Topic: Cleaning

I’ve never been sold on the city of Cleveland. Despite having family there and regularly visiting the Geauga Lake Amusement Park in the outskirts of nearby Aurora as a child, the near mention of Cleveland made my body heave a distinct sigh. You know, one of those "ugh, we have to go back to Cleveland?" kind of sighs. If you’ve spent any time in Ohio (or have any understanding of the words ‘King’s Island’ or ‘Cedar Point’), you probably understand my dismay.

Needless to say, I stayed the hell away from that godforsaken city until October 2014. 

I had visited the abandoned Six Flags New Orleans that summer and I was hooked. After consulting the Wikipedia page for America’s defunct and closed amusement parks, I set my sights on two targets: First up: Geauga Lake. The park I had roamed as a child had been sold to the Six Flags enterprise years prior as they sought world domination - or at least a stronghold on the thrill seekers of Midwest America. It was later abandoned because, as it turns out, the nearby city of Cleveland was in such dire straights that most couldn’t afford admission to the newly expanded park, let alone the season passes required to keep it in business. It was decided that, after exploring Geagua Lake, we would try our hand at locating Chippewa Lake Amusement Park, an amusement park from the early 1900s that was reportedly long abandoned and possibly demolished. It happened to be on our drive home. 

The morning after our late night drive to the outskirts of Cleveland, we made our way to Aurora and the promise of Geauga Lake. Affer camouflaging the car by parking in the lot of a nearby Target, we departed on foot in the alleged direction of our destination. Or so we thought. We had a general understanding of the location of the abandoned amusement park - and a very real awareness of the still active water park located on its grounds - however, there was little else to go on. Still, I figured it wouldn't be difficult to find. With the addition of a Sea World park in 1970 and $40 million in renovations in 2000, the rebranded 700 acre Six Flags World of Adventure had gained notoriety as the world's largest amusement park.

“Are we sure we're going the right way?” I asked, glaring down at my feet with the absolute certainty that I had worn the wrong shoes. Apparently, Candies lace-up boots circa the Kohls’ Christmas sale had been a bad move, a fact that I realized just as the ground moisture began to seep through the faux leather and into my socks. We were far enough into the woods that the earth was covered with a thick coating of moss and there wasn't much of a path to follow. It was rough terrain, to say the least. 

"I have no idea. I assume that if we go this way for long enough, we should walk right into the middle of it." 

That seemed reasonable. We continued on. It was a beautiful day for October. Just chilly enough for jeans and a sweater, but without the need for a heavy coat. The leaves in the trees were changing colors, painting a vivid landscape before us. At least this hike through the woods is pretty, I thought, snapping a picture. It wasn't long before we made it through the trees and to a paved road. That road led to the Six Flags parking lot, a monstrous slab of asphalt we knew better than to walk directly through. Sticking to the edges of the woods, we tried to remain out of sight, following the road until it led somewhere promising: the main gate and ticket window. It was incredible. Aside from the grass and weeds poking through the concrete and the smashed windows of the ticket booths, it looked exactly as I remembered it as a child. The tall pillars and a large archway that once welcomed visitors to the park were now surrounded by a rather tall fence with sharp metal bits protruding at the top. 

We quickly noticed that the ticket booth was not enclosed in the fence and spent a fair amount of time taking pictures of the broken windows and old wooden structure. As we peered through the main gate of the park, we were astounded to see... nothing. No rollercoasters. No shops. In fact, there were no structures of any kind. I had heard rumors that Six Flags had sold off every possible thing they could when the closed the park, but I hadn't anticipated that it would ALL be gone. After looking around for a few minutes, we noticed one remaining rollercoaster in the distance. The Big Dipper. Too old to transport to another park, it had survived the mass exodus, the only thing in the park that hadn't been sold. The wooden structure was simple, with one large hill (or big dip) and a narrow winding track. Nature had done its job, though, and the entire thing was surrounded by thick overgrowth. 

"Do you want to check it out?" Jake asked. 

"Sure, if we can find a way in." 

"Let's follow this fence and see if there are any holes." 

The large iron fence was at least six feet, if not taller with its metal spikes, and it was well maintained. It was clear that others had gotten in, and that someone had immediately sealed up the holes with new pieces of fence and solid chain. This was going to be tough. Finally, we made it to a clearing and a loose bit of fence. Sticking my camera lens through the bars, I snapped a few pictures of the legendary coaster. Then I went to work investigating the fence. I knelt down next to a section and tried shaking the bottom where it met the fence post. It gave a little, then stubbornly fell back into place. As I struggled to push the fence open wide enough to squeeze an arm through, I leaned back and hit the top of my head on a broken tree branch. Awesome, I thought, Just awesome. 

"You find anything?" Jake asked, and I stood to meet him. 

"No. The fence will move, but not enough to get through." I touched my hand to rub the spot where I had hit my head, surprised when I saw that my fingers were covered in blood. "That's not good." 

"What did you do?" 

"Stood up underneath a tree wrong, I guess." 

"Are you trying to go over this fence?" 

"That doesn't seem feasible or pleasant, and there's nothing in there except that coaster. Wanna call it?" 

"Sure. Let's go try to find the other one." 

With that, we headed back to the car and the Target parking lot. Every few minutes, I touched my hand to my head, and each time, I came back with bloody fingers. Leaving Jake in the car, I walked as quickly as possible into Target, making a beeline for the bathroom. I hadn't anticipated spending ten minutes cleaning blood out of my hair as a gaggle of old ladies watched. I applied wet paper towel after wet paper towel until the bleeding ceased, smiled awkwardly at the group of old women, jipped my hoodie up to my chin, and headed back to the car to join Jake for the next adventure. 

