Old Growth -- A Short

I see him step out onto the back porch from my perch in our favorite orchard tree. He lets the screen door creek shut softly and then pulls out his Sabbath leather gloves from his right coat pocket. Where's Grandpa going, Shane says. I look down one branch at him and shrug. Don't know, I say. I look back at the house. He is wearing a leather cap with a wide brim and rubber boots too - the same ones he wears when he's in his garden. He raises his coat collar up around his neck, adjusts his hat and then grabs hold of his walking stick, a palm size whittled branch that rests against the side of the house. I look back down at Shane. C'mon, I say. Let’s go with him!

With hurried movements we leapfrog each other, branch by branch, down the wet Filbert trunk and hit the soft ground running. Wait for us Grandpa, Shane calls. Grandpa pauses in the middle of the gravel driveway while we snatch up our own de-barked branches, raise our coat collars and run after him. We don't have all day, he says as he turns back down the driveway. We grin at each other but don't say anything. With a curl of his tongue Grandpa lets out a long piercing whistle. Within seconds, Gretta - Grandpa's German Sheppard, comes trotting around the side of the old farm house. Atta girl, he says. Where we going, I say. For a walk, he says. I start to say more but then look at his gloves and change my mind.
With the afternoon drizzle picking up again, we shuffle down the gravel driveway in silent formation. Gretta follows obediently in line behind Grandpa's left heel, Shane and I behind his right. I watch Grandpa's shoulders as we walk, how the small beads of water drip single file off the brim of his hat and create individual little pathways down his leather coat, painting the light hyde with dark streaks. He turns back to us slightly. Quit kicking at the gravel, he says. Pick up your feet when you walk, he adds. I lower my head and focus on each step. I imagine myself to be Swift Arrow, an Indian warrior leading a war party. I look for every bit of grass or bare spot in the gravel, stepping lightly to avoid my wet shoes making the slightest sound. From the corner of my eye I can see Shane hopping lightly from bunch of grass to bunch of grass behind me. He has picked up his walking stick and now carries it in front of him, ready for the possible attack that could be coming from the orchard beside us at any moment. Grandpa is our chief. Gretta is a wild wolf that we have raised as our own since she was a pup. Shane and I are the greatest hunters that our tribe has ever known. Together we walk as shadows in the midst of the gray afternoon light, making our way to some far away bit of holy ground.

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Our journey becomes more of a Trail of Tears, a forced walk of exile, after about a mile. Gone is the gravel, the bits of grass, the warriors and the wolf. We now walk single file along a quiet country road. I am beginning to regret our choice to follow Grandpa. But then I see the old Bollenger place up ahead. I nudge Shane behind me with an elbow and point. Steeeeeeevie, he whispers. I look back to Grandpa. He's whistling to himself now. He's also picked up the pace a bit. I decide it's worth it. Ummm... Grandpa, I say. What is it, he says without looking back. What's wrong with Stevie, I say. Yeah, why is he so weird, Shane says. I move to block Shane from Grandpa, just in case. What... Shane whispers to me. It's OK, Grandpa says. You're right, he says. Stevie does have something wrong with him. But you know, he used to be same as you and me, he says.
I look back to the Bollenger farm house. I can see the front door now. I feel a shiver. The door has a long oval, stained glass window that fills it almost completely. Although I always think there should be some sort of light, some sort of life, showing through the door... there is only blackness, like it is a portal -- a portal to some evil plane of existence, some parallel universe.
There is a story behind Stevie, Grandpa says as we continue to near the house ahead. You see this field here, he says. Shane and I both turn to our left and nod. You see how it is on the side of a hill, he says. Shane and I both nod. Well, he says. Many years ago, before either of you were born, Stevie was driving his tractor along here. He was mowing the grass, Grandpa says. I picture it on the hill as Grandpa tells us the story. I picture Stevie, with his maimed arm and his maimed leg, up on a green John Deer tractor -- Grandpa's green John Deer tractor. I picture him pulling the wide, low metal attachment with turning blades underneath that Grandpa uses to cut his own fields. I picture it and wait for Grandpa to go on. And there was an accident, Grandpa says. The tractor rolled over on him. Rolled down the hill, he says. I picture the tractor rolling over. I picture the attachment and the blades underneath continuing to cut. But he lived, Shane says. Yes, Grandpa says. He lived. But that is why there is something wrong with Stevie Bollenger, he says. I hope that never happens to me, Shane says. Grandpa laughs and reaches back to put an arm around Shane. Don't you worry about that, he says. We can't control what life brings our way, he says. He pulls Shane in close against his wet coat and we walk on.

