Autumn Rain

It seemed that the dry, desiccation of San Francisco followed me home. I flew through September on caked clay wings, ran on baked mud feet, with cool dew nights and pleasant, yellow days to soothe me, even as I worried about my thirsty gardens. I hunted paw paws on my birthday - a tradition and a gift to myself - where I saw a little school of fish circling round a shrinking pool of water, that hot, dry air threatening them with death. I planted a couple trees in the yard, a brown beauty magnolia and a rising sun red bud, struggling through the cemented clay and fill dirt, which were beset with river gravel and stone. At other times, Susan and I spun up tunes on our old piano, which we purchased from a thrift store as a joint birthday present. Finally, as September waned and Autumn's first moon waxed, my father came to visit ahead of a mass of hot, humid air. Both came from the south. The tropical storm (Nate) tracked up through the Gulf and Louisiana. My father, Jim, came from Amicalola Falls State Park near Atlanta where he continued his research into the Appalachian Trail.

He only stayed two days and three nights, Friday evening to Sunday morning. That first evening, we ate Ethiopian while he recounted his service in the Marines: a wild, bar brawl in San Juan between a couple Spanish maidens and a few German merchant marines; steaming towards the Panama Canal,  the sea filled with ships out to the horizon, for all of one day during the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis; his final days in the Corps when a commander asked him if he'd extend his duty for another stripe and a tour in Vietnam, which he declined.

Saturday afternoon, we rented a bike for Dad and rode into Durham on the America Tobacco Trail all the way to the start (and beyond) where we heard the deafening roar of the waterfalls in the Historic District, back behind the water tower. Then, we locked up the bikes downtown and took in the 21c Museum with its innovative, sometimes wild, fantastic, multi-media pieces. There was beer and burgers after that, with sweet, dough pretzels on the side, and lemon cake with vanilla ice cream for dessert. "There's nothing quite like plain vanilla ice cream," Dad said.

All day, the air was heavy, sticky - the misplaced breath of Southern summer - and grey clouds churned over head. On the bike ride home, a drizzle started and it grew and grew until we had to pull off the bike path under a few pines, hardwoods, and thick, matted kudzu vines. We huddled around the trunk of an adolescent oak tree and debated when we should make our move - when had the rain slacked enough, or, when had we soaked through enough that a wet bike ride didn't even matter. We finally did reach Obie Drive and rode down the long sloped street with no hands, and it felt like we were all old friends reminiscing about a past adventure, like I'd experienced it all before, like I was reliving a memory...

As night fell, I made crackling skin salmon and weeping, buttered cabbage, and we drank a bottle of sparkling mead freshly disgorged, yellow, honey perfume, that left some kind of lingering bitterness at the back of my tongue. Susan put on an Emmy Lou record, and we sat around reading the liner notes. I was quite impressed with Ricky Scaggs and his immense musicianship gluing the album together. It was one more Dylan album before bed, and then ... sleep.

The next day, we ate a final breakfast of buckwheat pancakes, sourdough toast, berries, peanut butter, and strawberry jam before I loaded up my father with a dozen beers to take home. Then, he was off to complete his great circuit and return to the north.