January 7, 2005

• I did it again.

  I faced my fears, that mild case of agoraphobia, and/or inertia, and/or
  my addictions to my books, puzzles, games, internet, crafts, arts and
  the comforts of home.  All those things tend to keep me relatively
  isolated here and content in my relative isolation, unless something
  intervenes and forces me out among people. 

  Having realized long ago that such isloation is hazardous to my mental
  health, I have set up a set of circumstances designed to force me out
  periodically for an activity that is quite beneficial to my mental
  health.  Those circumstances involve my volunteering about a year
  ago to drive a vanload of clients from the rehab center in Wasilla,
  fifty miles away from home, to the Thursday night Narcotics Anonymous
  meetings there in town every other week.

  On the Thursdays when I don’t drive, another woman in our group does
  the job.  Until I volunteered, she was the only person available
  in our group with both the will and the qualifications for the
  position, and she could not commit to doing it every week.  The
  qualifications include a valid driver’s license, personal liability
  insurance and a clean driving record for at least five years.

  The rehab clients have opportunities to go to outside AA meetings every
  day, but only one opportunity each week for outside NA meetings. 
  Getting away from the pressure-cooker atmosphere of the rehab center is
  important to some of them.  A recovery group focused on all drugs,
  not just a single one, is another important consideration.  To
  some of the clients, the opportunity to get out someplace where they
  have unlimited access to free coffee is also important.  The rehab
  center serves decaf.

  With so much hingeing on my being there to drive that van, and nobody
  else to take over if I’m not there, I have a hard time letting myself
  off the hook for that commitment.  Only serious illness or
  extremely hazardous weather and road conditions have kept me from
  going.  This does not keep me from spending days and daze leading
  up to each appointed Thursday, trying to find excuses to stay
  home.  Late Wednesday night this week, I was still trying to
  weasel out, but I just couldn’t.  I’d need a valid reason, and I
  simply didn’t have one.

  What I had, in addition to the driving commitment, was a sheaf of
  important mail for Greyfox, much of it time-sensitive and
  work-related.  I also  had two pickup notices for parcels
  that were being held at the post office because they were too big to
  fit into our large rural mailbox.  And then there was the handful
  of posters for the gun show next weekend that Greyfox wanted me to post
  in half a dozen places that hadn’t been open when he went through on
  Christmas, or that were farther up the highway and not on his route
  between his cabin in Wasilla and “home” up here in the Upper Susitna
  Valley.  Last, but not least, I had a shopping list that had been
  growing for four weeks.  Two weeks ago, the weather was
  legitimately so rotten that nobody, not even I, thought it was
  reasonable for me to get out on the highway in it.

  A few months ago, I recognized a pattern in my behavior.  I’d
  stumble around here for three days or more after each trip to town,
  recovering from the physical effects (the symptoms of chronic fatigue
  syndrome) from those activities.  As soon as the brain fog cleared
  enough for me to start thinking ahead to the next trip, I’d start
  dreading the assault on my far-from-healthy physical machine.  I’d
  try to think up a valid excuse not to go.  I’d argue with myself
  and usually fail to let myself off the hook.  Then, when I got
  myself all cleaned up and presentable and made my way to town I would
  marvel at my reluctance as I enjoyed the spectacular scenery I pass
  through for those fifty miles, and then reveled in the fellowship of the
  NA group and took care of the household shopping that wouldn’t
  otherwise get done.  Later on, home again, exhausted and debilitated
  for the three days to a week that it takes to recover from such a trip,
  I’d again start dreading the next one and seeking excuses to stay home.

  That’s how it went today, too.  But this was far from a routine
  trip.  First of all, I had to inflate that flat right front tire
  again.  Then there was that leg of the journey farther up
  the valley to take posters to the neighborhood bulletin boards around
  Sunshine, where the Talkeetna Spur Road joins the Parks Highway. 
  I made that right turn at the highway instead of the usual left that
  takes me down the valley to Wasilla, and before I’d gone a mile, I saw
  my neighbor Bill, a dog musher, checking his mail.  He saw me and
  waved.  It pleases me to have neighbors I know and like, who
  recognize my face and seem to be pleased to see me.   Then,
  when I topped a hill and rounded a curve, there was Mount McKinley
  shining in the sun.  I love our sacred mountain.

  Since I was six years old, between 1950 and 1983, I had never lived
  anywhere more than three years and seldom got to know my
  neighbors.  I’ve been here for over 21 years and there are many
  familiar faces.  At Sunshine, I saw Sarah, whose sons Tim and
  Duane went through school with Doug.  I suppose for people with
  normal social lives such little encounters might not mean much. 
  For a recluse such as I, a recluse who loves people, they’re a
  joy.  For someone who grew up in cities where neighbors tended to
  ignore each other, this community on the edge of the wilderness is full
  of wonders.