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The afternoon light is growing brighter as we step off another gravel driveway a couple miles away and into the underbrush on a small dirt path that leads us deep within a canopy of Douglas Firs. The rain has stopped, not that it could follow us into this place anyway. Above, the afternoon sun fights through the clouds and pierces the thick fir branches in the form of long, narrow fingers of light that shine on the tall ferns growing all around us on the mossy forest floor. We're almost there, I whisper to Shane. He nods in agreement. With the brief appearance of the sunshine, birds begin to call to each other above. They seem to be announcing our arrival onto this hallowed ground. These Jays and Crows are somehow guardians to this secret world. I imagine that if the elves of Middle Earth still lived in a place that it would have to be a place like this place. I look ahead to Grandpa and notice his Sabbath gloves again. I suddenly wish that I have gloves to wear, especially in a place like this.
We both see it before he points it out to us. It is a massive piece of wood, a trunk that makes the other trees all around us seem like walking sticks. Its roots alone are taller than Shane, maybe taller than me. As my eyes follow the trunk upward I hear Shane say, Grandpa... what is it? Grandpa stops. He sets his walking stick against a smaller tree to his right. Gretta disappears from view as she sniffs her way around the backside of the gigantic trunk. Shane and I step up beside Grandpa. We both pin the backs of our heads against our shoulders as we stare heavenward. Is this the Tree of Life, Shane asks? I elbow him. Don't be silly, I say. But somehow it is me that feels silly. What is it Grandpa, he says again. Shhhhh, Grandpa says. Can't you two be quiet for even a couple seconds, he says. I begin to count in my head. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi... I get to 20 Mississippi's and then Grandpa says, this is not just another tree. This is a very special tree, he says. This tree is an Old Growth tree, he says. Woooooow, Shane says. I don't elbow him this time.
I look back down the trunk and then look at Grandpa. What's so special about an Old Growth tree, I say. Don't be smart, he says to me. I'm not being smart. But before I can defend myself Shane says, yeah Grandpa... tell us about the Old Growth tree. Shane and I both stare up quietly as we wait for Grandpa to explain. Look at it, he says. Do you see the size of it, he says. It takes a very, very, very long time for a tree to grow to this size. Do you see how far it goes, he says. Do you see how far it reaches out to either side, he says. Shane and I follow the tree's trunk up as far as we can see. We turn and follow the branches out as far as we can see. And look at these roots, he says. Shane and I look down to the massive roots that stretch out in every direction. They are eye level in places before burying deep beneath the mossy ground around us. These roots are the most special part of the tree, he says to us. How come, Shane says. Because, he says. The higher the tree grows, the further the tree reaches, the more impressive this tree becomes, the deeper its roots have to be, he says. He pauses. Shane and I wait quietly for him to continue. Then he says, the tree could not become what is has become without holding on to its roots. Shane and I don't say anything. Someday you will understand, he says.
I look from the roots back to Grandpa now. His head is bowed. I see a small bead of water on his left cheek, only briefly, before it disappears beneath his graying beard. From where I stand, with him towering above me, I imagine him to be an Old Growth tree. He is a gigantic trunk that stretches up as far as I can see. His arms are long branches that reach out as far as I can see. And his boots are massive roots that have long ago buried themselves deep within the ground around us. I marvel at him, my Grandpa in front of me, as he marvels at this Old Growth tree in front him.

