The Expectation of Loss

A friend’s death, a lot of rain, and a lesson on the Oregon coast.

The rain came down in bedraggled sheets, in similar fashion to whatever flooding happened back in Ohio. In Oregon, flooding, like rain, is a way of life. In Ohio, it depends on where you live.

Restless, anxious, I have covered myself head-to-toe in layers of Gortex and insisting to go out in the relentless wet, compelled possibly, after reading Heartwood about a fictional woman lost on the Appalachian Trail. Reading about someone else conquering nature pushes me forward.

Here, with my husband, Mark, I tilted into the gusts along the Oregon coast. I hadn’t wanted to pester him to join my Monday morning trek. Instead, he suggested we walk the rain regardless. Drops arrowed squarely at our faces, he said, “I’ve learned it’s about lowering my expectations.” Why expect sun, when there will be rain? The silence between us, and between our own synapses, was only overtaken by rain drop pokes in the eye, the sniveling sneakiness of sneaker waves attempting to rob us of this through hike along the shoreline, and the occasional sea gull pecking holes into balloons of air blasts.

This bout with nature reflected a bout within me. Of the battles we face off against life forces, Nature always wins.

*

Three days ago, I received a message on my way to Oregon. As is typical, I like to book Delta flights through Salt Lake City. It’s not only convenient, but the views are jaw dropping. Why would I want to layover in Minneapolis, Detroit, Atlanta, Dallas, when I can peer out the window as we buzz over the Wasatch mountains?

The plane’s jetway connected to the Salt Lake City airport gate. I stood up, my beat-up REI backpack, bought for a trek in Malaysia over ten years ago, neatly conformed to my menopause middle. I’d had an engaging seatmate, a younger man, who worked in AI and VR. “I’ll find you,” I promised, nearly saying “I’m a great stalker.” Creepy? Yes. This guy works in tech. He could find out who I was in ten seconds without any clues, other than Annette, writer, Cincinnati. “You can find me on LinkedIn,” he said, while I reached for my phone to figure out what time our connection boarded, and glanced out the plane’s rounded window.

I’ve known those craggy snowy mountains for over 15 years. I’ve known them for their greener times, during our son Davis’ wedding to his wife, Kyra. And I’ve known them for Sundance Film Festivals, blending families, and the way that golden sun that lays down its rays at the boot of every skier and grants its grace to them on a blue-sky day filled with nothing but depths of powder and downhill runs. And for their gray skies which belied several friends who died too soon.

Our daughter-in-law likes to say, “It’s not real snow unless it’s Utah snow.” She might be right.

I’m trying to break some social media habits and tend to keep notifications turned off. For some reason, I had toggled “on” again for Facebook messages when having issues with Instagram.

While checking on our next departure, a message slid into my Facebook inbox from a high school friend. T. and I had been in touch regarding my Italian citizenship. He worked for the State Department. I had asked for his guidance or references to help expedite the process. He had none, but lately we’d exchanged emails regarding family ancestry, high school, and life.

Did I see the news about our classmate, S.? In seconds, I’d located the tragic incident on Facebook.

At that hour of 10 a.m., I stood in the interior of a plane parked at the Salt Lake City airport. Less than 24 hours earlier, our friend, S., had died on the ski slopes somewhere within my present gaze. The phrase, “doing what he loved,” rang in my ears.

According to family, S. wore a helmet, had skied that same run 100s of times. He knew his way around the slopes, as I do on any Oregon coast hike, hypervigilant of sneaker waves, high tides, wet basalt slippage, down to the minor shoe plunge into the sea’s streamlets but confident because I either have waterproof shoes, my water-resistant socks, or it’s summer and my feet will retain warmth. Very rarely, have I hiked anywhere on the coast and thought I might have been unprepared.

S. felt the same. I doubt he was ever unprepared for skiing—and life.

*

What expectations do we have from life? What do we expect from ourselves to give, what do we expect from others? S. gave. I believe he gave with no expectations.

After learning about S. death, we boarded our flight to Portland, drove two hours to the Oregon coast, met up with my son and wife, and listened to humorous stories of their most recent ski outing that, in light of S., wasn’t all that humorous. S. would have found it funny.