Topic: Cleaning or My First Patient Death

02/05/92 7:35 A.M.  Res absent respirations, no palpable pulse, unable to auscultate BP, pupils fixed and dilated.  Call placed to Dr. Perrino. New Order: May release body to funeral home.  Resident’s daughter notified—-B Collins, LPN
02/05/92 7:50 A.M. Dgtr at bedside.  Paul Young funeral home arrived to transport res-B Collins, LPN
       It was my first patient death.  My first death of any kind really.  The first time I had been around a dead person except for attending a layout but that wasn’t the same as this.  I had graduated from nursing school in December of 1991 and was working the night shift at an Alzheimer’s unit of a local nursing home.  Our 24 bed unit was staffed at night with one nurse (me) and two nursing assistants, except when someone called off and our census was down below 20.  Then they figured we could make it work.  The night Alice died it was just me and Pat.
     Pat was what I called a career nursing assistant.  She was in her early fifties.  Despite her affection for drinking Hennessy on a fairly regular basis she was in terrific shape—must have been all that heavy lifting.  I went in to check on Alice.  She was 87, had advanced dementia, and had stopped responding verbally a few days ago.  I think she was septic which basically means she had a massive infection and the plan according to her daughter and Dr. Perrino was just to let her go comfortably.  She had a catheter and she had stopped eating or drinking in the past few days too.  So why I gasped with shock when I found her dead that morning made little sense.  I had trained for this.  I had expected this, but I still freaked out a little anyway.  I was 27 years old at the time.
     I called for Pat, “Oh my God, Pat, get in here.  I think she’s dead!”  I knew Alice was a do not resuscitate but I kind of froze about what I was supposed to do next.  Pat prompted me to call the nursing supervisor who told me she’d be over as soon as she could, that she had gotten pulled to the cart herself and was passing meds.  “Do whatever Pat tells you” was her advice.  I never saw the supervisor that morning.
     “Yeah she’s dead alright.  Did you call the doctor?  Did you call her daughter?” Pat knew what to do. No, I hadn’t done any of that.  But first I figured I’d check everything one more time.  I put the stethoscope on her chest, checked her non-existent pulse.  Pat gently closed her eyelids as she told me how it creeped her out to have a dead lady staring at her.  Then she gently patted Alice’s hand and told her to rest easy, that she had earned it.
      “We better get her cleaned up,” Pat said with some urgency.  Cleaned up?  I hadn’t thought about that.  I mean she was dead.  It wasn’t like she was going anywhere.  Then Mary Ellen, the lady next to Alice started wailing as she was prone to do and Pat left to tend to her.  I was alone with Alice.
     Calling the doctor was the easy part.  Calling the daughter was a little harder.  Just tell her I schooled myself. Be direct and kind but don’t use euphemisms they had told us in school.  Saying someone had “passed away” could be miscontrued.  So when I called Alice’s daughter I simply explained that her mom had died that morning.  Her daughter thanked me for the call and said she was on her way.
     The hard part of all of this was the cleaning.  I actually felt a bit frightened, of what I don’t know.  This is somebody’s mom, I told myself.   What are you afraid of?  Alice’s daughter would be here any minute to say goodbye.  If I didn’t get ready, no one would.   So I got a wash basin and filled it with soapy warm water and gave her bed bath.  I removed her urinary catheter and about jumped through the ceiling when her lifeless body expelled some gas when I pulled out the catheter.  Then I apologized to Alice for gasping.   I dressed her in her prettiest floral duster and put Jergen’s lotion on her feet.  I cleaned all the junk that was caked on her lips from days of mouth breathing.  I put some Vaseline on her cracked lips.  She looked better than she had in weeks.  “You’re looking good, Miss Alice,” I murmured as her daughter walked in behind me.
   

Topic: Cleaning - UPDATED!

I hate cleaning. It’s tedious and boring. It’s dirty work. It makes my dry skin worse. It’s highly overrated as a form of therapy. I do try to stay clean myself, except maybe for my teeth. Let’s just say that I have so much tartar my fish sticks don’t need shit.

But the absolute worst cleaning jobs I've ever had to do were in medical school. In between my second and third years I did a student fellowship in Pathology. This involves functioning as a first year resident in the Pathology department - in other words I became a temporary intern a couple of years before I would finally go on to do a regular internship like everyone else entering a specialty. It seemed like a good deal to me because I would be paid during the year and it provided an opportunity to consolidate all the information that I had to absorb from my first two years of school. Plus, I had been a lab tech prior to entering med school, and I thought I wanted to become a Pathologist (they're the docs who run medical labs). Doing the student fellowship would allow me to get a leg up on the five year residency required if I did choose to go into Pathology, since it would count as my first year.

There were three student fellows, and we had all the duties of the regular interns entering their Pathology residencies. After some general orientation, I reported to the Pathology department on my first day, to find I had been assigned to the autopsy service. I was required to perform a total of 30 over the course of the year.

I guess I had some vague idea before taking the fellowship that autopsies would be involved but I never considered what they might actually be like. "Grisly" is the adjective that immediately comes to my mind when I remember doing them. My very first one was on a newborn who had lived for 20 minutes. He had come out of the womb blue and the delivery team became more and more frantic as all the usual techniques to get a newborn to start oxygenating properly weren't working. Then they tried intubating the baby but no one could get the tube inserted and the child succumbed. At autopsy we found that he had an extremely rare condition called laryngeal atresia, in which the windpipe doesn't form an a tube, instead it's blocked by a bar of cartilage. 

Sorry - I've sort of gotten off the topic of cleaning. In medical training, interns get all the shit jobs, and this turned out to literally be true in Pathology. I was assigned an upper-level resident to work with and they accompanied me for my first few autopsies. The worst job is called "running the bowel", and the intern "gets" to do this. It involves taking scissors and opening the entire 20 feet of small intestine and five feet of large intestine, looking for anomalies. The residue in the small intestine was all liquid and aside from the odor it didn't impede the process. The hardest part was picking through all the attached fat, looking for lymph nodes.

The large intestine, however, was a different story. There was always a massive amount of shit adhering to its walls and it was truly loathsome to clean all this out, though I did eventually kind of get used to it. But afterwards, no matter how long I showered I never could seem to feel really clean. For me the hardest thing was getting the smell of formaldehyde out of my nose.

But the autopsy service doesn't have to be all grim, if you're resourceful - for example, when a colleague is performing an autopsy a remotely controlled electronic fart machine strategically  fastened underneath the autopsy table can provide tons of fun!

Topic: Cleaning

Space, the Final Frontier...” That had been the logo that flashed across the holo outside the Starfleet Academy recruiting station. An appropriately diverse trio of young recruits gazed offscreen at the adventure that awaited them upon completion of their training. There was a Vulcan female, a Terran male, and of course an Andorian, seeing as it had been on her home world of Andoria that Shas Irralla had made the fateful decision to sign up and “boldly go where no one had gone before.” She was given to understand that the third recruit rotated from planet to planet, just in case one were inclined to forget which side of the tearbark the Federation spread its angafruit jam on. 

Her antennae twitched at the memory and the twinge of homesickness it inspired. Her mood wasn’t improved by the sweltering heat and humidity of San Francisco. The doctor insisted that most of her species adjusted to the weather,  but prescribed her an anticholinergic to prevent her from sweating through a days worth of clothes each morning and advised her to keep hydrated. He had been wearing a sweater at the time. 

She blew out a tired sigh and resumed mopping. 

Her father and two of her mothers had been against the move. Thalia and Threm were conservatives, convinced that the Federation was an elaborate scam of some inexplicable sort meant to benefit the Terrans and the inscrutable Vulcans. Jenna was just worried about her chances at grandchildren. 

