Thursday, December 13, 2012

The Dream


          “In a nostalgic vision of America, I can feel its innocence, see its beauty and pain, its blood, love and tears, its rebirth and its freedom….
And even in the many times I denied and detested it all, scorning its existence, she never left and as far as I would stray or run, I found myself forever homesick.”
         

The dream

    …I found myself in a Texas Desert, balanced on a sagging telephone line suspended between the staggered, crooked poles that stood, undisturbed for a century, lurching as if skeleton legs of ancient creatures-stark and hard as petrified bone.
       Black thunderhead clouds rolled slowly overhead lost and wandering against an enormous sky, a domed blue canopy of an infinite Cathedral.
From their depths, Mercury raindrops beat down upon my brow falling to the desert floor below. I could smell the ozone in rising dust of their impact.

        My arm was outstretched in front of me and in the palm of my hand I held a myriad of tiny strange gypsy creatures dancing around in suspended animation.

               I stepped with nimble grace across the taut wire inching myself forward as I looked outward with indifference over a scorched barren wasteland of sagebrush and the vastness of a shadowless earth, unsure why I was here only observing by perplexed circumstance. The poles went on forever linked by their wires like a drooping spine.



     In the distance I watched a station wagon of Indians in full head-dress drive over a cliff chasing an eagle, while laughing pink salmon rained and flew from the clouds of sandy tornadoes. A spotted white coyote howled for the moon on a far away ledge. I also howled back an echoing lonely cry and laughed like a lunatic feeling none of the laughter’s joy, and listened again for the echo to come bouncing back melodically like a swarm of butterflies.

      Cocking my head this way and that like a big awkward bird, I stopped in mid step, one foot in front of the other focusing my eye on a far away pole where I thought I saw what appeared to be Jesus crucified onto a telephone pole with his arms outstretched on the wooden cross bars. I stared for an uncertain amount of time not sure what to make this familiar yet unusual mirage appearing in the mirrors of waving heat.

     I adjusted my balance then continued surefooted step after step on the sagging line until I  reached the crossbars of the next pole. I rolled my hand letting the tiny creatures fall like pebbles before scattering and burrowing into the sand. I decided to make the climb down, although knowing I would be down amongst the slithering scaled creatures-rattlesnakes, scorpions and horned lizards, all hiding amongst the rocks and laying in wait under a veil of hot sand.

     I scurried down like a monkey and leaped the last fair height landing with my bare-feet sinking into the burning sand and fire kicking up flames as i trudged forward anyway through this Hell's sun baked Eden as if following the footprints of Adam and a thousand others tempted by it's prickly poison and heat.

      Sweat drenched and cooled my body as I staggered in a futile laborious pursuit of a feverish mirage that seemed to flee further with each step i took in a desert destined to swallow me up. He was poised on the far away horizon on an earth that no longer rotated.

       In defeat and exhaustion, I dropped to my knees in a useless attempt to crawl. I would die again here.
   
      Skin began to peal from my body and as I surrendered the sand shifted and the earth quaked beneath me. To my surprise, a giant tortoise violently unearthed itself before all stilled into silence with this creature patiently waiting, obviously summoned as my beast of burden. I scanned the whole panorama with suspicion. Then without a second thought or choice, I climbed upon his enormous back knowing he would instinctively carry me to this queer apparition appearing on the horizon.
     
       We moved on slow yet effortlessly with time of no essence but eventually reached our destination where before me, I climbed off and rested my hands on my knees while staring fixated up above at what was surely the presence of Jesus Christ himself hanging in the windy silence. I witnessed The flesh of Jesus in all Glory appearing as a mere mortal in Earthly pain. It was not laughter but crying I had heard on the wind.

    What was this and what did it mean? Too perplexing for simple answers as to my end or judgment. I still was unaware of where I was if not a purgatory or hell. It fore sure was no Heaven. I had wondered about Jesus for years as I would ponder a friend. I had denounced God enough times in my life to not believe in faith but then begged for him even more countless times whenever I was in pain. But this was different, abstract of me, perhaps not even my dream. I was a no more than a tourist here.

     At my feet, just below him, a beautiful rose had grown in the sand where his blood had dropped from the thorned mesquite wreath of a crown. Before I could begin to comprehend or conjure an emotion of any kind, the tortoise walked over, stretched out his ancient leathery neck and without malice, ate the flower snipping it off at its stem with his pointed beak. I gasped in overwhelming guilt and cried loudly, "no!" I gazed up into the overwhelming beautiful eyes that teared and looked away in shame. I somehow knew my journey here was over. I would leave with no enlightenment or answers of any kind. There was nothing even humbling now in the presence of Jesus’ silence, just a vast empty loneliness and silence.

      Panic hit my chest with catastophic terror of all that is unsure to all that begins or ends and me at the infinite threshold of both. There has to be a final truth an end somewhere, a bigger truth to myself, the self, this aloneness!


   I felt it futile to now panic and looked for a direction with some kind of sign be it neon or written in the clouds by God. There was no reason for me to stay and nothing more for me to see in such a sad land except for the hypocrisy of it all. I Looked in all directions but saw only the same horizons spinning and circling me like buzzards and I knew to choose any direction would be to travel continuously while never reaching an end and confirming both my death and eternity - neither of which I was yet prepared for.

