Reunited
Denny called me from Anchorage about one this morning--finally getting on the road toward home.
I had been sleepy but unwilling to go to bed until I heard from him. Even as I finally slipped in between the sheets, I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that he had to be so much more weary than I was and that he still had four hours or more of difficult driving ahead of him.
Wind rattled the house and I slept fitfully for several hours. I kept waking up to check the monitor cameras for any sign of approaching headlights. When I drifted off to sleep, I dreamt that Denny was home, only to wake up, look at the clock, and know he still had hours to go.
*~*~*~*~*
Not only do I live in a place where people disappear--I live in a place where the weather can kill you.
Let me correct myself. The weather can kill you in almost any place or clime. It is just that the majority of people--insulated in their cocoon of modern life--don't realize it.
Our world is a bit more raw and we live close enough to the forces of Nature to treat her with respect. Avalanches can kill you. Wind chills can kill you. Poor visibilities can kill you. Icy roads can kill you. Even running out of gas can kill you. We try to be aware of conditions and options. We travel with extra fuel and dress as if we may have to walk home.
*~*~*~*~*~*
I lay in bed knowing that Denny was launching himself into an unknown night, that he was tired but anxious to get home. He drives the road from Anchorage to Homer and back again twice a month, so I trust him to know the troublesome areas and to use his judgement. He is a cautious man.
But still I worry.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I woke up at five and lay in bed, waiting.
The standard good-weather time between Anchorage and Homer is four hours.
I watched the television click back and forth between monitor cameras--the view down the driveway, the view in front of the house.
I listened to the wind rattle the branches of the alder outside the bedroom window.
Finally, twenty minutes after five, I saw the glint of headlights at the end of the driveway and felt a rush of relief.
The flurry of happy activity--pulling on my sweatpants and slipping into my Crocs, down the stairs to stand on the porch in the early morning darkness. A familiar face and happy greetings, the pleasant work of hauling luggage inside.
He had been up for twenty-six hours, so it wasn't long before we were back in bed, reassuring ourselves that we were indeed reunited, falling into relaxed sleep holding hands.
I had been sleepy but unwilling to go to bed until I heard from him. Even as I finally slipped in between the sheets, I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that he had to be so much more weary than I was and that he still had four hours or more of difficult driving ahead of him.
Wind rattled the house and I slept fitfully for several hours. I kept waking up to check the monitor cameras for any sign of approaching headlights. When I drifted off to sleep, I dreamt that Denny was home, only to wake up, look at the clock, and know he still had hours to go.
*~*~*~*~*
Not only do I live in a place where people disappear--I live in a place where the weather can kill you.
Let me correct myself. The weather can kill you in almost any place or clime. It is just that the majority of people--insulated in their cocoon of modern life--don't realize it.
Our world is a bit more raw and we live close enough to the forces of Nature to treat her with respect. Avalanches can kill you. Wind chills can kill you. Poor visibilities can kill you. Icy roads can kill you. Even running out of gas can kill you. We try to be aware of conditions and options. We travel with extra fuel and dress as if we may have to walk home.
*~*~*~*~*~*
I lay in bed knowing that Denny was launching himself into an unknown night, that he was tired but anxious to get home. He drives the road from Anchorage to Homer and back again twice a month, so I trust him to know the troublesome areas and to use his judgement. He is a cautious man.
But still I worry.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I woke up at five and lay in bed, waiting.
The standard good-weather time between Anchorage and Homer is four hours.
I watched the television click back and forth between monitor cameras--the view down the driveway, the view in front of the house.
I listened to the wind rattle the branches of the alder outside the bedroom window.
Finally, twenty minutes after five, I saw the glint of headlights at the end of the driveway and felt a rush of relief.
The flurry of happy activity--pulling on my sweatpants and slipping into my Crocs, down the stairs to stand on the porch in the early morning darkness. A familiar face and happy greetings, the pleasant work of hauling luggage inside.
He had been up for twenty-six hours, so it wasn't long before we were back in bed, reassuring ourselves that we were indeed reunited, falling into relaxed sleep holding hands.
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