The Ol' Swimmin' Hole, Little Pig-Faces, And Routines Keep Me Going

Yesterday morning at 9:30 sharp, John called me and said, "You ready?" We were going to The Ol’ Swimmin’ Hole!

We got there and climbed down the rocks until we got close enough to wade in. The water was frigid and I thought, "I can’t believe I’m actually going to put my whole body in this!" I looked at John and giggled nervously. Then he took a running start and dove in. I laughed as he splashed in, wondering how it felt. I wanted to prolong this feeling, not knowing what to expect when I went under, and kept staring up at the falls just marveling over the turns life can take sometimes. It was one of those moments where I was reminded of how lucky I am. Three years I tried and tried to do this and finally, FINALLY, it has led me here, to this ravine, this creekbed, this waterfall, that I would never have found without this kindly stranger - I was marveling at fate.

The waterfall was roaring as I finally leaned forward and pushed myself under, turning a somersault as the cold water surrounded me, both chilling and rejuvenating me. I came up laughing, still in awe of the whole experience. John was laughing too, and we had a splash fight that ended with him picking me up and dunking me under. The current was strong right under the falls, and we had to swim hard just to get close to the pounding downpour. I loved the way it shot beads of water into my face as I watched it from just below, like the feeling of putting your face close to a newly-poured glass of fizzy soda. Actually, I loved everything about the place - the water was crisp and clean, the company was great, and we watched tawny crawdaddies climb in and out of the rocky limestone banks. The only thing I didn’t love were the yellow jackets that chased our every move, making us have to duck underwater to escape their incessant biting.

Eventually, the yellow jackets - and the cold - won, and we climbed back up the cliff, getting just as dirty as we did on the way down, rinsing the mud off in the clear part of the creek atop the falls. We were starving - and messy. My drying hair was what I like to call akimbo and the bottoms of our feet were black. I was feeling crampy and shouted, "You’re so lucky you’re not a girl!" It echoed off the limestone walls. John looked up from drying his feet and said, "Being a guy isn’t real easy either."
"Why, what do you have to worry about?"
"Everything," he laughed. "What to say, how to say it, what to wear. Whether your hair looks better when you do this" – he shook his head up and down – "or this", he shook it from side to side.

John insisted that we go somewhere to eat and not bother with cleaning up first. I tried it, but my conscience got the better of me as we walked up to the front doors of Aldrich’s and I caught a glimpse of the sweet waitresses through the glass. I couldn’t disrespect Aldrich’s or the staff by showing up looking like a hurricane refugee, not when I could have as easily grabbed a shower first. We got back in the car and John perused my blog while I showered and donned a clean wifebeater. Then we ended up at Bob Evan’s, where I had my first taste of sausage gravy and biscuits.

I listened as John described growing up in a place like Dunkirk. "I’ve accomplished a lot of the things I’ve wanted to do," he said. "I wanted to get a job, and I got a job." Granted, he listed other things, but this one struck me. Chataqua County’s job market is so poor that getting any job should be considered an accomplishment. It has been this way for years. It was like that during the recession of the early 80's, when my family was forced to move south to find work, it was like that during the dot-com boom of the 90's - while every other place in the country was thriving, upstate New York was still stagnating - and it continues to be a crap-shoot today. Driving south on Rt. 60, passing billboards that read, "Jobs! Jobs! Jobs!", I’m reminded of ‘The Grapes Of Wrath’.

While we were eating, a family with two little kids sat in the booth next to ours. A large pane of frosted glass separated the booths, and I almost spit my coffee on poor John when the little girl pressed her tiny nose up against the glass, making a pig face at us. I put one hand over my mouth and used the other to point, squinting in an effort not to snarf coffee out my nose. John turned just in time to see her before she shied away and he burst out laughing. Then her brother, who was on my side, did the same to me. John and I were losing it! The more they could hear us laughing, the more they did it, until I stuck my face up against the glass as well. I was waiting for an admonition from the parents, waiting to hear, "Uh, can you please be an adult?", but it never came so I kept doing it. John was cracking up and I was making a scene with these kids, because every time the kid got close I would too, which would make the kid shriek with laughter, which made me shriek with laughter, and won me all kinds of disparaging looks from the other customers in the place. But I couldn’t help it! It was too fun to stop! At one point the kid held a piece of pancake, which he clutched in his chubby fingers, up to the glass to show me what he was eating. I nearly died laughing.

