Running Barefoot
Page 16
Once I arrived at the bottom, I faced the puzzle of how I would get home. Riding my waiting bike was completely out of the question; my ankle wouldn’t bear any pressure at all. I didn’t trust my balance most of the time without an injury, forget hopping and pushing the bike home. Looping my piano bag around my shoulders and pulling my coat sleeves down over my hands I began to crawl home. The darkness was settling around me, and I knew I was in trouble. I wasn’t going to be able to go two miles on my hands and knees. Thoughts of my family finding me frozen solid at the side of the road had me crying in self-pity. I wondered if Samuel would miss me. I wished I could see him again before I died. Maybe he would cut his arm like the Comanche Indians had done whenever they lost someone, so their arm would show a scar for each loved one lost.
I had asked him how he knew about the Comanche tradition when he was a Navajo. He had told me many of the tribes had many stories and legends in common, and his grandmother had told him it was the Comanche way of reminding yourself of a loved one without speaking their name.
I was startled out of my morbid thoughts by the sound of a sheep baaing from somewhere to my left. He sounded as lost and unhappy as I was. The sheep bellowed mournfully again, and I could make out his black nose and feet against the snow where he was huddled beside a scrubby enclosure of brush and juniper trees. I crawled towards it, thinking maybe I could huddle there with it, wool was warm wasn’t it? The sheep had other ideas. My approach made him complain even louder, throwing his head back and demanding that I stay away. “BAAAAAAACK,” he seemed to say, and I half giggled, half sobbed at the futility of it all.
“BAAAAAAAA!” He yodeled again.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The sheep cried out in response. The dog barked again. Maybe someone was looking for the sheep. I didn’t have much hope that anybody would be looking for me. My dad and brothers liked my cooking, but I had no real hope that they would think much of my absence until it was marked by many hours. The dog seemed to be getting closer; an occasional yelp indicated his progress in our direction. The sheep would bleat back when he heard the dog and I waited hopefully for a canine rescue. I was very cold and a little wet from my tumble in the snow, and my hands were aching almost as much as my ankle. I huddled inside my beautiful blue coat and prayed for deliverance.
The darkness was complete as Don Yates’ black and white collie mix, Gus, trotted up to the lost sheep. Not far behind him, Samuel trudged, bundled against the snow in a black ski cap and his sheepskin coat, having traded his moccasins in for a pair of laced work boots. I cried out to him in gratitude and he stopped in surprise.
“Josie?”
“Samuel! I’ve sprained my ankle, and I can’t ride my bike home. I tried to crawl,” I stuttered out, my teeth chattering, “But my gloves are missing and it was just too far.”
Samuel hunched down next to me and pulled his hat from his head and pulled it down on mine. The sudden warmth and my relief at his presence made the tears I had been trying to control stream down my face. Samuel grabbed my hands in his and started rubbing them briskly.
“Why are you out here?” He sounded angry and his hands rubbed harder in concert to his harsh words. My tears flowed faster.
“I take piano lessons every afternoon from Mrs. Grimaldi. She lives at the top of Tuckaway Hill.” I didn’t tell him how I had gotten carried away in the music and rolled down the hill.
“How did you end up on your hands and knees half frozen to death?” He barked out incredulously.
“I slipped,” I said defiantly, pulling my hands from his and wiping the tears from my icy cheeks. Samuel yanked his gloves off and grabbed my hands back insistently. Forcing my hands into the gloves he rose to his feet and reached down for me, lifting me to my feet.
“Can you walk at all if I help you?” His voice was a little less confrontational now, and I tried to take a step forward. It was like someone took an ice pick and rammed it into my leg. I fell in a heap at Samuel’s feet. The pain made me nauseous and the contents of my stomach rose up in rebellion and I retched just to the right of Samuels’s work boots. Luckily I’d had only an apple and half of a sandwich for lunch many hours ago and there wasn’t much left to throw up, but puking with an audience was worse than the pain in my ankle, by far. I moaned in mortification as Samuel kicked snow over the steaming remains of my lunch and squatted down beside me again. He handed me a handful of snow to clean my mouth and I thankfully wiped and “rinsed” my mouth, my hands shaking.
“Did you say you rode your bike here?” Samuel’s voice was gentle.
“It’s at the base of the hill, back there.” My voice wobbled dangerously and I stopped speaking abruptly, not wanting to disgrace myself any further.
Samuel stood and walked away from me, in the direction that I’d come. A few minutes later he was back, pushing my bike beside him.
“I’m going to help you get on-”
“I can’t push the pedals, Samuel,” I interrupted, my voice cracking again as the swell of tears clogged my throat.
“I know,” Samuel replied calmly. “But the seat is long. I can ride behind you and pedal.”
The bike was fine for me, but Samuel was over 6’0. This was going to be interesting. Samuel held the bike with one hand and pulled me to my feet with the other. Moving the bike close to where I was teetering, he straddled the bike and helped me climb on in front of him.