S. and I were in ski club, learning the tow ropes of Brandywine (now part of Boston Mills) on on icy northern Ohio bumps. To us, to any junior high schooler, those hills were our slopes. Soggy sandwiches for dinner, oranges that rolled along the scrim of the bus floor washed up and consumed, The dank smell of the boot barn, the ski barn, the pole barns, which were probably one in the same. He never abandoned those hometown slopes. The mountains out west became a home away from home.

S. graduated from U. of Akron. We always had that bond. We'd seen each other at times when I traveled north for a concert or party. He visited Cincinnati about six years ago. Mark and I joined him for dinner. Two years ago, passing through Akron, I hadn't been able to hang with him due to work commitments in Cleveland. I promised "the next time."

On the beach the next morning, S.’s death had been heavy on my mind. In tandem, speaking over one another, Mark and I shared our thoughts on what might our last day look like, doing what we love. Mark is the ultimate loyal family person. “I would want to spend it with my kids, grandkids, parents, in essence family (I presume that included me).”

I'd been rocked for the past several days. Partly from knowing S. spirit was still hovering somewhere around the mountains where mine had briefly passed through within the same plane of time. The news hit me particularly hard out here. Being away from protests, Ohio River flooding—and S.’s death. I felt so far away from it all. Usually, distance is what I need to write.

Most people might think my last day doing what I love would be in Italy. They’d be wrong. Each time I return to the Oregon coast, this place comes to mean something else. I would be here. Weather wouldn’t matter. No. It would. I’d want the rain in all its splashing splendor. I’d want to know that I passed the test of time, and expectations. I’d want to be alone. I know who I am alone.

On mountaintop for a ski run. It’s you—and your skis. The aloneness of that stance is similar here. The ability to know what might take you down, what might save you. They might be one in the same.

*

I’ve long since disregarded Mark’s original, “You (me) write best about loss.” It’s a lasting joke. What he meant—what I knew to be true—is there are an infinite number of stories and people who traverse through our lives. Writers are meant to pluck those stories and people from fame, obscurity, or memory, and press them into a permanency that lasts for as long as we can make it. I’d hate to miss out on any of them.

A few days and many buckets of water ago, we’d been hiking along a goat path, puffing up a peak I’d admired and conquered before. God’s Thumb. Now, briny winds are blowing out of the south by southwest right now in 15-20 mph bursts causing me to brace myself by grasping my hood and hat. How could I not think about S.? His story, his life, blowing my way to hold through wet and wonder with tenderness for a time. I have no other expectations for the day, for this work right here in front of me.

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This month, I had the chance to talk to artist Paul Kroner about the intersection of climate change, data, and art. Here’s our interview in Soapbox Media!

Check out his show for All Else Pales opening May 17th.

April 9 – National Italian American Foundation, Ambassador magazine: NIAF on Location: Cincinnati. Visit: niaf.org for more information.

April 19 – Contemporary Arts Center Creative Writing Project. Runs 8 weeks. FULL.

May 10 – Climate Writing Workshop. My colleague Elaine Olund leads this climate writing workshop as part of Studio Kroner - All Else Pales - 2.

May 13 – Caring for the Caregiver writing experience. Giving Voice Foundation with Pauletta Hansel and Annette Januzzi Wick. In-person. Free. Continues with three other sessions. Sign up here.

May 14 - An Evening of Poetry - All Else Pales 2, Studio Kroner. Poetry readings about the environment Anthology will be available for purchase. Sponsored by Just Earth Cincinnati, a catalyst, empowering residents to make the Cincinnati region a vibrant community in which just, reciprocal and harmonious relationships with the Earth, her people, her creatures, and her ecosystems are cultivated.More information.

August 12 – Caring for the Caregiver writing experience. Giving Voice Foundation with Pauletta Hansel and Annette Januzzi Wick. Virtual. Free. Continues with three other sessions. Sign up here.

November 14 – Caring for the Caregiver writing experience. Giving Voice Foundation with Pauletta Hansel and Annette Januzzi Wick. In-person. Free. Continues with three other sessions. Sign up here.