The Road to Marathon
After shopping at the local grocery store in Fort Stockton, loading up on fresh, imperfectly perfect locally made flour tortillas, eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit, we head south on US Highway 385—destination Marathon, a tiny dot on the map with less than 400 hundred residents. It is also the gateway to the Big Bend area and charming in its own right.
A Storm Warning
As we drive along, I can’t help but notice the large cloud that hovers over the highway, far, far in front of us. I tell Michael, “It looks like those clouds are dumping rain.”
I groan—I didn’t pack a raincoat. Now I worry that I didn’t pack any warm clothes either—being almost positive that I would never need them. Clicking on the Weather Channel app, I decide to check out the weather for the next seven days. Before I am able to place my finger on Daily Forecasts, I see a BIG RED WARNING SIGN! The message is not a good one. There is severe thunderstorm activity and possible 1-inch hail between Marathon and us. Both on the radar screen and through the windshield I see Michael’s new car heading toward disaster.
I look at him and proffer a suggestion, “Perhaps we should stop here and wait till the storm passes. It’s headed east.”
I get what I expected. The look, along with, “Oh Charlotte….”
I text my daughter, relaying our plight and whereabouts, just in case she never hears from us again. I look down at the radar screen on my phone and up ahead at a sky too blue, too close to the ground. No one ever said that life with Michael wasn’t exciting.
Although the impending storm stresses me from the tip of my head to the bottom of my stomach, the sky is magnificent! I hide my anxiety and talk about the clouds, asking Michael to stop or at least slow down so I can take pictures. So, we stop often, which is a good thing. But not long, which isn’t such a good thing.
Miles later we reach a stretch of the road puddled with fresh rainwater, and I begin to breathe easier. Our progress must have been just slow enough, and the storm’s rampage just fast enough, for us to miss it. The radar shows the big red blob is on its way east. We continue our stop-and-go progress, Michael snapping pictures too. I even get out of the car and walk on the desert grasses to get a better shot of a windmill. Michael likes the scene well enough that he backed up a quarter of a mile on the deserted highway just so I would have a better view.
The Sky Over Marathon
Still venturing south on US385, we turn right and enter the outskirts of Marathon. Looking up, I almost gasp. The sky is magnificent; a patch of blue recedes as a sea of black and gray and white struggle for dominance. Michael doesn’t seem as enamored with the sky as I am. Stopping doesn’t even cross his mind, so I must take a photo while we continue our forward motion. I have no choice but to aim the lens through the bug-splattered windshield.
La Casa Viejo
Driving to the extreme north edge of this tiny town, at the end of Avenue F we find La Casa Viejo. It is a charming burnt sienna-colored little adobe that will be our home for the next seven days. While Michael unpacks the car, I sort and organize and store our mishmash of belongings. There is oodles of storage space. If there aren’t cabinets or drawers, there is a long closet in between the bedroom and bath. And if I run out of space—which I don’t—there are hooks hooks and more hooks. Everywhere! Michael is impressed.
The Happiest of Hours in Marathon
When we are both finally finished with our moving-in assignments, Michael renews an old custom from his sailing days. He fixes us a safe arrival into port cocktail—bourbon and coke and lime on ice.
Taking our drinks to the front porch, we sit in the most rustic rockers I have ever seen. However, as I sit and rock, I realize that these are some of the most comfortable rocking chairs I have ever sat in. It must be the seat—the edge is smooth, round, and slanted.
Eventually, a rain cloud bursts. The wind whips. Michael gets wet, and the weather chases us inside. Because Michael loves the rain, he suggests we move happy hour to the courtyard. So, we sit under the protection of a latilla-style roof attached to a tiny casita containing guest quarters and continue our small celebration.
The wind continues to blow. My hair is a wreck, and I’m getting wet. Michael and I trade places. This day in total, has been a memorable one. Then it gets better. When the rain stops and the sun shines, I look up. A rainbow! I see a rainbow—a double rainbow!
Opening the gate leading to an adjacent field, I stare at a sky filled end to end with color. “Michael, come look! You have to come look!”
Destination Marathon. Memorable. And more memorable.
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