One of my earliest memories is of a balmy summer's evening in England. My father had been home less than a year after he was demobilized from the British army following World War II.
-----ooo-----
As we marched down the road, I heard my mother calling me back in a non-too-friendly voice. It might even have been hostile. Avery was going to the youth club, and I decided I was going too, even though she was five years older than me--ten years to my five.
Your mum's calling you. You'd better go back, she warned, as I matched my steps to hers. Clomp, clomp, clomp, went my shoes on the pavement, my legs almost in splits as I tried to lengthen my strides. I liked the sound of our feet in concert, and concentrated on keeping up with her pace. Then--whoosh. What a surprise. My mother had pulled out all the stops, and sent my father after me. He picked me up, tucked me under his arm, and turned back towards home. I was feet first, head dangling down at waist level, facing the ground.
I remember blowing the hair out of my eyes as I watched the cracks going by between the paving stones--little weeds sticking up out of narrow bits of dirt, with one or two tiny white flowers eking a shallow living as best they could. My father was muttering under his breath as, at intervals, he kept hitching me up, holding me tighter as he strode up the hill. I recall him saying something about grown men in the army jumping to attention when he issued an order, so he wasn't about to be disobeyed by an impudent five-year-old . . . and who did I think I was?
About this time, I realized that there were going to be consequences to a) saying no to my mother, and b) following that up by ignoring her. I could feel my face growing hot and red. I'm not sure if it was caused by gravity as my head was definitely lower than my feet or the sense of dread creeping through my entire body. It was hard to blow the hair off my face and gulp at the same time, but I managed. My arms were immobile and pinned to my sides, but I felt my dad's arm begin to tremble from my weight. Did I hear him say he was tempted to drop me on my head? No, not my dad--my partner in all sorts of fun activities. But he was really, really mad, and continued to mumble through clenched teeth about feeling like a sideshow at a circus, as he noted the various neighbors peering at us through their windows.
I liked living in a small village where everything and everybody was familiar, but there was definitely a downside: there was little that was kept away from prying eyes, and even the most mundane of events was often blown out of proportion after being repeated several times on the bush telegraph. My father despised rumors, and I've often wondered what story came back to him about that little misadventure. Child abuse? Poor parenting? I don't remember what happened when I finally had to face my mother's wrath, but it can't have been too bad. I lived to disobey on other days, and probably sent tongues a-wagging again.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Reflection I
Now that I am a few days away from my 70th birthday, I realize that although I am aging on the outside (but don't look a day over 65), inside I still feel young, albeit tempered by experience.
The last three years have been tough. First, my mother passed away at the age of 92. She was ready to depart, and was deep in the throes of a dementia that robbed her of any meaning of life for the last year of it. Nevertheless, I miss her or what used to be her. Like any other mother/daughter relationship, ours was fraught on occasion, but mostly we treated each other well, and we were close. The main thing is that we loved each other and we both knew it.
Two years ago, my 35-year-old son died. I am learning to live without his physical being on this planet, but I will never get over his death. Mourning him is a whole new way of being. My essence is still the same: I extract as much as I can out of life, my curiosity is intact, and I am able to look forward to events, but I am sometimes overwhelmed by a tsunami of agony, the depth of which I have never plumbed before. In my past, I have known sadness and pain--of course, because my life has been well-lived--but never on a scale like this. Again, it comforts me that the last time we spoke on the phone he said, "I love you, Mom," and I replied, "I love you, too, honey."
One year ago, my husband was diagnosed with throat cancer, and he has endured a year of terrible side effects as a result of radiation, chemotherapy, and surgery. He suffered with little complaint, and I marvelled at his ability to simply "be." Right now, his energy level is good, he's back to woodworking, a hobby he loves, and he wastes no time wondering if he's okay--but he is still very thin and cannot eat many foods he used to enjoy.
BUT, we are still here and doing our best with what is left of our lives. My husband has always been a generous soul, and he watches out for those in need. I am very busy following pursuits I enjoy: reading, writing, poetry, music, the UU church, and encouraging others to educate themselves, too. We feel blessed to have a wonderful, loving immediate (and extended) family, and truly dear friends-of-many-years-standing, both in this country and around the world, brought closer by the internet and Skype. We are also developing deepening friendships in a beautiful area of the northwest that is still fairly new to us.
We are not in charge of our destiny, although I used to think we were. I made plans and figured my life would follow along. However, that bolt from the blue can set out a totally different path to walk. As a result, I am learning to keep an open mind and heart, to "unrigid" myself, and to count my blessings every day, including something as simple as a good cup of tea. When the day is a dark one, I remind myself that it, too, will pass, and I totter through it. C'est la vie.
The last three years have been tough. First, my mother passed away at the age of 92. She was ready to depart, and was deep in the throes of a dementia that robbed her of any meaning of life for the last year of it. Nevertheless, I miss her or what used to be her. Like any other mother/daughter relationship, ours was fraught on occasion, but mostly we treated each other well, and we were close. The main thing is that we loved each other and we both knew it.
Two years ago, my 35-year-old son died. I am learning to live without his physical being on this planet, but I will never get over his death. Mourning him is a whole new way of being. My essence is still the same: I extract as much as I can out of life, my curiosity is intact, and I am able to look forward to events, but I am sometimes overwhelmed by a tsunami of agony, the depth of which I have never plumbed before. In my past, I have known sadness and pain--of course, because my life has been well-lived--but never on a scale like this. Again, it comforts me that the last time we spoke on the phone he said, "I love you, Mom," and I replied, "I love you, too, honey."
One year ago, my husband was diagnosed with throat cancer, and he has endured a year of terrible side effects as a result of radiation, chemotherapy, and surgery. He suffered with little complaint, and I marvelled at his ability to simply "be." Right now, his energy level is good, he's back to woodworking, a hobby he loves, and he wastes no time wondering if he's okay--but he is still very thin and cannot eat many foods he used to enjoy.
BUT, we are still here and doing our best with what is left of our lives. My husband has always been a generous soul, and he watches out for those in need. I am very busy following pursuits I enjoy: reading, writing, poetry, music, the UU church, and encouraging others to educate themselves, too. We feel blessed to have a wonderful, loving immediate (and extended) family, and truly dear friends-of-many-years-standing, both in this country and around the world, brought closer by the internet and Skype. We are also developing deepening friendships in a beautiful area of the northwest that is still fairly new to us.
We are not in charge of our destiny, although I used to think we were. I made plans and figured my life would follow along. However, that bolt from the blue can set out a totally different path to walk. As a result, I am learning to keep an open mind and heart, to "unrigid" myself, and to count my blessings every day, including something as simple as a good cup of tea. When the day is a dark one, I remind myself that it, too, will pass, and I totter through it. C'est la vie.
Monday, December 19, 2011
The I's Have It
Each day of the campground season, I yearned for a really good conversation with the campers, but except for the rare occasion, it was not to be. I don't know what happens to people when they engage in a dialogue with someone trapped behind a counter, because surely the majority of people are not the bores they seemed to be when talking to me. My diplomatic skills and patience were tried to the maximum, particularly when my little inner voice repeated: shut up, shut up, shut up or berated me for being an enabler of boorishness.