   The turtle in his quiet shaman wisdom sensing my naïve confusion of indecision, began digging ferociously with agile and speed, disappearing into the collapsing sand of a gaping hole. There were no other choices left. I tentatively peered in  and then a glance back at the world and spectacle before me before and then in head first after him all the while knowing there would be no way out, no way to return and possibly my own demise.

  Was Hell not at the center of the earth as I was taught as a child? But where was this place I was leaving behind? I dove without hesitation accepting whatever the consequence as the most profound I had ever felt in giving in to faith.

   Over and over i plummeted, falling thousands of miles for hours it seemed or perhaps only seconds down through an airless vacuum, void of light or gravity falling both up and down. I free fell past everything and faces of everyone i had ever known and witnessed my life repeat itself over and over  in a kaleidoscope form reflecting me for layers upon layers of time that danced in a multitude of colorful vignettes from a thousand dreams.

I reached out to join and take part of the brilliance and at that instant i was plunged into darkness now fully aware of falling at a turbulent speed  No more light at the end of this tunnel and descent to Hell. My mortality was returning to me as I began to fear the pain of hitting a solid bottom from the weightless mortal coil I had just passed through. I could sense it as near as my child dreams of falling but lucid and painfully real.
    I gasped in terror sensing a moments hard deadly blow at an incredible speed.Then as expected but without warning, I crashed swift slapping me onto a rain soaked black plastic membrane which turned out to be the awning canopy of a mexican fish market that I tore through breaking my fall but non the less landing with a hard thud onto a pile of mackerel. I was dumbfounded and alive with anxiety and emotion amongst bustling chaos of a fish market I had seen before. I began to feel for the first time real pain, physical pain and smells-My senses burning and pounding. Frantically I searched for my lumbering friend the tortoise only to be saddened and shocked to look up and see him hanging from a lofted meat hook and scale. I was on my own now….

Chapter one: On a Prayer
         
           I didn’t give the dream much thought. My head was pounding. It’s hard to say if falling into a pile of fish was symbolic of something infinitely profound or had to do with waking up with a horrible hangover to find myself………(to be continued)

Friday, March 2, 2012

The Last Hunt



It was unusually quiet and still along the chalky dirt road where I had been throwing and chasing my one little rock. It was quiet enough today, that all I could hear was the tick-tick-click when it landed and rolled in the distance, followed by the rhythmic swishing of my jeans brushing against my boots as I chased after my tumbling rock before it was forever lost. Quiet enough that I paused momentarily to feel the still silence in the warm air, where all around me, puffy bright clouds were growing fatter, painting themselves into the bluest of skies.

I always thought this is how it would be if the world ever ended, no warning or anything spectacular, just an odd peaceful silence, a deep breath,  and then you blink into stardust.

I glanced up squinting at a couple pairs of sleek, elegant doves sitting motionless on the droopy telephone lines above the railroad tracks that ran along our property just beyond the long fence line. There has always been doves on these lines for as long as i could remember. The train tracks sat higher up on an embankment that rose up and stood out in contrast against our empty, flat, rectangle hay and cornfields, that butted up against them on either side. I was at the far corner end of the fields where the tracks were only at an arms reach away from where i stood on the gravel road, or half a stones throw, as I had come to know by throwing a million chalky rocks at the moving boxcars and crooked telephone poles along the way.

There’s something uniquely special about railroad tracks that’s hard to define. As much time as we had spent as kids playing on those tracks, they always seemed to be this ominous, mysterious presence, isolated and detached from the normal world, and rightly so, as actually being the longest, narrow sliver of private property on earth.  They sit high and Holy, undisturbed as if a throne. There was always an innate sense of caution when nearing them,  a foreboding reminding us they are off limits, yet we are drawn to them by uncertainty and risky adventure we search out – They have a lonely, solitary existence, preserved with an independent authority of permanence and unquestionable pure strength, somewhat like that of eagles that are admired and a little feared. We learned how to listen to the haunting echo of a distant whistle and soothing rhythmic click clack of shifting cars, which I most paid attention to in the silence of night while tucked in my bed listening for its far away ghostly existence.


The tracks, from where I now stood, were completely hidden from view by towering vines and deep brush along the fence that had clearly flourished over the summer, growing thick and wild as ever despite the long endless weeks of heat and drought.

I couldn’t help but admire, in awe, the expanse of this myriad of giant weeds, with a billowing, flowery girth, that now seemed tame and harmless, bursting out in this pure clean happy sunlight with it’s small chirping sparrows darting in and out in playful flutter, while butterflies and bees landed delicately on its wild white roses. It was colorful, pretty and fluffy, though I personally knew of it also as a much darker sanctuary, laying like a menacing evil lair,  patiently in wait for anyone foolish enough to try and cross through its thick barrier of wild mustang vine and sharp thistle that was really an endless weave of thin rope like tendrils, that grew wild and stretched impenetrable along the fence line way past the sprawling fields of the Swift's Ranch, and way beyond our own, to as far as you could see until it stopped in the far distance just at the base of the high trestle bridge that loomed over the deep limestone creek bed above the sharp ravine below with its jagged rocky edges that halted a dead end to anything that tried to cross below.

