Lamb's Creek

Lamb’s Creek is a long, lazy, cool collection of spring water and rain, dappled with sunlight and shadow.
For thousands of years, like an aged serpent, it’s glistening, dark body has undulated through the forest and tall grass fields, polishing stone and shifting sand.
Small, shimmering fish, dart in it’s shallows; larger, older, colder bodied things lurk, deep under the wet limestone banks, waiting.

My mothers family settled along the branch more than a century ago.
For generations, the creek was a place to hunt and a refuge from the permeating presence of Summer.

When I was nineteen, I chose a Memorial Day to return and feel the waters, and maybe collect a few geodes that had been washed from their places of birth.
Heat had come early that particular May. The Cottonwood trees were releasing their progeny; the young, suspended on the sultry air, innumerable in the afternoon light, were slowly making their way to the surface of the shade covered stream.
I followed them to water, jumped from the high bluff that was covered with fern and moss, and sank my feet into the cool with the others.
Earlier in the day, after visiting my parents, I had brought a kitten home to my young wife; she quickly, without words pulled the cat into her arms, where recently, had been an erroneously trusted friend.

When I was younger, my father told me many times, "You will have many friendly acquaintances, but few, true friends."
He could have been sharing lessons from experience, but, maybe he was offering counsel for behaviors I was exhibiting.
What may father had said about friends and friendship was so very true, but I would be long in understanding it.

The Sunday morning that my sister began my religious indoctrination, I watched my brothers and my father pull away; their bodies, blown in the wind and jostled, disappeared into the distance as I stood on the sidewalk, shackled.
I knew where they were going, and I knew what they would find, I had been with them before and relished the shared experience.
The wonderful, wild, and weird, were substantiated when our eyes met across the encounters between us; the fears, we each understood, were lessened and courage festered in our hearts as we stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the unknown.
But, those times were over, and they, all too soon, would be gone as well.
I would spend much of my life searching to get back into that green truck with the souls I had known.

I faced the unknowns of my adolescence with a group of acquaintances; hooligans who are now found in addiction or prison, but one, a shining example, was a friend, a surrogate for the brotherly relationship I was missing.
Together we honed our talents, raided pantries, sought beautiful girls and their treasures held, shared stolen cigarettes between gulps of similarly acquired alcohol, wondered at the stars over frosted stubble in broad corn fields, endured punishments, and laughed at it all, but eventually, and unfortunately, we were to part ways.

As a young adult, continuing my quest, I suffered an acquaintance as a friend. As Lamb’s Creek, he stole through my life, eventually wearing and separating lands that were joined. I survived the encounter, wounded, with a religious respect for my fathers advice.
The concurrence left me bitter and guarded, but unconsciously I continued to prospect for my elusive brothers.

After Lamb’s Creek I found associations, for a short period in time. We shared an occupation as soldiers, and with the duties, shared many memorable times.
Those links, often called Brothers In Arms are scattered now, among the grass, under the wind. We drift in and out with one another through phone calls and letters place by me. Not real friends, but friendly, they are there, each validating our life experience.

Upon reaching middle age, the yearning subsided; I had experienced most of the grand events expected in this life, many without the presence of a proponent. The close confidants that held the proof of my life together were fewer, and further away, and frankly, I was no longer interested in parceling what was left to others. What more was to come, I was willing to face alone.

Yet, a few years ago, seasons changed, along with the currents of the wind, and like the Summer Snow on Lamb’s Creek, strangers blew into my life; serendipitously drifting beside me. Being apprehensive and tired, I held them warily at a distance, as acquaintances, but, they, being seeds of something I lost long ago, found purchase near me and have grown into entities that I am happy to know, and they, swaying in the wind with me, shoulder to shoulder have become more than friends.

They are my brothers and I am thankful to share what's left of this life with them.

Drink Your Fill

The border of trees, naked, limbs like arthritic hands, made of coal, stand unmoving as the gun colored fog rises from it’s hidden abode and breaches the cordon of slumbering entities.
Stealthily , void of sound, it crosses the ink hued waters, silently steals up the frosted banks, and without notice entrenches for assault on my damaged ground.

My old friend returned to share a drink with me. I didn’t hear his feet upon the cabin floor nor receive notification of his passing. While enjoying a bit of comfort I mistakenly left the door unbolted, which to him has always been a sign of invitation to my hearth. I must say, I am always a bit startled when I enter the room to find him quietly sitting.
I can’t recall how long we have known one another, or even our introduction; it seems as if we have always been familiar, but him of me, more than I of him. I call him friend, not out of friendliness, but from time accrued. Truthfully assessing our relationship would have me admit that I really do not like him at all; surely, I have enjoyed his company from time to time, but out of youthful melancholy. I don’t know why he has always been so fond of me.

