Dawn’s Escape at Dusk

I didn’t normally respond to demands, especially demands by purple-wearing, soothsaying, weirdly-named psychics.

But at this point, I was more worried than peeved by Aurora’s “request” to visit her immediately. On my cell phone just minutes earlier, an on-line newspaper bleeped a headline: “Man found dead on quest to find Hal the Huntsman treasure.” (See last week’s From Dawn to Dusk.)

Was Todd the man found dead? Perhaps Aurora/Dawn truly could “see” the answer. Continue reading

Fear of Dawn

psychic“Yes, I can help you,” she answered, “but my magic has a price. Although under the circumstances, perhaps you will be eager to pay it.”

“How do you possibly know ‘my circumstances’?” I asked the woman. My friend Lacey told me that her cousin Jennifer knew a woman who was a psychic. This “spirit goddess,” as she called herself, rented a small room in the tiny village 20 miles from my home. I deemed myself desperate enough to pay her a visit.

Perhaps “pay” was the operative word here. I didn’t expect her services for free, but… “Whatever my circumstances, what is your fee?” I asked. Continue reading

A Dawn Dilemma from A to Z

dawn, New EnglandA few minutes after dawn, I notice some movement outside my window.

Because it’s summer, with flowers blooming wildly and birds singing as if there’s no tomorrow, I assume some kind of wildlife has entered my yard.

Cracking open the back door, I peek out. Despite my admiration for foxes and wild turkeys, I don’t necessary want to tiptoe out into the yard and run into any family squabbles. Continue reading

Running with Redford

running, Robert Redford, SF bayThirty minutes into my run today, as my body relaxes into a rhythmic routine on the picturesque path along the SF Bay, a mildly familiar figure runs toward me.

But I’m confused. Why do I feel like I know him, and yet I don’t?  The slight man is not particularly tall, but with a stance that’s sure and confident.  His running form is beautiful and light.  His clothes don’t give him away: black tights, a long gray sweatshirt that almost reaches his knees, and a wide black ski band across his forehead, almost hiding his light blonde hair.

But as I breeze past him, I running north and he running south, I realize that it’s… HIM.

Robert Redford.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. The Way We Were. Downhill Racer. Three Days of the Condor. The Sting.  As I list the movie titles out loud, my words become louder and louder.  All the President’s Men.  Jeremiah Johnson.  Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. 

Except for this one man, this one idol, I have never cared about actors or “famous” people of any kind.  But Robert Redford.  He has touched me in every movie, and I’ve just passed him in real life. 

Real, not reel!robert redford, movie star, movies, running

I don’t doubt that the running man is Robert Redford.  I had heard that he had family in the town and occasionally visited.  I’d heard of sightings once or twice a year.  But now?  On the running path, my running path?

I stop short, allowing a runner behind me to curse and swerve to avoid a collision.  After mumbling an apology, I turn around just as abruptly, and run toward the movie star.  I’m not going to stop him, or speak to him, or stalk him.  But I want to run past him for one more glorious look at that craggy and tanned face, with gorgeous crevices around his eyes and under his cheeks, a mature man who’s still handsome.

It’s not hard to catch up to Redford.  He’s actually, well, rather slow, despite his good form.  How I want to wave as I run by him, or shout out “Hi! I’m a big fan!” But I don’t want to disturb him, nor be a nuisance.

 I sigh and kick back into my pace, passing the man from the movies.  I feel an extra exhilaration from being near him though, and my pace quickens. The early morning sunlight gleams on the bay waters, and the birds flit across the blue expanse. My spirits rise, and I soar down that path like a roadrunner.

SF bay dawn, dawn, running

I’m on such a high that I don’t hear the voice at first.  Sounds like a distant fog horn, then a grumble, then a real human tone saying, “Miss, uh, Ma’am, uh, excuse me.  Please excuse me!”

I slow down and glance behind me.  Redford is puffing and panting as he tries to reach me.

“Please,” he calls out.  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I’m dumbfounded, but I slow down to let him catch up, and he shoots me a grateful look.

We jog slowly, so he can catch his breath. “Bob,” he finally says, holding out his hand.  “Bob Redford.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, as if surprised.  “Pamela Wight.”

Robert Redford“Pamela,” Bob exclaims, “you are the most unusual runner I have ever seen. You, well, I swear I saw you run off the ground!  How did you do that?”

“I just run my joy,” I explain.

“This is incredible, just beautiful. I’d like to capture this on film. Do you think … ?”

I shake my head no, smiling wide. “This can never be captured.  It happens rarely, and only on very special occasions.  Thank you though, Bob.”

I hug him quickly, stare briefly into his amazed face, and dash off into the early light of a new day, knowing as I run into the reds and oranges and pinks that I’m doing it again. 

I’m running off the ground.

(Wight’s Note:  100% non-fiction.  Well . . . 95%.)

Women running in sunset from http://imgix.8tracks.com/i/000/109/761/c/Woman_running_beach_dupe-1979.jpg?fm=jpg&q=65&w=126&h=126