November 7-8, 2015

In spite of the striking red snake slithering across the state on the radar, Julie and I have begun our morning walk. The weather has been unseasonably warm, and this will likely be the beginning of our payback, but what the hell, may as well give it a try. As we walk in our somewhat peculiar arrangement, her out front by several yards and me struggling to keep up, rather than gasp out the usual invective ("God fucking dammit, my foot hurts") or lament ("Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, give me strength"), I instead share with her recollections of our first proper date, albeit in fragmentary, not-quite nonsensical phrases.

"I remember ... Zingerman's ... strong straight nose ... we're walking and I'm bitching ... because, you know, I'm really fucking cold ... no, not now, then ... and anyway, I remember looking ... your strong straight nose, bitching, and you turn and look at me ... kinda sideways ... and you say, 'Oh, John, think of it as an adventure'... and I think 'I like ... this way ... this person ... talks to me. This might do me some good,'" I finish as I pull up next to her at the corner before we begin the last stretch to Main St.

"And did I do you some good?" she asks as I feel the rain dripping off my parka onto my face. I gulp in some air and approximate an affirmative nod. "Well, then, quit your beefing, old man, and let's go. This walk ain't gonna take itself." And she allows me to lock my arm in hers as we start to cross the street.

Just as we reach the other side, though, a hell of a wind suddenly blows up, wetting my face for real now. Julie says, "Oh, it's a gale, that's what they would've called it in one of my Victorian novels, a gale," and thinking of the Brontes and Mr. Rochester and all her romantic impulses seizes me with tenderness for this orphan whom I have sheltered and who is now, in turn, sheltering me. As quickly as it arrives the gale subsides, and I think what in the world possessed me to think this walk was a good idea? I recall checking the radar on Accuweather, the striking red snake on one side of the ledger and maybe her admonition about adventures on the other, and the tiny blue pills I started taking for Parkinson's related depression tipping the balance as I thought, what the hell, may as well give it a try.

Still and all, we cross Main St. in a bit of a rush as the rain is really picking up. It seems like the street lights have come back on as the sky has significantly darkened just in the past sixty seconds. Next thing I know the sky opens up, the wind machine starts again in earnest, and Julie says, "Oh, it's another gale!" though this is considerably more challenging than the last. " Should we go back?" she asks as Gus, pelted, ducks between her legs. "No, let's go on," I respond, but the way the dog cowers in the rain vetoes that plan.

"I think the rain is hurting him," Julie says, and if he is not in absolute pain, it's clear Gus is at least experiencing some pretty intense discomfort. "Come on," I say, and we make our way back to a group of bushes within sight of the corner of Main St. We take shelter there momentarily, waiting for the rain and wind to let up before we begin our wet retreat homeward.

Once inside, it's clear why Gus was seeking any respite he could find as he is soaked to the skin, unlike Julie and I, who have at least one layer of dry fabric once we get out of our rain coats. Even so, as I strip down to long johns and pass her my wet sweatpants, I let out a teeth-chattering shiver right there in the mudroom. "I guess it just goes to show you're never too old for adventures," I say, with a rueful smile and head shake. "I guess so," Julie responds lightly, and as she turns from me, I catch a glimpse of her profile, her strong straight nose as she takes our wet clothes down to the laundry.