The Write Fit

Writing is something I have loved to do ever since I learned how to write the alphabet. I liked listening to other people’s stories and writing them down. I loved handwriting and looking at how many different ways my classmates wrote their As, Bs, Os and Zs. I liked writing about the things around me.
 

I was much more of a listener and writer than a speaker. I don’t know if this was attributed to my own insecure feelings that when I spoke, people tended not to listen to me entirely or that they appeared bored after a few sentences. Or maybe that was simply my perception of how I thought people viewed me. But I accepted this and was careful choosing friends and what I would tell them about myself. I did have my reasons for keeping several things about my life private, but I will have to share those reasons in later entries.

I excelled in writing and interviewing as a youth. My mother said I always asked so many questions. My pseudo Uncle, Sydney Lang, who I have had many adventures with in my youth, suggested I pursue a degree in journalism. I did. I felt taking that route in my education would open doors to new pathways and areas to explore.

Upon graduation I was hired immediately by a struggling newspaper and assigned to cover health and wellness topics. My desk was in a dim corner by the janitor’s closet, nowhere near a window, and my chair was uncomfortably lumpy where the fabric and padding had worn thin. My conditions seemed neither well nor healthy.

The newspaper was on the verge of bankruptcy and it was bought by a larger media company. We were converted to a generic online news mill that sent articles out to major websites. I soon realized I was bored out of my mind. I was tired of having to write watered down articles containing the right buzz words which people might type into a search engine. That job just didn’t fit me right.

I looked for other work. An online magazine gave me a shot with longer article limits and assigned topics that suited my style better. I needed to get out of the office to find the stories. Most of these assignments involved interviewing people, which I loved doing. It was then that I adopted the motto: Everyone has a story worth recording.

I wrote lots of stories. I interviewed singers, comedians, producers, businessmen and business women. I wrote about top spots to shop and dine. I wrote features about the homeless in Chicago, crime on the west side, and vacationing on the Lakes. I did a lot of walking, local traveling and writing.

One late afternoon, I entered the “L” ready to take the long commute home from downtown Chicago to the Dempster stop  in Evanston. I found myself looking for a seat. My eyes rested on an open seat next to an older woman with bright box-dyed red hair, ruby painted nails, and wearing a canary colored coat. I wasn’t sure if I should yield or stop. I took the seat next to her and immediately inhaled her strong, powdery perfume and muffled a cough.

When our eyes met, out of politeness, I nodded and said, “how do you do?”

She smiled and said, “oh, I’m doing fine…”

She began to tell me she just had her nails redone in a darker red since she was due for a change. Then she said she was going Macy’s to find a new pair of shoes to match the outfit hidden under her coat. She went on some tangent about a friend of hers who needs better shoes but hates to shop and then something about day shoes versus night shoes.

I began looking around when my eyes rested on my feet. I suppose my eyes sometimes take me places I’d rather not be and other times to places where I am more comfortable. In this case I was in an uncomfortable seat wearing comfortable shoes.

The red canary continued to talk and I honestly didn’t remember what else she said until she gently patted my knee and asked, “excuse me, are you listening?”

“Hum?” I said as my head bobbed back and my eyes rested on her face. There was a faint sparkle in her eyes surrounded by globby mascara and rough eye liner perched on top of two ultra-rosy cheeks.

 “Where did you go?” she asked.

Go? Where did I go? Where was she going? Where were we going together? These questions quickly raced through my mind and all I could answer was, “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Shoes. Good luck finding that perfect pair.”

I nodded to her and smiled. She smiled back and thanked me. As the train came to a stop, I mechanically rose from my seat and exited the closest set of doors not even knowing where I had gotten off exactly.

Those questions returned: Go? Where did I go? Where was she going? Where were we going together? I sat on a bench with my hands in my pockets to keep warm while waiting for the next train since I had left the last one too early.

I stewed over my experience with that woman. As I said before, I like listening to people. I like their stories. I like writing them down. But that woman could not hold my interest if she was the last person on the planet with a mouth. But then again, maybe I caught her on a bland topic and she really is a wonderfully interesting lady if I gave her more than a few minutes of my ears on a train ride to Evanston.