  I headed back down the valley, past our road, made a quick stop at the
  spring to fill a jug with water for Greyfox. Back on the road, I headed
  on into Willow, posted
  posters at the community center and post office, and picked up a
  shipment of knives for Greyfox’s business and a box for me from Nova
  Scotia that contained a beautiful pair of white (Arctic camo) mukluks
  and (I assume this was unintentional, Ren ) a pair and a half of
  sox.

  Greyfox was worried about me by the time I got to his place at Felony
  Flats.  I’d gotten a late start and had many stops and delays
  along the way, had to rearrange most of the bulletin boards to make
  room for our posters, paused here and there for conversation,
  etc.  He had called home to find out if I’d decided not to go
  today, and consequently Doug was worried about me, too.  Greyfox
  had made up his mind that if I wasn’t there in fifteen minutes, he’d
  call the post office to find out if I’d been there yet, and then he’d call
  the state troopers to find out if they’d had any accidents reported.

  It had been a long time since breakfast and I was starved. 
  Greyfox made me a salad and a scrambled egg while I read the grocery
  sale ads and watched the kittens play.  By the time I was done
  eating the cats had worn themselves out and were napping.

  
  In Greyfox’s chair, Dingus was keeping watch while Buckyball snoozed.

  
  In a box on a bottom shelf, Fullerene slept while Honer sleepily tried to keep watch.

  
  He couldn’t keep those eyes open, so Fullerene took the watch.

  We still had a couple of hours before the meeting, so I shopped for new
  gloves for Doug and we hit one of the two supermarkets, then Greyfox
  dropped me at the rehab.

  The meeting was wonderful.  They are commonly wonderful and this
  one was uncommonly so.  Even the monthly business meeting
  afterward was fun.  I delivered the van and passengers back to
  rehab, had a low-carb burger at Carl’s Jr., and toured the other
  supermarket.  After sorting our purchases back at Felony Flats
  (only left one of my items there with Greyfox and made it home without
  any of his stuff this time) we said goodnight and I headed home.

  This side of Houston, I ran over a bunny.  An immature arctic
  varying hare in its pure white winter phase, with big snowshoe feet and
  the smallest ears of all rabbity things, bounded full-speed over the
  snow berm at roadside, saw me and did a mid-air turn.  Then it
  apparently saw whatever it was that had chased it over the berm in the
  first place and bounded back out under my car.  I hate when that
  happens.

  Just before I got to Willow a state trooper stopped me.  After
  asking me how I was doing today and getting a hesitant “okay” from me,
  he asked if I knew why he stopped me.  I said, “not really,
  no.”  He then asked if I knew that one of my headlights was
  out.   I said I wasn’t surprised, that I’d replaced the bulb
  several times, but because the lens has cracks and holes, water keeps
  getting in and blowing the bulbs.  I explained that I’ve been
  trying to find a new lens, but haven’t found one yet.  He went
  back to his car and ran my name through his crime computer system and
  found that I’m free of wants and warrants, and let me go without a
  ticket.  Nice man, that, like every Alaska State Trooper I’ve ever
  met.

  But I didn’t get away from that roadside stop that easily.  I’d
  gotten kinda flustered there as I dug the registration out of the glove
  box, found my proof of insurance in one pocket of my wallet and
  struggled to slip my license out of another one.  When he handed
  everything back to me, I had some trouble getting it all put away
  again.  First, I couldn’t find my wallet.  Not back in my
  purse, nor on my lap, nor in the glove box, nor down by my feet under
  the pedals.  Finally I found it on the floor in the back seat,
  where it had slipped between the seats.  The registration kept
  jumping back out of the glove box before I could get the door shut on
  it.  When I finally did get it cornered in there, I realized that
  I’d folded my insurance card inside it and had to get it out
  again.  The insurance card wasn’t exactly cooperative at slipping
  back into its slot, either.  One of my gloves was still missing by
  the time I got home, when it turned up in the back seat

  About ten miles short of home, I saw a spectacular meteor.  This
  wasn’t any little white streak of a shooting star across the sky. 
  It started that way, and then it exploded, and a shower of orange
  glowing fragments burst in all directions then faded to black.

  Other than all of that, it was an uneventful trip.  Now, as soon
  as I wind down I’ll try to sleep.  Tomorrow — uhh, later today, I
  mean — the recovery process begins again.  Thank God I don’t have to do it again for two weeks!
  

  • 7:38 am
  • 17 Comments