He is right... The roots are the most special part. And yes, Grandpa is right... Someday I will understand.



At an Intersection of Two Roads -- A Short

Outside draped windows and locked doors it nearly mid day. But inside the weathered suburban house, for the man slumped over his wooden kitchen table, it is simply sometime between awake and asleep. He holds his hands to his temples and tries unsuccessfully to block out the electric buzz from a hanging kitchen lamp above. The kitchen lamp, like every other light inside the house, is always on.

He feels for the smooth round rocks glass on the table in front of him, sits back in his chair and lifts the glass to his face. The sweet scent of whiskey mixed with the chorus of buzzing lamps becomes strangely intoxicating and he takes note of the salty-sweet moment before wetting his lips on the cool rim of the whiskey glass. The whiskey goes down warm but does not burn like it did before. The man downs the entire glass easily and then drops it back on the thick table top in front of him.

Outside he hears the unmistakable approaching roar of a 1200 cc Sportster. It pierces the drapes and the closed doors and rattles his kitchen table before fading away again further down the street. When he can no longer feel the Harley’s vibration in the empty rocks glass in his hand, when he can again only hear the buzz of lamps around him – the man cocks back his empty glass and then slings it out across the table like it were a shuffle board. He listens to the sound of the glass scrape heavily across the oak table top and catches his breath in the moment of silence that follows. In that moment of silence, that moment before the splintering sound of broken glass on tile floor, like the moment of calm certainty before a violent car crash, in that moment the man sees what must be done.

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He counts each step, turning to his right after number six, to his left after number nine and stops after seventeen. He reaches out and feels for the doorknob at his belt and then pushes open the office door. Unsure of his steps in this room, the man holds his hands out to either side as a guide. He runs his fingertips over cardboard boxes, leather books, papers, files – all from another lifetime, when he was another man. Slowly the man picks his way through the room until he comes to a tall metal cabinet. A combination lock hangs open on the front door to the cabinet. The man feels the shape of the lock in his hand for a moment. Sixteen, eight, twelve, he whispers to himself. As he pulls open the cabinet door he hears the squeal of dusty brake pads outside and then the hissing exhale of air brakes. It is the city metro bus – either the nineteen after or the twenty-one before. He has no way of knowing. Outside on the street the bus pulls away and inside the cluttered office the man feels within the metal cabinet with one hand for a box of shells and with the other for his forty-four caliber revolver.

He stuffs the box of shells into his left pocket and lets the forty-four hang at right his side. As he turns to feel his way back to the near empty bottle of whiskey in the kitchen his hand grazes across something and he stops because of it. For a moment he stands there and lets his fingers feel the rough surface of the object. It is a case he knows to be black. And inside is an instrument that he remembers he once enjoyed to play. After a moment he finds the handle and he lifts the case from its dusty perch. With a box of shells in his pocket, his forty-four revolver hanging from one hand and his alto sax hanging from the other, the man counts each step back to the worn wooden table and the buzz of the hanging kitchen lamp.

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At the kitchen table once more, the man sips from a fresh glass of whiskey and turns over the box of shells. The shells ring as they spill over each other and onto the table top. The man takes another sip and then sets down the glass, reaching for the revolver. He swings out the round cylinder and begins to shove in shell after shell. He counts to six, spins the cylinder and snaps it back into place. Now he pauses. He sets the revolver down softly on the table top and takes another sip from his whiskey glass. So this is what it comes to, he says aloud. Just like that, he says to himself. Well, alright then, he says. But he doesn’t move. He sips his whiskey slowly and he doesn’t move.

He finishes his glass of whiskey and another after it and then he finally sets down the rocks glass. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Then he reaches out across the table in front of him – pushing past the loose shells… the empty bottle of whiskey… and the loaded revolver… until his hands find the rough, black saxophone case.