For example, I was subjected to monologues and the use of the word "I" until I was ready to scream. Once, a man who was born in Germany came to the office and spent over an hour telling me about his life. "I came to this country in 1954," he began, and my dread rightfully grew from there. I didn't say a word the entire time--it was neither necessary nor looked for. That's about 90 minutes of my life that I won't get back. Ja Ja.
Another camper stood at the counter and began to tell me of a four-week visit to Scotland. I made the mistake of telling him I'd never been to Scotland, so he returned a little while later with photographs of his trip. Do you have any idea how many pictures a person can take in 28 days? Most of them were of his friends without the top part of their heads, who were standing in front of buildings that looked as if they belonged in Anytown, U.S.A.
A number of campers saw themselves as raconteurs of the highest order. Their stories concerned their mundane, daily routines, such as installing kitchen cabinets that kept falling down. Every pause in the story was accompanied by a giggle, so of course I felt obliged to keep the smile on my face. Each snippet ended with hearty laughter which I felt I must match. Exhausting.
Was it ever all right to listen to "I" stories? Yes, when children were talking to me. I was approached by five-year-old Jenny who lived near the Everglades in Florida. She was carrying a cute little white puff-ball of a puppy in her arms. She first mentioned her new dress with pride, "I have a new dress. I like green. I like wearing dresses." Then she held out the little white puff-ball: "I have a new puppy. I love him. I take him for a walk every day. My daddy says his name is Gatorbait."
It is very difficult to pretend to be interested in stories that have no beginning, middle and interminable ends. The lesson I took away from these years, apart from never going into business again, is that although good manners are important when one is forced to deal with the insensitive, unaware, and unenlightened, it is much easier to make myself scarce. After we sold the campground, I determined that I would never again put myself in a situation where I was forced to listen to drivel. When I see the light of "the opportunity to hold forth" appear in a person's eyes, I politely remove myself from the vicinity.
I would like to say that all has gone well in this regard since I came to Bellingham, but I was caught once more a couple of days ago. Trapped in the chair at my hairdressers, with wet hair and no means of escape, I was forced to listen to the nonstop chatter of a client who had followed me into the salon. Instead of quietly sitting and reading one of a plethora of magazines available, she invaded my space and the airwaves with her stream-of-consciousness drivel. My blood ran cold, and I know my affect was icy, but narcissism, I discovered, is oblivious to social clues.
I don't know what I'll do should this ever happen again. But the older I get, the looser my tongue, and the thinner my patience. I hope I don't ever have to find out.
For example, I was subjected to monologues and the use of the word "I" until I was ready to scream. Once, a man who was born in Germany came to the office and spent over an hour telling me about his life. "I came to this country in 1954," he began, and my dread rightfully grew from there. I didn't say a word the entire time--it was neither necessary nor looked for. That's about 90 minutes of my life that I won't get back. Ja Ja.
Another camper stood at the counter and began to tell me of a four-week visit to Scotland. I made the mistake of telling him I'd never been to Scotland, so he returned a little while later with photographs of his trip. Do you have any idea how many pictures a person can take in 28 days? Most of them were of his friends without the top part of their heads, who were standing in front of buildings that looked as if they belonged in Anytown, U.S.A.
A number of campers saw themselves as raconteurs of the highest order. Their stories concerned their mundane, daily routines, such as installing kitchen cabinets that kept falling down. Every pause in the story was accompanied by a giggle, so of course I felt obliged to keep the smile on my face. Each snippet ended with hearty laughter which I felt I must match. Exhausting.
Was it ever all right to listen to "I" stories? Yes, when children were talking to me. I was approached by five-year-old Jenny who lived near the Everglades in Florida. She was carrying a cute little white puff-ball of a puppy in her arms. She first mentioned her new dress with pride, "I have a new dress. I like green. I like wearing dresses." Then she held out the little white puff-ball: "I have a new puppy. I love him. I take him for a walk every day. My daddy says his name is Gatorbait."
It is very difficult to pretend to be interested in stories that have no beginning, middle and interminable ends. The lesson I took away from these years, apart from never going into business again, is that although good manners are important when one is forced to deal with the insensitive, unaware, and unenlightened, it is much easier to make myself scarce. After we sold the campground, I determined that I would never again put myself in a situation where I was forced to listen to drivel. When I see the light of "the opportunity to hold forth" appear in a person's eyes, I politely remove myself from the vicinity.
I would like to say that all has gone well in this regard since I came to Bellingham, but I was caught once more a couple of days ago. Trapped in the chair at my hairdressers, with wet hair and no means of escape, I was forced to listen to the nonstop chatter of a client who had followed me into the salon. Instead of quietly sitting and reading one of a plethora of magazines available, she invaded my space and the airwaves with her stream-of-consciousness drivel. My blood ran cold, and I know my affect was icy, but narcissism, I discovered, is oblivious to social clues.
I don't know what I'll do should this ever happen again. But the older I get, the looser my tongue, and the thinner my patience. I hope I don't ever have to find out.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Off-Duty
The weather was lovely--in the 60s--a warm day for February. I took a drive to the local store, and when I returned to the campground, I noticed activity up by the check-in office, so went to investigate. A 1968 Ford truck, looking every minute of its age, towing a 1992 30-foot travel trailer that had also seen much better days, was stuck in the muddy driveway. Despite the fact that we have a huge sign at the entrance that says, "Closed Until April," "Ma" and "Pa" thought we would let them stay anyway. Pa was in his 70s, no teeth (what is it about midwestern men who don't wear their false teeth?), hair uncombed, face unshaven, pants baggy, and Ma was 68 (she told me), a chain-smoker with a gravelly voice, mightily pissed off because "he", a jerk of her head when she said that, got stuck in the mud, although it turned out that coming to the campground was her idea. As I saw it, he had no business driving--period. The poor feller looked like he was on his last legs.
The ground there is always sopping wet and very soft during wintertime after the snow and ice melts, which is one of the reasons why we don't stay open all year long. It is also why we have a sign printed in very large letters that says CLOSED. As they drove in, my husband went out to explain why we couldn't accommodate them, then carefully directed them to follow the driveway all the way around the office building in order to get back out. He ordered them to keep moving at all costs, and not, under any circumstances, to stop. He was quite pleased with the succinct instructions he'd given. But . . . Pa made an executive decision that he couldn't make the turn (although 40 ft. RVs regularly did so with no difficulty), stopped to back up, and as a result the rig became well and truly stuck. The truck wheels were half buried in the mud as was the trailer hitch.
Hubbie went off to get the tractor to pull them out, and I hung around 'cos this was way too good to miss.
Ma collected stickers which were all over the back of the Ford: "Don't wear a bra--and pull the wrinkles off your face." "Wanna get laid? Then crawl up a chicken's ass and wait." "If you get any closer, I'll flick a booger on your windshield. "-- and my favorite, "Next time, waggle ALL your fingers at me." She smoked one cigarette after another, complaining about her husband the whole time. "We live in Missouri. I pronounce it misery. He's the laziest person I know. I TOLD him he had the hitch on too tight, but he couldn't be bothered to take the time to move it down a notch. Watch him now. He's gonna put on the 'I'm so tired' act, so your husband will do all the work." Well, you get the picture.
