Rain Rain

A heavy rain that threw down inches walked with me 16 miles yesterday. With no training because I worked right up until a week before I left my 1948 Airstream home, 16 miles have the same affect that 40 miles had in Vermont. My legs are pulled pork, and my shoulders are detatched bags with fingers on the bottom held on only by skin.
Alexcia's phone is out. Although I promised a call, and my tongue is cut out, I can't shake this feeling that I'm breaking my word. From payphone to payphone I walk south. Cell phones have made horses out of phone booths. The car has arrived courtesy of Mr. Ford, so some fool thought that it'd be swell to go about and kill all the horses we no longer need. Problem is the car is unreliable. The cell phone--if you carry--has no tongue on most of these roads, but the payphone is already bleeding on the back of the truck. Have an emergency. Pray.
At a still remaining payphone I put in my quarters. The works are bells and levers, but they catch nothing, and my quarters fall through. More lonely I stand without even a dial tone for warmth.
Last night I walked to Anne Dunn's and her son Alex's house. Earlier in the day I called to tell them that the outlook for my visit didn't look good. It was pouring, and I was overwhelmed. Still they held out hope. They were two beams of light when I knocked at their door soaked and shrouded in dark. Wine, ginger tea, candles, smiles, fresh stories, lasagna, all came across my plate. We talked for hours that were too short, slept, and woke up to a large mixing bowl heavy with bater for hot cakes, and the coffee. After giving Alex a piece of elk skin for a length of rope I needed to girdle up my pants, I tried to answer some of his questions.
The three of us set out by noon to continue my walk. Oddly, these were the first people to ever walk with me although at least a thousand miles had already passed under my boots. The only thing better than a fantastic gift is sharing that gift with people that apprecate it. For over a mile we all walked over the line into CT and still farther south. We took pictures, and set down thoughts that were too heavy. We could carry them later. Right now we were close friends sporting new morning smiles, heading into something larger than words wanted to try tackle.
We sat at the Canaan Snack Shack eating cookies Anne made until the cold set in, and words in motion slowed. We talked as if I was sailing away. We all moved our feet in the sand, looking at the water for sentences that would make the words good-bye sound more promising.
As my friends walked back toward home and grew smaller to my eyes, I wandered down Route7 into Canaan. From behind me a camera flashed. I turned to watch two shinking forms moving away, bodies tight, like swimmers in cold water.