My grandmother introduced me to ‘Days of Our Lives‘ at a formative time of my childhood, and ever since getting hooked on the NBC soap operas of the 80’s, a penchant for drama has proved a mainstay of my adult life, much to the chagrin of my preferred internal baseline of calm and peace. I am my own worst enemy – I’m well aware. Whenever I see a sky like this, at the dangerous turn of fall – when weather threatens to overwhelm and fluctuate in roller-coaster form – I thrill a bit, glad for the sort of drama that doesn’t directly involve my own emotions and personal predicaments.
Drama tends to surround me even when I’m not part of it, and the universe has seen to it that not all of my demons have been entirely exorcised. Still much work to be done, probably until the day I die, and realizing that comes with its own sort of peace. The heart and mind work in mysterious tandem; everything unfolds as it’s meant to unfold. Be that stone at the bottom of the river, allowing the water to rush past, ebbing and flowing with time and season, while there is stillness and calm within.
The forests were aflame this weekend, and I got to enjoy a number of different vantage points for leaf peeping. More on that later, for now, the weekly blog recap…
Even poisonous leaves can turn pretty in the fall, but who can say what’s deadly after the first hard frost hits? Fall carries its lurking dangers hidden in morning fog and early darkness. Scarlet leaves may not warn of blood – or they may. You take your chances in the woods, and thus far the beauty has always been worth it.
“Deliver him this note,” Ma instructed as she pressed the strap of rough parchment into my hand. “Leave it on his door.” They were doing a quick inventory that morning, and they didn’t want me there. They wanted me to learn all the secrets of running the store, but didn’t want me in the way. Another contradiction of growing up in my house. After Ma told us of the Cowboy’s first visit to the store, she decided to make the dinner invitation more formal than usual, but she didn’t want to make the long trek to the Beasleys’ ranch, where the Cowboy had set up residence in their bunkhouse.
“What if he’s there? I can’t just hand him a note and walk away,” I protested, realizing as soon as the words came out how childish they, and I, sounded.
“Then use your mouth and talk,” she said in pointed and arch tone, ending any possibility of further discussion. “Now move, store should already be opened and you know we have to do inventory.”
When she had brushed by and moved to the front of the store, I hastily opened the note to read in my mother’s neatest scrawl an open-ended invitation to dinner, addressed only to ‘The Cowboy’, leaving the option to drop in unannounced and on any day, the way they were always welcoming the cowboys. For some reason, probably at the Beasleys’ encouragement, the cowboys always joined us at least once a week. When I was old enough to argue against sharing meals with strangers, when the adolescent shyness overcame me in those early teenage years, Ma brought out the bible and read about feeding your neighbor or something – only once or twice more did I invite the lesson and bother with attempting to alleviate my social discomfort; at all the dinners I mostly remained silent.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to bring the note to the Cowboy. On this April morning it would be a relief to walk all the way to the Beasleys, which was the furthest home out of town, closer to the rise of the mountains. Ground was more prone to hold water in that section, and being around any bit of green felt better to me than the dry beiges and browns that barely shifted gradation. I also had a feeling that this cowboy was about to teach me something, one of the very first moments of premonition that I’d experience in my life – but on that morning I attributed it to boredom, and the will to make something – anything – happen in that dusty town.
The road to the Beasleys followed the long straight street that ran through the only stretch of earth I’d ever known. It stayed more or less linear until it reached the start of the nearby mountain, at which point it gently curved around said mountain’s base, gradually gaining a little in altitude, when it rounded the northern side. On the hottest days, anyone who was foolish enough to make the trek in the sun was forced to stop at the Beasleys – the ranch was the only thing for miles, and everyone knew them well enough to knock on the door, usually just after they were letting themselves in. Mrs. Beasley always had a pot of coffee on (burned and dregged, as Pa would say) and a pitcher of water at the ready. It was the latter that forced everyone to stop, even if they didn’t care for the Beasleys (because some most decidedly didn’t care for them). In the heat of the desert sun, stopping for shade and water was a matter of survival and sustenance.
On this spring day, the sun was just starting to bother me, so I hurried my steps out of town and around the mountain. By nine o’clock I was sitting across from Mrs. Beasley and delivering the note Ma had sent, at which Mrs. Beasley smiled, folded it back up, then promised to deliver it.
“You came all this way just for that?” she asked. “Your mother should have given it to him when he was at the store – that was only a few days ago…” and she trailed off, waving away a fly that had entered with me.