“It will be hard enough finding a compatible Quartet here at home, let alone out there chasing after glory in the stars,” she had warned.

Only Sderra had understood that his only daughter had dreams too big for their frozen little moon, and had eventually convinced the others to give her their blessing, if begrudgingly. Which had led her finally to her destiny, wielding a primitive cleaning instrument against the carbonized gunk that coated the floor of the main steam vent beneath Starfleet Academy.

“Ain’t this slice of ancient history Shas... this here tunnel must be a least four centuries old if its a day.” 

Shas winced as she was brought back into awareness of her other most significant aggravation at the Academy, Cadet Fairlane Fairbanks, her roommate. A gangly Terran youth, still growing into his frame, Fairbanks was thin, blue eyed and had a shock of that blonde fur that they grew on their heads, currently smudged with gunk. He had the most irritatingly sunny disposition of any sentient she had ever encountered. And he was the reason they were here.

“Cadet Fairbanks, I did not think the subterranean architecture of San Francisco would be germane to my studies, so no... I have no idea how old this tunnel is... nor its purpose for that matter.”  The latter had bothered her since she and Fairbanks had been assigned this dubiously valuable task. This tunnel deep beneath the academy didn’t appear to go anywhere important, nor did it connect to any vital systems. This further cemented her opinion that this task was meant to be a humiliating punishment. One far out of proportion to the offense of breaking curfew it seemed. 

“Well I dunno about that, does have a certain atmosphere don’t it though?” He stiffened his back and performed a spot on impression of astroarcheology instructor Stivak’s rigid delivery, “And what purpose might the ancient Terrans have built this structure? Speculation based on logical analysis of the available evidence only please...”

Shas stifled a laugh so as not to encourage him, but her mood quickly turned to black humor.

“It’s obviously a place of ritual humiliation, where offenders are reduced to the role of scullery slaves. Obviously at the end of this interminable orifice there will be facilities for the disposal of their used up carcasses.” She gave her best look of exasperation and returned to her mopping with equal parts renewed vigor and disgust. 

Cadet Fairlane evidently took the hint and they continued their task in silence for some time. 

“You mad at me Shas? Cause I’m starting to think you’re mad at me.” 

Her antennae drooped despondently. 

“Why on Terra would I be mad with you,” she snapped, “ I’ve only been mopping this floor for the past 5 standard hours, developing blisters on my hands and a pain in my dorsal endoskeletal fin because you just had to see the Monty Bergman Trio” 

“The Monty Bergin Trio, and they are the best Mid 20th century West Coast style jazz trio in California. And you had a good time! We’d have made it back in time if that air taxi driver hadn’t hit that waste disposal carrier. You would think that by the 23rd century traffic accidents would be ancient history.”

Shas was about to snap back, Andorian invectives to describe the kind of feckless Terran bumpkin she had been saddled with arose to her lips. But she deflated. He was right, she had accompanied him willingly, perhaps in a vain attempt to keep him out of trouble. The irony being of course that if she just let him get into enough trouble Starfleet might be kind enough to disentangle him from her antennae. 

And the music had been pleasing, jazz sharing many stylistic similarities to the kind of doppa quartet that her mother Jenna played in back home. And the atmosphere, the crowd an eclectic mix of Terrans and aliens, synthahol and more noxious intoxicants had flowed freely. She had even learned to snap her fingers like the Terrans. It had been a good idea and a good time and for a brief period she had not been annoyed with Cadet Fairbanks.

“It’s not you I am upset with, Cadet Fairbanks... Fairlane, it’s myself. This is not exactly where I expected to be, heading into my second year.” 

“So what? This ain’t the first punishment detail we been on, prolly won’t be the last.’’ He had stopped mopping and was studying her quizzically, “you’re really worried about something ain’t yah?” 

She was taken aback by his suddenly keen perception. 

“Worried, worried is perhaps not the right word. Disappointed? Frustrated? Maybe all at once? I don’t know.” She waved her hand to indicate the disused old tunnel around them. “Does this look like the place a Starfleet Officer ends up? I simply can’t help but feel that we have taken a dreadfully wrong turn to have ended up here.”

“Well I guess I can see that... I been led to understand that you Andorians is a bit more high strung than most species, but,” he raised his hand as she made to respond to that stereotype and made his own gesture, behind her.

“Speaking of ending up, looks like we’re all done here.” 

Shas turned in surprise to find that they had indeed come to the end of the tunnel, just beyond the pool of light from the last fixture was a wall, a dead end. She sighed and made to join Cadet Fairbanks in the long trudge back to the entrance when something caught her eye. 

“Bring that hand light over, will you?” She approached the wall as Cadet Fairbanks brought over illumination. The wall was a dead end still. But scattered across its surface there were carved, painted or laser burned names. Hundreds of them. 

“Wow...” 

“Wow indeed... Look! It’s Dhas Irasa, he was one of ours, first officer on the Lexington!”

“Yeah! Holy crap, that’s Commodore April. And look here... wow.” 

She knelt down to join him as he brushed dust from two names, one above the other. 

“George Kirk, James Kirk...” the legendary caption of the Enterprise and his father had made this trek as well. She stepped back to take it all in. 

“Ain’t all of ‘em famous, but all of ‘em were here, same as us.” He looked at her with that mischievous grin that apparently disarmed the female of his species. “Guess being here ain’t that bad an indicator of your future in Starfleet.”

“I suppose not,” she smiled and gathered her mop and bucket. 

“Hang on Shas! We ain’t finished here yet!” He produced a pen laser and dialed it down for writing. He picked a clear spot next to someone she had not heard of, Gary Mitchell. He signed with a flourish and handed her the pen. She hesitated then found a space near Commander Irasa, the familiar Andorian script bringing a smile to her face. She signed and handed the pen back to Cadet Fairbanks carefully. 

“Buy yah a beer Shas?” 

“Why yes, I think that would be refreshing Cad... Fairlane. Refreshing indeed.” They gathered their tools and headed back down the tunnel into the future. 

Topic: Cleaning

Author: Chris Dunn

We had waited too long, diddled around in the family room going month to month on our lease until it was far too late. Passing around a bong in our basement between game sessions we would have the same discussion over and over.

“What do you want to do?”

“I dunno. I don’t want to stay here.”
“Me either. Where do you want to go?”
“I dunno. Do you have any leads?”
“No. You?”
“I was going to look around this weekend…”
“Well, we have to do something soon, or they going to kick us out.”

“We could just stay month to month, for a little while longer.”
“Yeah, until we find a place, we probably should. I’ll call them tomorrow and let them know.”

