Yesterday evening:
I am standing at the bottom of the trail, at the bottom of the dam, it is cool down there were the water comes out the bottom of Philpott Lake. I would like to just still by the river, no I wouldn't I needed to get my blood pumping.
I looked up that dirt path leading off into the woods and said to no one: I dedicate this work out to Brother Patrick O'Shea, OSB. And I took off. I was amazed I got all the way to the first bridge before I got winded. I am making progress. Ignorant rednecks, I will come up here one day with a trash bag and some tongs and get their GD beer bottles out of the creek, pick up those paper towles, wadded up in who knows what. What is wrong with people? I am on the first level spot, past the huge block of concret left over from construction 55 years ago. The leaves are wilted, everywhere it is so dry the poplar leaves have already turned yellow and there before me on my path, is a Turkey feather. A perfect specimin of a turkey's tail. I admire it, would like to keep it, but do not want to tote it on the long trek I have planned. I stick it in a tree, will get it on the way back is no one else comes along and takes it and then I ask myself, who? In this 90 degree heat, who is gone come down this trail?
I am at the top of the dam now, when I was a kid you could go out on it, but that got gated off early on when it became a jumper hazzard. Homeland Security has recently paid to have cameras installed so they can see who might be littering near said gate, but no money to pick up the trash, the rangers in their airconditioned office no doubt playing on line poker. I digress.
The switch backs ahead, the hardest part, I am read for them, careful to skirt the poison ivy that is always in that one spot, up I am pushing meself now, Lynne might call, she called once when I was at this point and asked "You want me to call 911?" I think "I'm almost there" and push meself when I see the top, yes, I am at the overlook, the office, the paved circle where on weekends men, some of them married, will sit in their cars and trucks and try to make eyecontact with one another in the absurd but time honored mating ritual that for generations was the only way to connect. I have found notes they have left on the trails in the woods, printed in block letters so as to say later "that ain't my hand writing". No one is here now, no one out on the lake, the crows swoop and alight on another tree.
I am feeling it in my thorax, that area around my heart, it feels good, like endorphins are getting to the muscle, like it is building tissue rather than dealing with fat. I remember this feeling, have felt it before. Wonder will I maintain this time. Down the hill to the closed boat ramp in back of the dam: Stay Clear 500 Feet, this has been closed years before 9/11. Not the money to maintain it. Not when the area has 5% fewer people living in it than in 2000, and all the money went to another lake, encrusted with big homes and docks and floatillas of Cosmo drinking white folks. This I hope will never happen here, let it go back to nature, let the trash be picked up and let it return to nature.
I have never met Brother Patrick, have had only the breifest of communications with him here, but have been moved by his words and actions. I think of the jepg he posted of the public service flyer he posted "If you go out of your way to pick on gays, psychiatrists have a name for you......Latent Homosexual" I have some of those printed out on my desk, I will bring one and post it in the restroom at the overlook. Preach to the chior. They are a captive audience. I may never know any more of him, but it is enough for me to decide he is a good person. I ask myself why I have never met him. Because, there is never enough time.
I am past the boat dock now, winding up thru the group camping area. I have never seen it used, attended a family reunion here, circa 1978. I am thinking about him, feel I should say a prayer for him, and my tangential mind wanders past our lady to the current Madonna, who I never really liked until one night in a dance club I hear her sing "Like a Prayer" and decided she might just be okay. That song anyway. I start to sing to myself lowly:
"When you call my name,
its like a little prayer,
down on my knees,
I will take you there,
In the midnight hour,
I can feel your power"
What the hell is......its a Turkey! Come running out of the woods to drive off some black bird it does not want around. The hen sees me and takes off down the road, on spindly legs, the darts into the woods. I try to keep my eye on where it went in to see if I see it as I pass and about the time I get there: Pow! It takes off back across the road, to its nest, its younguns, and I think if I ask Wayne he will know where to look to see what that is a sign of. Something besides humanities encorachment on nature.
Back down the hill I go and the feather is right were I left it. I carry it erect, leading edge like a rudder as I fly back to my car, to the river, where I go and rinse my hands and splash cold water on my face. I will stop at the store and get me a bottle of water and the spirit of adventures says no. Insted it tells me, go further down the road to the Tienda. "The Mexican Store" as the locals call it. Yeah, I have never been there, but I have had the wonderful La Prencessa popcycles from there, made in Florida from real fruit.
When I pull up I know I will be an aberiation. Anglos just don't go in these places. Well, I am. I don't know what to expect. The place is desolate inside, a few shelves lined with goods, I see the cooler and there is my prize: La Prencessa: Banana, Vanilla, Mango and Rompope. What the hell is Rompope? I decide I will get it. I go to the cooler, which is hardly cooler than the room, cans of Jumex and those enticing glass bottles of multi colored pop. I find my bottle of water and head to the counter. A Hispanic man and his toddler son are watching Spanish language TV. He eyes me cautiously.
"Hola" I say
"Hola...dos dollars"
"Dos?"
"Si." I hand him two dollars, he puts them in a stong box.
"Gracias" I say and we both smile, just a bit.
Rompope is delicious, but I still don't know what it is.
Topic: Shakesthegrounds Rumblings (Read 2594752 times)