Somewhere hidden along this stretch there actually were a few hollowed places where a small army of us kids, in need of new forts, had spent long grueling sweaty hours and days, sunburned and battling ticks and mosquitoes, to tunnel hidden passages through the thicket, which by now had probably since grown over by the looks of it, but other than that, and even with several intense grass fires started by the grinding of steel wheels and bouncing of flint rocks thrown up from the speeding Am tracks, nothing seemed to pose a threat to this impressive willowy thriving beast that almost appeared unmarked and to breathe at times.

I gazed down at a few small faint scars still visible on my hands, and another thin long one that ran up past my elbow, that I got when caught on the barbed wire that hides beneath this river of tangled web, that twists and slithers down its center like a sharp rusty spine that had once bit into me like a sea of mad rattlesnakes.

Thinking about that day, I stopped, rock still in hand, not far past the very spot it had happened not so long ago. And though the world had not officially ended back on that day, and nor would it likely end today, it was non-the less, a day that had permanently changed and literally scarred part of me forever for the good and bad.

It had been more than a couple years back, much colder than now, on a brisk uneventful day just after Christmas on those slow Winter days that follow with the empty quiet lull of holidays passing. I remember it being wet and colder than usual even for any Winter I could think of. It was a dull Sunday as Sundays are, with my whole family dispersed in different rooms, all of us disengaged and bored. My father was half asleep in front of the TV that blared enthusiastic commentary of an unmemorable football game that earlier I had scoffed at watching with him.  My mom could only annoy me that day, darting as usual like a bug around a light-bulb singing boisterously from room to room busying herself while most likely picking up after us messy kids as she would remind us every chance she got.

Everything and everyone annoyed me. I had been in a restless fuss for a while now, hating life and everyone in it that day, which prompted me to make some escape. I kind of knew days before, i was going to try and sneak out with gun at some point and the time just couldn't be better. I was in a fighting mood, but instead of any foot stomping march out, I decided it better to leave the house in my own silent internal protest rather than challenging anyone with mutiny and a tantrum. So in spite of wanting to pick a fight with someone, I more or less cowardly crept out unnoticed except by my dog Lupe, that I regretfully made stay behind as I slipped through the side door without question despite carrying the hefty double barrel shotgun that I had just gotten for Christmas.

Since the night before, and week leading up to that day, I knew I was waiting and would find the right time sneak out to go hunting with my new gun. This seemed like the time to go, and regardless of it being a very dreary, cold, wet day outside, it was more inviting, compared to being stuck in a lazy bitter feeling house, where tensions rose up and down, with exasperated words escaped and echoed from every room. It was senseless and relentless badgering that aggravated each other at times to the extent of provoking a near full out war with no one to actually blame other than holiday cheer.

Once out that door, I walked briskly as fast as i could, and hopefully unseen, while dodging under the large oaks across our property, until I finally reached the far backfields, where, without seconds hesitation, I bent and dipped quickly through the sagging fence wire, and stepped into the empty treeless pasture on the other side. I had hurried with anxious apprehension expecting to be halted any second by some authoritative commanding voice screaming my name, most likely my father. But all was still and quiet on the front so far, and was almost far enough out of range to be heard, or so i would say. I was most surprised my dog hadn’t found a way out of the house. It’s rare for me to go anywhere without her, and I’m sure she was back at the house, confused and pacing up and down the hall and between rooms in a panic. I thought about letting her come with me, but even though Lupe was a big strong German shepherd, she was in no way a hunting dog, and was terrified of thunder, so no telling how she would be around a loud shotgun blast. I had never shot one around her, and i wasn't going to take the chance she just might run off and never come back after shooting this canon.

Once I was out in the open, and clear of the oaks, I stopped for a breath, and was mesmerized to watch a low fog come off the tree-line and drift slowly over the landscape like a sheer veiled blanket of rolling smoke, an eerie wall of mist drifting toward me in a haunting wave of silence as I blew out puffs of frost.

There was a  continuous cold, gray, drizzle coming down, that left everything gently dripping, including drops falling from the bill of my hat, and the end of my cold gun barrel.
I panned in all directions for any sense of life, and other than a lone morning-dove on a distant line, it was depressing and lifeless, where nothing much stirred except for a few random sparrows that would swoop and dip, and then instantly disappear into the white fog. I listened for the distinct familiar sound of bobwhites calling out its name, but other than my own smokey breath, there was only an eerie calm, and the ruffle of a steady light rain.

As gloomy as it was though , I was intent on making my way over to the railroad tracks where I figured I would have my best luck, if any, at hunting anything other than field mice. It didn’t take more than the first step before I realized this was going to be a lot less promising and a more laborious endeavor than expected as my foot immediately sank deep into thick soft mud almost halfway up my boot. I sighed with my growing displeasure, already feeling  a rising regret from the get go.  The last thing I anticipated was getting this dirty, but should have foreseen it.  I knew from experience that these fields could become mudflats when there's no growth on them. I had once, while mowing in this exact field, halfway sunk a tractor out here that had huge five-foot tires on it, and that was on a dry day.


 I continued on into the field anyway, despite my waning mood. I was not about to go back home even if for my own pride. It was apparent that the only way through here was to maneuver with calculated slow hesitating and  tentative steps, which was counter productive to hunting,because my focus was now only on the ground at my feet where it was doubtful I could spot any wildlife or migrating foul.
It was colder than I thought it would be. Not having gloves on, I held the gun clenched to my side, tucking the heavy stock under my arm while warming my hands deep in my pockets. This was about the time I would usually pull out a cigarette I kept hidden in my sock but was too much of an added balancing task for the moment and would risk dropping my gun into the mud. The weighted barrel was slumped downward, swaying me side to side as I tried to walk. It was just too cold for me to sling it over my shoulder, And being that no one in my family were hunters, I had no proper hunting attire except for the thin khaki vest I wore underneath my coat that held the shiny new red shotgun shells lined in a single row inside their small elastic bands that I could feel pressed up against my ribs.