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The sun sits low on the horizon now, painting the downtown skyline in a golden light. In the heart of the city, long, dark fingers stretch down from plexiglass windows to cover sun scorched streets. It is on the corner of Congress and Sixth, below corporate skyscrapers and between evening shadows, that the man finally stops. Maybe it's the warm sunshine on his pale face; maybe it's the frantic energy brushing past his slumped shoulders as people push their way down the sidewalk; maybe it’s the weight of the saxophone that hangs from his neck or maybe it's the anchored lamp post on which he now leans against... Whatever the reason, the man pauses and breathes in this moment.

It is the first time he has been outside of his house in more than a month. His hands are shaking and he inhales deeply again to steady himself. How many years has it been, he wonders silently, since he was just like the rest – rushing along these very streets, always on his way to somewhere. Something begins to stir deep within his chest. A knot begins to grow in his throat. The man listens to the traffic roaring from right to left in front of him. He smells the bitter-sweet cocktail of exhaust, cigarette smoke, the hotdog stand he passed not long ago and the occasional whiff of a woman's perfume. He feels the breeze kicking up at his back – the warmth of the setting sun on his face. And with shaking hands, the man reaches down to the saxophone hanging from his neck. His fingers naturally find their home positions on the sax keys. He coughs once, licks his lips and then places them around the dry reed of the sax.

It starts softly, tenderly – this song that has been held inside for too many years now. There are notes of contentment, happiness at first. They are barely a whisper to the passing world of times forgotten, of people forsaken. But the notes build, one by one and begin to gain momentum as the man continues to play. Soon the tone of the song begins to become more candid, more telling. The evening air is filled with notes of discord, loneliness, pain.

The man pushes away from the lamp post. His shoulders begin to sway from side to side as he lifts his head and cries out to the heavens above. Cars drive by more slowly now. Some roll down their windows as they pass. Pedestrians slow their pace as they approach. Some of them even stop and watch. Some of them even stop and listen… for a moment... And then with a shake of the head, a deep breath or even a smile they eventually all pull themselves away from the scene. But still the man plays on. The sun eventually sets. But still the man plays on. He stands at an intersection, one road behind him and another laid out before him. He stands at an intersection, surrounded by a city that does not sleep… and he plays on.

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Thunderstorms, Manic Mondays and the Art of Procrastination

I step out past my sliding glass door and onto the cold cement slab that is my patio. The cooler air blows softly across my bare arms, my shirtless chest and through my shaggy hair. I can smell the rain even though it has moved on, along with the thunderheads and the sheet lightning, toward browner pastures. Texas size bugs are still hunkered down, out of the rain's reach and above the birds and the Cicadas remain -- for the moment -- quiet as well. The earth has been baptized... the moisture clinging to every extremity like a sopped cut of cotton needing to be rung out and hung over a line in the sunshine for the rest of the afternoon. I breathe in this new birth laid out in front of my slab of patio and I smile. My heart skips in moments like these.

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Another Monday morning marketing meeting. It's still to be decided if today is a "Manic Monday," a "Moronic Monday" or the sometimes "Masochistic Monday." I am surrounded by well-dressed professionals sitting stiffly on stiff leather couches as we attempt to all climb out of our own boxes. These "boxes" are different for each of my coworkers and I notice the differences as they each share their plans one by one. It is not until much later, over a cigar and a beer, that I will see this scene from far enough above to see the truth of it... it is the same box. It is always the same box. And much of the rest of America... shit maybe the world is fighting to rid themselves of this same, but somehow also individual, "box."

But now it's my turn. I stand. I straighten my tucked in polo, my wrinkle free slacks, my "hello, my name is ____" nametag. I clear my throat. And I pour every ounce of creativity, excitement, passion that I can muster into my blueprint for our next revenue positive corporate implementation. I finish with a smile and I take my place on the couch once more. At this point the conversation becomes background. I am in a Charlie Brown Christmas and I listen, intently even, but I do not hear. And then someone says it... "Ok. These are some great ideas. Really great. But it's one thing to stand at the fork and to choose the road. It's a whole other thing to see the road to its destination..."

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Welcome to my road. I have put the fork behind me. I invite you to walk with me for a while, to share my company as I see this road... I hope... to its destination.

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