By Anna Von Reitz
I woke up this morning to the sound of rain, steady, drumming rain, muffled by the roof but still clearly audible, like the sound of the running water dripping off the eaves. It took me back in time, immediately, to another day when "the August Rains" -- which sometimes start in July - were drumming on the roof of an immense industrial garage in Anchorage, Alaska, and the torrent of rain was clearly visible just beyond the cargo bay doors.
A man's figure, greyed-out and made blurry by the rain, seemed like a shadow as he jumped lightly over a large shallow puddle and landed on the dry concrete floor of the garage. The first thing I noticed besides his cat-like grace was his hair and beard. Even in that dim light, they were shiny gold. As he walked forward toward the loading dock where I was standing, he kept his face down, looking at an oversized folder and shaking raindrops away from it. It struck me: oh, he must be the artist... that's an artist's portfolio...
I waved to get his attention the moment he looked up. We had a noontime appointment. He smiled. It was like the sun, so warm and friendly, such a contrast to the ugly industrial setting and the rain. It wasn't love at first sight. No instant recognition. Just a friendly open smile that set me at ease. I led him into my office and as he set his portfolio down and took off his coat, I saw that it was dark gray wool, so fine and so thick that it shed the rain like a raincoat. I recognized it: Scottish-made. Clan MacGregor lining.
My eyebrows drew together a little. This was an unusual man. One that didn't seem to fit -- exactly -- in Anchorage, Alaska. But then, another Scotsman, Bryan MacKay, provided the over-the-phone introductions that led to this meeting at all. And so it began, with a strange savor of Scotland and a man who slipped into a leather chair as naturally as the rain falling outside.
I found out that he had kinsmen and family in both Scotland and Ireland -- plus England and Wales. His family was actually French, but they'd been in the British Isles for a long time. I smiled and quipped, "Oh, so you came over with the Conquest?" He nodded and left me feeling a little stupid. "That is a long time," I followed up, even more lamely. He nodded again.
Yes, I was discovering, the hard way, that James could be very unhelpful.
"So how many generations in America?" I limped along, thinking two, maybe three generations. He had that polished European grace. His hands were beautifully manicured.
"We've been here since 1608," he said, a little impatiently, obviously wondering if his entire family history was a job requirement and where this was leading.
Little did either one of us know. I just knew that I was stumbling further and further into some kind of conversational dead end of a kind I wasn't familiar with, and this strange man was looking at me with something like curiosity, the way you might pick up a shell on the beach and look at it closely.
"Look here," he said abruptly, "the light in here is dreadful. I know a place right up the road here where we can spread the drawings out on a nice, big, brightly lit table. What do you say?"
Of course, I agreed.
He grabbed his portfolio with one hand and skillfully held his jacket over both our heads as we ran to his car. The promised table was in a restaurant with huge north facing windows. The staff was familiar with him and just nodded as we passed through to a private dining room that was empty that time of day. He showed me his sketches for a packaging design. They were brilliant and on time.
I found out that he could make a mean Hot Whisky Toddy: "Jameson's, not Bushmill's for this," he said gravely, studying the float exactly, very carefully applying the lemon.
"What kind of bar is this," I asked, "they just let you go behind the bar and make your own?"
He laughed. "I know the owner. She lets me."
At that precise moment, I felt something I had never felt before. Call it a "ping!" like radar hitting an unseen object. Of course, he had to have women in his life. Lots of them. No surprises there, but, here's the thing, in my life the presence of some other woman never mattered at all. Never registered. Ever. This one did.
Even more disturbing, he seemed to notice that it did, because he uncharacteristically added more information, "We used to be lovers twenty years ago, but now we're just friends."
"Is she still in love with you?" I asked, and I am sure I looked like a schoolgirl, though I was 32 and had been around the world eight times by then.
"Love," he said that first afternoon, "I don't think it ever ends, if it was love to begin with. It just changes, gets softer, takes on new meanings, different understandings...."
He nodded toward the portrait of a stunningly beautiful woman hanging over the bar, and lifted his glass. It was right about then that I realized that that was her, and that was the portrait he painted of her, and I felt totally, totally outclassed. Hell, no, not even in the running.
Things got awkward after that, too quiet somehow. He finally had to ask if I liked the package design sketches. I jerked awake in the modern world, stopped swimming in my insecurity, and came up with a resounding "Yes!" that sounded too loud and abrupt.
In this odd strained atmosphere he managed to bundle me up and get me back to the office. I retreated defensively behind my desk.
He stood looking at me with a slightly pained look on his face. I forced myself to brighten up.
"Yes, the sketches are brilliant, absolutely super. Half down, the rest upon delivery of the paintings and the copyright. You get to keep the originals after we are finished with the printing. You can pick up the first installment check at the front office tomorrow afternoon any time after two." I rattled it off so expertly, I was proud of myself.
I made the mistake of coming around my desk again, to shake hands on this deal. Professional habit. My hand was instantly lost in his grip. I hadn't noticed how big his hands were, or how big he was, until I was standing there one-to-one in front of him. It was like an optical illusion. He always looked smaller than he was, but this was my first encounter with this odd phenomenon.
There was an instant, involuntary recoil, as if I had stepped too close to a wall or a stove or something inanimate, the kind of klutzy myopic move I was famous for. Just as instinctively, he reached out to keep me steady on my feet. There we were, in each other's arms after knowing each other for about two hours.
It wasn't exactly the romantic moment you might imagine. My entire body from the waist up flushed bright red in embarrassment. I said something really trite, like, "Excuse me!" We both fumbled our way through until I was back and safely seated behind my desk.
I was mortified, and not for the first time in my life. Jim had stirred more ancient emotions, raised more red flags, and created more havoc in my soul in two hours than I could even dream possible.
All I could think of was how could I avoid seeing him the next afternoon? How to get back to my nice settled respectable world that vanished over lunchtime?
I am telling you this, so that when you wonder, as some of you will -- how Granna met Jim, you'll know. You will know my side of it precisely, painfully, blow by blow. I can only guess at his side.
Jim probably went home that cold soggy afternoon, happy in anticipation of a big check the next day, and if he thought of me at all, it was probably a passing moment of concern, the kind nice people have when they meet someone who seems a bit awkward and unwell.
Just goes to prove how your life can change forever in an instant, and for the good, when you least expect it, even on a day of pouring rain, peering at each other in the dim light of an industrial garage.
Years later I found the courage to ask Jim if he felt anything odd that first day, and he allowed that he did, but he wrote it off as dyspepsia caused by a curry dinner.... and then he crushed me in a bear hug.
That bear hug is the only --- very circumstantial -- proof that I have that he noticed anything strange about our first meeting at all.
Granna
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