“Can you put your feet up in front of you?” The bars made a big U shape providing a good spot for my feet when I wanted to coast. Samuel helped me raise my hurt leg and I gingerly scooted as far forward on the seat as I could as he braced the bike with me on it. With a little shove, grunt, and a wobble we were off. The bike wove precariously, snow and gravel making it extremely treacherous. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on the yelp that escaped. Samuel used his legs to propel us forward until we established enough forward motion for an attempt at pedaling.
I had asked him how he knew about the Comanche tradition when he was a Navajo. He had told me many of the tribes had many stories and legends in common, and his grandmother had told him it was the Comanche way of reminding yourself of a loved one without speaking their name.
I was startled out of my morbid thoughts by the sound of a sheep baaing from somewhere to my left. He sounded as lost and unhappy as I was. The sheep bellowed mournfully again, and I could make out his black nose and feet against the snow where he was huddled beside a scrubby enclosure of brush and juniper trees. I crawled towards it, thinking maybe I could huddle there with it, wool was warm wasn’t it? The sheep had other ideas. My approach made him complain even louder, throwing his head back and demanding that I stay away. “BAAAAAAACK,” he seemed to say, and I half giggled, half sobbed at the futility of it all.
“BAAAAAAAA!” He yodeled again.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The sheep cried out in response. The dog barked again. Maybe someone was looking for the sheep. I didn’t have much hope that anybody would be looking for me. My dad and brothers liked my cooking, but I had no real hope that they would think much of my absence until it was marked by many hours. The dog seemed to be getting closer; an occasional yelp indicated his progress in our direction. The sheep would bleat back when he heard the dog and I waited hopefully for a canine rescue. I was very cold and a little wet from my tumble in the snow, and my hands were aching almost as much as my ankle. I huddled inside my beautiful blue coat and prayed for deliverance.
The darkness was complete as Don Yates’ black and white collie mix, Gus, trotted up to the lost sheep. Not far behind him, Samuel trudged, bundled against the snow in a black ski cap and his sheepskin coat, having traded his moccasins in for a pair of laced work boots. I cried out to him in gratitude and he stopped in surprise.
“Josie?”
“Samuel! I’ve sprained my ankle, and I can’t ride my bike home. I tried to crawl,” I stuttered out, my teeth chattering, “But my gloves are missing and it was just too far.”
Samuel hunched down next to me and pulled his hat from his head and pulled it down on mine. The sudden warmth and my relief at his presence made the tears I had been trying to control stream down my face. Samuel grabbed my hands in his and started rubbing them briskly.
“Why are you out here?” He sounded angry and his hands rubbed harder in concert to his harsh words. My tears flowed faster.
“I take piano lessons every afternoon from Mrs. Grimaldi. She lives at the top of Tuckaway Hill.” I didn’t tell him how I had gotten carried away in the music and rolled down the hill.
“How did you end up on your hands and knees half frozen to death?” He barked out incredulously.
“I slipped,” I said defiantly, pulling my hands from his and wiping the tears from my icy cheeks. Samuel yanked his gloves off and grabbed my hands back insistently. Forcing my hands into the gloves he rose to his feet and reached down for me, lifting me to my feet.
“Can you walk at all if I help you?” His voice was a little less confrontational now, and I tried to take a step forward. It was like someone took an ice pick and rammed it into my leg. I fell in a heap at Samuel’s feet. The pain made me nauseous and the contents of my stomach rose up in rebellion and I retched just to the right of Samuels’s work boots. Luckily I’d had only an apple and half of a sandwich for lunch many hours ago and there wasn’t much left to throw up, but puking with an audience was worse than the pain in my ankle, by far. I moaned in mortification as Samuel kicked snow over the steaming remains of my lunch and squatted down beside me again. He handed me a handful of snow to clean my mouth and I thankfully wiped and “rinsed” my mouth, my hands shaking.
“Did you say you rode your bike here?” Samuel’s voice was gentle.
“It’s at the base of the hill, back there.” My voice wobbled dangerously and I stopped speaking abruptly, not wanting to disgrace myself any further.
Samuel stood and walked away from me, in the direction that I’d come. A few minutes later he was back, pushing my bike beside him.
“I’m going to help you get on-”
“I can’t push the pedals, Samuel,” I interrupted, my voice cracking again as the swell of tears clogged my throat.
“I know,” Samuel replied calmly. “But the seat is long. I can ride behind you and pedal.”
The bike was fine for me, but Samuel was over 6’0. This was going to be interesting. Samuel held the bike with one hand and pulled me to my feet with the other. Moving the bike close to where I was teetering, he straddled the bike and helped me climb on in front of him.
“Can you put your feet up in front of you?” The bars made a big U shape providing a good spot for my feet when I wanted to coast. Samuel helped me raise my hurt leg and I gingerly scooted as far forward on the seat as I could as he braced the bike with me on it. With a little shove, grunt, and a wobble we were off. The bike wove precariously, snow and gravel making it extremely treacherous. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit down on the yelp that escaped. Samuel used his legs to propel us forward until we established enough forward motion for an attempt at pedaling.
