Adeline Chapter Six: ordinary day

You know, Beanie, I woke one ordinary morning for no other reason than to make my way through another ordinary day, and decided right then and there that I could no longer justify my ever-so-ordinary existence.

I had become so cautious there was no life left in my living.

I took inventory of myself that morning, beginning with my physical being.

The mirror doesn’t lie, you know, and what I saw staring back at me didn’t seem connected in any way to who I was. I stood there looking like an old witch, my eyes sinking into my skull, the color nearly used up and gone.

I scared myself.

Then I smiled at the witch, and she smiled back.

Teeth all there. That was good news. A bit yellowed and larger than I remembered, but still there. Receding gums, I supposed. It’s a good thing I don’t bother with the dentist anymore.

Next, I examined my lovely neck. Nothing less than a swan’s neck, you know.

Only now it resembled a long, skinny piece of gnarly driftwood, with a large knob at one end that was my head and a sunken chest at the other. Two wrinkled arms stuck out on either side, and I do believe the claws attached to them used to be my lovely hands.

And then there was my bottom, which had been quite nice back in the day. Have you ever studied the rear end of an elephant, Beanie? All that saggy, baggy flesh hanging toward the knees?

Well, I suppose you get the picture.

My knees didn’t look especially well either. They were red and inflamed, with liver spots scattered here and there like sloppy brown polka dots. My feet, once so pretty, had become crooked and tired, and the bunion on my left foot seemed to grow larger every time I looked at it.

No wonder my feet preferred that I stay off them these days.

All in all, Beanie, I could no longer deny that this body had seen better days. Its best years had come and gone.

And that was when I made my decision.

I might as well try living extraordinarily, if it were still possible, and use the old thing up.

I had always thrown caution to the wind and done whatever I chose. But you choose differently when your body grows tired and everything you do makes you stiff and sore. I think the mind slows down because the body does. Little by little, without even noticing, you begin surrendering the things that once made you feel alive.

I had begun the downhill slide. That much was certain.

But there was no reason to sit back on one’s laurels and wait for the body to give out. I decided that day to follow my heart and my mind, and if my old body couldn’t keep up, well, at least it would die trying.

So I began spending time at the cabin during the off-season, when I could enjoy my memories there alone.

It’s disturbing to be in the middle of a good memory and have someone start talking to you just when you’re getting to the best part.

Much to everyone’s dismay, I began to live again in my favorite place in the world.

I knew in my heart that I was doing what I needed to do.

I hardly recognized the cabin anymore, your momma and everyone fixing it up the way they had. I’m not saying it wasn’t nice, Beanie, but I preferred it the old way.

For goodness’ sake, I hear there’s even a window washer who shows up now and then.

A window washer!

Anyway, I knew they were all getting ready to take my car keys away, so I needed to get myself out to the cabin and plant myself there before anyone could stop me. I was still the legal owner, after all, and if I wanted to spend the fall and winter and the rest of my life there, I certainly had the right to do just that.

Lord, Beanie, run for your life when you get this old, because the world wants nothing more than to stop you dead in your tracks.

Is it better, I wonder, by worldly standards, to die in an easy chair watching Wheel of Fortune, or to die having an adventure?

Well, we both know the answer to that.

Throw a rock at the idiot box and get out the door fast, before someone slams it in your face and shuts you in.

So I packed up and went to the cabin.

I brought warm clothes for the fall nights and plenty of groceries for one. I had my hands full when I arrived, but it was such fun opening the place again and being there alone.

No one telling me to sit down.

No one saying, “Let me do that.”

For the first time in a long while, everything was up to me.

I admit it was a relief to find the place clean and orderly. There were no mice in the cupboards, no muddy floors, no dead things tucked into corners. All I had to do was turn on the water, flip the switch on the hot water tank, and put away my groceries.

There were still plenty of canned goods in the cupboard—tuna, stewed tomatoes, and a couple cans of oysters. Those would have been from your uncle Tim. You know how he loves canned oysters.

I also found several cans of pie filling.

I thought I might make myself a cherry pie and eat the whole thing.

That first night, I slept outside on my wooden lounger, the one everyone had been trying to use for firewood for the past ten years.

I gathered the cushions, quilts, and pillows and made myself the nicest little bed beneath my favorite tree, the great cedar hovering over the side of the cabin. Then I put on my warmest flannels, wool socks, and a stocking cap so my body heat wouldn’t escape through the top of my head, my hair being as thin as it is these days.

I talked to God most of the night.

He put the constellations on display and sent plenty of shooting stars across the sky. Fall nights are the best time for shooting stars, you know.