By now, I'm totally amused and trying not to laugh, especially when Pa got out of the truck (staggered is a better word to describe how he did it) and moved at a snail's pace. Then Ma wanted me to see her cats. "They're better'n mos' people." So we opened up the trailer and three of the fattest animals I've ever seen showed up at the door. Two of them were at least 30 lbs. if they were an ounce.
By now, hubbie is back with the tractor and a couple of shovels. Ma and I started digging out the wheels. The mud was the color of excrement and very heavy. Pa leaned against the Ford and watched us, then slow-poked his way over to the trailer hitch and watched some more as hubbie put some wood under it and tried to crank it up. Then all four of us stared as the wood disappeared into the ooze. Finally, after two more pieces of wood and a brick, the crank took hold and hubbie was able to remove the trailer hitch from the back of the truck.
In slow motion, Pa limped back to the driver's side, teetered a couple of times before he fell into the cab, and started up the engine. Hubbie, Ma and I got behind to push. We thought we'd done it first go, until Pa throttled up the engine so high that it backfired, the wheels spun too quickly, then settled much deeper into the muck. Naturally, the three of us were hit by a filthy shower and looked like creatures from the Black Lagoon or, more accurately, the Brown Latrine. Wiping mud from his face, an unsmiling hubbie got out his heavy chains and, knees in the mud, face almost touching it, attached them to the front of the truck and then to the back of the tractor. He squelched his way to the driver's seat, climbed up (slipping and sliding all the way) revved the tractor engine and, with a sucking sound, the Ford slurped free.
Repeat for trailer.
Ma and I took hold of the shovels again and tried to put the mud back into the gaping holes in the driveway while Pa doddered about and did nothing in particular. At the same time, hubbie hooked the trailer back onto the truck and, with a gracious gesture, ushered them to their vehicle. Pa was very red in the face, and I thought he was going to have a heart attack; however, Ma wasn't the least bit worried about the old coot, her parting words to me.
This covers a day in the life of an off-duty campground owner; however, I'd rather be in the campground than sharing the road with a '68 Ford truck towing a '92 travel trailer.
The ground there is always sopping wet and very soft during wintertime after the snow and ice melts, which is one of the reasons why we don't stay open all year long. It is also why we have a sign printed in very large letters that says CLOSED. As they drove in, my husband went out to explain why we couldn't accommodate them, then carefully directed them to follow the driveway all the way around the office building in order to get back out. He ordered them to keep moving at all costs, and not, under any circumstances, to stop. He was quite pleased with the succinct instructions he'd given. But . . . Pa made an executive decision that he couldn't make the turn (although 40 ft. RVs regularly did so with no difficulty), stopped to back up, and as a result the rig became well and truly stuck. The truck wheels were half buried in the mud as was the trailer hitch.
Hubbie went off to get the tractor to pull them out, and I hung around 'cos this was way too good to miss.
Ma collected stickers which were all over the back of the Ford: "Don't wear a bra--and pull the wrinkles off your face." "Wanna get laid? Then crawl up a chicken's ass and wait." "If you get any closer, I'll flick a booger on your windshield. "-- and my favorite, "Next time, waggle ALL your fingers at me." She smoked one cigarette after another, complaining about her husband the whole time. "We live in Missouri. I pronounce it misery. He's the laziest person I know. I TOLD him he had the hitch on too tight, but he couldn't be bothered to take the time to move it down a notch. Watch him now. He's gonna put on the 'I'm so tired' act, so your husband will do all the work." Well, you get the picture.
By now, I'm totally amused and trying not to laugh, especially when Pa got out of the truck (staggered is a better word to describe how he did it) and moved at a snail's pace. Then Ma wanted me to see her cats. "They're better'n mos' people." So we opened up the trailer and three of the fattest animals I've ever seen showed up at the door. Two of them were at least 30 lbs. if they were an ounce.
By now, hubbie is back with the tractor and a couple of shovels. Ma and I started digging out the wheels. The mud was the color of excrement and very heavy. Pa leaned against the Ford and watched us, then slow-poked his way over to the trailer hitch and watched some more as hubbie put some wood under it and tried to crank it up. Then all four of us stared as the wood disappeared into the ooze. Finally, after two more pieces of wood and a brick, the crank took hold and hubbie was able to remove the trailer hitch from the back of the truck.
In slow motion, Pa limped back to the driver's side, teetered a couple of times before he fell into the cab, and started up the engine. Hubbie, Ma and I got behind to push. We thought we'd done it first go, until Pa throttled up the engine so high that it backfired, the wheels spun too quickly, then settled much deeper into the muck. Naturally, the three of us were hit by a filthy shower and looked like creatures from the Black Lagoon or, more accurately, the Brown Latrine. Wiping mud from his face, an unsmiling hubbie got out his heavy chains and, knees in the mud, face almost touching it, attached them to the front of the truck and then to the back of the tractor. He squelched his way to the driver's seat, climbed up (slipping and sliding all the way) revved the tractor engine and, with a sucking sound, the Ford slurped free.
Repeat for trailer.
Ma and I took hold of the shovels again and tried to put the mud back into the gaping holes in the driveway while Pa doddered about and did nothing in particular. At the same time, hubbie hooked the trailer back onto the truck and, with a gracious gesture, ushered them to their vehicle. Pa was very red in the face, and I thought he was going to have a heart attack; however, Ma wasn't the least bit worried about the old coot, her parting words to me.
This covers a day in the life of an off-duty campground owner; however, I'd rather be in the campground than sharing the road with a '68 Ford truck towing a '92 travel trailer.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Mr. Smith's Camping Spot
When I saw his travel trailer, I was appalled. I shook my head and wondered how on earth the previous owner of this beautiful campground could have allowed such an eyesore to remain there. It was parked at the edge of the woods, surrounded by bits of old lumber from failed attempts to build a serviceable deck, a broken barbecue, discarded cans, and other offal from outdoor cookouts. Vines and weeds encroached from all directions, and the picnic table, provided at every campside as part of the seasonal contract, was off to one side, covered in green moss and soggy leaves. It was a small camper, as campers go, about 18 feet long, weighed down with peeling paint and streaking mud. The windows were grimy and spider-webby, and the whole shebang was trimmed around the bottom with a buckled wooden "skirt" which hid the flat tires on rusty rims. The leaking roof was protected by a well-worn blue tarp tied down with string. The overall effect was Grunge with a capital G.
I knew it was Mr. Smith even from a distance. His body was "S" shaped, with drooping back and bent knees; a tall, very skinny man wearing baggy, dusty pants and a torn Tee. As I drew closer, he looked over at me and smiled, revealing missing teeth both top and bottom, the remainder in varying shades of greenish-yellow with an occasional black stripe. His face was grey, and the bags under his pale eyes were a puffy, dark blue. His voice was flat, but he held out his calloused hand courteously as he introduced himself.
"Ah can't afford this no more," he said softly, "So Ah'm movin' out."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I lied. "When are you planning on towing your trailer away?" I added hastily, just in case he thought he could change his mind.
"Well, if''n ya don' mind, Ah'll leave it here for a coupla weeks in case someone answers mah ad and wants to buy it. Ah'm sellin' for a good price."
"You'll never give it away," I thought ungraciously.