It was obvious I didn’t quite know what I was doing and had no real thought out plans other than the desire to shoot my gun, if even that. I really just wanted some space and was more of looking for an escape from a brooding angry sadness that clung to me like a wet blanket.  I needed to shake it loose any way I could, even if to fight, kick and scream out here with nature, although for the moment, it seemed like I was loosing.

I didn’t even know what I was hunting for- anything or nothing. I never really even hunted in the first place other than at times, not knowing any better, when we would shoot at frogs and lizards and a few birds with our BB guns. I knew it was still dove and quail season, as did everyone, and maybe even deer season for all I knew. I never shot a deer, and most of the deer from around here were all but gone, and I doubt I could shoot a deer anyway. It didn't make sense that i could shoot a rabbit, bird or mouse, if a life is a life. For some reason is easier to imagine shooting something smaller like a dumb bird. Then there were those around here who took hunting as serious as if it was in their DNA. It was a macho orgy where they believed all should take part in killing something and was a God given right they defend with such fury as if it's a patriotic and religious duty, having contempt for the sacrilegious communist that appose them. And its not that I was ever against hunting, it just didn’t flow in my veins that way. Same like I didn't like watching football with my daddy.

The few times we would take out our 22 rifle or pellet and BB gun, it would be to shoot cans and bottles off fence posts or water moccasins surfacing in our spring well just beyond our house, and though all of us boys were good enough shots to be recruited one day by any military as marksmen and snipers that could split a piece of bailing-wire or send a tin can flying in the air from 50 yards without a scope, we rarely shot at anything moving. We shot at each other at times with our BBguns. We all had bows, guns, knives, machetes, hatchets axes, and even bullwhips from the time we could ride a bike, but so did every other kid around here. Most all arsenals came from the same 'Army, Navy store', where you could even buy a bazooka in the day if thought you needed one, but often, the less than proud extent of shooting anything living around here was limited to armadillos so they wouldn’t dig holes on your property that livestock could stumble and break a leg in. Not sure if  clearing armadillos quite  qualifies as a heroic right of passage though.

The oiled, blue, steel barrel had beaded up in the rain, but still looked dull, even while wet, compared to how shiny it had looked coming out of its sheep lined case on the day i got it. I had already polished, oiled and cleaned it a dozen times although it had yet to be fired. The stock was a beautiful carved solid maple with a lacquered finish and the silvery blue barrel was delicately trimmed and engraved in a scrolled inlay and with a tiny little brass bead sight at its tip. I was excited, yet reluctant to shoot it, knowing it was way too much gun for me-maybe too much gun for anybody. It was an extra long double barrel side-by-side 12 gauge with dual triggers and full choke. It was a canon of sorts- almost an elephant gun (as my dad claimed) with only a sliver of a rubber shoulder pad to absorb the impact from its powerful recoil. You didn’t need to be told it wasn’t a toy. Once it was in your hands, the surprising incredible weight of the heavy steel alone, gave way to caution, feeling a little scary and dangerous as apposed to the flimsy toy like BB-guns with their thin tinny frame.
As pretty as this shotgun was, it was strangely, an odd, if not questionable gift, and somewhat unexpected. My Dad, being the most liberal political somewhat radical hippie type I knew, this  big present just added to his long list of offbeat contradictions. Clearly an internal battle he was having between his southern German Irish Catholic upbringing where he honed (by my grandfathers stern hand) his country skills as a kid on Tennessee and Kansas farms, before breaking away and reshaping into his intellectual alter ego that waged his liberal war against civil liberties and human rights across half the South. Truth is he most likely just got taken by a good salesman, being convinced he got a great deal while not really having a clue to what he was buying.



I kept moving with my best effort, laboriously plowing my feet in the direction of the tracks but after what seemed like an eternity of drudgery, I realized I had barely made it through only a quarter of this long 5-acre pasture.

The field all around me was an ocean of wet, thick buffalo grass and dried winter fescue, that sucked my boots down into the muddy underneath of dead cornstalks gripping me in place like bear traps. With each step, the mud clots grew so thick and heavy on my boots, I could at times barely lift my legs from the weight and the clay soil made it almost impossible to shake or scrape off once i pulled them free.
 At one point I actually got stuck with me teetering helplessly trying not to fall. It was a little frightening and for a moment I was so immobilized to the point that I actually started to panic and wondered if I was going to be left there foolishly screaming for help. It was one of those instances that at any other time, and if I had been there with a companion, we would most likely be hysterically falling down laughing at each other, but being alone, it was chilling and lonely. I stood there awkwardly helpless balancing with this oversized gun, that should have made me feel more like a man but instead made me look small and weak and wish I was home watching football with my father.
I was a sad sight as I violently struggled like a drunk to free myself-disturbing any tranquility surrounding me. This was not working out like I expected- whatever that was.
It wasn’t like I had channeled the bold hunter in me, tracking or stalking prey in the wilderness, instead I was trudging miserably lacking any grace and must have seemed harmless even with this canon in my hands. I’m sure the scarce wildlife was laughing and mocking me from their grassy refuges. It was clearly obvious I had no passion for hunting and never did, and should abort this whole idea.  I really did want to shoot my gun, agitating a thrilling eager impatience in me, the element and passion for danger and uncertainty, but at the same time, I don't think I’m  cut out to kill anything.
I was only out here because I had no better place to be. There was no primal passion running in my veins, and  I was vulnerable to my own fears and insecurities with nothing to hide behind. 
I for the life of me didn’t know why I was feeling so angry, why my house was so angry, and now even the ground under my feet was literally giving way. I for sure wasn’t finding the answers I was looking for, and looked damn silly trying to be something I'm not.