“Guess she forgot,” I said, looking down into my glass, already emptied of its water. Mrs. Beasley jerked up and traipsed across the kitchen to refill it.
“Your mother’s good to always feed them,” she said. I knew she didn’t mean for it to sound condescending, but it did. I also knew, from what I’d heard between Ma and Pa, that this was why not everyone liked them. It didn’t explain why everyone tolerated them though, aside from the water, and the expansive ranch that kept cowboys in regular employ, as well as a few other hired hands throughout the year. This was where the town got most of its meat too, so even if someone didn’t take kindly to the Beasleys, especially Mrs. Beasley’s flighty airs (which always seemed to me rather benign, and more like an aloofness that was born of distraction than any intended class differentiation).
As I gulped down the second glass, Mr. Beasley stumbled through the screen door into the kitchen, quite loudly and literally, taking the rickety thing to the ground with him in a plume of dust.
“Will-eee-ummm!” Mrs. Beasley yelled after calming her startled self. “What the HELL are you doing?!”
Mr. Beasley looked up at me from the floor, smiling his round perennially-red-faced smile, the one that disarmed and made everyone wonder even more at the predicament that was Mrs. Beasley.
“Oh hey, Leeeeeve,” he drawled while rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself up with both arms. On all fours, his white hair wildly shooting out in every direction, Mr. Beasley looked like some silly, ghostly pony, the bottom of his pants frayed and fringed from years of wear and neglect, stained and dusty from weeks of not being washed. Looking at the couple, it was almost impossible to connect them with the two people who built this ranch from scratch decades before I was even born; more difficult to place them in any sort of command position of such an operation.
“Leve,” Mra. Beasley covered cooly, “You can bring your note to… the Cowboy. He’s the only one in the bunkhouse now. Might be out on the other side of the mountains though, if he’s doing what I asked.” She then took my glass before asking if I was done. I detected a sour side-eye directed toward her husband, now bent over the mess of screen and splintered frame in front of him.
Stepping out from the kitchen, one had a vista of land before them, and even then they were only viewing a fifth of the entire property. Behind the main house several large plots of land stretched out, extensively fenced with wooden and barbed wire that ran almost as far as the eye could see. Cattle grazed here and there, while in another fenced area a pair of horses stood lazily trying to keep their cool as the heat of the day brutally ensued, their tails swatting listlessly at flies, their heads hung down, muzzles almost touching, as if in intimate discussion.
Beyond this, the short row of bunkhouses stood, closer to the mountain’s first rise. This is where the cowboys stayed. Sounded like there was only one right now. For April that wasn’t good, but maybe it was a good sign for myself. I stepped off the porch and headed back along one of the fence lines. As I approached the bunkhouse the two horses bolted, spooked by something I couldn’t sense. The sky was cloudless, the air was still down here, but the animals always sensed things in advance, something higher in the sky. Some noise between a neigh and a moo issued from the way I’d come.
Fresh horse prints marked the dry ground as I neared the wooden structure. It was, for the town and time, a decent size for a bunkhouse, opening into one great room, where four pairs of bunk beds were spaced not too closely together – two on each end. In the center of the room a large wrought iron stove took pride of place, beside which a dirty pile of logs stood, probably from several season ago, the Beasleys not bothering to keep a cowboy through the winter for as long as I could remember; I was too young to have witnessed when this room was constantly active, when ten to twelve cowboys squeezed into the sleeping quarters on any given spring or summer night. Those stories were kept from me, before I learned not to show interest in whatever I really wanted to hear.
As I neared the front door, which was the only door, I passed a grimy window framed by spider webs and spackled with a sea of dust, thick on the glass, carved by the wind and gentle pull of time. Scant windows and lack of any cleaning always gave the bunkhouse a dim and dark appearance, especially during the day. When I was a kid, I was a little scared of this place – the darkness and the loud cantankerous rustle of the cowboys were such foreign things to me, who was accustomed to the quiet existence of my parents and their whitewashed, stark home. At night, the bunkhouse glowed almost red from the fire, its lone window winking menace and tease, the warmth being necessary on nights that far into the desert, right where the mountain began.
It had been years since I’d seen a fire lit here. Mostly now the cowboys complained of the heat, the way it crept in during the day and made the place stifling until the sun dropped behind the mountain – then it was almost terrifyingly fast in how soon it cooled off. No one complained of the cold during the spring and summer, but I knew there could be frigid nights well into April, and so did the Beasleys, who insisted on the pile of dry logs and the box of long matches by the stove.
