The Storm

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I sat at the dining room table checking my email. The digital clock on the microwave read 11:56 P.M.

Outside the window the bushes ignited as if a gigantic flashbulb had gone off.

I rose from my space and ventured to the front door.

Another flash.

Rain came in laconic bursts.

I grabbed my iPod and moved to the front porch to watch the storm brewing in the skies above, and then realized that the brunt of it was over Lake Pend Oreille.

I snagged my camera and headed down to the water’s edge as the skies above me swirled about angerly; lightning forked and splayed, cracking the heavens in two with chasms of refulgent light.



Amazing.

I watched the curlicues of electricity—each one even more impressive than the last—at intervals of about a minute. However, for each image I captured, dozens far more spectacular were missed because my camera was pointed in the wrong direction.

Curses.

However—the storm was raging all about me.

Wicked.

The lake, once gently rolling, suddenly came to life as the wind roared in my ears, ripping my headphones from place; the water was now uneven and wild as the knobby clouds raced across the vindictive sky.

Then came the rain.

Buckets of water sloshed from the heavens as I made my way to the car, shielding my camera with my body. In the protected interior of my vehicle, the windshield wipers pushed away the deluge as I drove north, the direction the storm which careened on turbulent winds.

Lightning raked through the sky above me; the flashes lighting up valleys I drove past as brightly as if it were daylight. Through the rain, the skies above me looked like a network of burnished spider webs in a clouded bottle.

The road before and behind me was empty.

The lake to my right began to slacken its waves, like the aftermath of the flood when Noah had warned the people to repent; the hills around me were carpeted with majestic pines and aspens.

I pulled my car over and switched off the headlights.

It was instantly dark.

I fumbled with my umbrella and tripod, determined to capture a few more images of this magnificent storm—but the tempest was quickly retreating over heavily wooded hills whose towering pines would assuredly block my view.

I waited.

Nothing.

Only the pattering of rain on the umbrella and the occasional hint of lightning now…the storm was withdrawing far too quickly over fens and moors; over countryside which was far too difficult to traverse without established paths.

I was too late.

From somewhere up the road a large, shadowy figure crossed on the fringe of my night-vision. It was probably only a deer.

Images of Bigfoot flashed through my mind, this was—after all—the Great Northwest.

Instantly, every horror movie I’d every seen returned to memory…

It would be waiting in the bushes. It would wait for the lone man to stand there for another minute or two before going in for the kill…

I grabbed my tripod and camera and made for my car. Upon shoving these items into the vehicle I dropped the umbrella.

Leave the umbrella. This would be the part of the movie where the man would go back for it and the creature would grab him with it’s claws and maul him to death. The entire audience would be thinking, “You idiot! Why did you go back for that stupid umbrella? It only cost $10!”

I went back for it anyway—what can I say? I’m frugal.

The umbrella and I were both safe in the car; the doors locked.

It’s in the car already. At this point of the movie the music would rise fervently as the man would turn on the interior light and look into the back seat. As he did so he would see the creature there, like that guy in Jurassic Park.

I turned on the light. I was alone.

All was well.

The radio was turned on. Jars of Clay. I started my car and drove the distance back to Sandpoint.

1:47 A.M.

Echoes

Pin It It is night.

Everyone is asleep, save me.

I gaze around my parents’ house, the familiar dimmed lamps burn through the darkness.

I sit; I look on.

As I do, I remember words penned many years ago by author Mary Downing-Hahn in her book, “Time for Andrew:”

The fire hissed and popped and sent a shower of sparks flying up the chimney. I leaned closer to my aunt. “Do you ever wonder about the people who used to live in this house?”

“What do you mean, Drew?”

“Well, so many of their belongings are here—things they touched, things they made. It just seems strange…” While I spoke I looked around the room, finding faded photographs on the mantel, a pair of china dolls sharing a child-sized rocking chair, shelves of old books. My voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say.

Aunt Blythe ran one finger over the row of stitches she’d just finished. “Things last longer than people,” she said softly.

That was true, but that wasn’t what I meant. “The people, our ancestors—do you think they’re still here somehow?”

“Are we talking about ghosts?”

“Do you believe in them?”

Unlike some adults, Aunt Blythe took my question seriously. Leaning her head back, she stared into the fire and thought about her answer. “In an old house, the past is all around you,” she said slowly. “You hear sounds sometimes, even smell things. Superstitious people might call it the work of ghosts, but I think of them as echoes, little traces of the folks who once called this house home…”

It is quiet.

I listen to the echoes.

Messages to heaven

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The chirp of magic markers sent up a chorus of sound in the otherwise silent family room—like an orchestra of crickets—as we each penned our individual messages of gratitude, of appreciation, and of love.

The minutes passed and still everyone wrote.

Some drew.

We had no idea what the others were writing.

