It’s Saturday night.  We are headed to the Malburn New Hope Community Church for their Christmas pageant.  Even though we had to take the washboard dirt road slow, we pull in about ten minutes to six, a leisurely arrival for the six o’clock start.  We are welcomed by a southern accent thick with embarrassment because the coffee pot is dry and “all-us-all are just needin’ a lil’ practice time,” a woman in a floor length skirt decorated by three costumed children explains.  We are ushered to a back room to wait since they’ll “hopefully get started ‘fore seven.”  The church is five years new, built on a concrete slab, but our waiting area is every church basement.  Long folding tables are covered with red and green tablecloths, topped with mismatched, handmade, holiday centerpieces and littered with seasonal Jesus pamphlets, pizza leftovers on paper plates and various articles of clothing.  We drag an assortment of metal chairs to form a row, the picture perfect out-of-place Yankee family flanked by their West Virginian born Grandfather.   (“Mr. Harry, he fits down in here just fine.”)  But we don’t sit for long.  The church probably only has twenty members, swollen to a full 35 attendees on the account of family and friends being dragged, ahem, invited to see the church youth perform.  A pretty small church, by most any standard, but it somehow feels a whole lot bigger when each one of them walks right up to us newcomers, pronounces himself and his smooth sounding name, and introduces each family member.  “Name is Bobby Gibbs.  This here’s the wife, Anna Lisa Mae (or is that Analisa May?).  My daughter Sue Anne is pleased to meet you, and my son, well we just call him Rut.”  Up, down, up, down, shake, smile, and nod as if you understand a word they’re saying.

And let the festivities begin.  We usher into the sanctuary, take a pew, and wait another 15 minutes or so while anxious kids peek out from behind the curtain and the master of ceremonies runs around frantically with a clipboard, hauling one toddler on a hip to sit her down, but said toddler doesn’t want to sit so makes another dash for the stage, so that in mid-sentence to the sound guy the director snatches her up, one handed, and hips her once again.  The play begins, a twist on the traditional Christmas story, about two car-troubled city slickers getting stuck out in the country on Christmas Eve.  The overall jest is the country folks demonstratin’ how backwards their guests are as they progress through an evening of country Eve traditions, then round out the night with a little manger scene to tell THE story to the city folks who don’t know the REAL reason for the season.  Too ironic.

Thing is, it’s a small church, sure.  In back country Alabama, yeah.  But this is not reflected in their sound system. The actors are miked, with little portable, wireless jobs.  The songs are not sung, but played, by a DJ, who pumps the productions soundtrack through surround sound speakers. 

A comparable set-up is desperately needed at the recording studio/karaoke bar turned wrestling hall which we go to next.  Yes, that’s what I said.  I know, our evening was sounding all quaint and Christmasy.  But grandpa doesn’t want the fun to stop there and has an eight o’clock event on the agenda:  an amateur wrestling match.  It’s just like WWF, except it’s in Hartford, Alabama, and instead of an arena full of thousands of fans there are about thirty screaming kids seemingly unattached to an adult sitting in folding chairs around an actual ring, with padded corners, and a bouncy floor.  This is LAW.  Lower Alabama Wrestling.

It’s hard to tell what the place used to be, maybe a town hall, perhaps an old church.  It’s a long, narrow, wooden slabbed-building, free of interior walls, and freezing.  It still gets chilly in the evenings, and this was a particularly cold night in Alabama and there was little difference between being inside this structure and just being outside.  We paid our $6 entry fee, but before even getting comfortable I conned Dad into retrieving a blanket from the van.  When the MC took the microphone, which managed to magnify his screaming to an intolerable volume while distorting it beyond comprehension, mom and I were already huddled under microfiber, but ready for action.

We are at a slight disadvantage, not knowing who the good and bad guys are, and the announcer is no help, but the kids lead the way.  Chaos takes the stage.  Despite his ominous name, there is wild cheering, which turns to booing when High Flier enters and announces he has stolen all of Santa’s presents.  Santa enters, walking among the children with a look of helplessness, until Preston III comes from behind and beats him with metal chair.  The children go wild, Silverado joins Chaos to take down the evil grinches and the wrestling begins…outside the ring.  Finally, the comic ref gets everyone sorted out and we settle into the first match. 

It is an admirable reproduction.  Each wrestler wears a costume, one even wears a mask, and even though most of them sport beer bellies which cause their spandex pants to expose lots of crack, they pull off a lot of impressive moves.  High Flier completes multiple jumps from the top rope, flipping mid-air on his way down and landing with precision atop his opponent’s chest, or back, or bicep.  On more than one occasion, moves of much coordination are displayed: rebounding off ropes to clash in loud smacking take downs, arm twisting, head butting, even the infamous overhead body slam.  There are mishaps: slaps before the contact, kicks that never connect, and one slip off the rope that really could have resulted in injury. 

Little do we know, LAW is just getting started.  Enter Cowboy, in his long, fur coat, wide-brimmed hat and skimpy-dressed girl on his arm.  She’s a few years past an Alabama beauty, but at least she’s wearing pants, which seem to be connected to a see-through bodice which slides up over the black bra piece.  Could it be all one item of clothing?  She doesn’t quite understand her role as she stands for the most part quiet and keeps shifting her spectator spot to avoid any action.  I think they should trade her for a lady in the audience, the one wearing the red ‘bama sweatshirt and screaming so loudly she is getting hoarse.  I keep waiting for her to jump into the ring, to reveal herself as a part of the show, as it is inconceivable for a grown person to be going all red in the face over some scraggly Saturday night wrestling personalities.  I mean, the long, grey-haired one plays guitar at my grandfather’s church!

