Vic Socotra

19 October 2009

Dance

(The Tall Man Wants You to Walk! and Starting Line)

I wheeled up to the farm in the Bluesmobile as the light was beginning to fade to deeper gray under gray skies with gray chill drops still falling.

I was amazed to see no less than six deer in the nearer pasture. They took quick and disapproving notice of my presence, which robbed them of sanctuary against the other predators, both two and four-legged, and swiftly dispersed, leaping the fences with an easy fluid grace.

I put out some dry cat food in the garage, and made a loud “Meow!” toward the trees to let the feral cats know that grits were on.

I unloaded junk from the back seat and the trunk, moving briskly up the walkway so that things did not get too wet.

While I was still moving, Heckle appeared, calling out loudly. I am concerned about Jeckle, her mate. Always the more stand-offish of the two, I caught only a glimpse of him two weeks ago, and nothing at all this time. Heckle seemed quite distraught, and even the full food dish did not seem to placate her.

Hunger? Temperature? Some demonstration of nature, red in tooth and claw, that had taken Jeckle and left her alone?

Life is a bitch. I sorted things and then swept pine needles off the back deck. One of the deer had returned, looking up at the little house to see if I was real or hallucination.

The rain was not as bad as it had been in the morning, since all things are relative under God’s sky, but the cold from the walk in the cold rain still pierced my sweatshirt and turtleneck. Even the half-hour scalding shower when it was done was not enough to fully drive it back.

It was an important, and it was early.

Mary Margaret had organized a team to walk in honor of her Father, who is slipping away from us in the gray cotton wool of Alzheimers. Whatever is happening to my own father is something like it, and though the team had been formed when the pool was open and the sun was bright and beating, this was the day for the rally on the Mall, and the walk to demonstrate our commitment to funding to combat the insidious evil of progressive dementia.

It steals the people you love even as they are still with you, the cruelest of diseases.

Saturday morning I peered out in the darkness, hoping that things had let up. The rain had been falling insistently since Thursday. Not a monsoon, but more of a Chinese water torture. Soaking.

This was the bookend of the activity that levered me out of summer and into the winter.

The trip to Michigan to see the folks. The big corporate meetings on return, out in distant Leesburg. The Annual Fall meeting of the professional association, with people in from all over, pictures to take and articles to write and edit.

Finally, the Walk.

The rain was still coming down as I peered out on the balcony, temperature still in the 40s. I began to make plans: I found the hood for the waterproof jacket; synthetic exercise pants that I slipped on over my flannel jammie bottoms. Synthetic t-shirt to wick away the damp; turtleneck, sweater. Baseball cap. Thick socks. Comfortable shoes that would soon be sodden. A ballcap.

There is no parking downtown, and I knew that if I tried it I would wind up miles away from the rally point. That left Metro, and the weekend schedule of a train coming at random every half hour or so.

Oh well.

I navigated the Bluesmobile over to the building where I work and tucked it in the garage. Then the elevator up to the hotel side of the parking garage, and as far inside the building as I could get to the street near the Ballston Metro stop.

Then I went outside and started getting wet. It was a short stroll to the entrance to the underground and I looked at my reflection in the plate glass windows of the Rural Delivery Association, closed for bankruptcy, according to the hand-lettered sign. My hood stuck up, making me look like an elf of monstrous size.

There were knots of people down on the platform when I got there, and I shook off some of the water. A train appeared eventually, and with due deliberation, I was delivered to the Smithsonian stop on the Mall.

Some disconsolate volunteers were positioned at the top of the escalator, pointing past the Solar Decathlon display of energy efficient home models. None of them would be doing very well in this weather, I thought, as the pea-gravel of the Mall paths crunched under foot and the first cold water licked over the top of my left shoe, tickling the arch of my foot as it settled to squish fore and aft with each step.

Damn. Good cause, though.

I slogged over to the field where the Main Navy Building once stood. Several tents were set up, densely filled with people looking out in the rain. Under a larger structure a band was playing, and they were good. Mimes worked the crowd from under umbrellas, and some brave fellows walked around on stilts, regardless of the foting.

I found Mary Margaret, and everyone from her team had showed up. There was the entire leadership of the International Ornamental Concrete Workers, Jeremy and Chad, The Banana, the Colonel, Mardy 1 and Mandy. We were a full squad, and everyone was in the various stages of becoming soaked.

“Couldn’t get any worse,” said Jiggs.

“Well, it could be snowing,” I ventured.

Everyone shook their heads, almost in unison. “If it were snowing we would not be wet!”
I had to agree. It was about as unpleasant as it could be, and still we were all there.

As it turns out, the time left before the start of the Memory Walk featured a lot great tunes. Mardy 1 and I decided to join two deranged young women who were dancing in front of the band, barely covered by their tent. We were doing something like The Frug, which was about all we could manage with all the rain gear.

The dancing was really self-defense. If you are moving, you stay warm.

The organizers and sponsors all had a moment at the microphone before we struck off across the squishy starting line for the three mile walk.

They thanked us for our fortitude, and asked us to remember what this was about for all those who could no longer do it for themselves, and who had become strangers to their families.

Right before they let us go, I thought that the heroes were the musicians. All we had to do was walk and dance. They had to pick up electrical devices in the rain, you know?

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