Then I worried how my own stories and experiences may be boring or strange to others like hers was to me at that moment. I justified in my mind why I usually keep my stories to myself. I continued to stew on the bench. But the next experience I had while waiting on the platform sparked a clicking in my head like the train on the rails. I realized that my motto, Everyone has a story worth recording, was due for editing.

My train of thought was suddenly interrupted.

“What are you wearing?”

I heard a voice next to me. Sitting on the ground in a gap between my bench and another bench was a Golden Retriever with a service harness on his back and panting with a smile as he looked up at me. His master sat bundled in a fuzzy coat, striped scarf and leather gloves on the other bench.

“Excuse me? Did you say something?” I asked speaking over the dog.

The man on the bench simply sat there quietly looking off the platform toward the gray sky and dim row of houses.

Indigo C. Beacon - Copyright 2000

“He didn’t say anything. He can’t hear you. I asked what you are wearing,” the dog said.

I looked down at the Golden Retriever. “Oh, my mistake,” I replied. “I usually speak to people, but you aren’t the first dog I’ve ever had a conversation with either.”

It was happening again. It is something that I had grown uneasily familiar with since I was a child. Somehow, sometimes, I can speak to animals, or they speak to me and I can hear and understand them. Strange, I know. This is one of those things I have kept a secret for many years, because as a child when I would say the bird or cat told me so, people wouldn’t believe me.

“I’m wearing orange corduroy pants, blue leather shoes, and my favorite plaid overcoat.” I sat up straight and proud.

“I may be color blind, but that outfit stinks,” the dog chuckled.

“I know dogs have a strong sense of smell. So are you saying I smell bad, or I have terrible taste?”

“No. You smell fine. Smell like you showered this morning, put on a light moisturizer to guard your face and hands from the weather, and your teeth were recently brushed.” He sniffed, “or you carry your toothbrush with you. Something like that.”

 “You are an intelligent dog. It’s both. I brushed my teeth when I left the office and I carry my toothbrush with me. What would you suggest I change about my outfit?” I asked, looking down at my lap and feet.

He cleared his throat and gruffed,“ at least lose the shoes. They are so out of style and are probably not even worth chewing on.”

Shoes again, I thought. “But they are comfortable. I love these shoes,” I said a little sheepishly.

“Just because you love them doesn’t mean you should wear them with everything. I help my master choose his clothes every day. One tap of my nose to his hand means yes and two taps means no. I’ve been helping him dress for years. He is deaf and nearly blind. He trusts my taste and my eyes,” the dog said frankly.

I looked at the man on the bench next to him. The dog had a point. He dressed well even though he couldn’t see himself in a mirror clearly or hear the opinions of others passing by.

Speaking of passing by, a young couple looked at me strangely as they walked down the platform while the dog and I talked. I couldn’t tell if it was my outfit that caught their attention or that I was speaking to a dog. I thought of the woman on the train and how I judged her appearance and that she must have been judging my appearance at the same time. After all, since we had no prior experience with each other there would be nothing more to judge than our looks.

I realized that if I troubled myself so much with what everyone thought all the time that I would go crazy and not enjoy life at all. Opinions and advice should be taken like medicine. We should be cautious and ingest the right doses at the right time and for the right maladies. Sometimes the medicine is hard to swallow. Sometimes it is totally unnecessary, but other times we must take it for the better.

In my case, I had come down with a bad case of The Shoes. It took a bright haired lady and loyal dog to drop enough hints that my shoes may be better worn at home and that my public appearance could stand to be freshened up a bit.

The caution light beamed on the platform as a train approached. Before standing to leave, I turned to the dog and said, “thank you for your advice,” and scratched him behind his ears. “Is this your train too?” I asked.

“No we are on the next one. You are very welcome and thanks for listening,” the dog replied. “It’s not every day that I get to have an understandable conversation with a person.”

We both smiled as I turned to board the train.

So that day when I couldn’t decide whether to yield or stop, I ended up doing both and concluded that my motto must be improved a bit. My new motto became: Everyone has stories worth recording, stories worth ignoring, and that includes me. 

