‘I go out walkin,’ after midnight, out in the moonlight, just like the way we used to do.’
COLUMN By Kathryn Ross, photo courtesy of Melanie Hunt
I wish those were the lyrics that had run through my brain when I took an anxiety driven walk down Main Steet the other night.
They were not.
No, going through my mind was the tune, The end of the Civil War was near when quite accidentally, a hero who sneezed abruptly turned a retreat into victory.’
Of all the songs I know, that was the one that was stuck on a loop in my head. Even though I tried to come up with something else. At least it kept my mind occupied. That was the problem.
A little after midnight the anxiety attack struck. There was no sleeping. My breathing was shallow and rapid. My mind scurried from one thought to another. There was nothing on television that could capture my imagination. I resorted to renting the movie ‘Seabiscuit,’ but even my love of horses could not still my frantic mind.
Scanning Facebook did not help. There is no one I would call at 2:30 in the morning to talk to. I was not in pain or having a heart attack. I did not want to call the suicide prevention hotline just to talk. I was not suicidal, and I did not want to use a service that someone else might need. I just needed someone to talk to.
I thought of calling our friend and colleague Chuck Wiser who is often on Facebook talking about not being able to sleep at night. However, I reasoned that it would be the one night he would be sleeping and I did not want to disturb him. So, I did not call or try to message him.
The only thing I could think of that might quell my racing mind was a walk in the fresh air. Oh, I thought of exercising, but I was not that desperate.
Fresh air, my turbulent mind reasoned, might do the trick. I donned a jacket and shoes, grabbed my walking stick, and headed out into the dark.
Downtown Wellsville is not really all that dark at 2:30 a.m. There is light everywhere. As I walked, I stopped to gaze into store windows. My walking and gazing were accompanied by the F-Troop song. I saw no other people. Only one car went past me. It went up the street and a few minutes later it came back down the street. It did not stop or slow down, so I did not think it was predatory. It was gray or tan and I noted the license plate anyway.
Between the F-Troop lyrics I wondered who would approach an old lady, walking with a cane, on Main Street, at that hour in the morning? Maybe, police officers would, I thought. I am not a suspicious person. I tend to see the good in people before I see the bad.
I would rather be that way instead of being afraid all the time. I did have a hefty flashlight in my pocket and my pointy hiking pole, if I had to defend myself. I have a strong voice if I had to yell or shout or even sing the F-Troop song aloud. As I said, I am a trusting sort of person. If anything had happened, I do not think it would have been like the case of Kitty Genovese in New York City in 1964. Would you believe I googled that with minimal information, not even her name. Sometimes the Internet still amazes me.
Anyway, Genovese was murdered at night, in the street near her apartment building. The New York Times reported her neighbors paid no attention to her screams.
Wellsville is not Queens New York. I think someone would have reported a woman singing F-Troop at the top of her lungs.
My meandering in the fresh, cold, air, gazing at the flowers on Tami’s stoop, the sparkling jewels in Hart’s window, Fisher’s pumpkins and mugs, the New Vogue styles, the stillness of the Texas Hot and Little Gem’s treasures, did the trick. My mind slowed, my breathing evened out.
The nighttime beauty of the village, the streetlamps draped with flags, the light in the library cupula, the peace and quiet, quelled my anxiety.
We are so lucky to live in a town where an elderly woman can safely walk down Main Street at 2:30 a.m. I would not recommend it, but it is good to see that the sidewalks are not really rolled up at night in Wellsville.
Kathryn Ross is a Wellsville native and lifelong mediaite, community activist, and weekly columnist penning the Golden Girl. You can reach her anytime, kathr_2002@yahoo.com
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