntosh. And that was the extent of their "talk.") The woman looked me over. "I've been talking to your partner outside a little." (At that point, I had no idea how little.) "And I've just invited you both for supper." Plan B was shaping up rather well. When I took too long to accept, she upped the ante. "I'll even throw in showers and an offer to camp overnight." That cinched it! I emerged from the store sucking a horrid blue Freezie (I had been in there so long, I felt obligated that I buy something). Sharon agreed to Sherry's fine offer. No doubt visions of showers were skipping through her head. We hopped on our bikes and followed the woman home like a pair of lost puppies. Sherry introduced us to her three gorgeous teenaged daughters - Pam, Melanie, and Elana. In short order we sat down to roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. How did she know we were coming? Only one person was missing: Sherry's husband, Bud. Still at work, he didn't usually arrive home until 8:30 pm. (How soon one forgets those time commitments!) As the substitute male, Sherry insisted I carve the meat. Tinges of pink leaked out as I sliced into it. "Perfect," I said. "Just the way Bud likes it," Sherry observed ruefully. After a bowl-licking dessert of raspberries and fresh whipped cream, Sharon excused herself to hit the shower. I was digging in for a second round of berries as Sharon slipped out the back door to fetch her toiletry paraphernalia. She bumped into Bud. In the dark, neither had seen the other. "Whoa!" Bud gasped. "You scared me!" (Truth be known, they both looked pretty scary to me. Sharon, dishevelled and unshowered after a grueling day in the saddle, and Bud, a large, intimidating man with a bulldog jaw - the sort of fellow that looked as if nothing would scare him.) I got up to meet him. Shaking his extra-large paw, I pitied the poor boys who called on his daughters. At 9 pm, a half-dozen of Sherry's artistic friends arrived for the weekly, as Bud affectionately termed it, "stitch-n-bitch." Since Sharon and I were there as guests of honour, they, unfortunately, were on their best behaviour. Around midnight, after much laughter and rounds of story-telling, the crew bid us warm goodbyes and trundled off to their homes. "Would you like to sleep on our couch downstairs?" "Oh, no," I said, airily brushing aside Sherry's offer. "We're very comfortable in our little nylon home." "Okay with me," she said, "but I wouldn't sleep out there." I thought she was referring to the bugs and the hard ground. She wasn't. "We live in what townsfolk call 'Lightning Storm Alley.'" There was a pregnant pause before she continued. "Lightning struck our dog's kennel last summer. She again paused dramatically. "When he was in it. Killed him deader than a doornail." "Ouch," I winced. "That's dead." But I still wasn't smart enough to retract my refusal. So, sometime after midnight, Sharon and I pussyfooted out to the backyard, way off our bedtime schedule. It began to rain. I hoped there wouldn't be thunder - or lightning. Sherry's rattling information, coupled with large quantities of sugar and caffeine from two large Pepsi's, and a foolishly accepted late-night espresso, kept me wide awake - staring at the tent roof. Somewhat sombrely, I noticed Sharon had no such regrets - not a soda or coffee drinker, she was already well into sawing her second cord of wood. The muggy night held no hint of a breeze. Raindrops dripped off the house's roof, plopping into an ill-placed aluminum pot. Plink. Plunk. Plonk. It sounded like a badly out-of-tune banjo player. Any effort to drown the beat was futile. At 4 am, a resounding thunder and light show did little for my beauty sleep. Jagged flashes of lightning raced across the sky. One harsh bolt - very close, extremely close - illuminated the tent in grim chalky light so bright I could have read a newspaper's obituary column. Talk about a large hit of visceral terror! Thunder pealed. My ears rang. Oppressive air sat as heavily on my chest as a sumo wrestler. I laid there - eyes wide shut - shivering, castigating myself for turning down Sherry's fine offer. The storm wound down, booming off in the west like a retreating marching band. Maybe I could finally get some sleep? But no. Edison, Bud and Sherry's new pooch, had come outside for a pee break. He romped over to check us out. (His moniker was Edison because he was so danged smart. Sherry had told us that one afternoon, left to his own devices, Edison had completely - and cheerfully - ripped apart their old living room carpet. Insurance had doled out for a spanking new one. "That's raw intelligence," Sherry had said, patting Edison good-naturedly.) The dumbbell barked at our tent for a full half-hour. Long after Edison lost interest in stalking the great grey elephant dozing in his backyard, I fell into fitful slumber. Minutes later, the girls left for school, screen door slapping six times with each departure. "I think I'm done," I groaned as Sharon dressed. "Worst sleep so far," I muttered. "And that's saying something." Head throbbing, eyes bleary, I fitfully rose and staggered inside. Bud had left for work an hour prior. I groaned again at the flood of work and commuting memories. Even though I was dead tired, I sure was glad that it wasn't me still slogging in the trenches. Sherry flitted around the kitchen, preparing toast with ham and tomato omelettes. I thought it odd how we could barely have met someone, and less than 24 hours later, feel as if we'd known them all our lives. After a personal conversation-filled breakfast, Sharon and I thanked our gracious hostess and prepared to hit the road. Sherry wasn't about to let us go without a parting gift. She held forth two jars of her preserves: strawberry, and thimbleberry. "I've never had thimbleberry jam before," I said, plucking the jars from her fingers. "Thimbleberries taste a bit like raspberries," Sherry said. "But they're harder to pick ... the bushes have nastier thorns." "We'll think of you when we eat it," Sharon said. We pedalled off with wide smiles and full
hearts. We had just had the good fortune of meeting more of those
people who would never make the six o'clock news. |
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