For the next week, Mr. Smith called every night. "Has anybody bin to see mah trailer?" he asked in his monotone.
"I'm sorry, but no," was my inevitable answer.
"Mebbe tomorrow," he intoned hopefully.
"Yeah, right," I snorted inwardly, but I replied, "Let's hope so, shall we?"
"Yes, Ma'am," he said before hanging up.
Every morning as I walked the dog past that eyesore, I cheered myself with the thought that in a few days it would be gone. Such a beautiful spot, absolutely desecrated by that awful looking trailer and the messy people who had parked it there.
There were no buyers. A couple of people came by to look at it, but they didn't stay very long. After a heavy rainstorm, the roof sagged even more, and the mud-encrusted skirt looked even more forlorn.
On the appointed day, Mr. Smith arrived to take his trailer away. A dreadful looking man with a dreadful looking trailer. "Good riddance," I thought.
I found it difficult to hold a conversation with Mr. Smith because, try as I might, his rotting teeth somehow held an unpleasant fascination for my eyes. In addition, I had to stand at a distance so I couldn't smell his sour breath. My discomfort and impatience rose at his every word, spoken so slowly and deliberately.
"Fine day," he began.
"Yes, yes, it is," I agreed.
"Mah fren'll be here soon. He's gonna he'p me tidy up the site some."
After more desultory small talk, Mr. Smith's friend arrived, a small, chubby, sunny-faced creature with a sweet smile. "Mutt and Jeff," I thought balefully when I politely greeted him.
Mr. Smith turned awkwardly to look at his trailer, so I prepared to leave them to get on with their work. It was then that I heard him say quietly to his friend, "If'n you ever git the chance to spend time in these here woods, grab it. The last time Ah spent the night here, Ah heard that ol' hoot owl that lives in that tree over there, callin' and callin'. There wuz a breeze blowin' 'n' the leaves wuz talkin' back to that bird, Ah swear. Ah looked up at Heaven," he continued, more to himself than his listener, "An' I ain't never seen so many stars shinin' all at the same time. It wuz a wonder. Ah allus did feel so calm and peaceful in this place, an' that were the fust night Ah slept well since she died." He paused, "We sure had some ol' times in this ol' trailer."
When I returned two hours later, the men and the trailer were gone. The old barbecue, cans and lumber were also gone, and the picnic table, provided as part of the seasonal contract, had been wiped clean of its burden of leaves.
I knew it was Mr. Smith even from a distance. His body was "S" shaped, with drooping back and bent knees; a tall, very skinny man wearing baggy, dusty pants and a torn Tee. As I drew closer, he looked over at me and smiled, revealing missing teeth both top and bottom, the remainder in varying shades of greenish-yellow with an occasional black stripe. His face was grey, and the bags under his pale eyes were a puffy, dark blue. His voice was flat, but he held out his calloused hand courteously as he introduced himself.
"Ah can't afford this no more," he said softly, "So Ah'm movin' out."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I lied. "When are you planning on towing your trailer away?" I added hastily, just in case he thought he could change his mind.
"Well, if''n ya don' mind, Ah'll leave it here for a coupla weeks in case someone answers mah ad and wants to buy it. Ah'm sellin' for a good price."
"You'll never give it away," I thought ungraciously.
For the next week, Mr. Smith called every night. "Has anybody bin to see mah trailer?" he asked in his monotone.
"I'm sorry, but no," was my inevitable answer.
"Mebbe tomorrow," he intoned hopefully.
"Yeah, right," I snorted inwardly, but I replied, "Let's hope so, shall we?"
"Yes, Ma'am," he said before hanging up.
Every morning as I walked the dog past that eyesore, I cheered myself with the thought that in a few days it would be gone. Such a beautiful spot, absolutely desecrated by that awful looking trailer and the messy people who had parked it there.
There were no buyers. A couple of people came by to look at it, but they didn't stay very long. After a heavy rainstorm, the roof sagged even more, and the mud-encrusted skirt looked even more forlorn.
On the appointed day, Mr. Smith arrived to take his trailer away. A dreadful looking man with a dreadful looking trailer. "Good riddance," I thought.
I found it difficult to hold a conversation with Mr. Smith because, try as I might, his rotting teeth somehow held an unpleasant fascination for my eyes. In addition, I had to stand at a distance so I couldn't smell his sour breath. My discomfort and impatience rose at his every word, spoken so slowly and deliberately.
"Fine day," he began.
"Yes, yes, it is," I agreed.
"Mah fren'll be here soon. He's gonna he'p me tidy up the site some."
After more desultory small talk, Mr. Smith's friend arrived, a small, chubby, sunny-faced creature with a sweet smile. "Mutt and Jeff," I thought balefully when I politely greeted him.
Mr. Smith turned awkwardly to look at his trailer, so I prepared to leave them to get on with their work. It was then that I heard him say quietly to his friend, "If'n you ever git the chance to spend time in these here woods, grab it. The last time Ah spent the night here, Ah heard that ol' hoot owl that lives in that tree over there, callin' and callin'. There wuz a breeze blowin' 'n' the leaves wuz talkin' back to that bird, Ah swear. Ah looked up at Heaven," he continued, more to himself than his listener, "An' I ain't never seen so many stars shinin' all at the same time. It wuz a wonder. Ah allus did feel so calm and peaceful in this place, an' that were the fust night Ah slept well since she died." He paused, "We sure had some ol' times in this ol' trailer."
When I returned two hours later, the men and the trailer were gone. The old barbecue, cans and lumber were also gone, and the picnic table, provided as part of the seasonal contract, had been wiped clean of its burden of leaves.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Semper Fi
I'm looking for a cabin for four days; what do you have? he asked. Overlooking the lake at $35 a night, I replied. I'm a disabled vet, he said. Ex-marine. But I've got to ask her if it's okay.
A little later, he called back. I can camp anywhere, anytime, any season, he averred, but she wants a cabin, so that's what we'll get. Fine, I replied. Yes, ma'am, 16 years in the marines, and I can sleep anywhere. But what about my dog? He's a service animal. Well trained. Dogs are welcome, I replied.
When's check-in?
3 p.m.
We'll be there around four.
At 7:30 p.m. I called to see if they were on their way. He answered the cell. We got a late start. I really apologize. I should've called. See you soon.
They showed up in an old car at 9:30 p.m. He was big, about 6'4", with a deep chest, wide muscled shoulders, and a left arm with biceps that wouldn't quit. His artificial right arm ended with a hook, and his right leg, also artificial, was at odds with his left tree-trunk of a limb. My dog goes everywhere with me, he said, as he signed the register. I should've called to tell you we were running late. I apologize. I'm sorry. It's truly okay, I said.
I took them down to the cabin, said hello to his wife who was driving. Is there anything else I can do for you? I asked, after I pointed out the bathrooms. Thank you. We can manage now, said his wife with a charming smile.
Next morning was very, very hot. He came to the office, sweat running down his broad face. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, and the visible straps of his artificial arm crossed over his chest and back. He mopped his brow with a large, white handkerchief, then asked if there was anywhere he could use a soft BB gun. It's for my 15 year-old stepson, he said, and he's never used a gun before, so I'm gonna teach him. But when I read the rules and regulations of the campground, I saw that you prohibit firearms so thought I'd better check. He took a breath. He'll be under my supervision the whole time, and I've been using firearms my whole life. I'll have to check with my husband as a BB gun is still a weapon, I said.