I brushed the water off my face and shoulders and could have easily cried in defeat at that point, but was determined to keep going and would stay out here as long as I could, which, laughably, wasn’t saying much considering that I was really only minutes from my house that was barely out of sight. But first things first and if I was going to get anywhere other than stuck, I decided it was best to move away from the center and over to the perimeter fence-line, that was flanked with scraggly persimmon trees where I should have known from the beginning it would be a little dryer at the root base above this sunken wasteland.  A hint of late sun peeked and glowed from somewhere in the fog but didn’t make it any warmer, yet did give some promise to stopping this relentless drizzle. It was just enough to make me take a second breath and refocus.
I changed direction by successfully taking large stretching side steps and soon enough, without too much trouble, made it over to the scruffy, straggled, tree-line that led all the way down to the tracks, and although it wouldn’t provide much shelter for me, it was now easy enough to walk and most likely also used as a rabbit-run  path that leads to the safety of the outlying hedge and thistle.
I breathed a small sigh of relief and claimed this as my new starting-point. If I was lucky, I might even flush a couple quail along the way that might happen to be feeding on persimmons, and left over winter corn. The only dove around was the same lone one still on the line from when i got here, which I contemplated firing at and calling it a day knowing I would never hit it from this far anyway. As powerful as this gun was, it was only good for about forty yards before the bird shot spread too far to hit anything, but up-close, it could knock a small tree down or blow a whole in a wall you could walk through.

Being out here with so little sign of life made me wonder how it was that my Dad and his friends and the neighbors, could go dove hunting in the sunflower patches and come back with literally large piles of countless doves that they dumped out of over-stuffed vests. I can never forget the times they would have us kids spending whole evenings and late into the night, plucking, twisting and pulling off heads and then thumb breasting and gutting these tiny birds over a trashcan until our knuckles would bleed, and here I can't even find a single fly to swat.


I looked up hearing the familiar sound of a lumbering freight train approaching from the North, and that’s when I caught my first hopeful glimpse of life stirring just about halfway down the row of trees in front of me. I could tell it was most likely a cottontail by its movement, and was clearly too small to be a jackrabbit. I always knew there were rabbits here. You could always see them year round from the road, especially in the spring when everything is in bloom. We had numerous failed attempts at trying to catch them the old fashioned way with a box propped up by a stick with a carrot attached to it like in the cartoons. Even with this cold spell, I guess it wasn’t cold enough for them to hole up in a burrow, and I had figured, if lucky, there might be a few out and about.
                                                                      


 I watched intently up ahead seeing if it would take off for the cover in the hedge with the train now  approaching. I could tell just how close the train was getting. The first sound you hear, well in advance, when the train is still away in the far distance, is the high pitched metallic hum, buzzing and clinking of the rails themselves  as far as a mile ahead pf the train that ping, snap and pop like a steel bullwhip. You can almost gauge the speed by this echo. We used to love playing Indians putting our ear to the rails listening for a train that was nowhere in sight.
As luck would now have it, I could not have timed the arrival better. Something was bound to spook and flush out into the open and I was poised in the right spot with both barrels loaded.
The nervous anticipation was almost enough to make me turn back home. I was jittery as the train got closer. I tucked myself tight against the trees hiding my gun while waiting for the lead engine to pass. I felt a little cheerful as it neared. This close, freights are dizzying in size with an impressive, monstrous presence of towering and swaying cars and a thousand  wheels, grinding a symphony of moving steel that starts with the churning engines hollow deep drone followed by the steady click clack of rattling and thumping, mixed and faded by the deafening screech and groan of  hydraulic brakes. It's a thousand different parts in a continuous mile of a stretched out steel fortress of box cars, tanker cars, open coal tops, auto carriers and grainer’s, all laden with different goods going to some mystery destination, followed and pushed by the happy little caboose. We had come to know most of the freights by name. There was the Union Pacific, The Santa Fe, Northern Pacific, the Kansas City Southern and mostly on this main line was the Missouri Pacific (Mopac), so common around here that they were even starting to build, west of downtown, a new highway named after it.
                                                                 

