I happened to be at an afternoon performance under the tent on July 20, 1969, when the conductor suddenly halted the orchestra in mid-flight, turned to the audience, and shouted in a joyful voice, “I’ve just been informed that the Americans have landed on the moon!” Then he turned to the orchestra and whipped it into the Star-Spangled Banner.
What I saw was not a dusty old book but a boy in a wheelchair by a window in a ramshackle house farther east in Tennessee—two hours away, on the Cumberland Plateau near Crossville.
Two cowboys in a Ford Ranchero pickup truck stop and tell me I can ride thirty miles to Missoula in the truck’s back bed. There have been no cars for nearly an hour. I think for a nanosecond. Then I take the ride.
The elderly woman greeted everyone as though she knew them and gave each a bright smile.
When my agent asked to see a complete revision of my work-in-progress, I didn’t know whether I could face it again. As with that tangle of cords and cables you stash in the back of your closet just in case you’ll need them, even though you’re not sure what half of them are for, I feared that if I pulled on one cord, the others would tighten into a death knot. How would I ever rewrite the whole book and hand it in on time? Fortunately, I had a plan: I’d apply to Rockvale Writers’ Colony.
My intention had been to attend a writing retreat, but I suddenly had the feeling that I was actually there to attend a labyrinth retreat.
