Donnette

For a person who grew up with street lights on every corner, traffic lights at intersections, and porch lights that could spot Carnegie Hall, my understanding of the dark didnt begin to match what dark began to look like at this farm. By seven-thirty I was out of the writing business in the living room, since I foolishly neglected to bring along a table lamp. I began my inspection of the two empty bedrooms, finally deciding upon the one with the strongest overhead light. It faced the road, the hills, and nothing beyond, except perhaps that cemetery I couldnt help noticing as we drove by. There was the mirror hanging on the outside of the closet door, which I was afraid would scare the hell out of me when I accidentally saw my own image. But I took the risk. I followed the light, and moved my laptop, chair, and table.

As my luck would have it, I needed a three prong adapter to plug in, but I hadnt brought that either. So I operated on my battery, hoping my husband would return from the fields before my power drained down. I hoped not to be found mumbling the word hotel into the black computer screen. I concentrated on my work, and ignored the draining light outside. Soon enough, the only life I saw was my image in that mirror, and now it actually comforted me. I recognized the good and brave woman, the one who knew it was good to have journeyed to the hills of Port Allegheny for her anniversary. She lived on the edge, without a table lamp, without the internet, without an adapter, or even fresh fruit. I vowed be more like her.

From my city-girl perspective I was totally vulnerable. Cats, wild dogs, even black bears were able to observe me through the uncovered window, and I couldnt see them. Any attacker sneaking up on me could yell boo and have the advantage. I knew there were still friendly horses in the field, and my husband was out there somewhere, but for now, everything including the nearby trees, had completely vanished. The window was nothing but a black rectangleso long as I applied no imagination. I considered opening the bottle of home-made wine we brought along, but I was determined to use my time writing instead of envisioning dead people, drooling wolves, or even black, vampire cats. The bars on my cell phone were disappearing, and I contemplated the ineffectiveness of throwing my tiny, toy phone at any living intruder. It would be undoubtedly wiser to smash something with my folding table I suspected. As if on cue, Stars and Stripes Forever blared out of the phone in my fist, reverberating loudly against the walls of the empty room, driving me straight up out of my chair. My husband was calling to warn me he was coming in, so I wouldnt be startled.

I have never been so delighted to see another human. He was back in one piece, it was nine-forty p.m., and I didnt have to be brave in the wilderness again until morning. He opened the bottle of wine, and we headed outside with our paper cups to look at the moon and myriad celestial bodies invisible from our home in metropolitan New Jersey. Carefully, I attempted to drink my wine and walk on the bumpy dirt road, while staring at the sky. I felt myself small and shrinking. I saw my moon shadow. A stranger to country nights, everywhere I looked I saw nothing, absolutely nothing in the distance. No roads, no houses, no street lights. No planes passing overhead. It was only by looking up that I could even be sure I of where I stood.

My first yard was about the size of a double bed. I could not have imagined becoming a farmers wife, yet here I was, listening to the roar of a wild beast. My husband explained the sound as a horses whinny, and pointed to where they were grazing happily. I asked about the occurrence of black bears, wondering out loud what would happen if I decided to cook Italian and left the kitchen window open. He shook his head. They generally ate his corn he reminded me. But it wasnt really the wild animals that kept me awestruck. It was never having known such peace and quiet under the stars, and not understanding how to conform. It was the lack of light anywhere but down from the heavens. It was the feeling of being totally cut off from the world when the world I knew included teenagers, air traffic, and cable TV. But even if at first I couldnt seem to stay out of fight or flight mode, I was still glad I had come. In this rural location, where cats congregated, horses spoke their minds, and light evaporated suddenly, I was mentally detoxifying. And I was no longer shaking.

L. A. Rentschler, author of the newly released novel Mother (amazon.com). Author of Jitters which was produced as a Lifetime Original Movie. Playwright, best known for Deathbed. IWWG. Dramatist Guild of America. http://www.larentschler.com Write to her: linda@larentschler.com