Two Thirty A. M. and I Can’t Sleep

I started the daunting task of looking through the myriad of photographs stored in my home, searching for one specific picture among the thousands that have found lodging in cardboard boxes and plastic tubs. I believe that’s why were stirred and the imaginary troops began the assault on the walls of my brain’s garrison. Up to this point in my life, I’ve always thought memories tried to escape but it seemed those images were trying to get inside and claim the title of “king of the mountain” at the forefront of consciousness.

Relatives who’ve long been deceased rose from their graves. School photos and images of friends who’ve moved away or have changed as they’ve aged stroll before my eyes. Even my own children left a path and were knocking to be allowed inside. Scattered among the photos were remnants of the past. Tidbits of paperwork were resurrected: paid mortgages, hauling permits, deeds, and the ever present tax payments. I uncovered sad memories. Invoices for cemetery plots, contract for memorials, and funerals; ghosts from the past vied for recognition. Old birth certificates, report cards, cradle roll certificates, old driver’s licenses, and even a few old pay stubs made their appearance known.

The recent death of a fellow writer and dear friend was also a factor in my sleepless night. I was notified by her son Tom that Sara “Sally” Martin had passed away. Her life connected with mine in the backroom of the Beanery coffee shop at a writers gathering. Her courage and wit was revealed over several years. At the age of 65, this wonderful friend bicycled around the world, sometimes solo, hitting nearly every continent and through many island nations. Her memoires to that adventure can be found in Mustang Sally’s Guide to World Bicycle Touring. It shares the trials of her journey and insight to her amazing wit. At past meetings she shared her competitive nature with stories of her travels to compete in cross country skiing, swimming, and triathlon events where she received gold in many of the senior events. She once told me, “It’s easier to win when the competitors become fewer each year.”

Her life companion and husband Chuck was a lawyer by trade and an extraordinary photographer with an artist’s eye and poet’s soul. I was fortunate enough to meet Chuck before his passing and to review a few of his black and white masterpieces. Plain people doing daily tasks became a ballet. Sport stars and entertainers became human. Chuck was the only photographer to capture the grief in the Hill District of Pittsburgh the day after the murder of Martin Luther King Jr.

Sally, I miss you.