The Perfect Storm

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
For what it's worth it was worth all the while

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

"Good Riddance" (Time of your life) by Green Day

About a year ago, our county decided to rebuild a small bridge that passes over a walking trail before emptying onto the main road to Avila Beach, where I work. The resulting detour required an additional five minutes drive time to the next exit before backtracking to the bridge's intersection with San Luis Bay Drive. That extra stretch of road took me past a wooded resort, a hot springs, the infamous Avila Barn, and this ramshackle frame of a building that seems to defy nature from every angle.

Something about the way it stood so proudly, rotting posts like crutches under the arms of a sagging roof despite its obvious near-death status, drew my gaze every time I drove past. I felt some sort of odd kinship with this freak of nature, understood on a cellular level how it feels to defy gravity; stand steadfast with feet planted firmly on one's foundation even when the rest of you leans into certain fate. I've seen it in myself many times, but mostly I've seen it in people who've drawn the short straw in life's cosmic gamble for days on earth.

Over time, the transparency of wind and sun through aging timber affected me so greatly that I finally pulled over one morning to photograph it. Later that day the spa booked a massage for a couple who were spending the man's last precious days near the ocean. He was sick, and despite all medical and spiritual methods to stop the cancer from spreading, they'd finally made peace with the inevitable. But making peace, for them, meant celebrating life rather than grieving impending death. Massages, wine-tasting, hot springs, and, as I would soon learn, laughing and smiling, were self-prescribed treatments for a man leaning into certain fate.

Ivan's smile preceded him by several yards. He was older than his wife by nearly twenty years, and there was grace in that. I like to think she'd eventually find love again. When I complimented his sweater, he offered to give it to me right then and there. I would have taken it had it not been so brisk a day and had he not been so thin and needing a sweater. We both knew what was unspoken in that offer: he was surrendering himself to our hands in exchange for an experience neither of us would take for granted.

I heard him laughing on the other side of the door where he and his wife changed into robes before being seated in the foyer. He made jokes as we soaked and scrubbed their feet and they sipped tea. The wine-tasting had made him a little silly, but I'm convinced the laughter came from a childlike place within the depths of a man who'd suddenly been freed from the constraints of societal expectations rather than the contents of a bottle. Watching him, I understood what it means to care more for one's true nature than the nature of manufactured propriety.

I found myself smiling and laughing throughout an event that could easily have been awkward and sad. Before they left the spa, Ivan turned and walked behind the counter to throw his arms around my massage partner and me, pulling the three of us into a voluptuous group hug. "I love you!" he shouted, and he meant it. As they were leaving, I  discovered he'd left behind his St. Christopher's, and raced out the front door to return it. He thanked me and winked, as the irony of a saint on a chain passed between us.

The following weekend California was hit with a major storm. It took down trees, knocked out the power, overflowed creeks, and caused mudslides up and down the coast. I railed against the wind and rain, hoeing the back yard to create a trench for the water to drain off, set plastic over the skylights on the roof, caulked around the patio doors. Despite my efforts, water seeped into my tenant's bedroom, the roof leaked, and rain found its way under the patio doors. When the power went out I was forced to stop fighting and give into the experience instead. I lit candles, listened to the wind howl through the trees, and hoped. Eventually, I found myself smiling.

Sometime during the preceding week, the bridge was completed so I took the shorter route to Avila on the day following the storm. When I arrived at the spa, one of the estheticians mentioned that the old building on Avila Drive had blown down during the night. She'd seen me photographing it on her way to work a few weeks ago, and thought I'd want to take an "after" picture. I set my camera on the front seat so I wouldn't forget on my way home, but at the last minute turned and crossed the new bridge instead. I've decided I'd rather remember the beauty of a keening barn than a pile of wood on the ground; a story in progress rather than an easy ending.

A living man's cacophony of laughter over a dead man's pithy obituary.

Comments

[Connie Saunders]

Beautiful piece of writing. I especially love the last line.

[Fran aka Redondowriter]

So glad you are back at the blog. This really is a wonderful essay, as Connie says.

[Carolyn]

As always a luscious piece of writing by you, El. Loved it!

[Ann]

Lovely, El. I do hope your exercise is going well (from your September entry on memory, etc.) -- I want you to be around for some time. I do love reading what you write. I wonder how your life is now, and how J is. I miss hearing from/about you.

[Debtorby]

Exquisite telling of a poignant story. I loved it.

[pioneerspirit]

Poignant and heart tugging imagery. I could also see myself in those tattered timbers and beams, struggling to hold up the weight of it's substance. Ivan's 'caring for his true nature' was inspiring.Thank's El and Ivan.

[Suzanne B]

Elle,

I've been checking back for updates for what seems like forever. I hope all is well with you. If you'd write every day, you are one of those writers whom I'd happily read every bit as often.