Down the Mountain

When I was in my late teens, I'd often run away from home and hang out in a little town in upstate New York called Woodstock. This was before the Woodstock Festival.

Late one summer evening, in the pouring rain, I was lying on the bed in my cabin in a deserted cul de sac looking up at an Edith Piaf poster, in the throes of hormonal angst, thinking how no man would ever want me, and I'd be all alone. Out of the blue, a car pulled up in the driveway. I could see headlights flashing.

I threw on a coat quickly, and ran outside. A car door flung open. When I looked inside, the driver asked simply "You sent for me?" I recognized him, at once, as the man who owns the travel agency in town, an Englishman, blonde, late 30's, quite handsome. "But how did you know..," I stammered. "Quit asking questions, and get in" was all he said.

He whisked me up to the top of the mountain, and an A-frame with fabulous views. We didn't just make love, we made magic all night.

In the morning, he got up to shower. I started to dress. "Where do you think you're going?," he said. "You have to clean the sheets."

"Clean the sheets," I shouted!

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about how to negotiate my way back down the mountain. Thanks for the wake-up call. I'm halfway there" was all I could muster except for a few choice expletives.

As he fished around on the dresser for his car keys, I remember hearing him say: "Nobody gets to sleep with destiny without cleaning up afterwards."