STARTING HOLD - #20 > FEBRUARY/MARCH 2008

The Gift
By Joe Iurato

It’s cold out there, isn’t it? 20 degrees or so. Even colder, maybe. Not too much sunshine, and there’s a fresh dusting of snow in the street. Might take a little oomph to motivate and go rock climbing today. Thinking about it, first there’s the layering: thermals, heavy socks, pants, shirt, fleece, down fatty, boots, and the skull cap. Ahh, might as well throw in some gloves for good measure and make it official. Then there’s the actual opening of the front door, which completely murders what was once a cozy little heat bubble of an apartment. Take that nice little slap in face from Jack. The car comes next. Mr. 1980 Ford Fairmont isn’t ready for this. Remember Ebenezer’s reaction upon being visited by that first ghost – hardly convinced. If that vehicle had a brain it would just straight up say,
“Look, I’m sorry, but you can’t make me do this.”  And you probably won’t. He might get you there, but it’s almost guaranteed he’ll leave you there, too. That’s when the acceptance phase hits. Chances are things won’t be as smooth as they typically are. Accept it, and turn the key.

Thirty minutes later
The car is finally warm. You’re cruising down the Thruway, and that cup of coffee’s working like a blanket across your chest. Your soundtrack complements a highway winter wasteland; shadowy, bare trees perch beneath a flat, gray sky, and countless tiny Holiday light bulbs fleck the hillsides. It’s something to see, something to feel. Doesn’t seem like much of a travel day for anyone else, though. Lots of chimneys breathing smoke mean lots of folks sitting in their recliners, feet up, with sports on the tube, and dinner slowly cooking in the oven. That peace and warmth aren’t what’s calling you, though. Next exit is a mile away. That’s where the rocks are.
Cold and lifeless, those rocks harbor hard memories from last autumn, where sessions sent you reeling over and over for one last big tick. Where you threw yourself so hard into it your screams, curdling from some empty place inside, bounced off the mountains. You hit the pads time after time after time after time. It never went. One more mile, though, and you’ll be right there –again.

Two hours later
Well, it took a little while to get the blood flowing, but you’re moving with relative comfort. You’re even sweating a little bit. It’s interesting how you could feel every single little nook in the rock –tiny features you’ve never encountered before, even though you’ve climbed here for years. Everything is so tacky and solid. The earth is frozen. The air is crisp. The rock is giving. It’s time to slide the pad over, conditions are right for sending.

Four hours later
The daylight is fading. You get back in the car and unravel bloody tape into the ashtray. Unzip the jacket. Let the nose thaw out and drip. Your lungs feel like an air compressor turned all the way up. Worked. Tired. Satisfied. Turn the key and – that sound – oh, man. That sound is Mr. Fairmont telling you he’s not going anywhere.
The thought occurs, ‘Yeah, well, I called it.’ And, before you make any phone calls, you decide to step back outside and take a moment to look around, something you can’t remember doing ever. It’s the moment that’s always forgotten, the final pause of the day. You take that mental snapshot and feel like the luckiest person on this earth because, today, all of this was yours: the rocks, the trees, the quiet, the frisky wind, the light blanket of soft white, the clean smell of mountain — all of this, and there’s a single set of footprints that proves today was truly all for you. A gift.
At home there won’t be an oven-roasted turkey waiting on the table or a fire kicking in the fireplace. No cinnamon wafting throughout the hallway, homemade apple pies, or pine cones decorating the windowsills. But, you don’t really care. The only thing you’ll look forward to tonight is that inevitable dream – the one about the world’s most perfect line.

Come to think of it, you never did send, did you? Well, there’s always the gift of tomorrow. 

Happy Holidays & See you out there,
Joe Iurato UC