He doesn't really want to shoot, he continued. But I bought him a membership in the NRA, and he needs to know how to use a gun properly. I'm a life member. This is the first time he's been camping, although in a cabin it's not the real thing. My stepson also wasn't too happy when I told him he had to fix breakfast--on the campfire. Said it was too much trouble. He laughed without humor. He'll be glad of this information if he's ever stuck in the wild, though. Men should know these things.
He asked if we sold beer. Sorry, I said. We're dry around here. Could do with one, he mused, although it'll be gone in a couple of gulps in this weather. I gave him directions to the nearest liquor store. I want some firewood, some ice, and when I send her to the liquor store, she'll come by to pick up the ice. Okay? Fine, I said. He wandered around the store, and picked up some fish hooks, ripping the card as he did so. Sorry, he said. I can't manage the small things very well anymore. Don't worry, I replied, as I fixed up the torn cardboard. I don't, he said. If I can't manage, God will provide.
It was very hot as I went by the cabin, but the campfire was burning brightly. There was no sign of his wife and stepson. He was bending over a bag, taking out aluminum cans and putting them in one of the blue recycling bins. He wasn't wearing his artificial arm, so he was having some difficulty. Leave the cans in the bag by the cabin, I said. We'll pick them up when we get the trash. No, he replied. The cans are mixed up with other stuff, and sorting everything out for disposal is part of the fun. Okay, I said. He was red in the face when I passed him again, and his body was bent at an awkward angle, but he was persevering, and every can was being recycled.
The heat shimmered up from the surface of the lake when I saw him and the boy fishing later that day. But the next day was even hotter if possible, giving the air a bluish tinge through which I saw the boy standing with the dog for a moment among the trees. That afternoon, the heat, mingled with the gray smoke from his campfire, caused the air waves to bend his image as he waved to me from the cabin deck. During those four days, I never again talked to his wife, and I never spoke to his stepson at all.
When I went to clean the cabin, I found it spotless. Except for one or two stray dog hairs, it was as if they'd never been there.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (Horace).
A little later, he called back. I can camp anywhere, anytime, any season, he averred, but she wants a cabin, so that's what we'll get. Fine, I replied. Yes, ma'am, 16 years in the marines, and I can sleep anywhere. But what about my dog? He's a service animal. Well trained. Dogs are welcome, I replied.
When's check-in?
3 p.m.
We'll be there around four.
At 7:30 p.m. I called to see if they were on their way. He answered the cell. We got a late start. I really apologize. I should've called. See you soon.
They showed up in an old car at 9:30 p.m. He was big, about 6'4", with a deep chest, wide muscled shoulders, and a left arm with biceps that wouldn't quit. His artificial right arm ended with a hook, and his right leg, also artificial, was at odds with his left tree-trunk of a limb. My dog goes everywhere with me, he said, as he signed the register. I should've called to tell you we were running late. I apologize. I'm sorry. It's truly okay, I said.
I took them down to the cabin, said hello to his wife who was driving. Is there anything else I can do for you? I asked, after I pointed out the bathrooms. Thank you. We can manage now, said his wife with a charming smile.
Next morning was very, very hot. He came to the office, sweat running down his broad face. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, and the visible straps of his artificial arm crossed over his chest and back. He mopped his brow with a large, white handkerchief, then asked if there was anywhere he could use a soft BB gun. It's for my 15 year-old stepson, he said, and he's never used a gun before, so I'm gonna teach him. But when I read the rules and regulations of the campground, I saw that you prohibit firearms so thought I'd better check. He took a breath. He'll be under my supervision the whole time, and I've been using firearms my whole life. I'll have to check with my husband as a BB gun is still a weapon, I said.
He doesn't really want to shoot, he continued. But I bought him a membership in the NRA, and he needs to know how to use a gun properly. I'm a life member. This is the first time he's been camping, although in a cabin it's not the real thing. My stepson also wasn't too happy when I told him he had to fix breakfast--on the campfire. Said it was too much trouble. He laughed without humor. He'll be glad of this information if he's ever stuck in the wild, though. Men should know these things.
He asked if we sold beer. Sorry, I said. We're dry around here. Could do with one, he mused, although it'll be gone in a couple of gulps in this weather. I gave him directions to the nearest liquor store. I want some firewood, some ice, and when I send her to the liquor store, she'll come by to pick up the ice. Okay? Fine, I said. He wandered around the store, and picked up some fish hooks, ripping the card as he did so. Sorry, he said. I can't manage the small things very well anymore. Don't worry, I replied, as I fixed up the torn cardboard. I don't, he said. If I can't manage, God will provide.
It was very hot as I went by the cabin, but the campfire was burning brightly. There was no sign of his wife and stepson. He was bending over a bag, taking out aluminum cans and putting them in one of the blue recycling bins. He wasn't wearing his artificial arm, so he was having some difficulty. Leave the cans in the bag by the cabin, I said. We'll pick them up when we get the trash. No, he replied. The cans are mixed up with other stuff, and sorting everything out for disposal is part of the fun. Okay, I said. He was red in the face when I passed him again, and his body was bent at an awkward angle, but he was persevering, and every can was being recycled.
The heat shimmered up from the surface of the lake when I saw him and the boy fishing later that day. But the next day was even hotter if possible, giving the air a bluish tinge through which I saw the boy standing with the dog for a moment among the trees. That afternoon, the heat, mingled with the gray smoke from his campfire, caused the air waves to bend his image as he waved to me from the cabin deck. During those four days, I never again talked to his wife, and I never spoke to his stepson at all.
When I went to clean the cabin, I found it spotless. Except for one or two stray dog hairs, it was as if they'd never been there.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (Horace).
The Campground Years
A few years ago, and for several years, we owned a campground in the midwest. For seven months of the year we worked 24 hours a day, seven days a week. We took about a month to close up for the winter, and then took another month or so to open up for the season. This left us three months--December, January and February, to do as we wished. Sometimes we traveled, and sometimes we stayed put. Our campers ran the gamut of society, from the well-to-do who owned million-dollar recreational vehicles to those who needed to account for every dollar, and who spent their annual vacations in a tent.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Further Adventures of Dusty
Dusty was tired when he got home that night. He had been riding the school bus for more than an hour, and he had a crick in his neck--and a headache. He had homework to do, and he felt a surge of resentment towards his teacher. Mrs. Cartwright had persuaded him to enter into a contract by agreeing to help him improve his reading, urging him to "read as much as you can," and in return she had extracted his promise to do his homework every day. She warned him that it wouldn't be easy, nothing worthwhile ever is, but she expressed her total confidence in his abilities. For reasons he didn't fully understand, he was unwilling to let her down--nor did he want to feel the sharp edge of her tongue, "but I'll do it a bit later," he promised himself.