This went on for a couple of weeks into the month, and when I finally got off my procrastinating ass to call the office…

“What? Oh, that’s not an option. That unit is rented. You need to be out of there in ten days.”

Stunned, I plodded slowly downstairs, hoping never to reach the landing and bring the news to the basement crowd. The news was real and severe enough that it shocked right through whatever smoke haze was clinging to their brains at the time.

“Oh, crap! What?”

“Can they do that?”
“We don’t even have any prospects!”

“What are we going to do?!”

“We could just stay put, right? They can’t just throw our stuff out on the curb, can they?”

The phone rang. It was the office. They had had time to think and were willing to make us an offer. The people slated to move into our townhouse were adamant. They wanted the chimney unit. Who could blame them? It was sweet! But, there was another unit, just down the block which was available for immediate move in. We could simply transfer our stuff down the way, sign a new lease and even maintain our current security deposit. Whew! That solved, I settled down on the couch among the other lay-abouts reveling in our momentary reprieve. We didn’t need to scramble. We weren’t going to be evicted. We had time…

As the smoke did its work, a wave of melancholy hit us all. It was going to be sad to leave this place, so much fun, so many nights, all the parties, the mayhem and debauchery. It was the end of an era. Packing up all our things and moving them to a new place with a reversed orientation, it was going to be a major adjustment. And then, we would have to go through all the effort to christen the new place, to put our stamp on it, and make it our own. My mind sorted through all the personal touches we had made to our space and immediately fixated on Kit’s room.

“Oh, shit!” I turned toward the others.

“What now?”
“Kit’s room!”
Their eyes lit up in recognition.

“Oh, shit!”

In short order, I was back on the phone with the office. This time the basement crew sat gathered around me, watching with sadistic insterest as I negotiated our fate.

“Okay, we’re very excited about moving to the new unit, and we’re confident we can get packed and moved by the deadline. There’s just one minor snag. We’re not sure, when you see the place that you’re going to want to rent to us anymore…”
“Oh, why is that?”

“Well, you see… My roommate… He fancies himself a bit of an artist. And well, he’s painted his room.”

“Really? What color?”
“Oh, not any single color, more like, characters and landscapes, and yes the ceiling too. Not a lot, but some.”
“Can we see it?”

I can only imagine what they thought when we let them up to the second floor. Almost every trip we had, Kit would spend a few hours adding to the collage, using whatever medium he had on hand at the moment. Oil, acrylic, crayons, what mattered was that the energy of the night get immortalized in some fashion. There were busts, a river, a village. The work had texture in places, and other “artists” had joined his efforts from time to time. Oddly proportioned faces glared with eyes – mismatched at times in size, position and color – from every surface amid the turgid landscape or the occasional meaningful phrase. Phrases like, “All one tribe…” and “Be here now…”

The office personnel stared and stared, trying to hide bemused smiles.

“Now, we can fix this,” I assured them. “We know a professional painter. He’ll come in after we move and completely restore this room.” Tonya had assured me her father could fix it no matter how bad it was, and the landfolks seemed far more amused than the anger I had expected. They agreed. As long as the room was restored to basic white when we were gone, there was no problem.

I was a young fool then. I didn’t know about the wonders of Kilz primer. It costs a bit, but it can cover up just about anything. So in the coming week, we boxed up all our things, carrying many of them down the street on foot to the amused stares of our neighbors. Then we set to cleaning and called in Bob, Tonya’s dad. He got a good laugh over Kit’s work, but within a day he had plowed it all under, leaving a fresh, white canvas for the next prospective artist’s eager hand.

Settling in at the new, slightly smaller, unit. The Pit Crew poured over the pictures we had taken before the Kilz-ing had washed it all away. We recalled the raucous nights when each piece had been added, and took great pleasure in the notion that the new tenants would never know what insanity lurked beneath their simple, eggshell walls. They would sleep soundly in the midst of an unseen gallery, and we would look to this new fresh canvas where we would paint the next few frames of our lives.

Topic: Rain

Rain on a Cold Tin Roof

As an engineer, you're required to have a, "Girlfriend in Germany."  I actually did.  It was an odd summer.

I had been pursuing a lady for a couple years, including one really bad date early in the process.  She kept saying that she liked me, then would go date some other guy.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  I finally stopped trying.  Then, right before she graduated, she showed great interest in me and also announced that she was going to Germany the summer after her graduation.  Well, fine.

That was a wild summer overall.  I was working well more than full time; most of my time cards were in the 60-70 hour range per week.  Some of my best college friends were finishing their final semesters that summer.  I was either ignoring them for work, or to stay sober enough to 1AM so I could ring up a massive phone bill calling the, "girlfriend in Germany," before she went to work in the morning at her boarding house.

The living quarters were also pretty strange.  Our house had a second-floor entrance, and I actually lived in the entry way.  It was probably 10x15 with a small closet, but I didn't have a roommate, and the door also had a really neat tin-roofed walkway.

That summer, it rained like it was the sky's only job.  On many days when I got home from work, I'd put a desk chair out on the walkway and listen to the rain hammer the roof while I fought depression.  I seem to remember one day it was blowing sideways, and I soaked my tie so much that it stained the shirt I was wearing.  And I liked that tie, too.

To this day, the sound of a hard rain cheers me.  The girlfriend dumped me two days after she came back, the roommates forgave me after I bought all the kegs for their graduation party (but that's a different story), and rain makes me happy.

Rain

Rain

It’s a hot August day in eastern Kentucky.  My husband and I are staying in a cabin called “Hiker’s Retreat.” The owners of the cabin had advised us to print directions out ahead of time as phone service and GPS devices tend to be spotty down here.  The printed directions actually say, “After you reach the end of the gravel road turn left at the broken- down jeep.” 

This is about as rustic as we get.  The first morning of our weekend getaway I sit on the covered porch sipping Starbucks Veranda blend and getting the info about the natural bridge.  Natural Bridge State Park is about a ten-minute drive and features a naturally occurring arch about 75 feet high and 20 feet wide.  The best way to get to the top is to take the Sky lift we are told.  I am skeptical.  I haven’t been on a sky lift in about 20 years.   

I immediately flash to the reports about a woman being thrown from the Gatlinburg Mountain Coaster and those people dying from a carnival ride at the Ohio State Fair last summer.  But this sky lift is operated by the state park system.  It’s not privately owned.  Maybe they will have tighter quality control, tighter safety measures.  Surely the odds are better than driving a car I tell myself. 

I don’t tell Jan how I’m feeling a little scared about going up in a sky lift. It’s the best way to get to the top of the bridge.  When I was drinking my morning coffee on the porch a soft rain had fallen.  I bargained with myself, “Well if it doesn’t stop raining, we’ll just stay in and watch movies instead.”  But the sun came out and Jan’s weather app said clear skies till after 6pm.  It’s meant to be I tell myself. 