His visits often last for months, though recently they are fewer and far between. He’s really not a person that brings warmth to a place; his appearance is grim, his countenance is consumption.
Draining, he is; the fire, quivering in the corner, recedes before his presence, food is un-filling, and drink is un-quenching.

I’ve never been a good host; when he visits I rarely speak, offering little to the union. We sit at my worn table; I with my arms folded, and he with his flickering yellow eyes set deep in his black face, searching my heart for the liquid that fills his cup. His voice not heard, but felt, like a hive of droning hornets, recalls and places before me the wretchedness of times past and proposes fearsome futures. Shifting my gaze, I look about the chamber for artifacts that might spur some lighter conversation, but to no avail; he commands his ensnared audience.

Rising, I reach for the iron to stoke the fire, hoping to provoke a flame and warm the cold that is embracing the space, maybe fuel the embers to lick at his heels and drive him into the night air, to move him along on his way. My selfish desire; for him to find some new friend, some new dwelling where he can draw his quarter and be done with me.
I lay the final piece of kindling upon the waning blaze, wishing it were his funeral pire.
He cranes his crooked neck to squarely place his lamp-like gaze upon me and continues his growling murmur.

Drink your fill my friend, drink your fill and go!

Resurrection

The Greyhound coach had taken what seemed an eternity to transport me and my small backpack to central Kentucky. But for the driver I was unaccompanied; throughout the day the rolling carcass had rumbled to stops at it’s pre-positioned hubs and disgorged the other travelers.
I had departed from the Indianapolis Military Entrance Processing Station in a limousine with a few other recruits. Upon arrival at the bus station we shook hands and went our separate ways. A few were heading to the Great Lakes Naval Center, some were on their way to the east coast to become Marines. I was traveling to Ft. Knox to be reborn as a soldier.

As the miles accumulated on the odometer, my old life was slipping into the dark. The physical span of this particular journey was minimal, but it might as well have been light years, unfathomable miles, from the sun.
I was a flesh and bone satellite tumbling away from earth. As the hours passed and the familiar sights shrank in the distance a great silence enveloped me. I was solitary in the hinterland of a great emptiness.
Ice began to form on my hull, obscuring my markings of origin. The processes inside began to slow with the cold and soon their noises would cease. The remnants of life were flickering, desperately drawing what energy was left, intermittently blinking in the dark until finally extinguishing in the subzero environment of space.

I was alone.

The cavernous aluminum leviathan lumbered to a halt on a small hill next to a battered concrete block shanty and opened its maw to spit me from it’s gullet.
I stepped out, into the gloom, and into a growing storm. The bus pulled away as a damp wind picked up the red dust of the ground and threw it against the diminutive weathered building. Lightning was flashing in the distance, silhouetting the unfamiliar horizon in crimson and gold. Thunder rumbled and mingled with the unmistakable "thud" and "krump" of artillery that was rising and falling in far away fields.

I stood on this forsaken purchase of ground with the vacant shack, inhaling the ozone, rain, and iron. The feeling was desolate and charged, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand like prophets speaking of unavoidable action.

I had receive no instructions on what to do upon reporting to this post; do I wait here for some sort of shuttle? I had imagined that I would now be face to face with someone who would usher me into this alien world, but here I stood in the hollow of night with a frigid blast buffeting this remote, empty outpost.
The thought of walking away flashed in my mind; I could step away from all of this, evade into the tempest, and no one would observe my parting. But, I had no place to go; I had committed to this path and left my home as well as all that it had to offer. I was unprepared for any other option.

I looked to my broken associate who was anchored to the rise; in the shadow of it’s entrance, illuminated by a dim lamp, was a hinged metal box marked in with faded yellow paint ‘New Arrivals’.
I raised the cover, revealing a worn old telephone from a previous war. The receiver had been painted numerous times with varied shades of olive, and below it’s base was a single red button.

This moment was final; these terminal seconds that it would take my finger to touch the blood colored stud would be my last, as the person that I was.

The device was bitter against my ear. My chest expanded as I formulated words for the being on the other end of the line.
I exhaled old fears, my heart rushed and resonated in my ears. I looked into the imminent roar, drew one last breath, and depressed the flaming contact that would announce my entrance to this world.

Another flash in the blackness, another rumble, more thunder.

With great labor, I would soon receive my resurrection.

The Old Man

I have seen his face, somewhere behind my reflection.
I hear his whispers in the dark, driving me from rest.
I have suffered his blows upon the good in me.
I have grappled with him, viciously assaulted him, but he will not be subdued.

I am unable to sever myself from him;
he is welded to me and I am torn from his constant abrasion.

Born with me, he is my burden; I have carried him all of my days.
Panting, gnashing, gnawing, murmuring; he writhes inside of me.
He is a sickness within me, requiring constant nursing.

He is the old man, a mortal coil encumbering my every action.
Shackled together he, my constant companion, slows my pace.

