A Good, Deep Breath

When I was living in New York, which I cannot believe was a decade ago, the city would get to me. The crowds, lights, subways, and the cramped, vertical, walking-city layout were key factors in what it made it so damn thrilling to live there, but I would also reach a point where if I didn't see a tree and a patch of grass, my head was going to burst. These moments were easily recognizable and always lingering even when the need was not immediate, like feeling the jaws of a vise on your head even before it's tightened. Thank God for Central Park.

Living in Los Angeles, with its vast spread, sea breezes, and mind-numbing traffic, I've never felt the urgent need to break away from the city because it doesn't really feel like a "city." Or so I thought. When I touched down in South Dakota last week, I realized I actually did need to escape from LA and that my head was in fact dangerously close to popping. The difference was that this time, the tension had been building painlessly, gradually like a slowly filling helium balloon. I didn't know how badly I needed to get out of town until I was already gone.

What a break it was. It was more than a break, it was a recalibration. It was a deep breath and a slow, careful exhale. I'd been to South Dakota and Denver many times before, of course, but this was the first time I can say I truly felt like I was going to a second home (Just ask brother Wayne and he'll vouch for me helping myself to his pantry). Maybe the best way I can organize my thoughts on this is to break it down by day.

Monday

First stop, directly from the airport should always be Armadillo's ice cream shop (seasonal). I had a steamburger, of course, and then satisfied a month-long craving for a milkshake with one of their signature concoctions edible only with a spoon. The Snickers Delite, folks. I friggin' love Snickers.

The nap. Is there anything better? I cannot tell you the last time I had a legitimate nap prior to that afternoon. And I went deep. I was dreaming.

Return to the scene of the crime, the winery of our wedding. Now that was weird. It felt like it had been a lot longer than a year. It felt kind of like going back into last year's classroom, assuming that conjures good memories for you. It certainly did for me. I caught myself telling every employee I came in contact with, like showing the new kids where the graph paper is stored. "Let me help you pick out a few tastings, youngster. I got married here last year."

And they had even managed to get all the candle wax off the hearth.

Tuesday

Uncle Jim took me fishing, my first time. The power and peace of the utter quiet. The sky. Holy shit, the sky. The purest, brightest blue, an ocean touching this lake. The term "big sky" hit home. The endearing, dry banter of Uncle Jim and his son Rick, playfully picking on each other all day long. My first and only fish! He was too small to keep, but, he fought like a marlin. The honor in keeping the tiniest fish that died as we removed the hook, scooping him back out of the water even though he had less than an ounce of meat on him. Rick was not going to let him lay to waste. A ham sandwich and a PBR never tasted so good as they did out on that boat, with a line in the water.

Deadwood, always Deadwood. The big, fancy suite you'd never expect to see in this Old West gambling town with its giant tub, fireplace, and complimentary slippers. Sharing a bottle of wine with the winemaker and his family (i.e., me). Hitting the tables and losing my shirt. The graciousness and sincerity of the dealer we had all to ourselves who implored me to never give up on my artistic dreams. Sometimes it's just so much easier to be open with a stranger.

Wednesday

Like Willie Nelson said, "a bloody mary morning." After years of trying to like them, I am finally(!) on board. It's a good thing because I needed a little hair of the horse that bucked me and then kicked me as I tried to stand up. The luck that began with finding the only place serving a breakfast sandwich at noon. The luck that continued as I hit my straight flush, taking all my money back and some of theirs, all with one foot out the door. The convertible. A '91 LeBaron, but a convertible nonetheless. Driving (see, rocking) through Custer State Park, top down, "American Woman" blasting. The striking scale of the Cathedral Spires. Driving through "The Eye of the Needle," aptly named for the size of this rock tunnel. Wondering what the first car to drive through it might have looked like. The kindness of strangers when the convertible wouldn't start again (it is a '91 LeBaron).

Sitting on the back patio that night, sharing several bottles of wine with the winemaker and his family. The crackle of the fire in the chiminea. The often underrated magic of seeing stars, their power to remind you how small you are...in a healthy way. The way the flicker of firelight seems to filter out everything but honesty on the faces it touches.

Thursday

The road trip. Denver, by way of Wyoming. Desolation, isolation, service station. The crap we buy there. Snow fences, open spaces, a metal cowboy planted on the hilltop for no apparent reason. The budding anticipation for the Little America Resort in Cheyenne, building from mild amusement to ecstatic glee after hundreds of miles of roadside billboards.

The reward of reaching family at the finish line.

Friday

Playing in the sandbox, building cities, farms, construction sites at once. The jolt to the imagination that is trying to keep up with the kids. Wiping the sand from Claire's eyes, trying not laugh too hard that she has dumped the entire cup of sand right on her head. The unspoken fun of taking little Caeden to kindergarten. Promising to take care of his monster truck until he gets home (I think I left it in the car. Oops.). A new outdoor mall for the Gap/Banana Give-and-Get 3-Day sale. Hey, I have come to love that sale. Plus the sales tax is lower in Colorado. The surprise and joy of my first Papa Murphy's pizza. Sitting out back, watching the sun set over the Rockies.

Saturday

The Wedding. I love everything about weddings and this one was a knockout. The beaming pride of families coming together. The naked humility on the faces of the bride and groom as their big moment finally arrives. The indomitable tears everyone knew were coming yet are still utterly sincere. Then, the party. The brotherhood that builds around the bar. Dancing with any man, woman, or child in my vicinity. Dancing with parents. For a music fascist like me, realizing sometimes (though rarely) the song doesn't matter in the least. The 10 year-old who could give me lessons on being a ladies man. Letting go, looking around to find everybody falling with you. Everybody pretty much cutting footloose. The summer camp camaraderie of everyone staying in the same hotel.

Sunday

The Day After breakfast, trying to remember everything you still desperately need to recover from. Noticing the same confusion on faces around the room. Asking "Hey, wasn't that you doing the Thriller dance?" while waiting on the wafflemaker. Saying goodbye, wondering when you might see them all again. Hoping it won't be long.

Finally, coming home. Dropping your bags, picking up the cats, and getting ready to start over.