We have to wait in line at the sky lift gift shop to get our tickets.  There is a boy scout troop, some older couples, a young family with babes in arms, and a group of Asian college students all in line with us.  The shop is full of kitschy souvenirs—little bear statues, shot glasses that say “Natural Bridge”, mood rings, t-shirts, and a wide assortment of homemade fudge.  We resist purchasing anything but two adult tickets, $30.00 total plus tax. 

The sky lift scoops us up and we are headed up a mountain traveling upward at 65 degree or so angle.  There are multiple signs admonishing us to stay seated and to not shake the seats.  I don’t need any signs.  I’m gripping the ½ diameter metal bar that is between me and a free fall into a valley of rocks and trees so tightly that my knuckles are actually turning white.  I ask Jan if he is nervous and he says not at all.  I tell myself to let go of the bar and I turn my focus to taking a picture of the ride up the mountain.  I focus on how pretty it is and I relax.

When we reach the top about 10 minutes later a light rain starts falling.  We ignore it.  We walk the 600 ft or so further upward to get to the Natural Bridge.  But then the rain starts really falling hard.  We duck under a tree and for a minute we are shielded but then the intensity increases and the rain is falling, big fat drops, pelting us relentlessly.  I put both of cell phones in my small leather purse and remove my glasses.  The other hikers all seem to have rain ponchos or umbrellas.  We don’t even have hats. 

We can see the bridge from under the tree but we’re reluctant to walk out the sandstone structure.  It’s about 20 feet wide with no guardrails.   This is nuts.  Someone is going to slide off the side of this damn thing and fall to their death.  There’s no shelter up here save for the tiny overhang where the boys who operate the sky lift perch as they wait to help people go back down the mountain. 

We wait for the rain to stop or slow down. It is merciless.  Every inch of me is saturated.  The boys tell us the only way to get back down is via the same sky lift that brought us up.  They assure us that it is safe even in pouring down rain.  One young man senses my terror and tells me he’s rode it himself in the rain at least a dozen times.  He laughs as he starts to wipe down the seat of the sky lift chair ready to take us down and jokes how he doesn’t need to do that today. 

The ride down seems to be proceeding at a much faster than the ride up.  It feels like we are falling, but we’re not.  My eyes are tightly closed and I am humming Amazing Grace. Then I am praying silently, “God I don’t think I’m supposed to die this way.  But if I am going to die on this ride as least I want to die happy.”   I ask Jan if he is scared and he says no way, this is cool.  Maybe he is just being brave.  Maybe if he tells me he is not afraid he will convince himself.

So, I open my eyes and decide to start laughing at the absurdity of it all.  I try to savor this unique experience.  I tell Jan that we will remember this crazy ass rainy ride for the rest of our lives.  I decide to take a video.  I figure if we die because the sky lift malfunctions my family can use it for the lawsuit they will file with the state parks. And then if we don’t die, we will have this ride commemorated on the internet forever.  I hold Jan’s hand and tell him I love him-you know, just in case. 

But 10 minutes later we are back and safe at the sky lift gift shop landing deck.  Jan says, “That’s’ it I’m getting some fucking fudge, diet or no diet.”  I point out that he is eating to process his feelings.  Damn right, he says. 

So, he buys a ½ pound of fudge and we head back to the cabin.  We are so wet that we squeak when we move on the leather seats of the car.  We drive back to the cabin anxious to peel off our wet clothes.   I talk about how I am going to soak in the hot tub and make a stiff drink.   And as we turn past the broken-down jeep the sun comes out. 

Topic: Rain

"Traipsing Around in Radioactive Mud?"

With each step I took through the mud, I questioned my sanity that much more. Sure, I was wearing boots and I suppose that, in theory, they were at least somewhat waterproof, but the sound of the thick brown sludge squishing beneath my every step did not inspire confidence. It had clearly rained recently; I could tell that as soon as we climbed off of the train at what promised to be a full station but was, in reality, a single platform in the middle of a field in Charleroi, Belgium. Thankfully, as we hopped off the train and began our trek through the Belgian countryside, the sun was high in the sky and there was no longer a rain cloud in sight.

“Do we know where we’re going?” Jacob asked.

It took only a second of searching for my eyes to find the behemoth of a nuclear cooling tower hiding behind a thick collection of trees. I pointed straight ahead, and off we went, walking quickly down a path alongside the train tracks. Although Charleroi is a reasonably sized city and the train had only taken us around 10 minutes from the center of town, there was very little surrounding us. The train tracks stretched for miles through the field, and where there wasn’t field, there were trees. As we neared the cooling tower, I spotted a few additional industrial buildings and a river. We continued down the path for a while longer, until it met up with a road that appeared to lead straight to the cooling tower.

“Looks like it’s this way.” The closer we got to the tower, the larger it loomed. The pictures I had seen years before in an article for Slate couldn’t do justice to the size of this structure. It was tremendous. Huge! And we were going to climb it. Or at least that was the hope.

As we neared the tower, signs along the fence warned of danger and no trespassing, in both French and English. Still, the fence was rusty, the tower notoriously abandoned, and it wasn’t long before we came to a section where the fence was missing entirely. My heart surged. It was an easy way in and it inspired confidence; a telltale sign of a maintained structure (and likely one with active security) is a well-maintained fence. A well-maintained fence meant someone was inspecting it regularly and repairing it, while a rusted, deteriorating fence indicated few would mind our presence. Soon, we were approaching the tower and its only entrance: a small door at the top of a rusted metal staircase. And what was fixed to the door but a shiny, thick lock.

Our one general moral guideline in all of this is that we do not break and enter, so if a building is locked and secured, we just don’t go in. End of story. Cooling towers are inherently a bit different, given the general structure. And we’d come a long way, stopping only briefly in Charleroi as we journeyed between Brussels and Liege, the cooling tower our sole objective. As we surveyed the building, it was clear that the cylindrical structure rested on a concrete support with numerous holes and cutouts to allow for rapid water drainage when necessary. Perhaps there was a way up from underneath the structure, through one of the drainage holes. As we headed down a hill to investigate, I noticed a sign in French with a word that resembled 'radioactive'.

“Uhm. So. I’m pretty sure that sign said something about radioactivity,” I said, “which makes sense. This was a nuclear cooling tower.”

