In my previous blog, I wrote about a group of young men who, with determination and a willingness of spirit, carried a large and heavy bridge that had been washed downstream by flood waters back to its rightful place. And I told how the mother of one of the boys did not want me to post the video I was shooting of them. This is a story about her.
She didn't want me to post the video on my blog. She didn't know who would see it and wanted to preserve and protect her and her family's privacy. And because I can understand that feeling of only wanting others to see the parts of you that you choose to show, I understood. After the bridge was in place and I was waiting for the email address from her son, she crossed the bridge to where I stood. She asked if I was from a newspaper, where I planned to post the pictures or if I was using names. And I understood this motherly concern. And I respected her for it. And when her son came over to us and asked why she was being so concerned, we both turned to him at the same time to let him know it was OK. She let him know that it was her right to voice her opinion and expect to have her privacy honored and I let him know that it was fine by me that she did so. It was then, when we both spoke at once, as mothers and as women with their own set of rights and boundaries, saying the same thing, that I knew I liked her.
We talked then, about the bridge. She told me the story of it; how after weeks of rain during the spring thaw one year, she had looked out at the water that cascaded over the ledge one morning and the bridge was gone. She looked to the bottom of the ledge, no bridge. She looked further downstream, no bridge. Whatever power the water possessed the night before, it was enough to make the bridge to the woods beyond her property nothing more than a memory.
We spoke of other things, too. We talked about our children. I told her I admired her son and the other young men for completing their mission to return the bridge. I think it is an admirable trait to finish what you've started, and not quit because of the difficulties involved. I know that I do not always succeed at this. We talked about the area's trails. I told her about my blog and my art and how I've been an illustrator of books for children for more than 20 years.
"I have a story to tell you," she said, and she asked me to sit down.
So we sat down next to the bridge on the ledge where the water fell over the edge, and she told me. She told how when her sons were young, her husband would make up stories for them; pirate stories full of wonderful adventures that kept the kids always asking for more. She had always thought that he should have them illustrated and published, and she'd been after him for years to do something with them. And she thought it would be great if I would speak with him about them. And I thought, sure I can talk to him about the books: at least find out what they are about. Who knows, I may even want to illustrate them. So I said yes, "Sure I'd be happy to talk to him."
Then, "There's something else you should know. Several years ago my husband had a massive stroke which left him paralyzed from the neck down." She told me how his mind was the same as it had always been, but his body was no longer that of the man he was before the stroke. Then she asked again if I would be willing to talk to him.
"Of course."
So we crossed the bridge together, balancing on the diagonal metal rungs that would later hold planks as a walkway, and we went into the house to speak to her husband.
He was in a hospital bed in one of the rooms of the first floor. And he could only move his head. "He can't talk," she told me. So I introduced myself, and said that his wife had told me that he had some wonderful stories about pirates. And then, I don't know why, but I said, "And I would like to illustrate them for you." I felt compelled to say it. The words just fell out of my mouth before I even thought about it. That happens with me sometimes. Occasionally this trait has gotten me in trouble. But often it is the catalyst that opens new doors for me and broadens my world. And then I waited. I knew he couldn't speak so I wasn't sure if we were through with the conversation or if there would be more.
As I stood there searching his face, he cocked his head and started to roll his eyes and I turned to his wife because I thought that perhaps I had upset him. As I looked toward her, she was pulling a rather large, clear acrylic board with the letters of the alphabet in front of her and faced her husband. And it was then that he spoke. Not using his voice, but with the help of his wife, as a team, he searched the letters from his side of the board with his eyes until she found where he was looking and spoke them with her voice. He told me, to his wife's surprise, that he had indeed written a few of the stories in his computer, and that he could print them out for me. It made me a little nervous to have a printed copy that I may lose, because I'm good at losing things on paper, so I told him he could email them to me instead. More eye rolling, and back to the board to ask his wife to get my "exact email". Our conversation was short and to the point, but productive. And I was glad I met him. I look forward to reading and hopefully illustrating the stories. As I said goodbye we shook our heads at one another. "He can't shake your hand," his wife said. But I already knew that.
Outside on the porch she told me how it had happened so many years ago. How her strong husband over six feet tall, who was jovial and generous and would do anything for you was now, because of a massive stroke involving the brain stem, unable to do anything for himself without help. But he never felt sorry for himself, she said, and to this day he was not bitter about his fate. And I watched her speak about him. I could see how much she loved this man who had lost so much, and I couldn't hold back tears that pushed against my eyes from the moment I saw her pull out the alphabet board.
So I cried on her front porch while I listened to her talk about his strength of character which transcended his physicality. I cried because I thought it was a tragedy for a person to lose so much. I cried more for the sheer awesomeness of it all, for his strength to live every day knowing there will never be a bridge back to the way he once was, and for her's to understand what it means to them both. And maybe I cried a little because I don't ever think I will love someone like I feel she loves him.
I crossed the bridge again, back to the trail that would take me home. I think of them often, especially yesterday as I painted in the woods, silent but for the birds and the stream that passed by me. I look forward to seeing them again and reading the stories to which I will hopefully add my images.
I know I will cross this bridge again.
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