At intermission, Fred discovers where the grown-ups are, but is scared to approach the fire barrel out back, fearful of what the jug might hold that is being passed around.  For survival, we order hot chocolate from the “concession stand” which used to be the counter for the Chinese take-out restaurant that took up the front part of the building.  While waiting in line, I overhear the saga of a small, spectacled girl, how “bone” cold she is and just “dyin” for a hot chocolate but she “ain’t gotta cent” and she already asked “Mama B” who said “child I ain’t got a penny to rub on another.”  When I doubled my order and offered one to her, the thanks were tripping out of her mouth, competing with the explanation that if I could just reach and grab her two straws she “sure enough would love” to share with her sister because she loves her big sister “to bitty pieces” and wants to “make sure ‘an keep her around.”

The wrestling resumes and, as if to ensure the fulfillment of cliché, LAW brings out the vertically challenged athlete or “that lil’ ‘ole midget” as he is referred to by a rather large gentleman who has decided to befriend us foreigners and is now narrating the proceedings.  The evening culminates in a triple threat, three on three, tag team main event.  I would have included a picture, but this is something that can only be imagined. 

Leaving the relatively warm temperatures of Alabama, we headed for Florida’s even stronger sunshine.  So, from the beaches of Key Largo, Happy New Year!

  There

 Here                      

The death of Fred's father arrived mostly as relief, an end of suffering, so that the fact of loss and the accompanying sadness didn't settle in until later. The mass of volcanic rock and the endless crash of ocean wave were unchanged, but the island felt altered as we left it.  Missing was a father and a whole future of possibilities between father and son.

The wings of our 767 promised lift: out of the torrential downpour of Hawaii's raining season (as dense as grief itself), away from hospital smells and shallow breaths, past the slow withering of life toward being alive.  We soaked in Phoenix's sun rays, talked loudly, laughed strongly, then began to get our bearings. 

Since we gave up permanent residence, it has been hard to keep tabs on the conventional calendar, or, probably more accurate, its been easy to let time go. Even more so in Hawaii with its six hour time difference and remote, isolated location.  So it was surprising to realize that we were days away from Thanksgiving, still in the states, smack in the middle of winter, that season we thought we'd done away with in June, along with our household goods and cold weather clothes.  Only summer things made the crate in preparation for Central American living.  But, the whole idea was to go with the flow, embrace opportunities that naturally arise, do what feels right, right?

How about seeing mom?  How about a big, old-fashioned, family Thanksgiving?  How about shocking our systems by leaving 80 degree Phoenix, hauling ass through night, day, and night again, to arrive in frigid Minneapolis wearing sweatshirts as coats and flip-flops with socks? 

The sweet-faced Texas State Trooper with a slow drawl believed us.  He pulled us over to check on our expired registration (another casualty of the time warp).  We figure that little section of Interstate 40 across the top of Texas is a popular drug route, and on first glance, we sure fit the profile: old, out of state tags, a backseat full of boxes, and a sleeping passenger.  In retrospect, our story wasn't much better.  "You see officer, we've been travelling.  We're on our way to Minneapolis from Phoenix via Texas (how we choose that route is another story)." 

"You've been on the road for over a month?"  The officer notes our expiration date.  "Whatcha you'all do for work?"

Now doesn't seem the time to try to explain Untourism.  Fred leans across, still sleepy from my rude awakening, "Fred, wake up, we're getting pulled over."  "Well, you see, my Dad was sick so we've been in Hawaii."  Now we've just added a faraway island to the mix, and a sick relative...haven't I seen this on a late night re-run of Cops?

But, the officer doesn't scrutinize.  He starts talking to us about Hawaii's climate, complaining about the cold Texas wind.  I reason we've already been dropped off his "fits a profile" list by the simple fact that when he asked us for license and registration I was able to quickly retrieve an organized packet, a neat plastic case sporting an insurance company logo from an uncluttered glove box.  He just issues us, as he puts it, "A friendly Texan warning."

As long as we stay inside, our time in Minneapolis is like a healing heat pad.  We get to spend time with Fred's mom, a much needed dose of parent after his father's death.  His sister lives in town as well, and we even get more Michael B. since he is hanging out on-call for his airline.  We eat scrumptious meals (in addition to Christine's magnificent holiday feast), bask in the heated pool, give our bodies some much needed exercise, and play rousing games of scrabble in between heart-to-heart conversations.   

We climb into the car on a Sunday evening, very aware that, for us, home has become wherever it is we happen to be, even if that place is the inside of our trusty Toyota.  We pull onto the freeway, feel that familiar open-road exhilaration, and agree that we both crave one thing: solitude.  It's been a long, emotional stretch of weeks that tested our generosity and our capacity to extend ourselves to meet others needs.  We haven't shied away from tough decisions, difficult conversations, and we refused to pull away from each other though it certainly seemed that might be easier at times.  We've earned a controlled environment, a chance to adjust every single thing--the temperature, the volume, the flavor--to our liking and ours alone, consult with no one and relax into the comfort of our own selves.  We splurge.  After our all-night drive and an early morning emissions test (also expired), we cross the Ohio border and secure not one, but two hotel rooms.  I go my way.  Fred goes his.  We agree to meet again in 24 hours: refreshed, rejuvenated and ready for farm sweet farm. 

And we are rewarded.  The next day, sunshine breaks through the mid-western grey.  It lights our way to my father's golden-grassed fields, to fresh earth paths along which our afternoon walk is like a cure.