We continued on until we reached the underside of the structure, a labyrinth of concrete pillars, mud, and... tires. Someone had made a path two tires wide through the mud. Perfect. Balancing precariously on the outer edges of the tires, we made our way step by step, occasionally pausing to do a necessary limbo maneuver underneath a horizontal concrete slab. The corner of Jacob’s ukulele case met the thick sludge, the goo leaving a brown smear as he moved on to the next set of tires. Each time I reached a concrete limbo point, I had to swing my camera bag over the space at the top, bear hug the concrete pillar, and slowly shimmy my entire body underneath it, hoping to land squarely on the next set of tires. It was not an easy task, and it was not long before I missed a tire completely and found myself standing in the mud.

“Well, now that I’ve gotten out of the way,” I said, “Do you see any ladders? A way up? Anything that leads to the inside?”

“Nope. I mean, it may be possible to climb this wooden wall, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I think you’re probably right. I mean, how would we get down? Alright, should we get out of this mud then?”

“Yeah, let's do that.”

After pausing to take a few quick photos, I followed Jacob back through the rows of tires, quickly wiping my boots in the grass as soon as we emerged from beneath the tower. We made our way back through the missing fence panel and began our walk back to the train platform. It was then that we noticed a smaller, shorter (but still massive) cooling tower just down the road. It looked equally abandoned. We decided to check it out. A quick hop through a hole in the surrounding fence followed by a brief walk through the overgrown factory grounds and we made it to the tower. Although this tower was smaller, it had a metal staircase on the outside that led straight to the top. Perfect. Following Jacob, I climbed the staircase quickly, trying not to look down. When we reached the top, not only could we see miles of Belgian countryside, but also the cooling tower looming in the background. After taking a few pictures, we made our way down the staircase and began our journey back to the train platform.

“So,” I said, “Do you think that was radioactive mud?”

Topic: Rain

Author: Chris Dunn

Things are going to work out for the best! Perhaps not with all the cheery underpinnings that phrase suggests, but by and large, it is a mantra which is running constantly at the base of my personality. Okay, maybe not “for the best” in all circumstances, but in general things are going to work out for me, and I’ll be okay. I feel this with the certainty that I have when watching a movie, that say, Spiderman is going to be okay. Sure he’s screaming in pain now, but in the end…

Now since this is being written in 2018, before anyone cries, “infinity wars!” Believe me, Spiderman is going to be okay.

Sure, I’m setting myself for the king of all “Gotcha!” moments. At some point in my far and distant future, something will come careening out of the shadows, and my mind will assure me, “Oh, that looks dangerous, but don’t worry, we’ll be-” But until that unhappy day, I see no need to panic. I know, it’s weird. It even feels weird to me. Like a character protect by a very specifically worded prophecy, I feel confident in most situations. Always have.

Case in point (another story from camp):

The sky overhead was pitch black. Angry clouds blotted out the moon and the stars which just hours earlier we had marveled at around the campfire as our marshmallows toasted or burned on sharpened sticks. The wind howled like a freight train in a tunnel and blew a steady torrent of needle-like raindrops against my face, and thunder exploded instantly as lightning strokes snapped against the earth like whip cracks. No time to count the seconds, the storm was here!

It was all I could do to keep my slick hands locked with both the scout in front of me and the one behind, as we followed bobbing flashlights across the muddy lawn. It was an awkward way to walk, but the scout masters didn’t want to risk losing anyone in the chaos of the storm. It made sense. I didn’t relish the prospect of leading a dozen cub scouts – all short of high school – through a tornado-warning thunderstorm in the absolute blackness that can only be found when you venture outside the light-cocoon of the city. One lost kid would probably ruin their whole day.

Still half asleep we had dressed and donned our packing-list mandated rain ponchos, before lining up in formation to stand at attention as the wind whipped the occasional raindrop underneath our poncho hoods with alarming accuracy. The scout master shouted out the situation. Storm! Shelter! Buddy system! Lock up, stay close, and move out!

It all made sense. We couldn’t remain at the campsite in our tents. A tornado would suck us right up and deposit us in the next county. Protocol dictated we should be in a basement, or failing that, a room with no exterior windows, perhaps taking shelter inside walls of porcelain. As the scout master explained, we were on our way to do just that. It was actually pretty exciting.

First we wound our way through the forest as the sky let loose with a mighty KRACK and the rain began dropping in buckets which instantly made mockery of the flimsy yellow and orange ponchos. The ground went from packed earth to mudslide in seconds. By the time we got through the trees we were somehow muddied up to our waists. Kids are amazing that way. Soaked and filthy, we avoided the direct route through the open field and instead, snaked our way along a drainage trench. Awkward to do in our daisy chain, but at least it got some of the mud off us. It was in the trenches that I began to notice that not all my fellow scouts were handling the situation with the same detachment that I was. There were definite signs of distress on many faces and panic was in the air. I started to wonder if they knew something I didn’t. We were going to safety, right? After what seemed like hours trudging through muck and mire, we darted across a well-trimmed lawn and dove through a pair of old timey, exterior cellar doors.

Having finally quit the rain, we huddled in corner with our troop and sounded off by name and number. Mercifully, the counts matched, and I saw the scout masters breath a collective sigh of relief. As the storm continued to rage outside, we squatted in dark with several other troops, and I listened to the howl of the wind and wondered how late it had gotten. Was this the longest I had ever been up? When will I actually get to sleep tonight?

Lightning struck and the lights went out, but we had plenty of flashlights. Several came on immediately but the sudden plunge into darkness had been the breaking point for many.  Several young boys went from quietly quivering to openly sobbing, and the scout masters began making their round offering firm assurances that we were all safe now. Nothing more to worry about. When they came to me, I remember Mr. Huber seeming surprised. “Gee, Chris, you’re taking this awfully well.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “Everything is going to be fine.” And so far, it has been.

Birth Order

Birth Order

I was raised as the first born and only girl of three children.   My mom, a middle child herself, frequently bemoaned the plight of the overlooked and forgotten middle child.  My father was an easygoing and charismatic last born.  Neither of them knew what it was like to be the oldest.  There’s been a lot of research and theorizing about how birth order affects us, and I believe most of it. 

For example, first borns are supposed to be respectful of authority and conditioned at an early age to try to please adults.  My middle brother and I took some change from the top of my mom’s dresser when he was 6 or so.  That would have made me 9 years old at the time. It was less than a dollar’s worth, but when we took it to Gil’s, the corner store, it bought us a nice stash of dum dum suckers, Lik-M-Aid (you dipped these pieces of candy in this god awful artificially colored powdery sugar substance) and Jolly Rancher hard candies.  When mom questioned where we got the cash to buy all this candy, I immediately caved and told her the truth.  My brother was livid with me.  He had kept a straight face and made up a very plausible story about finding bottles and using the recycling fees for cash.  “We were in the clear, Bridg!  Why ya have to tell her?!”  