We finally got up to pay and left our pig-faced friends to peer over the booth and wonder where we went. I watched them stand on their seats and look over the glass like Kilroy as we rounded the corner to the cash register. I gave them a wave goodbye that they never saw and then we were on our way. We went to Point Gratiot, the Lake Erie state park. The lake looked like a calm ocean from the high lookout points in the park. People were swimming down below but I noticed a yellowish foam washing up onto shore and wondered if it were safe. Images of what I would have grown up to look like had I stayed in the area flashed briefly through my head - would I have grown a third arm out of my forehead if I had kept swimming in Lake Erie as often as I had as a child? I tried not to think about it, it made me too sad to see the lake in such a sad state.

John and I chilled on the grass for awhile and talked about writing. He’s actually been offered money for his short stories but turned it down because he wanted to keep the rights. I can’t even imagine actually being offered compensation, or having anyone interested in actually publishing me. William Least-Heat-Moon had 123 rejection letters for "Blue Highways" and that book is so good it makes me cry! So I tried not to think about that either.

At one point John turned to me and said, "You’re so great." It caught me off guard. Suddenly I felt like I was living a lie.
"I’m not as great as you think. I’m terrible with money. I’m completely disorganized. I live in a car. When I have a house, it’s dirty. I fall in love too easy. The IRS is after me because I forgot to include my W-2's in with my check and now I can’t find them. I’m completely screwed. I’ll probably end up in jail, or at least get audited. I’ve been drunk every night this week trying to forget about that and when my mom finds out I lost my forms she’ll probably kill me."

He laughed. "Will you calm down? Everybody’s bad with money. I just mean that you make me want to be a better person. I would love to be able to do what you do. You’re dedicated. Y’know, I’ve been thinking about what you’re doing and I think I might try it too. Like save up a bunch of money and then just go see what I can see? I never thought of doing that much before. But things are clearer now."

I looked at him and then at the park around us. Strains of Snoop Dogg drifted over from a barbeque a few hundred yards away. A Muslim family reunion at another table was put on hold while the men performed their evening prayer rituals, facing east and bowing their heads to the ground. A black lab was walking a blonde girl down the path towards us. I looked back at him as he reached over to brush my hair out of my eyes. "You’re right," I said, knowing I was a thousand miles from home and couldn’t fix a damn thing. "Things do look clearer."

I lied. For some reason I feel a terrible churning in my chest. I’ve felt this off and on for the past few days, like something is very wrong or something very bad is about to happen, most likely my fault. I can’t figure out what it is but it’s frightening. Maybe it’s the fear that I’m having too much fun and something will come along to take it away, or it’ll be taken away by some ignorance on my part. Maybe it’s waking up to realize that bad things happen to children every day, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Whatever it is, it’s completely drained me of any confidence in writing but still makes me want to do it anyway. It’s like feeling every note of Johnny Cash’s "Hurt" pulsing inside you, trying to get out. I try to forget it whatever way I can - music, watching Audri do something silly, playing football, even drinking. But sometimes it gets to me. It got to me then. I tried to forget it.

"I go to Cleveland on Tuesday," I said, trying to sound upbeat. I am kind of excited. I like Cleveland. I’m supposed to meet up with Toby Radloff, from "American Splendor" and "Bride of Killer Nerd ", while I’m there. I called him 6 months ago and asked him out for coffee. He said yes so hopefully that still stands. And the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is in Cleveland, too - looking at old pictures of David Bowie always cheers me right up.

I picked a daisy and put it in my hair. "You ready?" I asked John.
"Yeah, let’s go."
I dropped him off at his house, then went back to the motel to get some writing done, which usually plays out like this:

I pull up and get out of the car. Audri, bless her little heart, comes out of Jojo’s door.
"Woop-woop!" I shout to her.
"Woop-woop!" she answers back, grinning. By this time I’m unlocking my door and she’s on the porch, her head cocked to the side, pulling a lock of her spirally hair. "Um, are you gonna turn on your computer?"
"Yeaaaaaahhhhh...."
"Um, okay. Can I please get online and do some AIM?" She’s too cute to turn down.
"Sure, baby, come on in." She follows me inside and usually by now Scrappy is close on her heels, knocking on the screen door that hasn’t even had time to close. "Come in!" I shout, sitting down in front of the laptop and pulling out my wireless card. They sit on my bed and start playfighting while the computer loads up and connects. Once it’s ready, I get up from the table, saying, "Your turn, honey."

"Thank you!" she chirps, plopping down. Scrappy’s now lost his sparring partner and it becomes my job, which is fine because I can’t write since Audri’s using the laptop. He tackles me and throws me on the bed, messing up the sheets I strived so hard to get perfect before leaving the house even more - living in a less-than-luxury motel makes me want to keep it really neat. I try to fight back but I’m too tired after an exhausting day of going out to breakfast and reading the paper.

This is our routine, every day at 4:00. I like it. It makes me forget.