When everyone had finished, we took our helium-filled balloons to the front yard, the yard she loved, filled with flowers and the aroma of the night breeze off of Lake Pend Oreille.

As one we sent our messages skyward, a rainbow of color against a blue canvas of sky.


We stood and watched, arms around each other as the nine balloons floated away to the east; one for each of us present—and one for Mom. We stood there watching until they had completely vanished on the distant eastern skyline—still huddled together in a small group.

Like a family.

Just like us.

Sanctuary

Pin It I walked through the living room to the deafening sounds echoing in my ears: Chatter. Giggle. Gabble. Yak.

I moved into the step-down family room and closed the double sets of French doors to block out the clamorous din.

I was in the inner sanctum; the safe refuge.

I was soon joined by my brother and brother-in-law.

Silence.

Occasional conversation.

Silence.

The French doors opened: Gossip. Squeal. Blather. Gibber. Gab.

The doors immediately snapped shut as my dad entered the room; the guffaws of the catamenial hyenas were instantly muffled.

From this hallowed room poured the strains of Joe Cocker, Kenny Loggins, & The Eagles…

Occasional dialogue.

Mostly silence.

A few minutes later my brother stood and moved to the doors to use the bathroom. “If I’m not back in two minutes, come and save me.”

We promised.

The doors opened: Snort. Chortle. Twitter. Guffaw.

The doors were closed as he braved the piercing giggles alone.

Classic Rock.

Basking in silence.

Dr. Pepper and Diet Coke.

Reminiscing of days gone by.

The door opened: Shriek. Snort. Cluck. Titter.

French doors snapped shut.

My brother had returned, breathing hard…as if just escaped from drowning

Sanctuary.

Tributary

Pin It My dad invited a family member to compose an obituary for Mom; it arrived yesterday midmorning via email. Upon reading the short paragraph which was sent, my dad asked me to add to it—a revision if you will.

I sat down and let the words spill onto the screen.

As rain poured in torrents outside the large picture window, the words—the obituary—materialized into something a bit more; no longer was it simply a death notice.

It had become a tribute.

A blog post.

I share it with you here.


* Consequently, the two errors in the obituary are not mine, they were made afterward by the paper...I mean really, who would hyphenate 'California' for heaven's sake?

I just wanted to be sure...

Pin It The pale green curtain was pulled across the doorway for some semblance of privacy in the chapel of Moon Funeral Parlor this afternoon. My dad had left to discuss the varied details of the memorial service with the director while I rubbed down the coffin with furniture polish.

The lemony-pine scent wafted over the pews of the silent chapel, and the wood radiated with a golden sheen in the incandescent lights from the ceiling.

The silence of that chapel was brazen—almost ominous.

I gazed wordlessly for a few moments at the box constructed of pine lath before me, and found myself having a conversation with Mom. I was wondering if she would be comfortable when she would be placed in it tomorrow morning—two days before the funeral was to take place.

I slid the lid open

The interior was carefully lined with a patterned, white blanket; velvety to the touch. A cushion had been placed at the underside of the casket; I felt along the base, relishing the softness.

I removed my shoes and—very carefully—climbed inside.

I eased my head back against the pillow and gazed at the ceiling. The lining was cozy, comfortable, and it felt warm and secure. It would have been a bit hard on the rear after a prolonged period I decided, but overall it was—nice.

I closed my eyes.

A moment later I heard the curtain being whipped back. I jerked my head up to see the junior director standing in the doorway.

The look of dumfounded stupor on his face said it all, for he was devoid of speech.

I arose slightly and rested my arms on the sides of the casket. “Just checking,” I said in an offhanded tone.

“Checking?” He asked.

“To make sure it’s comfortable,” I said, regarding him in return. “This must look a little odd…”

The man shook his head, “Well, I’ve never seen it before—or heard of it either,” he gave an uncertain chuckle. “But to each his own.”

“I just wanted to be sure,” I said. “I’ll be done in just a minute.”

The man nodded. “Well, I just wanted to let you know that your dad is meeting with the director now…that is, if you wanted to join them.”

He stood in the doorway for another silent beat, and then the curtain was sharply drawn back where it had been.

I eased back into place.

Yes, the coffin was comfortable.

Mom would have approved.

I climbed out of the casket and slipped my shoes back on, gathering up the wood polishing supplies as I did so.

On my way out I saw the junior director sitting in a side room with a fellow employee.

They both looked up as I passed, and smiled.

Spokane Photoshoot

Pin It I needed a break.

Don’t we all from time to time to take our minds off of what is going on in our various lives?

I am glad that my respite came in the form of my friend, Laura, and her two great kids. We were able to spend a few hours traipsing the downtown area of Spokane seeing what images we were able to capture together.

Her son, He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named, made me laugh…a lot.

These are just a few of my favorites.

And she made brownies, too.

(Click on images for a larger view)