January Rain.
The 22nd annual Cystic Fibrosis Foundation Beach Bash took place last night at the Holiday Inn, Fogelsville.
There had to be around 800 people there — the ballroom and dance floor were unbelievably packed. Usually, in crowds like this I like to get my photos and get out. The band, Philly-based rockers The Flamin’ Caucasians, was fun but loud, and the crowd was, well, equally fun and loud. The food was plentiful, drinks flowed, and inflatable palm trees lit up the night, as did an outdoor fire pit that beckoned the bikini-clad to venture outside to toast marshmallows (as well as other things, I imagine!)
One of my photographed “victims” was John Temple of Olympus and his wife, Lisa. They were great sports, and I ran into them again just as Michael and I were planning to leave.
John and Lisa’s oldest child has Cystic Fibrosis. Another is a carrier. Instead of worrying, however, John and Lisa live.
Happily. Honestly.
John’s main concern is not when the cure for CF will emerge. He and Lisa excude a warm confidence that all will be taken care of in good time, as long as we do our part. Instead, he thinks about the dumbing down of our emotional selves. The loss, to Blackberries and texting and email, of the natural part that makes us…human. The part that cares. The part that helps a neighbor because it’s the right thing to do, and climbs a mountain just because it’s there.
The part that chooses to live consciously and takes chances and walks the road less traveled.
Last week, during an ugly storm, I walked the seven blocks to Hava Java on 19th Street to meet a friend. (I’m bringin’ back the Gum Boots, baby!) It seemed like a good idea, until the soft snowflakes turned into icy flecks, stinging my face. A Lanta bus zoomed by, sending a backwash of spray that nearly turned me into a gasping and freezing version of Sarah Jessica Parker on the theme of Sex and the City. Sans cute skirt.
I had a great time at the warm coffee shop brainstorming ideas columns and websites with a friend, then met another girlfriend at Boutique to Go, three doors down. We had a glass of wine with the owner, and browsed her gorgeous (sale!) items.
By the time I left, the ice had turned into a downpour of freezing cold, soaking rain. I slogged through the Allentown Fair parking lot, avoiding the spray flying from the tires of passing cars.
I breathed in, and tasted the sharp, biting cold. My boots splashed, rhythmically sinking into slush.
It was a moment of absolute grace. At that moment, I knew someday, somewhere — from a hospital bed? Hospice? Beach front? I would look back and remember the gray afternoon I walked, wet jeans pasted to numb legs, water, like saltless tears streaming down my face, through the crystal quiet of an empty parking lot in a small Pennsylvania city. I memorized the sensation, because I wanted someday to relive it, or even tell the story to my great grandchildren.
These are the moments I knew John was talking about. When I shared the story with him, his eyes softened.
Because that’s what happens when you meet a kindred spirit.