He plopped down on the lumpy couch and turned on the TV. An old black-and-white movie was playing. As he was looking for the remote to flip the channel, he was arrested by the most beautiful, soothing, melodious voice he had ever heard. The film was "King Solomon's Mines" made in the 1930s. The voice belonged to Paul Robeson. Dusty sank back on the couch and watched the tall and handsome man as he moved about the screen. His diction was flawless, his physique was wide and muscular, and his unmistakable pride in who he was--his African-American maleness--communicated itself through the screen to the wide-eyed boy. Dusty's hand closed over the quartz rock he always carried in his pocket, and it began to vibrate. It was given to him by his grandmother with whom he lived, and he had already experienced its magical properties. The air grew hazy, and Dusty was lifted up, out of the present time, out of his corporeal body, over land, through a rushing wind, until he was gently set down on the back of a flat-bed truck with his back against the cab.
Dusty was invisible, but most of his senses were intact. The truck was rattling along a country lane. The air was a bit chilly, the sky overcast, but Dusty figured out it was the middle of the afternoon. The driver was black, and he was dressed in an open-necked shirt with a heavy jacket over it. A car containing four men followed the flat-bed. In the front passenger seat sat Paul Robeson. He looked tired and a great deal older than he had in the movie, but his strength of purpose and determination was evident in his bearing, and when he smiled at the driver next to him, his whole face lit up as if the sun were shining brightly. Dusty watched the shifting expressions on Robeson's face, then moved to a more comfortable position. As he did so, he realized he was sitting on a Canadian newspaper. A caption stated:
"Robeson's passport confiscated. U.S. State Department forbids him to leave country to perform in British Commonwealth. All concerts cancelled." The date was June 15, 1950.
A paragraph under the caption caught Dusty's eye:
Robeson, demanding equality and dignity for negroes in the United States, was called a traitor by a U.S. State Department spokesman following remarks the entertainer made as keynote speaker at the meeting of the African National Congress in Paris last year. Robeson stated, among other things, that he would much rather fight the southern whites in America who are denying equal rights to colored people than the Russians who have not done anything to them at all.
Underneath that was a brief paragraph listing Robeson's accomplishments: All-American, Rutgers University; graduate, Columbia Law School; linguist; educator; Shakespearean actor; musician.
Before Dusty could read any more, the truck rattled to a halt. A waiting moving van backed up to the bed of the truck, and two men transferred a piano onto it. Dusty jumped out of the way, and walked around a bit to stretch his legs in the unseasonably cold, June gloom. As he looked back, he saw Robeson was surrounded by several men. They were laughing and talking, and Dusty sensed that something momentous was about to happen. He walked to the front of the truck and peered around its motor. They were at the United States/Canadian border in Peace Arch Park, in the state of Washington.
On the Canadian side, a crowd was beginning to gather. As Dusty watched in surprise, more and more people came streaming along the road and through the grassy hillocks, all on foot, some carrying picnic hampers and blankets, some with children, and all dressed warmly, totally prepared against the cold air. As the crowd swelled in size, the flat-bed, on the U.S. side, carefully backed up against the border sign and shortly thereafter, Paul Robeson and his long-time accompanist, Laurence Brown, climbed on board to thunderous applause. As Brown sat down at the keyboard, the applause ceased, and there was an expectant hush over the huge, peaceful crowd.
Robeson leaned against the piano, surveyed the audience, and began to sing. For one glorious hour he entertained the spellbound Canadians sitting just a few feet away. Afterwards he said simply: "As I cannot come to you, I thank you for meeting me here. I am grateful for your show of support in this difficult time, I am honored to be able to represent American negroes everywhere, and I assure you that I shall never give up the fight for our equality." The silence was profound for several moments, and then it was broken by a standing ovation. Along with that vast audience, Dusty felt the emotion welling in his heart. His eyes were wet, there was a lump in his throat, but, oh, how proud he was to be in the company of such a brother.
As the crowd called for encores, the stone began its familiar vibration, and the boy was whisked back through time and across the continent, and deposited back on the lumpy, living room couch. Dusty sat for a while, hugging his experience to himself, and savoring the memory. Then, in his head, he heard the words, "read as much as you can," so with a short sigh and a slight shake of his head, he took out his homework and settled down to study. Across town, correcting papers at her desk, Mrs. Cartwright suddenly felt light-hearted and began to smile. She didn't know why.
He plopped down on the lumpy couch and turned on the TV. An old black-and-white movie was playing. As he was looking for the remote to flip the channel, he was arrested by the most beautiful, soothing, melodious voice he had ever heard. The film was "King Solomon's Mines" made in the 1930s. The voice belonged to Paul Robeson. Dusty sank back on the couch and watched the tall and handsome man as he moved about the screen. His diction was flawless, his physique was wide and muscular, and his unmistakable pride in who he was--his African-American maleness--communicated itself through the screen to the wide-eyed boy. Dusty's hand closed over the quartz rock he always carried in his pocket, and it began to vibrate. It was given to him by his grandmother with whom he lived, and he had already experienced its magical properties. The air grew hazy, and Dusty was lifted up, out of the present time, out of his corporeal body, over land, through a rushing wind, until he was gently set down on the back of a flat-bed truck with his back against the cab.
Dusty was invisible, but most of his senses were intact. The truck was rattling along a country lane. The air was a bit chilly, the sky overcast, but Dusty figured out it was the middle of the afternoon. The driver was black, and he was dressed in an open-necked shirt with a heavy jacket over it. A car containing four men followed the flat-bed. In the front passenger seat sat Paul Robeson. He looked tired and a great deal older than he had in the movie, but his strength of purpose and determination was evident in his bearing, and when he smiled at the driver next to him, his whole face lit up as if the sun were shining brightly. Dusty watched the shifting expressions on Robeson's face, then moved to a more comfortable position. As he did so, he realized he was sitting on a Canadian newspaper. A caption stated:
"Robeson's passport confiscated. U.S. State Department forbids him to leave country to perform in British Commonwealth. All concerts cancelled." The date was June 15, 1950.
A paragraph under the caption caught Dusty's eye:
Robeson, demanding equality and dignity for negroes in the United States, was called a traitor by a U.S. State Department spokesman following remarks the entertainer made as keynote speaker at the meeting of the African National Congress in Paris last year. Robeson stated, among other things, that he would much rather fight the southern whites in America who are denying equal rights to colored people than the Russians who have not done anything to them at all.
Underneath that was a brief paragraph listing Robeson's accomplishments: All-American, Rutgers University; graduate, Columbia Law School; linguist; educator; Shakespearean actor; musician.
Before Dusty could read any more, the truck rattled to a halt. A waiting moving van backed up to the bed of the truck, and two men transferred a piano onto it. Dusty jumped out of the way, and walked around a bit to stretch his legs in the unseasonably cold, June gloom. As he looked back, he saw Robeson was surrounded by several men. They were laughing and talking, and Dusty sensed that something momentous was about to happen. He walked to the front of the truck and peered around its motor. They were at the United States/Canadian border in Peace Arch Park, in the state of Washington.
On the Canadian side, a crowd was beginning to gather. As Dusty watched in surprise, more and more people came streaming along the road and through the grassy hillocks, all on foot, some carrying picnic hampers and blankets, some with children, and all dressed warmly, totally prepared against the cold air. As the crowd swelled in size, the flat-bed, on the U.S. side, carefully backed up against the border sign and shortly thereafter, Paul Robeson and his long-time accompanist, Laurence Brown, climbed on board to thunderous applause. As Brown sat down at the keyboard, the applause ceased, and there was an expectant hush over the huge, peaceful crowd.