As soon as I stepped out from cover of the trees, there it was, a small cotton tail  rabbit directly in front of me scurrying down the trail lightning fast, but still too far away and hugging too close to the trees for me to get a shot off at it. I could feel my heart beating faster the closer I got. I knew any second the rabbit would break away sideways. My dog Lupe and I used to chase them for fun and they always did the same thing.  At first rabbits will freeze and sometimes without realizing it you might even walk right up on top of them without knowing it, but once they knew you spotted them, they would take off running straight and fast for a short distance before zigzagging the exact same way every-time.
It spotted me. I saw the dirt kick up as it bolted sideways  like I expected and then back the other way. It was still far enough away that I was sure it would hole up before I got there. It made one more sweeping jolt before high tailing to the hedge where it paused frozen for a second as unsure of the giant train as it was of me, and then in the blink of an eye, darted into the thicket just like in the “Briar Rabbit” story. 
 I got there just in time to wave sheepishly at the passing caboose wondering if the engineer even questioned someone out here carrying a big gun, although I bet it’s a common sight even if a bit disconcerting. He waved back without a care sounding his whistle a couple times in approval before fading slowly out of sight. I was glad this train was somewhat fast and relatively shorter than most. I have been out here when a mile of over a 150 cars blow through here with seemingly no end in sight, taking forever to pass. I always wonder how it’s even possible  for these things to stay upright with sometimes each car looking as if it's leaning to the point of tipping the whole thing over and off their slender wheelbase.

I was a little disappointed but relieved that the rabbit ditched me. I could be satisfied that there had been just enough excitement already to forget how bad I had been feeling and i felt the relief warmly flow over me. The lust was lost on a prayer and a desire to really want to go back home, regardless of admittedly being rebellious at any given window of opportunity, but once it passes, i'm kind of empty and missing my dumb brothers.
That stupid dove was still on the line, and i was now close enough to shoot at it, but I even left it alone and besides, it’s against the law to shoot them on a high-wire, which I’m not sure if that’s  written as a sporting law, or so you don’t blow a line in half  and knock out telephone service or electricity in half the county.

I figured I would head on back even if I still hadn’t taken a single shot. I decided I was going to just shoot it in the air to see what it was like. First though before I shoot, and since I had come this far, I had to take a peak inside this huge hedge even though I was pretty wet and all but done with this place by this time, and it was starting to rain even harder, but curiosity got the better of me, and what could another minute hurt?

I inched my way up and leaned close enough trying to get a glimpse inside the cavernous dark camouflaged mesh of vines and leaves.  I couldn’t see anything but could hear leafy scurrying. I backed away timidly getting a fright all of sudden fearing the possibility of walking into a pile of rattlesnakes that we had heard stories of dens around here with big fat six footers being pulled out of, and where there’s rabbits or mice and small birds, there’s going to be snakes.
I felt myself getting cautious and jumpy and just as I cowered back, I was instantly startled when a rabbit, that I must have spooked, had popped out on the other side. I watched as it scampered halfway up the embankment leading up to the tracks before it stopped and stood frozen in place like rabbits do.
I was now shifted into a state of instant, nervous confusion in the face of this new situation that now  presented itself right in front of me- it was almost too easy. I was dumbfounded and bewildered. I froze just like the rabbit. We might have been staring at each other. What was I going to do now? I waited for it to take off but it just sat not moving a hair,  so I instinctively raised my gun and then put it down again thinking it would for sure run when i moved. I kept hearing myself say rapidly over and over in my head, “what do I do, what do I do”? I could just blast up in the air. I felt my fingers on the cold trigger and slid off the safety with my thumb and then just stood pointing this gun for what seemed like the longest time. I could feel myself shaking from the cold and adrenaline. I quickly went through a dozen rapid indecisive scenarios and possibilities in my head. If I shot at it, I don’t think there would be much chance of hitting it anyway with as much brush as there was in the way, but I just didn’t know for sure. It was now or never. I kept pointing in the general direction and probably even closed my eyes. I had lost  all my nerve-if I had any to begin with.
It was an unlikely, even impossible shot, I thought as I shuddered, but like that, I pulled the trigger anyway shooting blindly into the hill.
To my surprise it was a mind blowing astounding shock to all my senses. I was instantly blindsided hard, and was in no way prepared for the sheer force and earth shattering and world deafening blast of power and thundering BOOM that sent me reeling backward, causing me to scream out in intense pain as the kickback from the recoil slammed into my shoulder like sledge hammer knocking me flat on my ass. A mule might as well have kicked me through a barn wall. I had never felt that kind of violent brute force or pain in my life and was sure my shoulder was broken.
 I forgot everything for a brief moment. I laid there shaken and dazed but regretfully before I could even gain back my focus, I looked in dismay just in time to frightfully see the rabbit spring straight up into the air doing a spinning full cartwheel so high I could still hear the echo of the gun blast bouncing around in the canyon walls of the creek hollow before the rabbit even  fell back and hit the ground. I was more shattered from witnessing this than my shoulder ever could be.
“NO, NO, NO! What did I do? What did I do?” My voice escalated as I heard myself yelling this out loud, still hoping I didn’t hit it, but certain I had even though I watched him land and bolt out of sight just over the hill.Maybe i just grazed him, I thought. He took off awfully fast to be hurt too bad.