Knocking on the door, I leaned in to listen for the tap of boots along wooden boards, or some creaking of a bunk bed to indicate life, but there was only the hum of wind coming off the mountain. I knocked again, then gently opened the door. A shaft of sunlight struck the sooty stove, and already the heat was building. Unfinished wood swirled in knots along the walls and ceiling, the raw exposed beams giving order to the space. The nearest lower bunk was neatly made – it was the only bed that was made; the rest were bare, stained mattresses embarrassingly naked, and rolled up to the headboards. A large leather satchel, scuffed and worn, slouched beside the bottom of the bed. Seeing such things did instill a sliver of doubt in my mind: could I live like this? Could I live as a cowboy? And as soon as the question surfaced, I answered with my full heart: yes.
I backed away from the bed and looked for somewhere to leave Ma’s note. The bed seemed too personal. The leather satchel too presumptuous. Near the door some rusty thumbtacks held up old lists and schedules. I took one and pressed the note into the front door after I shut it behind me. Somewhere around the mountain, or deeper into the desert maybe, the Cowboy prowled. I listened for him, but only the sun made a sound, and it was the sound of the wind.
Maybe he’s dozing behind a tree, shaded from sunlight and rain while the maples still hold their leaves.
Maybe he’s departed, leaving only traces of himself in a fancy coat and black hat, as if a spooky cat had transformed itself into a hat, and a world-weary cowboy had turned into the colorful blocks of wool that comprised a coat seemingly left behind.
Maybe he is still there but we just can’t see or sense him.
A stark and barren instrumental version of Madonna’s ‘Live To Tell’ plays in the background as I write these words. In the attic, I sit alone by the dim light of a lone bulb and the plaintive glow of this computer screen. Writing like this and letting the torrents of words out in some ill-conceived stream of consciousness has only ever gotten me into trouble, or landed with a deafening thud of nothingness – still not sure which is worse, even after all these years of picking up the pieces of both. Behind my veneer of perceived and pursued perfection, even against my better judgment and will, I see the mess I am, the mess I will always be, and the illusory phantom of put-together competence and manufactured proficiency that people have somehow construed as the real thing. As if anything I’ve ever done could be called real, as if all of this wasn’t conceived and run-through in my mind before actually running itself through in public and actuality. As if I could ever be spontaneous and carefree: to be free of care would be a kind of heaven, achievable only by my death or the destruction of my mind. Probably not wise to wish for either, not openly at least. And this damn stream gurgles and stumbles onward, bumping up against smooth stones, through slimy water reeds…
If I ran away, I’d never have the strength To go very far How would they hear the beating of my heart? Will it grow cold The secret that I hide, will I grow old? How will they hear, When will they learn, How will they know?
Writing at night, in the solitude and the darkness, is best presented in the same fashion, but this post will go up as the first one on a Wednesday morning, because sometimes these things need to be seen in the first light of day to be truly examined, in the hope of becoming something close to being understood. It’s my own sort of therapeutic exercise seeking catharsis until my next actual therapy appointment, where cathartic moments happen with greater frequency and haunting regularity; whenever I think I’m done, a new revelation comes to our discussions, and I realize with frightening clarity that I will never be done. It makes me want to weep from weariness or break the chair on which I sit with one quick burst of primal force – both would be shocking to anyone and everyone who thought they knew me. Only one would be a shock to me.
(Spoiler alert for those guessing: we’ve lost a few lamps over the years, not by accident, so don’t bother with the tissues.)
And yet somehow there is such a relief in knowing and fully realizing that it will never be done, that there is no end-all-be-all ‘cure’ for being human in such a rotten world, that the closer I get to not needing therapy is the further I get from enlightenment. Somewhere in the trying, the searching and the seeking, is the closest path to peace. It’s probably not as far as it seems, though to start believing such things about oneself likely leads me further out of the way, but I’ve lately been one to take the longer path if it appears prettier or more interesting. My therapist has said that whenever I’m faced with a challenge I rise to overcome it, and maybe underneath all my endeavors is the desire for such a challenge.
Fairy stools or toad stools, every stool forms a stool for some fool. These popped up overnight after a few days of rain in the backyard – I’m still waiting on a fairy’s ring to appear, though I’ve heard mixed folklore about whether that’s good luck or bad luck or just imminent danger. I probably don’t want to find out – it’s like tempting the dark spirits for no reason other than causing problems for your own self. Some of us have wreaked enough havoc and caused enough mischief in the world – why tempt more to descend on an otherwise-thus-far-peaceful season? There will be drama enough with whatever next awful realities life has in store for us – absolutely no need to demand or create the conditions for more.