Robeson leaned against the piano, surveyed the audience, and began to sing. For one glorious hour he entertained the spellbound Canadians sitting just a few feet away. Afterwards he said simply: "As I cannot come to you, I thank you for meeting me here. I am grateful for your show of support in this difficult time, I am honored to be able to represent American negroes everywhere, and I assure you that I shall never give up the fight for our equality." The silence was profound for several moments, and then it was broken by a standing ovation. Along with that vast audience, Dusty felt the emotion welling in his heart. His eyes were wet, there was a lump in his throat, but, oh, how proud he was to be in the company of such a brother.
As the crowd called for encores, the stone began its familiar vibration, and the boy was whisked back through time and across the continent, and deposited back on the lumpy, living room couch. Dusty sat for a while, hugging his experience to himself, and savoring the memory. Then, in his head, he heard the words, "read as much as you can," so with a short sigh and a slight shake of his head, he took out his homework and settled down to study. Across town, correcting papers at her desk, Mrs. Cartwright suddenly felt light-hearted and began to smile. She didn't know why.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Dusty's First Adventure
The weather was sultry. Dusty, moving idly to and fro on the porch swing, absentmindedly tossed the piece of quartz stone from hand to hand, as his thoughts went back to yesterday, when he was sitting with his grandmother in the living room after supper. He now lived with her, as his mother had been tragically killed in a drive-by shooting in Chicago. He did not remember his father, and did not know where he was. Visiting his grandmother in the country in southern Illinois used to be a treat for the slight, ten-year-old African-American boy, and he was grateful that he was welcome there on a permanent basis. He looked at the greenery surrounding his grandmother's small house and contrasted it with the mortar and bricks and graffiti of his surroundings in the city. "If only there were fewer bugs," he thought to himself, "I could get to like this place."
His grandmother had given him the quartz last night, and explained that it had been in their family for a long, long time. In a hushed voice, she said that it contained the souls of all their ancestors which gave it magical properties. She had lowered her voice even more when she told him her secret--that the stone had the ability to transfer its holders to the past, while rendering them invisible throughout the journey. She said she had taken many trips, but now was too old to undergo the physical and emotional stress which accompanied these unexpected outings. She went on to say that she thought Dusty was the only one she could trust with this gift, as she felt he was destined to live a good life. Dusty didn't know whether to believe her or not. She had told him so many wonderful stories, from her imagination he thought, as they sat together in the warm evenings.
As he mused in his little, private world, his mind rested on the African folktales his grandmother told him: of the crafty Anansi, sometimes a man and sometimes a spider, and of the Hen and the Frog, his favorite story from Nigeria. His fist tightened over the rock, and he felt it vibrate. The air grew hazy around him, and suddenly the astonished boy was lifted up, out of his corporeal body, out of the present time, and away from his grandmother's porch. Over land and sea, through rushing wind, he felt himself fly, until he was set down gently on a hot, rocky promontory overlooking a wide, dark river threading its way through a lush, emerald rainforest. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of a blue ocean, the Gulf of Guinea.
A slight, wiry, black man was gazing out over the river Niger, and out to sea, shading his eyes with his hands and biting his lower lip with strong, white teeth--the front one a little crooked. As Dusty stared at the Ibo's taut body, the muscles on the man's arms flexed, and his tension communicated itself to the boy. Over the horizon, a dark smudge appeared, rapidly grew in size, holding the man's attention until he finally sighed and quietly left his post. Dusty followed, running to keep up with the Ibo's smooth, loping strides. A woman appeared, and put her hand to her mouth as she saw the hurrying figure.
Her language was not English, but Dusty, now without surprise, could understand every word. "Anbor, is it . . . ?" she inquired. He stopped, placed his hand gently on her arm, and in a low voice urged her to go to the village and alert everyone that the slave ships were coming. She turned immediately and without a sound melted into the vines that encircled the great trees. From another direction, two young men appeared, and Anbor turned sharply towards them, waved his arms, and stabbed the air in the direction of the sea with a very long index finger. Silently, they turned together and ran through the trees, followed closely by Dusty, until they came to a circle of thatched huts standing underneath a clump of smaller trees surrounded by a large clearing.
The alarm had been given. The villagers were gathering children and belongings--sacks of grain, fruit and yams--and were preparing to move off, away from the river and deeper into the jungle. The group, including Dusty bringing up the rear, passed more clearings in which they were growing their staple foods: maize, melons, okra, pumpkins, beans and yams.
After several hours of a steady but forced march through the dank and sweaty landscape, the ground began to rise under their feet, and Dusty realized that they had been heading for the safety of the hills. Other than an occasional whisper, the children had walked quietly without uttering a single word of complaint. Dusty watched as the older children took care of the younger ones, who, in turn, behaved with respect towards their older siblings, cousins and friends. The American boy had the feeling that the village was one large family with everyone looking out for everyone else; a feeling that oneself did not come first. He longed to hold out his arms to a girl of about seven, who was struggling to carry a two-year-old who had stumbled and hurt his little leg from which the blood had begun to flow. The girl gritted her teeth and walked on, but shortly an older boy came to her aid and took the injured child, giving her one of the warmest smiles Dusty had ever seen.
As the little band scattered among the tree-covered and rock-strewn hills, a woman broke the silence and asked if anyone had seen her father. A quick poll of the villagers revealed that no-one recalled his presence since their trek had begun. Anbor patted the woman's arm and told her to settle in for the night, and that he would go back and bring her father to safety. Several of the other men volunteered to go with him, but he refused, saying that they were better employed to make sure the women and children remained safe, and to stand watch until danger had passed.
Dusty decided he would return with Anbor to the village. He admired the small, Ibo farmer, who had seemed to be everywhere: encouraging the villagers to keep going, and dealing kindly with everyone all the while. As they retraced their steps, Dusty longed to be the recipient of a pat on the arm from this strong, gentle man. As he tired and struggled to keep up with his companion, Dusty saw, and then smelled, yellow, acrid smoke seeping through the branches of the trees. From what he could remember of his African history class, he judged that the slavers, angry that the villagers had run away, had set fire to their homes and were destroying the crops they had left behind.
Suddenly, a piercing yell cut the air. From behind a moss-covered tree trunk, Dusty and Anbor stiffened as an elderly man was dragged into view. Dusty heard a slaver betting that such a scrawny individual would never survive the journey back to the colonies, but then shrugged and hit his prisoner again with his whip. As a line of shackled men came into view, two slavers appeared around the tree and shouted in triumph as they saw Anbor, who thrashed and fought his attackers until he was overpowered. Then his wrists and ankles were threaded through iron cuffs, and he was attached by chains to the line of shackled men. Anbor stood bloodied but straight, and glared haughtily at his captors who ignored him. Dusty cried in horror, and tried to catch Anbor's hand in his. As he did so, the Ibo looked down and gazed directly into Dusty's eyes. At whom did Anbor smile" On whom did he bestow such a loving glance in spite of his anguish?