I moaned getting up. My shoulder and arm hung limp and i used the gun to steady myself back on my feet, and without a thought, rushed at the heart of the thicket where I was immediately slapped hard in the face. Bushy limbs lashed at my face and eyes like whips as I plowed head first into it like a linebacker using the gun for a battering ram. The bow like sinewy branches only bent to the ground causing me to fall forward-pulling me with them deeper in this tangled web. I pulled myself up  fighting the snapping twigs that were poking me like small spears from every direction.  My legs were ensnarled, stuck painfully pinched between small saplings that got tighter as I tried to move forward. I raged and kicked and screamed with all my might.  There was no way I couldn’t get through here. I reached for the gun that had been ripped from my hands. It really was as if this thing were alive and devouring me. I began to panic and believe I could be left here tangled up for dead. Breathing hard and sweating I lunged hard and upward straining to try and get above to the willowy thin top, but then I felt this sharp stabbing pain in my hand. I couldn’t even see the barbed wire that sliced into my palm. I grabbed and squeezed my wound fearing it worse than it was. I was now in full panic. Panting, I searched for a way out. I decided I would go up over the top of the wire. I held onto the gun knowing if I dropped it, it would sink down into the underbrush and I might not ever get it back. I searched and grabbed the top wire with one hand, the other holding the gun, and then I stepped on the middle wire pushing with all my might to lift up through this jungle that pushed and fought back with its full force and bulk pressing down on my back. But as soon as I stood tall- almost roaring in triumphant agony clearing my head above, my foot slipped out from under me on the wet slick wire slinging me off balance with the weight of the gun reeling me over, and with no way to grab hold, I spun sideways into the rusty steel post that tore into my flesh from my wrist up to my elbow sliding under my coat and hanging me there like a tattered scarecrow. I was now enraged more than scared. I grabbed the post hard, sunk and clipped both my heals secure on the wire before lifting and prying upward and then viciously like a wild bull out of a shoot, brazenly, I ferociously dove forward, heedless and blind with my head guarded and tucked. I crashed and fell through to the other side, twisting my body like a mean tornado,  all the while viciously yanking the gun behind me last. I fell again and lay now out in the open, drenched, scraped and beaten on every part of my body.
This onslaught was not over yet.  i quickly got on my feet but though I was through to the other side of the thicket, I  now had to jump the water filled ditch running along the base of the hill to get on the tracks. I misjudged  my jump sinking knee deep into the marshy growth and a nearly face planted into the slope that my chest and hands lay slammed against while still holding onto my gun with its barrel end sunk and packed with mud. I forcibly pulled myself up and out gripping onto the long sharp Johnson grass.
Once up, I couldn’t slow down, I still had to make it up the steep embankment, which had not been kept up by the railroad in years and was covered by the dry  thick thistle and sharp spiny hog weed, hooked cockle burs, and mostly the towering eight foot ambrosia stalks we used to uproot and throw like spears hurling their mud tips in the air. I scraped my way upward breaking through the coarse hairy stalks like a madman snapping and trampling them like twigs.

 Once on top, not slowing for a second, I took a running leap trying to clear the width of the track bed only to clip my heel, sending the gun flying in the air and crashing solidly into the far rail while my knees drove hard down into the sharp granite ballast and railroad ties only to slip twice more on the rain slick creosote oiled ties. The steel rail was freezing cold, wet and rusty that I pulled myself up in an attempt to crawl on hands and knees to the other side.
Coming up the hill I had already seen  small tufts of fur and blood and more now visible on the rocks and rails.
Thankfully there was almost no slope on this side and it didn’t take me a moment to spot the wounded rabbit. I quickly slid down the loose scree of coal and rock, and hastily hurtled the gully clearing  it this time by a long shot.
 I was out of breath and hurting with bleeding, splinter riddled hands and deep cuts on my arms, but all I could feel was the panic and horrible pangs of guilt, fearing the truth and wanting to turn and run pretending it never happened. I had hoped he had run away, but it was lying there in front of me mortally wounded.  As I approached it let out a high pitched shrill in fear while lying on its side frantically kicking with his back legs trying to escape, but only desperately sliding inches in a half circle, leaving a glistening streak of crimson red blood on the wet grass. The reality was upon me with a weight of sadness I could not have ever imagined. I didn’t even know rabbits made sounds and now it was a sound I would never forget.

What had I done and why? I cried and cursed as I fell to my knees to pick up the wounded rabbit. My heart was in my throat. To no avail, I had been bargaining with God the moment I pulled the trigger.

He was much smaller than I thought, a little more than just a baby. Everything intensified and became  vivid and magnified, lucid and so real. I could see clearly everything that had been precious and beautiful. I stared through the gray tipped fur with its white fluffy undercoat against the warm pink flesh where I could even see the tiny, delicate, blue veins under the translucent skin. Beads of cold dripped off the little black nose that snorted out puffs of frosty vapors. I watched its bottom jaw softly quiver and I could see the tips of two small top teeth each time the mouth opened with a gasp for air. The ears were so delicate and pulled back in fear, blending into the fur. I held his legs from kicking, the tiny nails were sharp and the paw pads were velvety soft. I could still feel his heart racing. The blood was warm on my hands. Little wispy balls of fur were sticking to me and blowing away in the faint breeze. I screamed as loud as I could to God and no one.
The small rabbit fixed its stare on me.They held no contempt-just confusion. Its innocence was precious as heaven itself. Scared and alone, we were as one.

I saved any wrenching self plea  i might make to God. I was here in all of mother natures Glory and strength that I could feel looking me dead in the eye with judgement and pitying condemnation of my soul. It was too late for me to plead or beg. I couldn't take this back.  I could only cry shaking my head in deep disbelief and sorrow.

