May 9, 2011
Greetings from the threshold,
“In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.” William Blake
I told my daughter as much as I could, but in the end I have to trust her instincts and believe in what I have learned about people. The best of what is in store for her as she travels is behind doors and the only way to experience that is to knock.
The porch was long and shallow, barely a step from the edge to the front door, facing west into the small town. I looked at the house from the street and felt like it was a good place to knock.
The door was solid wood, a six panel design. It had been stained a deep color to match the exterior trim, but the sun had faded the stain, fractured the varnish into a glazed jigsaw puzzle.
I had made as much noise as possible coming up onto the porch and knocked firmly on the door casing, so if anyone was home they knew I was outside. After a minute, I heard someone pull on the door; it hung up on the jamb, and stopped. I thought whoever it was might have given up when suddenly the door was jerked open.
A man stood in the narrow open space, most of him hidden. His face filled the opening, a full white beard, head framed with white hair.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Hello,” I said, “How’re you today? Listen I wonder if I could ask you a favor?”
Long silence. The space between the door edge and the frame narrowed slightly, not a sign I liked to see. The door stopped.
He looked past me to my gear on the sidewalk, my bicycle packed for long distance, loaded with most of what I owned in the world. The front tire was in tatters, shredded from exploding just an hour before.
“You on the road?” he asked, pushing his chin at my bike. I nodded. And the door nudged back open a bit.
He listened to my story for a few minutes, and I watched him soak it in, making up his mind where this might lead. His hand was still on the door knob but he hadn’t closed it.
Bob took his time. I could see he was used to sizing people up, but I could not tell how he was deciding about me. He listened to me for a bit more to see what I wanted, and then stood back a bit and let the door swing wide, a long, bass creak moaning from the hinges. He let go of the door and invited me in.
People are like doors. Sometimes they are closed, and no one will ever know what is on the other side. Sometimes the door eases open, and you can peek into their lives, see a band of what it is like for them, but you are left to wonder about all of what is there. It is always their choice, but we are all partners in the dance because we choose to knock or not.
Bob Starr had travelled more miles than he could guess, almost all of it by climbing onto freight trains as they slowed down in switchyards or on steep grades. He had hoboed for most of his life, living in the gravel around the sidings, the tall grass at the trestles. He had slept on, in and under boxcars from every rail company that moved freight. He owned little and wanted for nothing.
Bob gave up the road when he met his wife, traded one passion for another. He got a regular life with a job and taxes and insurance and never looked back. He worked hard, saved his money and bought the two of them a house to live in, the only house he’d had since he was a boy. He started a collection of hats to hang in the house, and the two of them made it their home. And then she died.
When I came off the road I knew I was a writer. It is what I do even when I am doing anything else. Part of that is looking at the doors I see and wondering and imagining and then, sometimes, knocking. Doors of all sorts, some very secure and forbidding, others with beautiful panes of glass that invite the light. I knock because I’m interested as a person, and then as a writer, and because I have been taught that what’s behind the doors is the best of what life has to offer.
People look out to see who you are, if they know you. They make a guess about if they want to know you. And sometimes, if the timing is right, and if they are willing, the door swings wide open and you are invited in. It is an honor, and the trust can’t be taken for granted.
Bob sat behind his door for a long time, wrapped up in that house tucked against the Sierra Nevada’s, maybe waiting for someone to knock. Waited for ten years. Could have been anyone, but it was me.
We sat and talked for hours; he was fascinated about the idea of traveling by bicycle, and after a bit, when he saw I was willing to share, he poured out questions. When he was ready, he told me his story, and I saw a light in him, saw the door wide open. I gave him a hat for his collection, he gave me a book the thought I’d like. We parted company as friends.
Thirty five years have passed since that afternoon. I wrote Bob one time but he had left that house with no forwarding address. I like to think he got on a bike and went down the road, went where he chose to go, because I know that was his nature. I’m glad I met him when I did.
Last night, somewhere in Indiana, my daughter and her friends knocked on a door and were invited in by a ‘sweet couple’ who were once strangers but now become part of the quilt of friends they will make on their journey. Not just on the road, but for all of life.
They made the exchange I have made hundreds upon hundreds of times. Knock on a door, step back and wait for them to know they have nothing to fear from you. Extend your hand as a friend and then see if the door swings open. It’s what people are best at really, and even with the risk of guessing wrong about which doors to stop at, it is worth the effort.
People are like doors. They protect what is inside, some with strong locks, because that’s what’s needed in this world. But doors are not nailed into the frame. They are on hinges so that they can be opened; they are meant to be opened. In that way we can know one another, which I believe is also meant to be. Just as I believe that I am meant to write about it.
Hope this finds you stepping through the doorway,
David
Copyright © 2011 David Smith
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