Oh! To press my thumbs into his eyes on a dark, rain-soaked field;
to drive my fingers into his throat; to squeeze the life from him;
to release him from his chains, would be the end of me as well.

So, I will continue to bear him, and his cur-like nature, throughout the remainder of my years.

Maybe he will quiet himself as we walk into the ages.

God of War

To break from her corrupt gaze is to live a life of peace and to harvest the fruit of life.

Sublime is her call; deceit pours like syrup from her full mouth.

I have followed her with multitudes of other young men, beating our chests, and pining for her hot soft skin.

Her touch is a haunting, and a horror in the night.

Her bosom is the grave.

Salvation

Summer, 08’

The chipmunk, panting rapidly, had narrowly escaped the jaws of the canines that were in his pursuit; he paused, in horror, at their backsides as they dug for his home under the porch.
His black and white camouflage did little to hide him from my daughters ‘pet acquiring’ eyes that had watched the scene unfold; the shocked little pest was soon wriggling in her delicate hand.
As the rodent sank his tiny teeth into her finger she thought "Dad has callused man hands, surly he can hold this little varmint better than I can!" and with victory in her eyes she carried the now vicious ball of fur into the house.

My daughter was born at the perfect moment in my life; she entered this world when it began to darken for me. I was twenty-one when she arrived, and in no way, was I prepared to raise her; I was wound up with immaturity, depression, and grief.

Her months in the womb were difficult, resulting in numerous, journeys to the hospital.
Her birth, long labored, was finalized by an emergency cesarean section.
My soul turned and tears came as I held her tiny body and listened to her delicate voice.
The glow of her life warmed my heart and planted my feet in the ground.

She was marked with hemangianoma’s on her nose and hip. The pediatrician assured us that these were common and would fade.
At four months of age she began having seizures that caused her breathing to halt; my family medical history mandated an EEG as well as a CAT Scan.

An "un-definable mass" was found in her brain.

The doctor assigned to us insisted that she should be administered anti-seizure medication as well as be connected to an alarm while sleeping.

Terms like, Rage and Anger, do little to describe the feelings I was filled with. "Why, in the name of God, does my child have to be afflicted with the plague that is destroying my family? Is it not enough that all of the other facets of this life are damaged, can’t one be free of marring?"

I knew what the medications prescribed would do to her; I had experienced their mental and physical effects on my brothers.

I refused to administer the toxin to my daughter.

Chance counsel from a family physician offered the idea that the "un-definable mass" could be a hemangianoma and would fade with the others.
I threw away the paper prescription, but taped the sensors of the respiratory monitor to her every night.

The marks on her body slowly faded as well as her seizures and the nightly alarms.

During this period of her life, my brothers were dying as well as my relationship with her mother. I yearned for escape from turmoil and pressure, but her hold was tight upon me; her spirit was reaching through me like the roots of a great tree to water.
She was the glimmer of hope in me; she was the quantity that eased and quieted the shaking that could bring me to the ground.

Looking back, I can see that I was in a similar situation as the chipmunk in this chapter; I was in great danger of demise, my home was being destroyed, I was exposed, and unprepared for the world.

But, fortunately, grace shined upon me; I was rescued and uplifted by the delicate, loving hand of my daughter.

"Make Do."

The Great Depression pushed the young men of my home town away; some went to the Civilian Conservation Corps and a great many (including my uncles) retreated to the local river camps.

The people in town called the men who went to water "River Rats" and I guess you could say that their behavior mimicked that furry creature; industriously they worked to gather refuse for shelter, took advantage of the bounty nature provided, and in this way survived until fortune carried them home.

From the woods and farm field dumps they gathered material to construct their small shacks and shanties.

Some built floating barges that carried them through other river towns, looking for work while sustaining themselves on fish, turtle, beaver, and musk rat.

Tin and canvas roofs sheltered them from the rain and snow that fell. Tar paper, battened boards, and rough hewn logs blocked the wind.
Deadfall wood, burning in the oil drum stoves, provided the heat that warmed them and cooked their meals that were gathered from the river and it's banks.

The workday commenced before the sky began to glow through the trees; they waded through the river checking traps and trout lines. As the sun drew the wind to the east, rifles report echoed through the bottoms; squirrels, raccoons, deer, and birds were harvested.
Fishing with poles and traps continued through the day as well as the gathering of spring water, dandelion greens, wild onion, chicory, berries, persimmons, pawpaws, roots, and nuts.

Excess was traded and sometimes sold in the town square for sundries that could not be acquired naturally.

They were looked upon with jest and scorn for their rudimentary ways of living, but they were indebted to nothing except their basic human needs.
Hunger and the need for shelter was satiated by will and the knowledge of what our earth provides, free of charge.

My uncles "Made Do" and survived to thrive. They passed on their knowledge of the creeks and rivers to all that would listen.

I’ll end this by sharing their advice;

"If it’s tough out there, Make Do."