7:45 a.m. - Tuesday, May. 20, 2003
The Day in Luray
The truth is, I owe suzannah an apology. After playing hard in Altoona, I drove to Luray, a small town in Virginia, hidden away between the interstate and Washington D.C. I found my fifty dollar motel, the booty of a previous internet search and checked in to my room around the back. It was an older place, but clean. It had the colored bathroom fixtures, in this case mint green, that were popular in the fifties and early sixties. It was a huge room, furnished with an odd lot of furniture picked up at estate sales or left over from decades in the motel business. There was a ktichen table and two chairs, a naugahide sofa, an old TV, and one of those dresser/desk/bureau things found only in rented rooms. Mine was spliced together from two like items in such a way as to fit a space shorter than desired.
As long as they�re clean, I love places like this.
I was wretchedly tired. The previous day, I had been up and about by 0300 in order to make my 0600 flight connecting to Pittsburgh. BY the time neurotic-one finished with me, it was after midnite. Then I had gotten up early again to go see the choo-choo trains. BY the time I left there at noon, drove to Luray, got lost, got found, and got checked in, I was practically hallucinating.
I called the number I had for suzannah. When she answered, I introduced myself. She lived about forty-five minutes away from where I was and was just about to put a casserole in to feed her family. I agreed to meet her in an hour and a half or so.
I looked in the mirror for the first time since morning. My face was haggard and stubbly. My scars and swelling were angrier than normal, the result of so much talking and so little sleeping. I resolved to take a shower and change my clothes. Instead, I collapsed on the bed and slept until I heard her knock on the door. What a crummy first impression I must have made. Even worse, I was getting an upset stomach. As in those cramps that announce an impending bout of diarrhea.
She looked great. Something in her face reminded me of my little sister. I liked her already. She came bearing a gift of food; a quart of local apple butter. It was one of those things you don�t realize you�ve missed until you see it. Until that moment, I didn�t realize that apple butter isn�t something you see in the south. I was practically raised on the stuff in Utah.
Suzannah was recuperating from her own surgery. It took me some time to realize that she must have been feeling pretty puny herself. She had gone about her normal day, taking care of her family and then drug herself out for an hour�s drive to visit me. We should probably have rented adjoining beds in the local hospital and spent the night sucking the sugar coating off of pain pills and visiting.
Instead, we rode in her car to a local restaurant. It was one of those old houses that�s turned into a homey, pretty eatery with a few tables in each room, clean linen tablecloths, grandma�s good china, and cute, if condescending waitresses. The menu consisted of only the things the chef felt like making. There were no prices, the implication being that money was as nothing compared to the great happiness and honor of just being present at the table.
We both ordered a house salad and then mostly pushed the California lettuce around the bowl, using it to cover the Italian tomatoes and the Hawaiian pineapple chunks. I�m guessing it was the salad of a lifetime, but neither of us was in the mood to eat. Clearly, we were both sick.
We talked politely. I had only begun reading suzannah�s diary a few weeks before. I was a little embarrassed that I didn�t know her maybe as well as I should have. I realized that this was becoming a common theme with me. It makes it hard to talk. One defense is to ask questions, so I did. I listened and learned as best as I could while she talked about her life in and around Washington D.C. In spite of my discomfort, I enjoyed getting to know her better.
The evening ended with a sigh, if not a whimper. I think we were both uncomfortable, and so neither of us were ourselves. Anyway, I�m sure that�s true of me. I still feel bad about that. I feel like I let suzannah down in some way. That�s made this entry a hard one to write. I wish I had been myself that evening. I wish I hadn�t been feeling bad. I might have come away with something profound, or humorous, or inspirational to say. Instead, I�m stuck reporting that I had a nice salad with a nice girl from D.C.
And so, suzannah, here�s my apology:
I�m sorry.
I should have known you better through your diary before we met. I should have either gotten myself into better shape to meet you or else cancelled and saved you the trip to Luray. I always think gritting my teeth and getting through something is the only option. Maybe that isn�t true when others are involved. Maybe sometimes it�s better to be honest and back down. I did you a disservice by gritting my teeth. I need to learn something from that.
Happy Thoughts, Deep Breaths,
Coming Soon:
Driving in the fellership of Jeezus
What not to do with Dr Siang�s Pure Oil
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