In his pocket, the stone began to vibrate. Dusty felt a hazy mist gather around him and he was whisked forward in time, through the rushing wind, back to his grandmother's porch swing. He sat there in shocked silence for a moment, but the harshness of the memory began to dim as his emotions subsided. Was it simply a dream? He thought sadly, but admiringly, of the good man whose hand he thought he had grasped just for a moment. Then, he took out the quartz stone from his pocket, peered into its depths, prodded it with a very long index finger, and whistled absently through his slightly crooked front tooth.
His grandmother had given him the quartz last night, and explained that it had been in their family for a long, long time. In a hushed voice, she said that it contained the souls of all their ancestors which gave it magical properties. She had lowered her voice even more when she told him her secret--that the stone had the ability to transfer its holders to the past, while rendering them invisible throughout the journey. She said she had taken many trips, but now was too old to undergo the physical and emotional stress which accompanied these unexpected outings. She went on to say that she thought Dusty was the only one she could trust with this gift, as she felt he was destined to live a good life. Dusty didn't know whether to believe her or not. She had told him so many wonderful stories, from her imagination he thought, as they sat together in the warm evenings.
As he mused in his little, private world, his mind rested on the African folktales his grandmother told him: of the crafty Anansi, sometimes a man and sometimes a spider, and of the Hen and the Frog, his favorite story from Nigeria. His fist tightened over the rock, and he felt it vibrate. The air grew hazy around him, and suddenly the astonished boy was lifted up, out of his corporeal body, out of the present time, and away from his grandmother's porch. Over land and sea, through rushing wind, he felt himself fly, until he was set down gently on a hot, rocky promontory overlooking a wide, dark river threading its way through a lush, emerald rainforest. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of a blue ocean, the Gulf of Guinea.
A slight, wiry, black man was gazing out over the river Niger, and out to sea, shading his eyes with his hands and biting his lower lip with strong, white teeth--the front one a little crooked. As Dusty stared at the Ibo's taut body, the muscles on the man's arms flexed, and his tension communicated itself to the boy. Over the horizon, a dark smudge appeared, rapidly grew in size, holding the man's attention until he finally sighed and quietly left his post. Dusty followed, running to keep up with the Ibo's smooth, loping strides. A woman appeared, and put her hand to her mouth as she saw the hurrying figure.
Her language was not English, but Dusty, now without surprise, could understand every word. "Anbor, is it . . . ?" she inquired. He stopped, placed his hand gently on her arm, and in a low voice urged her to go to the village and alert everyone that the slave ships were coming. She turned immediately and without a sound melted into the vines that encircled the great trees. From another direction, two young men appeared, and Anbor turned sharply towards them, waved his arms, and stabbed the air in the direction of the sea with a very long index finger. Silently, they turned together and ran through the trees, followed closely by Dusty, until they came to a circle of thatched huts standing underneath a clump of smaller trees surrounded by a large clearing.
The alarm had been given. The villagers were gathering children and belongings--sacks of grain, fruit and yams--and were preparing to move off, away from the river and deeper into the jungle. The group, including Dusty bringing up the rear, passed more clearings in which they were growing their staple foods: maize, melons, okra, pumpkins, beans and yams.
After several hours of a steady but forced march through the dank and sweaty landscape, the ground began to rise under their feet, and Dusty realized that they had been heading for the safety of the hills. Other than an occasional whisper, the children had walked quietly without uttering a single word of complaint. Dusty watched as the older children took care of the younger ones, who, in turn, behaved with respect towards their older siblings, cousins and friends. The American boy had the feeling that the village was one large family with everyone looking out for everyone else; a feeling that oneself did not come first. He longed to hold out his arms to a girl of about seven, who was struggling to carry a two-year-old who had stumbled and hurt his little leg from which the blood had begun to flow. The girl gritted her teeth and walked on, but shortly an older boy came to her aid and took the injured child, giving her one of the warmest smiles Dusty had ever seen.
As the little band scattered among the tree-covered and rock-strewn hills, a woman broke the silence and asked if anyone had seen her father. A quick poll of the villagers revealed that no-one recalled his presence since their trek had begun. Anbor patted the woman's arm and told her to settle in for the night, and that he would go back and bring her father to safety. Several of the other men volunteered to go with him, but he refused, saying that they were better employed to make sure the women and children remained safe, and to stand watch until danger had passed.
Dusty decided he would return with Anbor to the village. He admired the small, Ibo farmer, who had seemed to be everywhere: encouraging the villagers to keep going, and dealing kindly with everyone all the while. As they retraced their steps, Dusty longed to be the recipient of a pat on the arm from this strong, gentle man. As he tired and struggled to keep up with his companion, Dusty saw, and then smelled, yellow, acrid smoke seeping through the branches of the trees. From what he could remember of his African history class, he judged that the slavers, angry that the villagers had run away, had set fire to their homes and were destroying the crops they had left behind.
Suddenly, a piercing yell cut the air. From behind a moss-covered tree trunk, Dusty and Anbor stiffened as an elderly man was dragged into view. Dusty heard a slaver betting that such a scrawny individual would never survive the journey back to the colonies, but then shrugged and hit his prisoner again with his whip. As a line of shackled men came into view, two slavers appeared around the tree and shouted in triumph as they saw Anbor, who thrashed and fought his attackers until he was overpowered. Then his wrists and ankles were threaded through iron cuffs, and he was attached by chains to the line of shackled men. Anbor stood bloodied but straight, and glared haughtily at his captors who ignored him. Dusty cried in horror, and tried to catch Anbor's hand in his. As he did so, the Ibo looked down and gazed directly into Dusty's eyes. At whom did Anbor smile" On whom did he bestow such a loving glance in spite of his anguish?
In his pocket, the stone began to vibrate. Dusty felt a hazy mist gather around him and he was whisked forward in time, through the rushing wind, back to his grandmother's porch swing. He sat there in shocked silence for a moment, but the harshness of the memory began to dim as his emotions subsided. Was it simply a dream? He thought sadly, but admiringly, of the good man whose hand he thought he had grasped just for a moment. Then, he took out the quartz stone from his pocket, peered into its depths, prodded it with a very long index finger, and whistled absently through his slightly crooked front tooth.
Writing stories for children
Many years ago in a writing class in college, I was told that it was impossible for me to write a story about the Black experience in the U.S. On the one hand, I agreed, because I am not Black, and could not personally know about how people suffered under the boot of oppression. On the other hand, I disagreed that I could not write a story that would appeal to children, as long as I used empathy in a sincere and serious way. In a class I took called The Black Child, I learned about the many facets of African-American culture: how it was not one big monolith, but made up of folks from many African nations who had suffered the same fate, and how each of their family dynamics had been torn asunder. I wrote two stories about an African-American boy named Dusty. You can decide whether or not I was successful in forming strong, male role models for these children.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Let's Talk
I belong to a writing group which meets once a week, and we cover many topics during the course of a morning. It's great fun, but whenever I'm asked, "What do you write about?" I really don't know what to say. It's hard to imagine that what I put down in ink is interesting to anyone but me or my friends around the writing table. However, after re-reading some of these pieces--chuckling at some, rolling my eyes at others--I decided that I would edit or rewrite some of these pages on the off-chance that my little tales have a wider appeal than between the two covers of my notebook.
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