Memories - BitterSweet

I also have vivid mem'ries of home and space,
warmth and special learning ...
but not all were wonderful, and,
perhaps I ma better for it.

A story -- mostly true

faucon
..................................................

QUAKING HEART

I have heard since that many considered the old road between Carson City and Lake Tahoe a scenic splendor. What I remember, as a ten-year-old, was frequent stops to cool the radiator; and, even worse, the fact that someone always got car-sick. The one high spot on the route was a picnic ground in one of the canyons. It had everything! High rocks to climb; a shallow, clear stream you could drink from, and Quaking Aspens! There were lots of pines and firs and stuff too, but Aspens were rare. In October they were half-yellow and the extra dryness gave their music an especially sharp "click" as they rustled in the breeze.

There were more kids than usual at this picnic, not just my brothers and sisters I mean. One was named "Jim" and I didn't like him much. I don't why, exactly; just didn't. Anyway, we all charged up into the canyon away from the grown-up's, about a quarter mile or so until the cliff walls penned us in. I guess our parents liked the area too! By some mysterious process we decided to play "hide'n'seek," with the area's lone Ponderosa as "base" (we knew these things). I was "it" on the second round and quickly found my sister, who never did learn to keep her head down. As she started the new count I thundered up the slope, secure in the knowledge that when she peeked, as she always did, she couldn't see around the huge trunk. I found a tall Aspen and shinnied up the base to the first branch twelve feet off the ground. In a few seconds I was up about fifty feet and found a perfect cluster of branches in which to rest and brace my feet. The chattering leaves didn't give me away and whispered just louder than my panting breath.

My sister had done surprisingly well, catching everyone else with ease. It never occurred to me that they were perhaps just tired of the game. The others had, in fact, joined in the search; but I was secure in my nest. I hugged the trunk closely in appreciation, certainly not from any fear of the swaying branches. Then it happened! I looked out across the valley.

The canyon that started at my feet spread in a gradual "V" pointed at the center of the Carson Valley many miles away. In a panorama unseen by those below and unrestricted by haze, smog or hand of man, lay a picture no artist could portray. Sun glistened on the many twists of the sluggish river. Cattle of many breeds and colors grazed in separate patchwork fields, each seeming as close as the hawk circling overhead. A redwing blackbird perched on a fence post, just as near, yet -- 15 miles away! I raised my eyes up and across the scene without changing focus. Like the view through a pinhole camera near and far were in the same plane; distinct, touchable. On the far side of the valley the golden fields changed to rock, brush and Juniper. A rabbit munched on a sprig of Indian Paintbrush. I could see 40 miles!

I had forgotten to breathe. With a shake of my head and a gasp my eyes closed involuntarily -- the scene was gone! The quaking, golden leaves sounded like running water to join my tears, and I was alone. Not only did no one move in the grass below but I was isolated from the entire world by what I had seen. I don't know how long I stayed there, swaying in a cradle of gently caressing green and golden fingers, listening to a glittering song of reflected light and what I later came to know as sadness. I found myself on the ground; I don't recall climbing down -- and I walked toward the sounds of laughter in the distant camp.

As I passed the towering Ponderosa Pine I put out a hand and shouted, "Oly-oly-oxen-free!" Silence! Again, "Oly-oly-oxen-free!" Some adult had told us it should be, "All-ye, all-ye, outs in free," but what do they know. The camp seemed a long way off.

As I entered the picnic area, Jim nudged my sister who ran over and touched me and cried, "Out!"
"No!" I cried, "I won. I touched the tree."
"Says who," exclaimed Jim defiantly. "We didn't see you. I did see your sister tag you out. You lose!"
"But," I stammered, "We agreed to the rules ..." A roar of laughter drowned my plea. I looked at my brother expectantly but he turned away. My sister only giggled. I turned to my brother again, helplessly.
"How silly," he said, "Hiding out there all alone while we were down here searching for gold in the stream. I think you lost twice."

My parents bustled about in the blue smoke around the picnic table. Soon, piles of food permitting chatter and a lack of table manners, put an end to the matter. I so wanted to tell them of what I had seen. Today I doubt if any of them even remember the picnic. I have re-lived the emotions of that day many times. It became part of who I am.

My siblings went on learn other games; when to push to win, when to quit, when to change the rules, when to cheat. They taught other children in their turn. They had visible accomplishments! They gained fame! They succeeded in many things, but never in their relationship with a significant other. I never heard them say they were happy. Maybe, beneath it all, they all do have a special memory -- a vision -- to share. I never asked. Now, as I stand with a grandchild at my side, I am supposed to somehow draw wisdom from remembered experience and offer gentle coaching to help her over pitfalls yet to come. What am I to say, reflecting back on a child's pain? Did those other kids instinctively know not to ask where I had hidden so successfully, fearing the story that would also come? Why did they attack? Were they really cornered or threatened? Where were my parents to protect me from this injustice? Isn't that what they are for? Must that memory be mine alone, the bad -- and the good? I saw 40 miles! Today, who would ever believe? Perhaps it is enough to have a grand-daughter agree to stand silently for five minutes and just listen, listen to the rustle and whisper of the green-golden Aspen off my rear deck, the mountains slightly hazy only ten miles away. In the fluttering leaves are the sounds of joy, laughter and song; chattering elves in childish dreams. I don't hear over my pounding heart -- my eyes are closed. I can see 40 miles -- still. Oh, but could I see into the heart of men as well! She laughs! The growing breeze has lifted the swaying branches and shaken the tree like a dog from water. She waves and her golden leafed friend waves back. They laugh together. "Bruuuur, chet, chet chet." I laugh too. I close my eyes again. Only the Aspen knows it is laughing at me!