It was just a stupid rabbit i tried to tell myself. I now knew what real cruelty looked like. "Come on", I kept fighting,”it’s just a rabbit for Gods sake”. I was seeing the thing I hate the most in anyone. I was making deals with my conscious and begging to turn back time after the fact.
Was it curiosity? What was my cruel pathetic excuse now? My sad self-absorbed pity that thought the universe, God and my family was mounting an assault on me? So damn stupid! I was no victim and this was senseless and mean. It’s now dying painfully in my hands but all I am aware of is my own fragile mortality as if I sacrificed this poor thing to find my soul and it’s pain. A shameful means to any end and an awareness of perhaps all of our arrogant, selfish and pointless desires. And now, to make things worse, I have to even finish it off before it suffers more. Or was I even too weak in my own suffering to stop its suffering? I didn't know if i could.

I was left with no choice. I got up to go retrieve the gun. There was no way I could crush it or break its neck with my hands so i was going to have to cowardly shoot it again. Then just as I stood up, it was as if in an ironic sad twist of fate happened, I was given a small gift of forgiveness if not mercy, when its tiny heart stopped beating while still holding it.
 Life as I knew it had also drained away from me as I placed him gently on the only patch of green grass I could find. I didn't feel welcomed to give any ceremonial ritual, so I shamefully turned without looking back and climbed up to the track.
I was beyond exhaustion and never looked so broken and battered. I winced when I saw the condition my new gun. I would pay heavily for that.
I decided to walk the extra half-mile up to the blacktop at the crossing and then back onto our dirt road. Sometimes the long way is the fastest way home.
It was just at that moment I looked out below and across the fields where I could hear the familiar barking of  my dog Lupe. I stood and watched her running at full blinding speed in my direction as if floating over the mud fields.  Tears welled up in my eyes at the sight of her running to my rescue, running as though she heard me cry out in need....

That dreary awful day now seemed like a lifetime ago. The small scars on my hands are now almost as faded as that day, but forever a gentle reminder of the fragile world in which we live in. I brushed off the pearly chalk on my hands and pocketed my rock. It was a beautiful warm day. Before walking on, I waved a humble salute to the row of silky doves that were watching. I felt joyous. It was a perfect day. So perfect, it just might end.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The long walk

 
   Growing up in the country, the long back roads are the defining thread that weave many lives together, and just like those lives, no two are ever quite identical. They are the fingerprints of the land and its boundaries, that tell unique stories which run through and amongst us living here, vital as our own veins and arteries, in which we navigate the curves, dips and contours, the hidden mysterious passages where many a 'no trespassing" sign hangs rusty and sad, and where not much more than the shadows are all that appear to change like a sun dial, bending and stretching  with the passing of the long days sun.

  As were most of the roads around here, they were made up of a chalky white caliche - a gravel and powdery mix of crushed limestone that left its dusty signature covered on every element, crack and crevice in sight.

  Looking down, I could see this pearly chalk had heavily dusted my boots and cuff almost to my knees.
I was on our own private road that wound like a snake through the many acres of our property, so familiar to me in its lonely, soothing and mundane way, with its defining constance of sweet sounds and memorable landmarks, where I knew every different and distinct water filled pot hole and muddy tire track rut and even the unique shape and order of each and every single cedar fence post that skirted the roads edge.

  I could have walked this road blindly by now, where even the usual neighboring dogs would bark on cue sensing my approach. Cottontail rabbits scattered always on the same turns, and quail and dove would flutter and scare from fat bushes where they did countless times before. There was a permanence that warmed and soothed to the heart and home within.

  I was on the last stretch of our road that hugged up against, and parallel to the ominous railroad tracks that ran on for miles in a straight line in both directions for as far as the eye could see.

  Walking alone, I always played this same silly game where I would pick up a single rock and throw it as far as I could onto the stretch in front of me, and while it was still hurling high through the air, I would take off running as fast as I could  to try and catch up with it before it landed and got lost amongst infinite others that looked exactly the same, even though they were each as different, and individual as snowflakes were.

As soon as I would find mine, I would instantly pick it up and throw it again, making the walk seem to pass much faster, especially the further I threw it. Time would be of no essence between throwing and finding my rock, and quite often I would actually loose time when I would have to stop for minutes searching thoroughly to try and find it, and of course never leaving until i did.

With each throw, there was an anxious presence of fear growing in me as it flew from my hand, wondering if it might get lost this time, but looking back over those countless walks, however it be, through determination, luck, or fear,  never once can I remember losing one of my rocks.

I would eventually make it to the main paved road, where I would continue on my way leaving my rock where it had last landed on that final throw, still feeling its sharp edged imprint on my fingers from the countless repetitious  throws I flung from beginning to end of our winding property.  But then as always, without fail and within a few steps more, I would get this same sinking sad feeling as if the rock was sitting there watching me walk off.
 No matter how stupid  it seemed, shame would engulf me as if I was leaving a friend behind for no reason, and in a place it didn't want to be.

Feeling completely ridiculous and aware of how foolish this looked to God and the small sparrows on the telephone lines, I would again try to keep walking on, but as always after a few steps more, I would knowingly turn around and run back to begin frantically searching  until I found my exact rock amongst the bright caliche, which I never failed to do, and where I would then, without question, immediately pick it up and put it in my pocket, maybe feeling a little self conscious and silly, but too relieved and happy to care.
Then with a shy awkward glance all around, and a nod to the birds and the empty sky above me, I would continue on my way with a smile.

I often wonder what ever happened to all those rocks my mom must have found in my pant pockets?...