Frankly, I’m busier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. And I LOVE IT. It’s always nice to have something to do, you know? Something to pass the time. I don’t think I’ve ever been so completely satisfied with what I’m producing … work wise. But here’s the thing: The book, the memoir … the creative non-fiction. Well. It just isn’t in my fingertips these days.
It is on my mind, though.
Someone posted a question on Facebook about a month ago. Something along the lines of “If you grew up in Anaconda and moved away, would you ever move back?” It sparked quite a conversation. And it got me thinking about my collection of bits and bobs and odds and ends of stories of the place. And some of the people. And I thought I must get back there. I really must.
There was a quiet kind of reverie that would come over Anaconda on days like today. It’s hot outside. There’s not much shaking, save the sound of a few odd fireworks here and there. The dogs are trying to find the cool spaces under the desk, or near the window where there’s a vent. Days like this, we’d head to the creek if we were kids and to the lake if we were kids with cars. Wait until dark, peel off our clothes and swim in the cool, cool water. The bashful among us keeping underwear on. The rest of us not really caring.
It was on one such outing, just this side of Spring Hill campground that I drifted over the center lane and side-swiped a car due to the sun in my eyes and my mind preoccupied. The car was full of older folks. An across-the-alley neighbor, his wife and a man I would later recognize as “That guy in Butte who repadded my clarinet.” The neighbor lit into me as I stuttered an apology and admission of guilt. I was sorry. I didn’t see them. The sun was in my eyes. He was furious. I … wasn’t.
I’ve since learned how unnerving it can be for most people who are all wound up to be around me in a crisis. I totally turtle. My mind slows down and I start listening very carefully to my thoughts. Sometimes I take notes so I can remember exactly what people are saying. One of the only times I take notes. Their hearts are racing. Mine is slowing. My ears tuned to the exact moment they are going to tip over into hysteria.
That’s usually when I raise a hand. Clear my throat.
Walk away.
In the old days I used to laugh a little. I don’t do that any more because that REALLY pisses people off. I know better now.
This particular time … later … around a campfire with a six pack of Rainier tall boys close by, I remember exhaling and wondering exactly what would have happened if I’d have drifted even an inch further. I remember looking at the stars and saying a secret thank you. Thank you for not taking me. Thank you for not taking them. Thank you for the patience and understanding I know my father will show. Thank you for allowing me to not even mention it to my mother, she’ll only worry. And it’s over. It won’t happen again.
I must get back there. I really must.
In an attempt to “get back there” today I resolved to take a peek at the manuscript just a little every day. Tweak this, pluck that … kind of like tending to an unruly set of eyebrows. I was talking to a friend about the organization of the collection and I think I’m going to return to my original plan. It will allow me to take the notes from my most excellent editor friend and really run with them.