glow, water bubbled up from under the baseboard along the wall. The floor shimmered with rainwater. A small rug drifted by and bobbed gently, like it was about to take off. With all the thunder and lightning, the kids surely would be frightened out of their minds. And now this.
Dad slept soundly. Holding up my pants legs, I splashed my way over to the kids. Shoes, socks, shorts, and tops were all on the move. An open paperback floated by. Nothing on the floor was anchored, except the beds. At that point, though, nothing would have surprised me. I began to get a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it wasnât Italian.
Tick woke up and looked at me and at the floor with a sleepy eye, and then turned over and snuggled down into his covers. My girl sat upâa little angel floating in a white boat.
âMom, is this part of The Adventure?â She rubbed her eyes and watched the waves ripple around her bed. The free-floating contents of the room bobbled and wandered, which gave a new perspective to my demands that they pick up their clothes. I tried to smile.
âItâs really kind of cool,â she said. âWe could get a raft and float around in here.â
âOK,â I said, then sloshed over to her and tucked her in. She sank groggily into her Lion King quilt.
Thatâs when I had a moment of terror at what I had done. I had brought a hurricane of sorts to my family, hadnât I? What have I done? I peered out the kitchen window and stared into the dark, impenetrable curtain of rain. We were a long way from Northwest Indiana, and family and friends. We werealone. No ⦠I am alone. Maybe it was the dark, but the newness of The Adventure was beginning to dawn on me. I needed the sun. Not this incessant, unforgiving rain.
It was almost four in the morning. The rain continued to pelt the roof without cease. I donât know how long I sat on that kitchen bar stool, absently watching the hallucinogenic patterns on the kitchen floor, searching for solutions, considering my options in my divorced, jobless, frustrated, and now flooded state.
Suddenly, of all things, I remembered Kurt Nimmergut and a sunny afternoon and our airplane ride. It was a week after my college graduation when I went flying with Kurt, my college roommateâs brother, a handsome, dark-haired hippy. I had no business taking off with him in that two-seater from an airstrip outside Alta Loma, California. But I did. We got up pretty high, and he handed the controls over to me.
âNo way!â I said.
âWay,â he said.
So I flew.
âDonât panic,â he told me. âTake each momentâone minute, one hour, one day at a time.â
I pulled back on the wheel, then bussed forward and scooped up the sky. That experience grounded me. I never forgot it, nor did I forget his advice. It was not my parentsâ station wagon or Cadillac. I didnât crash. I didnât lose control. I flew.
No, I would not imagine trouble and worry over stuff I couldnât do a thing about. There was quite enough to deal with. One day, one moment at a time. Now.
At least, I had a temporary solution. I jumped down off the stool and went for the Pinch. My Aunt Marian, who lived in nearby Bradenton, came over with bottle in hand to visitafter we moved into the cottage.
âItâs there, honey, in the cupboard. For when you need a little boost, or to celebrate.â
Of course, I didnât think sheâd meant for breakfast, but I would celebrate this new turning point, and Kurtâs good advice. This small step in re-ordering my life. I poured a slug of the scotch into a jelly glass and drank it down. It burned with an earth-grounding jolt all the way to my wet pajama bottoms and damp toes. I climbed back up on the stool. Then, like the fingers on a drum giving up, the rain stopped. Still I sat, and although chilled, I remembered Kurt, and it gave me the warmth of new purpose, comforted me. I
Dad slept soundly. Holding up my pants legs, I splashed my way over to the kids. Shoes, socks, shorts, and tops were all on the move. An open paperback floated by. Nothing on the floor was anchored, except the beds. At that point, though, nothing would have surprised me. I began to get a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it wasnât Italian.
Tick woke up and looked at me and at the floor with a sleepy eye, and then turned over and snuggled down into his covers. My girl sat upâa little angel floating in a white boat.
âMom, is this part of The Adventure?â She rubbed her eyes and watched the waves ripple around her bed. The free-floating contents of the room bobbled and wandered, which gave a new perspective to my demands that they pick up their clothes. I tried to smile.
âItâs really kind of cool,â she said. âWe could get a raft and float around in here.â
âOK,â I said, then sloshed over to her and tucked her in. She sank groggily into her Lion King quilt.
Thatâs when I had a moment of terror at what I had done. I had brought a hurricane of sorts to my family, hadnât I? What have I done? I peered out the kitchen window and stared into the dark, impenetrable curtain of rain. We were a long way from Northwest Indiana, and family and friends. We werealone. No ⦠I am alone. Maybe it was the dark, but the newness of The Adventure was beginning to dawn on me. I needed the sun. Not this incessant, unforgiving rain.
It was almost four in the morning. The rain continued to pelt the roof without cease. I donât know how long I sat on that kitchen bar stool, absently watching the hallucinogenic patterns on the kitchen floor, searching for solutions, considering my options in my divorced, jobless, frustrated, and now flooded state.
Suddenly, of all things, I remembered Kurt Nimmergut and a sunny afternoon and our airplane ride. It was a week after my college graduation when I went flying with Kurt, my college roommateâs brother, a handsome, dark-haired hippy. I had no business taking off with him in that two-seater from an airstrip outside Alta Loma, California. But I did. We got up pretty high, and he handed the controls over to me.
âNo way!â I said.
âWay,â he said.
So I flew.
âDonât panic,â he told me. âTake each momentâone minute, one hour, one day at a time.â
I pulled back on the wheel, then bussed forward and scooped up the sky. That experience grounded me. I never forgot it, nor did I forget his advice. It was not my parentsâ station wagon or Cadillac. I didnât crash. I didnât lose control. I flew.
No, I would not imagine trouble and worry over stuff I couldnât do a thing about. There was quite enough to deal with. One day, one moment at a time. Now.
At least, I had a temporary solution. I jumped down off the stool and went for the Pinch. My Aunt Marian, who lived in nearby Bradenton, came over with bottle in hand to visitafter we moved into the cottage.
âItâs there, honey, in the cupboard. For when you need a little boost, or to celebrate.â
Of course, I didnât think sheâd meant for breakfast, but I would celebrate this new turning point, and Kurtâs good advice. This small step in re-ordering my life. I poured a slug of the scotch into a jelly glass and drank it down. It burned with an earth-grounding jolt all the way to my wet pajama bottoms and damp toes. I climbed back up on the stool. Then, like the fingers on a drum giving up, the rain stopped. Still I sat, and although chilled, I remembered Kurt, and it gave me the warmth of new purpose, comforted me. I
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