When I was a teenager I worked at a city swimming pool and one of my jobs was to work the front desk and check people in.  Most people had season passes but many paid a cash admission-$1.25 for adults, $.75 for children.  At the end of a 12-hour day the proceeds could exceed a few hundred dollars.  I didn’t realize how loose, I mean how non-existent our accounting practices were at the pool.   I added up the money at the end of the day with little to no oversight, made out a deposit slip, and rode up to Central Trust Bank a couple blocks away with a bag containing a few hundred dollars in cash to take to the night depository.  Fortunately, I never got mugged.  But the other thing that surprised my middle brother about the whole deal was that I never took any of that money for myself, not even a penny.  I was such a goody two shoes growing up.  I never even had to stay after school ever, not once. 

First borns tend to be confident, and we like to be the center of attention. We don’t have anybody to watch, no one to compare ourselves to.   We have our parents’ undivided attention-for a time.  There is no jockeying for their affection.  I do remember being kind of ticked that my parents would wake up on a Saturday morning if my one of my younger brothers started crying.  When I was 6 or so I’d try to get mom to wake up and watch cartoons with me and make some breakfast.  She’d ignore my tapping on her bedroom door but let one of my two baby brothers so much as let out a whimper—they were 3 months old and 3 years old- and she’d bolt to their side.  I didn’t realize at the time that she had done the same for me when I was their age.  I just thought she liked them better.   So how did I respond?  I am not proud of this, but I’d try to say or do something to make one of them cry so mom would wake up.  I didn’t want to harm them, of course, just wanted the Saturday morning pop tart and Super Friends party to start.  Once I lifted my middle brother out of his bed and set him on the floor and urged him to cry.  He looked at me sleepily and blankly so I poked his arm until he let out a yelp.  Mom came running. 

For obvious reasons first borns are born leaders.  There are no older siblings to consult for advice.  We don’t get to watch anyone else screw up.  We get to learn everything the hard way.  I’ve kept that decisiveness of the first born into adulthood.  It’s served me well in the workplace and even in every day life.  If anything, I’m maybe too quick to jump to a decision.  I don’t mull things over for days and I don’t do a lot of research first.   I have no trouble delivering bad news or sharing a dissenting viewpoint.  Nothing made my beliefs about the effect of birth order on personality development grow more strongly than did the entry of my older sister into my life at age 49. 

You see my mom had given a baby girl up for adoption two years before I was born and a year before she met my father.  It was 1963 and nice Catholic girls didn’t become single moms.   I didn’t know about my older sister until I was 18 years old and my strong willed, outspoken and sometimes downright bossy personality was already well formed. 

My big sister found us in 2015 and she became part of our family.  She had been raised by adoptive parents as the baby of the family.  She is kind and sweet, way sweeter than I can hope to be.  She’s not terribly decisive or impulsive with her choices.  When our mom was dying the doctor entered the room where all four siblings were gathered and demanded to know which one of us was “the oldest.”  I pointed to my sister.  The doctor said there were some decisions to be made and he had found that the oldest child was usually the best person to start with.  Not surprisingly, the doc revealed that he was the first born in his family.   All three of my siblings protested and said the doctor should really be talking to me, that although my sister was officially the oldest, she doesn’t fill that role of the oldest, that first born role.  She has never acted like the “older” sister.  When we are trying to decide where to go out to eat, I usually end up making the call.  She’s just so chill and easygoing and thoughtful and kind.  I find myself emulating her, trying to be more like her.  So, I guess she is my big sister after all. 

Topic: Birth Order

Author: Chris Dunn

Kayless downed the powerful draught in a mighty swallow, choking only slightly on the bitter tang of bile which kresh always caused to rise in the back of his throat. He coughed and tried to pretend the ill omen had not occurred. This was not a time for hesitancy or doubt. The king, his father, was dead. This was a time for action. Now was the time to claim the throne which by rights should be his alone, but which due to the will of the gods, was now the glittering prize at the end of a most deadly game for he and his six brothers.

“Summon Ustiel!” Kayless ordered. He replaced the goblet on the tray, as the servant hurried to see to the command. The demon sorcerer would know how to proceed. The king had been in failing health for some time, and Ustiel likely has a variety of plots and plans already in place, simply awaiting this day to put them into motion. Kayless held no illusions. When he came to power, it would largely be due to his good choice of advisor.

Septuplets had been a quite the strain on the kingdom Malkenri. Seven vast manor houses, spread evenly throughout the capital, had to be built – each alike in dignity and worthy of a member of the royal family. Each brother had to be attended to by an equal staff of skilled servants, advisors and tutors. Seven equal stipends… Seven matching estates… The costs had nearly beggared the kingdom and put a tremendous strain upon the mighty empire’s citizenry. But all that would soon end. Now the great Game had begun, and with its inevitable end, Malkenri would once again be united. Their vast wealth concentrated once more under a single dread hand, Malkenri could again set its focus outward, toward conquest.

Kayless pondered which kingdom he would strike first. So many upstart nations had grown bold during the two decades it had taken for he and his brothers to come to maturity and for their father to finally pass. They had mistaken Malkenri’s  distraction for weakness. He would make them rue each offense once his armies were on the march. The royal tabulators kept strict records of every payment missed and every treaty ignored, the smallest of slights. All debts would be balanced soon enough, but first the Game.

Malkenri could have but one ruler. Sartan claimed his title was truest since, by report, he was firstborn. But birth order did not decide who would rule, might alone did. If it was strength at arms, Coraman would and should be king. He had spent his time building his body and training with all manner of weapons. Kayless would need to avoid giving any obvious offense which Coraman could use as cause for a dueling challenge. Belinine and Taggit would most likely take each other out of the running before the Game had reached its first year. They had long been at each other’s throats over a dispute concerning their bordering estates. Ustiel had warned that their enmity might be a ruse, but Kayless felt certain the fire was genuine. Dovamor would likely fall easily as well. He had wasted his time studying the black arts himself, failing to realize that they would take at least fifty years to master. He was barely a fledgling sorcerer and would be no match for one of Ustiel’s power.

And that was it, correct? Kayless counted them off and laughed at himself. Hathsin! He had nearly forgotten Hathsin. But no one would blame him. The fool had wasted his fortune on frivolous parties and sport. Days spent riding and hunting with sycophants and lesser nobles, and nights spent in deep debauchery with a scandalous parade of lovers. He had openly claimed that he had no interest in the throne, if it meant abandoning his lifestyle. Ustiel counseled that at least two of his brothers would move on Hathsin estate at the outset of the Game, and claimed it was a weak move. Seeking to claim an easy victory and expand their holdings, those involved would butt heads strongly and become easy pickings for those, like himself, with the wisdom to avoid the low hanging fruit.

