Out where I grew up
it is very dark at night. Sometimes if you are lucky the moon shines
through the tree branches enough to light the way. It is a strange
place at times; it has its own life and energy. I have never
understood it, not even today. This place has a secret. A secret
not meant to be discovered, or at least not by me. I walk the forest
trails and see things move out of the way, but I can never see them
directly. These things slither, crawl, and jump through the brush.
When I do
happen to see these creatures, they look at me with more knowledge in
their eyes than I would expect. It is startling, not only because a
doe may have just jumped out of nowhere in front of me, but that she
has a vigilant look in her eyes. It is an earthy look, full of grit
and survival. The desperation of knowing that a year from now her
life will be different, or over.
Everything here
moves with purpose; no energy is wasted. I can get caught up in it.
If I let go and listen to the night, and if I let those primal urges
of want and desire flow into me, my eyes grow large with fear and
flight. My heart pounds as I place myself in the wildness that
surrounds me. I can feel the desperate pull to be savage, ruthless,
cunning, and unclean. I long for scratches and torn skin, to feel
blood flow. I want to show this place that I can take it. I want to
scratch bark and piss on the borders of my claimed land and fight all
that dare cross it. I want to show that I will be fat by winter and
will emerge alive and victorious in the spring…
I pull into the
start of the driveway where I used to wait for the bus year-round.
The bus would pull up, the doors would fly open and there would sit
old Eldon Baker. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone look so old
for so long. He never seemed to age but just looked old all the
time. He is gone now; dead like so many people that I have known.
I continue on
over the double cattle guards; they were supposed to keep the
reservation cows off the property, but the cows always found another
way in. I am the only one that has business out here now. I am here
to tend to my bees. They used to be mine and Dad’s bees, but he is
gone too. Mom comes out with me now and then but always wants to be
dropped off at the Indian Casino a mile farther down the road.
There have been
some changes since the last time I was here. I look and find the old
landmarks of childhood here and there; trees and fence posts that
have some significance to me. Clumps of weeds that have lived in
colonies for decades, ever renewing themselves and spreading their
likeness for miles around. I pass by a small clearing to my left
where I found transplanted marijuana plants hidden in the very high
forests of sweet clover that grew there every summer.
Farther down
from the clearing I turn onto the rabbit-barn road, a place of pure
terror when I was a kid. The Johns family next door kept rabbits
inside the little red barn and also in cages outside. At night, the
rabbits in the outside cages fell victim to all kinds of night
horrors. Many times I would be the first to find the shredded
remains of a rabbit that had been pulled through a crack in the cage
by some heavily-toothed beast, perhaps coyotes or stray dogs. But
the combination of seeing that and the dark woods around the barn
area created an aura of evil that my little mind could not
comprehend. I had nightmares and avoided that place at almost all
cost. Bob Johns used to sit up there in the dark with a 12-guage,
waiting to see what would come to get his rabbits. Safe in my bed I
would wait for the shot in the night, wondering what beast Bob would
encounter; would they find him torn to shreds in the wet morning
grass?
The little red
barn is now a wretched structure. The red paint is peeling in long
strands that, from a distance, look like rivulets of blood running
down its sides. After years of failed attempts at rabbit farming
the Johns quit; they butchered the remaining rabbits but left
everything else. Cages were left with the doors hanging open and the
rabbit droppings and bedding was left to rot with the structure. I
still didn’t play there because even though the rabbits were gone,
I knew their scent was not. It was easy to envision being caught by
a feral predator, and not finding a rabbit, would satisfy itself with
me.
Now as I drive
out here I am with different people. My Mom is dead now. I miss
her. Everyone that was a part of this place and knew it's beauty is
gone now; now I bring my kids out here and they love it; which it
makes me smile.
I have been to
many places. I have visited Germany, lived in Texas, Georgia, and
walked the swamps of Louisiana and Mississippi, but I have never
found a place to match my old home. It is so familiar it hurts my
heart. The same smells, most of the same sights and sounds but the
important people are gone; the people that understood. The people
that live there now have changed things. Their houses look like
shit; yards and all. They have no respect for it here. The wonder
that lives around them; they have no eyes for it. They do not know
how to get deep down into the ground; the soiled, primal heart of it.
I have never
left here. Somewhere in the middle of it all my heart remains
trapped in the mud, brush and trees. My soul swims the creeks, and
ponds. I often dream of this place. In the dreams I see my Mom and
Dad, the colors are vivid and sharp, beautiful. In the dream
everything looks different but I always know it is out where I grew
up.
