Biehl - Words into the air

Words into theAir

By Thomas Biehl

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Copyright 2016 Thomas Biehl

Smashwords Edition

Preface

A few months ago, I tried my hand atmarketing through the forms of blogging and social media. Irediscovered what had been known to me for some time, I am simplynot a salesman. What follows is a collection of the writing I didfor that blog, of which I am nonetheless proud. Read it if youlike. If not, then thats alright as well.

Table of Contents

(Fiction)

(Nonfiction)

A Walk into thePast

The lone stretch of route 66 laynestled between the railroad that had been put down long before itcame into existence and the interstate that had come to replace theonce well-traveled road. Darkness tolerated the glow of a full moonand the innumerable stars of the night sky which hung there,anticipating the brink of predawn light waiting just beyond thehorizon. A gentle breeze blew across the empty fields, and dew hungin the crisp air of a spring night.

He had walked from the Amtrak stationin downtown Normal, out of the city, through the small town ofTowanda, and now along the side of old 66. Near the end of hisjourney, in the distance he could see the rising grain elevators ofLexington and knew he approached home. Home, could he call a placehe had not seen in almost ten years home. So far the areas he hadseen which had been such a part of his distant past, felt alien andsurreal to him, the backdrop of another life that was no longerhis.

The weathered olive green rucksack onhis back contained all of his possessions in this world. Hisutilitarian clothes and rugged boots showed signs of wear but hadheld together well considering what he had put them through. Theshort dark brown hair on his head was a mess, not because he hadstyled it that way but rather because he never did anything with itat all. The day or two of stubble on his face revealed he needed ashave, but despite all of this and how long he had been travelinghis blue eyes were bright with anticipation of theunknown.

The sun finally broke the horizon anddetails of the houses and roads of his youth came into full view.Nostalgia flitted at the edge of his thoughts, but never brokethrough to overwhelm him. Longing for the simplicity of the pastfought and lost against the intensity of the unpredictable momentbefore him, a moment the man had played through in his head for fartoo long. He walked on into what had so long ago been and might yetstill be his home.

Getting to the Lift

Colorado was my getaway. The sun hidbehind the mountains leaving us waiting to board the ski lift inthe eerie near light of before dawn. Ski lift operators were thefirst ones on the mountain in the morning, before the guests andeven the ski patrol. A heavy yawn escaped my mouth; I shiveredagainst the cold. My eyes not yet completely open had remnants ofthe sleep I missed. The thought how did I get there crossed mymind; my getaway, from the only existence I had known for the firsteighteen years of my life. After the first year of college, I hadfelt the urgent need to escape like some bandit on his way toMexico.

I had no desire to go to Mexico, so Iwent to the only other place I did know. I had been to Colorado tovisit my grandparents every summer since I could remember, so whileit was an escape it still had some small measure of the familiar. Ihad so much to get away from, but mainly I ran from life not makingsense anymore. Leaving it all behind seemed like the obviouschoice. I ended up in Vail, Colorado working as a ski liftoperator, which meant I had to get up at five in the morning to cancatch the bus. Now, I waited in line to board the main lift and geton with the work day.

I set my snowboard down on the snow andmoved it back and forth with my foot to cool it off. The snowboardhad been inside and was warm; if it just sat in the cold snow, someof the snow would melt onto the bottom of the board. When the boarddid eventually get cold, the moisture would freeze again. Then whenI tried to snowboard with it, the frozen moisture would catch and Iwould fall. So, moving it back and forth made sense in myhalf-awake state, because then it would cool off without gettingthe moisture stuck to it. It got a chance to adjust to the coldinstead of being thrown into it.

I strapped my right foot into the boardand used my free foot to skate, sliding up to the lift. The chairhit gently as I sat in it and got a little comfortable. As the liftchair left the ground, the cold air bit at my exposed face. Companyissue snow pants, heavy vest, and heavy coat protected my body fromthe nights lingering single digit temperatures. I had taken myselfout my life long before I had decided to escape to Colorado. Goingto school, work, sleeping, and watching TV were not what I wouldhave called living a life, more sitting on the side lines andwatching life go by. Wrapped in self-pity and even depression, Ihad been tired of things being so confusing. Like the cold airwhich found its way through my clothing to chill my bones, life wassomething I could have only avoided for so long.

The lift rose to about forty feet offthe ground, high enough that the sun broke over the mountain peaksoff to the east, and sunlight began to warm me. It seemedeverything there was temporary, an escape from one thing oranother. People came to Vail for the weekend from Denver to retreatfrom busy lives. The expensive houses that lined the bottom of themountain were vacation homes, used only weeks out of the year.Friends made there were temporary; that was a bittersweetrealization. It was a different kind of friendship when both peopleknew that in a couple of months they would more than likely neversee that person again. In a way it gave people the freedom to breakfree, because there were no preconceived notions. They didnt knowmy older brother; they had never been to my home town. All they hadto go on was me. I could have been anybody I wanted to be, and theywouldnt know the difference.

But then that was the problem I hadhoped to solve in coming to this snowy playground, who was Iwithout those preconceived notions. What was my life when all thatI had known was on the other side of the country? The freezing windwas harsh as I reached the top of the mountain, so cold it stung myeyes. They watered, and moisture ran down my already cold cheeks.Frost bite was a big concern there; exposure to cold killed thenerves in the tissue. The nerves had to be able to regrow, that wasthe pain after I had been out in the cold a while. If I had beenout too long, over exposure would have killed the nerves and thenthe tissue; and they wouldnt be able to regrow. Red skin was okay;it meant alive, but once it turned white it was gone.

The chair reached the top of the lift,and as my turn came, I stood on my board and slid away from thelift. I found my group of lifties, the guys that worked the liftsaround mine. We had to snowboard to our lifts together. We were theonly ones on the mountain, so if one of us went off on our own andgot hurt, it could have been hours before they were found. Therewasnt much talk as we were still mostly asleep. The drag foot wasleft unbound because the first thing we had to do was cross asteady grade from that peak to the next, and it required a pushhere and there. I tried not to fall in front of my coworkers as Iwas still relatively new to snowboarding. I didnt want to be knownas a gaper.

Pronounced gay-per, it was asnowboarder slang term for someone who shouldnt even be on themountain, had no idea what theyre doing, or was a grown adult malewearing a hot pink snow suit. Snowboarding was my one pureenjoyment in that escape of mine. Sure the mountains werebeautiful, but I eventually got used to them like everything else.My first approach to snowboarding had been similar to everybodys;that it looked like an intense and fast sport which at first glanceappeared easy. Not true, trying to do everything fast was how mostpeople learning to snowboard fell continuously on their butt ontorock solid ice. My first day taking lessons, half the class hadquit by lunchtime. Snowboarding had been surprisingly all aboutsubtle movements and realizing if I tried to over control theboard, I would fall every single time. Sometimes it was aboutletting the snow take me in a certain direction. Reading the snowand/or ice was part of it, but something as little as moving mytoes could set me into a turn. I couldnt help but find it ironicthat controlling something that seemed out of control was all aboutsubtlety and letting go of some of that control. Also, it forced meto live in the moment because if my mind wandered whilesnowboarding, the ground came up at me, hard.