Yes, for the first time my soul was filled with confidence that things in my life, my thoughts, and many of my experiences are actually pretty incredible. They are worth writing down and sharing with others. I had to get over that fear of being ignored, rejected, or looked at as weird.

That was the last day I stepped on a train with those worn out, blue leather shoes. It was the first day I decided to record one of my own stories, regardless of it including a real talking dog.

Mishap in the Mangroves

I came home to a cold, wet winter in January; typical for Chicago. It was quite dismal this time. I sat sulking, looking out my window too often, and wishing my mangled ankle would heal a bit faster, so I could voyage again.

Forgive me, I am getting ahead of myself. That's how it happened too. I was ahead of myself when I injured my left ankle while sloshing through the Florida wetlands. I was in a shallow wet spot in a thick patch of red mangroves while following a bald eagle in the sky. Bald Eagles are majestic creatures and I hoped to interview one on this trip.



Artwork courtesy of Jochabel Reese - Copyright 2015

Instead, I had an eerie feeling that I was being followed by something and turned just in time to see a water moccasin ready to strike.

Adrenaline shot through my limbs and I jumped backward, catching my foot between the twisted roots of a red mangrove. I fell, splashing into the murky water. Pain instantly surged through my leg. Had I been bitten? I could not tell.

The stocky snake looked sharply into my eyes and lunged again. I instantly hit him on the snout with my binoculars.

He coiled back hissing and said, "You nassty sstranger, why did you attack me?"

I shuddered and yelled, "I will not tolerate being poisoned by your bite! I did not threaten you in the first place."

I hoped my warning was clear enough, because all I could do was try to intimidate him at that moment. I was caught in a natural trap and one caused by my own foolishness.

One of the first rules of exploration is to observe your surroundings and then proceed. Instead, I had been proceeding with my eyes fixed on the sky without observing what was right around me.

Suddenly, the bald eagle I was tracking swooped down from the sky and grabbed that water moccasin with her sharp talons and screeched that I should run. Glancing at my trapped foot, I knew I could not run. I could not move my ankle and my flesh was torn and bleeding against the exposed mangrove roots that were drying in sun above the tide.

Now, in case you didn't know, I like pickles. But I prefer to eat pickles rather than be in a pickle. In this case, I was in a pickle and feeling like a pickle as I sat in the briny waters with my throbbing leg. Luckily, I had not been bitten by that horrid snake, but the sting from my injury felt like a snake bite.

My canoe was only a few meters away, but it seemed so far at the moment. I pulled a sharp knife from my soggy back pack and began sawing through the leathery mangrove stilt roots around my trapped foot.

At last I was free and I held my leg above the water against another exposed root as I pulled a handkerchief from my breast pocket, tying it tightly around the wound. I knew I needed to get out of that spot quickly or I would be bait for another, larger predator; the crocodile.

I already sensed that I was being watched again by some hidden creature and knew I needed to move faster.



Indigo C. Beacon - Copyright 2015

While listening and watching more closely to my surroundings, I carefully made my way back to the canoe and climbed in. The sun beat down on my sandy skin and a light breeze tickled my ears as I caught my breath and headed back to civilization.

I caught a taxi and went to the closest emergency room. Fortunately I did not brake my ankle, but it was badly sprained and cut in several places requiring 30 stitches. I was prescribed a strong antibiotic and instructed to keep my wounds clean.

Thus my wetlands voyage was cut short and I abjectly flew back to Chicago, feeling as dismal as the slushy weather here. In spite of my injury I enjoyed winter in the wetlands. You see, wetland winters are dryer, if you can say dry in Florida. It is simply a time when water levels are lower and there is less rain fall.

I know what you are thinking; another rule of exploration is not to go on adventures alone. You are right. If one of my friends or a more skilled Everglades traveler had been with me, the snake might have attacked him instead and left me alone. Then I still would have whacked the snake on the snout, dragged my companion back to the canoe, and heroically brought us to safety.

Fine, that may not have been the outcome either, but I can still imagine can't I? At least I lived another day and had another story to tell. As my trusted readers, I encourage you to enjoy my adventures but definitely learn from my actions and become wiser explorers yourselves.