Sunday, October 24, 2010

Red right, return

There's a navigational marker when returning to any harbor; red right return means keep the red buoy on your right/starboard side. It's a way to get back safely- similar to life itself.

Navigating life can be simple of you decide to pay attention to the signs. Preparing to back out of the garage today, I realized I had forgotten my wallet, and went back into the kitchen to get it.

Upon my return, I asked my husband where the cigarette smoke came from, to which he replied "what cigarette smoke?"
I looked at him rather funny, and said: "you can't smell that?"

I didn't wait for him to answer, just opened the garage door, and pulled out onto our side road heading to the highway.

As I turned on the radio, not set to the jazz station I have found here, a Boney James song was playing:

As soon as the song was over, the smell disappeared, and I thanked God thru my flowing tears for the 'red right returns' in my life; the spiritual navigational signals I receive often. Todays from my friend who passed over earlier in the week, a second in a short time that I have received thus far.

She has a lot of 'busy work' as I call it to do since her leaving, but I trust that I no doubt will be on her list of visits once again in the future.

As I turned my attention to the pelicans, gulls and the osprey at the beach, I let my mind wander to her many gifts and knowledge; to the years we spent together: as she'd often say I was her right arm; an extension to herself, to the longest kitchen ever shared as I would often borrow a cup or box of something I was out of when living right next door, to her uncertainty in the water as I swam easily and how she could ride a horse like nobodys business but crashed the only 3 wheeled bike we allowed her on the Cape Cod canal -just once.

To our millions of giggles and guffaws over Christmas pellet guns and pelicans, how to tell one gull species from another by the beak; the red spot a given to know who pecks and who pukes.

To the infamous nightgown that wasn't smiling when she came to retreive us kids from the docks in Maryland that we had snuck down to in the middle of the night to learn 'crabbing', to on that very same trip when she enthusiastically jumped out of the van to greet "Mr. Ranger, Sir" at Yellowstone Park, forgetting she was in a fire danger zone, squashing her cigarette butt under her foot at the tips of his boots, and not quite understanding him as he made her toe the line while picking up the cigarette, to the trip on Yellowstone Lake where we ran out of gas and you turned a yellow I'd never seen as I frantically rowed us across the ever blooming swells praying you'd not puke in the boat or at least not on my bare toes.
The line from the gas tank was blocked, had I removed it and replaced it we'd have gotten back a while lot sooner, but seeing her face I'd decided not to play mechanic, just to row instead.

To the many many times she asked me to be there for her, and in doing so, I became the enemy rather than a trusted friend, for blood runs thicker than water, as she and her business partner so often told me.

I was the devil that they knew in comparison to the devil they've barely finished with yet, and when offered, by Spirit, I took the Golden Parachute.
Yes, technically, I bailed, if you must call it that, but before doing so I drew a line in the sand that still stands with a key player in the f'ing nightmare we were all locked in.

My navigational system intact, I carry on, watching the signs-red right returning-knowing we will meet again on this sail, and I suspect it may be on the bonny bonny banks, right next to the Lochness Monster we saw together..or perhaps the first Missouri Wendy's where we shared our first bowl of chili, or Alaska, where you we're so busy calling "here Mr Bear" you smacked right into my back as I stopped on the knoll, just a 'wee bit' above Mama grizzly and the babies.
I can still hear your words: Holy Shit as she stood up.
I can still smell our collective fear...

And I often tell the story, and the famous one line of the guy before us on the very same trail who wrote in the Denali Park log after he returned:
'saw bear, shit pants- went back to change'...
The time I threw out the match book at HoJo's that you wrote the guys phone number on who was delivering the horses, and how I had to climb in the dumpster and find it...and last but not least, the time I almost wet my pants laughing at you while you tried your damdest to get into the red eldorado white top convertible at the local Brighams, when your caddy was a green 4 door sedan...sitting right next to it.

Til we meet again,my song to you will always be for the golden girl in my life:

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