She was the kind of woman you write a rock and roll song about. December 1990. – JDW
HOLIDAY CALL BRIGHTENS A WEARY SPIRIT
It’s something I’ve done too many holiday seasons. Circle aimlessly about my apartment, thousands of miles away from my family, wondering – do I decorate for Christmas? To tree or not to tree, that was the question.
Just then the phone rang. It was my editor. “A woman named Lucinda called. Wants you to call her.”
“That all?”
“She said to tell you she’s a redhead.”
I remembered Lucinda. She’d be awfully hard to forget. I was on a bike tour a couple summers ago. Three days, 150 miles. It was about 104 degrees and I’d used too much energy going up those godforsaken hills earlier in the day. All the while I had comforted myself with the single thought the first leg was 50 miles. Only 50 miles. I could do that.
Well, stuff happens and I came apart at the seams when I found out – at the 48-mile water stop – I’d have to bike within a single mile of my night’s stopover and then do an additional dozen-mile loop. I often think I have more guts than brains; here was another dumb way to prove I am Man Of Character.
Frankly, a shortcut made the most sense, but my ego just wouldn’t allow it. Damn ego.
A registered nurse with a CB-radio strapped around her ample hips tried to explain. “You do understand, don’t you?”, she asked as her sinewy fingers kneaded the cramps out of my quadriceps. “That’s so we’ll have a shorter leg on Sunday. We can finish early.”
“How about we finish early today?,” I asked her. “Take your chances we die before Sunday.”
“Look, sweetie, you’re the only one who’s gonna care. Do what you gotta do.” Volunteers. Can’t kill them, wouldn’t be the same without them.
I pumped my way along the straightaway that would not end. And there was no shade whatsoever. None. There were some El Cid moments. I was feeling like August in the Fruit-of-the-Month Club. Fried prunes.
Suddenly!! I was not alone. Right next to me, not even breathing heavy, is this Lycra-clad maniac on a racing bike. He’s coasting.
“How you feeling, cowboy?”, he said without gasping.
Funny, I thought, sounds just like a woman. I took a better look. That unipiece jumpsuit had more curves than angles. I figured I must be hallucinating. The wheeled angel of death had come for me. “Please, let me be hallucinating,” I croaked aloud.
“Tuck in behind me. I’ll pace you.” She effortlessly pulled in a wheel ahead of me. She turned, smiled, spoke over her shoulder. “Just keep your eyes on my butt.”
Which I might have thought to do myself under normal conditions. But it was 104 degrees, no shade, no cool breezes and zero glycogen.
We pedaled along, the sun beating down, wheels turning, pouring water through our helmets. I was watching her rear. More pedaling, more butt watching. Somehow we got to Smalltown Junior High. I staggered off my bike like an arthritic zombie and collapsed in the grass.
“You gonna live, cowboy?”
I looked up. The sun was behind her when she took off her helmet. When long curls of red red hair fell, tumbled, atop her shoulders.
“Thank you, miss.”
“Lucinda.” She stood there for a moment, smiling at me, like a baby child looking at a furry-bear caterpillar. “And you are more than welcome, sir.”
She helped me to my feet. “Be my friend?” I offered my hand. She nearly crushed it in hers. “Friends.”
Anyway, that’s how I met Lucinda.
I returned her call.
“Cowboy!” She was excited to hear from me. I said I was surprised to hear from her. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Well, sure, yeah, of course,” I agreed.
“I was just thinking it was almost Christmas and about how people get all caught up in shopping and all that stuff. So much going on. Such a hectic time of year. You know what I mean.”
“I know just what you mean,” I told her. “Every year about this same time, I seem to have a harder time getting into that old holiday spirit.”
“Right!” The woman is just so spunky. “That’s why I called. Just to remind you that you have a lot of friends who care a lot about you, and it’s not gonna rain forever. Plus, I bet the new year is going to be the best year you ever had. The best. Well, I got other calls to make. Merry Christmas, cowboy.” And she hung up.
So, I decided to get a small tree, one I can plant after I take the decorations down. A living tree, one that will grow… like a friendship.
First, I’ve got some calls of my own to make.