Where was Ustiel? A queasy feeling gripped Kayless’s stomach. The sorcerers quarters weren’t that far from his own. The man should have arrived by now. Rather than summon another servant to gather him, Kayless set off on his own. As he moved through the quite halls of his manse, Kayless tried to reason what might have delayed his man. Surely, Ustiel had heard report of the King’s death. Perhaps he was simply gathering his demon-infused weapons and donning his armor. That was likely it. And it was simple nervous energy causing his heart to flutter.

Kayless gripped the knob of Ustiel’s door tightly to arrest a sudden tremble in his fingers. Inside the sorcerer lay sprawled in blood. His eyes staring vacantly at the nearby suit of ebony plate. A demon bound in physical form, the suit would turn away any blade not of similar origin, but its power was useless if one wasn’t wearing it. Looking at his dead advisor, the one who was going to lead him to victory, Kayless was suddenly terrified. How would he compete now? He would need to rethink his entire strategy. A wave of nausea washed over him and Kayless emptied his stomach’s contents on the floor. The drink burned even hotter on its return. The strength fled his body, and Kayless sagged against the doorframe, easing himself slowly to floor.

Something was very wrong! His legs were cold and his face was burning hot. He couldn’t stop his heart from racing. He cast about desperately looking for help. There! In the corner of the room, the serving girl he had sent to summon Ustiel. Using only his eyes, he pleaded for help. His voice had fled with his strength. Her hiding spot discovered, the girl stepped over to him. She held a knife in her hands, but a brief inspection of Kayless showed she did not need it. As she stepped over his paralyzed, dying body and raced down the hall, Kayless finally realized. The Game was begun, and he had already lost.

Topic: Space

"Keep Moving"

I am clumsy. While I understand that I have a working body and I can generally make it move in the ways that I want it to, it would be a vast exaggeration to say that I have mastered coordination. At best, I stumbled through a beginner's course in maneuverability and have been crashing my way through life ever since, somehow managing to stay upright (at least most of the time).

As a kid, I can remember almost training for my future as a clumsy adult. My normal state of walking around included two untied shoes and a thick chapter book parked an inch from my nose. Somehow, my peripheral vision could keep track of any approaching objects - including my rebellious shoelaces - while my eyes scanned the pages. As long as I didn't think about it too much, the two abilities worked concurrently and I could open doors and avoid obstacles all without looking up from my book. One summer, I even mastered the art of rollerblading while reading. There was a definite trick to it: my mind could not pay attention to what my body was doing. If I stopped moving for even a second to think about what my arms or legs were doing, I wiped out.

This practice carried into adulthood and I rarely questioned it. Maybe I should have. All I know is that by the time I hit 25, I knew I could stay upright while running down a flight of stairs without paying attention to what my feet were doing, but sports were still out of the question. They just required too much coordination.

That Valentine's Day, I had convinced Jacob to take me to St. Louis to peruse the array of abandoned buildings the city had to offer. After exploring Six Flags New Orleans together nearly half a year prior, I was eager to continue our conquests in new territory. First stop? The Armour Meat Packing Plant in East St. Louis. Abandoned since 1959, Armour was once home to 4500 employees spread across several factory buildings, each with its own distinct machinery. The most infamous building included an old engine room, which housed the large machines once used to power the entire plant. I had found pictures of the engines online and I was eager to see them in person.

There were a few things I hadn't counted on that day. February in the midwest is cold. It also decided to snow intermittenly, and when it wasn't snowing, it was drizzling. As I zipped my winter coat all the way to my chin, none of that mattered. We quickly followed a road around the back of the compound, keeping an eye out for the notorious security guard and his truck. After a few quick turns, the path was shrouded in bare trees just thick enough to provide cover from the highway nearby. A little while longer and we were entering the back of one of the buildings, walking into a large room with no existing roof and a wall bearing the spraypainted tag, "Destroy what destroys you."

I had read news stories about people falling down the smokestack in the middle of the compound and made sure to point that out when Jacob asked if we should look into climbing it. Although getting to the top of a smokestack would be cool, I was certain we'd be seen by security should we do that. Besides, I had an objective. I wanted to find the engine room. The smokestack was a sure sign we were heading the right direction, but where was it? I followed Jacob past a large hole, stopping for a second to peer into the basement. The basement floor appeared to be at least 15 feet away and the entire room below us was full of old heaters.

"This place is huge," I said, stopping to take a few pictures of a pile of bricks.

"I know, right? I'm going over here," Jacob said, walking to the doorway of the neighboring room. I turned to look back at the door we had stumbled into. The room itself was huge. At least 40 feet long, if not longer, with extremely tall walls. An intricate metal structure was all that remained of the roof, which had once met in a shallow point directly in the middle. It looked like plants probably grew through the room in the summertime, a few sad trees lingering in the distant corners and waiting for spring. When I turned back to Jacob, he had disappeared.

"Jake?"

"Alyssa - you've got to come in here," He bellowed from the other room. "It's so cool."

I walked quickly to the entryway to the other room, stopping just as quickly when I was met with another gaping hole in the ground. This one appeared to be at least 5 feet wide and, just like the other one, around 15 feet deep. Someone had placed a 2x4 across the hole, providing a possible path to the other side, just next to an uprooted tree. As I looked into the room, I saw Jacob climbing the ladder on the side of one of the engines. It looked amazing. I wanted in that room.

"So I'm supposed to walk across this board, huh?" I asked, loudly.

"It's not too bad. It's actually pretty sturdy. You'll be okay." Jacob said, walking my way.

Well, here goes nothing, I thought, pulling the strap of my camera bag tightly to my chest. I took one tentative step, then another, my feet pulling my body forward until I was halfway across the 2x4. How am I doing this? I thought in amazement. And then it happened. My feet froze in place, my knees locking up.

In that moment, I was keenly aware of the space between my body and the basement floor below me. While the fall alone wouldn't kill me, it would definitely hurt. It would probably break both of my legs. I was too far away from either side to comfortably reach the landings. The only way to go was forward. And the longer I stayed on that board, the greater the chance that I was going to fall.

"Don't stop!" Jacob shouted, "You have to keep moving."

"I know that," I said, "And my brain knows that. My feet are figuring it out."

I looked at the room before me and the two large, green engines that somehow still stood on the collapsing floor. And as soon as I stopped thinking about it, my feet started moving again, quickly traversing the 2x4 to the neighboring landing where Jacob was waiting with an outstretched hand.

(I'm having fun cultivating a theme with these posts so far. Let me know if that gets annoying.)