The moon rose late over the lake and spread itself across the still water, illuminating everything around me. The neighboring cabins were dark and silent. There wasn’t a soul anywhere.

Only a few boats remained in the water. Most people had taken theirs out after Labor Day. Our little Boston Whaler was already gone, and I wished it wasn’t. I would have loved to launch it, though I probably would have forgotten to put in the plug or done some other foolish thing.

I certainly would never have heard the end of that.

Lying there beneath the cedar, I began wondering when my children had become so old.

Why had they allowed the world to ruin their adventurous souls?

Sometimes I cry for the loss of their youth more than I have ever cried for my own. They once had such beautiful spirits, full of the need to explore the earth and nature and all it offered. They were full of anticipation, ready to take on the world.

I wondered how long it had been since any of my adult children had slept outside simply to spend a night beneath the stars, talking to God.

Did they remember the moon and the night sounds?

Did they still long for the cry of the loons?

I don’t know why I ever allowed myself to become separated from what is real.

That night, sleeping outside with the earth and Mother Nature and God, I decided I would never be separated from it again.

I slept some, waking as the sun rose behind the mountains. It painted the sky in brilliant pinks and oranges and purples before peeking over the ridge and beginning the work of waking the world with its warmth.

That was the way to begin an extraordinary day.

I was so pleased with myself for being there that I decided it was perfectly acceptable to sleep through the morning. I hadn’t slept much during the night, after all.

Perhaps my nights would become my days.

They were far more interesting, that was certain.

I closed my eyes and fell into the most peaceful sleep I could remember, waking only when my stomach began to growl.

I took my time getting to my feet. The quilts were damp with dew, as was my face. The silence was so complete that slipping my feet into my slippers and shuffling toward the cabin felt like a disturbance to nature itself.

Inside, I put the kettle on and started a fire in the wood-burning stove. My goodness, it was surprising to feel fall in the air so intensely.

The stove was easy to light and heated the cabin in no time. I struggled with the lid on a fresh jar of raspberry jam, then slathered it over two pieces of toast.

That’s my favorite, you know.

I still had a chill, so I wrapped myself in a blanket, curled into the rocking chair beside the stove, and ate my breakfast.

At some point, I fell asleep again.

When I woke, my toast was gone and so was my coffee.

I didn’t remember finishing either one.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the empty plate and cup, trying to pull the memory back.

Nothing came.

Apparently, I had eaten breakfast.

My neck was stiff from sleeping in the chair, and I needed to use the restroom, so I decided to take a shower and dress properly for the day.

By then, afternoon was coming on, and I had it in mind to take a good, long walk before it grew too late.

I had forgotten how quickly the days shortened in the fall. We no longer had the endless evening light of summer.

Lord, things change in a hurry.

It felt as though daylight saving time had only just begun, and already we were getting ready to lose it again.

Or had we lost it already?

I couldn’t remember.

I hurried to get ready and ate a banana for a late lunch. It wasn’t much, I admit, but I wasn’t especially hungry.

By the time I left the cabin, it must have been around three in the afternoon.

At least, I think it was.

I wore my good walking shoes and a light wool jacket, and I felt like a young girl again—so excited at the thought of heading down the road on an adventure of my own.

Perhaps there would be fishermen in the channel or turtles sunning themselves on logs.

You never knew what might be waiting for you.

Stepping into the shade was a hearty welcome to fall. There was a sharp nip in the air, though the sunshine remained warm and bright. I put on my sunglasses and started down the drive.

The road would be safe to walk this time of year. There was no one around but me.

I wondered if I would see a single soul.

My goal was to walk across the old bridge over the channel. It would be a good walk on such a beautiful afternoon.

Did I tell you I found an old pair of gloves in one of my pockets? I didn’t know whose they were, but I was glad to have them.

“No, Nanna,” you said. “You didn’t tell me. But it’s a good thing.”

It was a good thing.

Not a soul was out, Beanie. You could have heard a pin drop. My footsteps sounded terribly loud as the gravel crunched beneath my shoes.

I thought it might be nice to say hello to a neighbor or two, but by the look of things, everyone had gone.

They were missing the best season to be there.

I walked along the road, wondering, as I always had, how it managed not to tumble over the edge. I kept well away from the steepest places.

Not a single car passed.

Not a single person appeared.

There was only me, the birds, and the squirrels.

A beautiful hawk circled overhead, its shadow gliding across the road in front of me.

I looked toward the bend ahead.

There would be four full curves in the road before I reached the narrow lane leading to the old bridge.

Four bends.

Then the channel.

Then whatever waited beyond it.

Adeline continues next week with Chapter Seven.