STILL IN COLLEGE, Hoosier central, but return to the farm at Phillipsburg to stay over during a snowstorm. Dad had picked me up at college but dropped me off for elsewhere.
Next morning, everything's fine and I awaken hearing voices. Aunt Edna and maybe Orpha are around.
Soon I'm downtown, walking from the hilltop with a friend through a mist or rainfall. The neighborhood's like Fairview – nice but older. We pass one house that has a shiny chrome fat-tire bicycle on the driveway, close to the sidewalk. A few blocks further on, I leave my companion and go back and steal the bicycle. Just gotta have it. I'll get back to the farm that way.
Riding it is exhilarating! But I decide to return the bike. My companion's bewildered, so we part again.
As I'm putting it back in the driveway (the house has changed, it's a bungalow on a small hill surrounded by a lot of rock and patches of grass), I'm greeted by name. Someone I've corresponded with about genealogy. My Rasor line, which would connect me with the farm and Aunt Edna.
I'm introduced to a husband, big family, the more ramshackle neighbors.
RETURNING TO MY CHILDHOOD HOME, I can see – perhaps from a kitchen window – the roof of a church down the street – the house must be slightly higher, on a small hill.
The church was something like the fundamentalist one built on Smithville Road, late '50s, yellow brick, but it's the roof I notice, caving in from the middle.
I walk down the street to explore.
But then I'm with, well, doesn't matter, their Volvo got covered in some kind of ash, a paste. I test it and begin washing it off. We're laughing as we clean the car but I'm interrupted by someone from that church. Did he beckon us? Me?
I follow, perhaps. Unclear.
There's a small group inside, early 20s, mulling about, sad to be losing the place. But they're rehearsing something, and two start to dance, something fast, great choreography with lifts and twirls and then music. Soon I'm in the midst of many of them, the sanctuary opens out into an airy social space.
I'm supposed to be with the kids and you for a day trip. Back on the street, I realize you have to take off without me. What can I do? The new crowd sweeps me off.
It's a contemporary Christian group gathered and led by a young Cuban who's watching his dream crumble. He has followers or fellow travelers but not the financial resources to sustain it. I try to meet up with him in the crowd, but he keeps slipping away, drawn by others.
They pull him across a dark inner-city street. Traffic intervenes.
So we're on the street anyway, big-city downtown, now full of light as we're joyously singing and dancing. Back Bay Boston or Times Square pre-Disney, perhaps Cincy more than my hometown in its prime. Many yellow taxis, for one thing. And many smiles. We know the strangers around us would tell us our faith is unreal. We don't care.
Then I realize I have to go, maybe I've seen a clock overhead, but don't have my phone. It's in the Volvo, wherever. Can't call you, either. At least I have my credit card for a bus ticket, though I'm uncertain how I'll get from the depot to the house.
You somehow appear, fully understanding. It's not the first time I've left you in the lurch, but you've had a good time anyway.
Even so, as I awaken, I feel free, renewed, refreshed, happy, in a state of wonder and amazement.
Is dance and song and improvisation within some structure (think of that elaborate couples' dance) what's been missing? Plus, there's some zesty food in the background.
No comments:
Post a Comment