Instead, I’ll imagine these are sitting stools for the most minute of woodland creatures – fairies or frogs or miniature figures that go bump and burp in the night. When I was a kid, I lived mostly in my imagination, and I never got hurt or destroyed in that space… unless I wanted it. Because my pathology was such that, yes, sometimes I very much did want it. Why would I invite more darkness when so much of my heart was already in shadow?
The early days of fall can sometimes be mistaken for a few late days of summer, but I think we have passed that point. The nights no longer hold the heat of the day, and rain has returned to the regular forecast. Soon the first hard frost will wilt the remaining flowers and foliage in the garden, striking down what took months to become – the first stage of putting the plant matter back into the soil, the last stage of this particular circle of life.
Life, death and rebirth in a matter of months.
I used to mourn when all the green turned brown, when it fell off from the branches and returned to the earth. Now I welcome the end of this stage of the cycle, embracing the oncoming slumber of the garden, grateful for the rest and reprieve to restore and rejuvenate.
The first day back from a mini-vacation is always tough, so I’m going to hit this blog post with a lazy list of links to posts that have already been written on this date going back a number of years. I’m old, I can dig way back like that, and I am going to embrace it. Here’s a look back at this date over the last ten years or so. All in a decade…
If Labor Day is the last of the summer holidays, then Indigenous People’s Day is the start of the autumn holidays – which is really the soft launch of the high holidays. This will roll quickly along until the stall and standstill of winter come January – so we must make the most of the days and the light while they last. On with the weekly blog recap…
Goldenrod, scientifically named Solidago, gets its common name from the golden flower clusters atop stiff stems that are like rods. located within the aster family, they join that group in their late-flowering glory which is cresting right about now. Seeing goldenrod has always brought a catch to my breath, as it used to indicate the start of school right around the corner – a dismal bit of foreboding to a grader schooler with social anxiety. That has changed only slightly over the years, childhood trauma being near impossible to entirely eradicate, so I view its prettiness with a weary eye.
In the wild, goldenrod is often found blooming beside purple asters, creating a visual feast that sees the end of the season out in a sort of blazing glory. Fall carries its own floral enchantments for those who bother to look.
I’ve occasionally given thought to planting a stand of goldenrod in the garden but its late blooming time would go to waste. One final word of warning: do not be fooled into thinking this is one of your allergy-inducing plants: the pollen is not usually airborne – and most people are affected by the more visually-unobtrusive ragweed that appears at this time of the year, the goldenrod in its striking coloration just gets all the blame.
Fall doesn’t usually arrive exactly according to the calendar that we humans have tried so valiantly to impose upon the rest of the universe, though this year it seems pretty close. I felt it for the first time the other day while out taking pictures for the cowboy theme you see on this website. It was a sunny afternoon, and as I drove through the back-hills of Berne and Westerlo, I realized how lucky I was to be surrounded by such beauty, even if such a scene would soon wreak of barren, bare branches and cold, windy weather. For now, it was remarkably magnificent – the leaves were just starting to change on the trees, catching the late afternoon light in a way that only happens for a brief section of the year, and once you miss it it’s gone for another 12 months.
There was such a drastic line of demarcation between sunlight and sunset, and once the sun went down behind the mountains I knew the roads, and the world, would look and feel very different. It always happens sooner and faster than I think it will, and so I hurried my way along the winding roads to try to beat the darkness. Fall is fraught with the tease of danger, and as long as it remains a tease I’ll enjoy the thrill.
Chris says my podcast should be titled ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ and he’s not wrong. About the title at least. About the podcast, everyone is wrong because I have absolutely no interest in podcasting. Isn’t the bullshit here enough? Da fuq?!?
The guy almost dropped his brand new cup of iced coffee as his mother (I’m assuming it was his mother, based on age and interaction) watched with a weary/wary eye. He wasn’t a young kid – he was in his twenties at least – and after he caught it he turned to his mother, or whomever the older woman with him was, and remarked, “That was close!”
And the awful, judgmental, nit-picky and easily-annoyed part of me (a very large part of me, let’s be frank – larger than I’d like and yes I’m working on it) thought that this is the sort of banal moronic talk that always makes me question whether some people just want to fill silence, no matter how stupid and pointless the words are.
“That was close!”
Are you kidding me? Like, why? Why bother even saying such a ridiculous thing?
Before you come for me and attack me for not being open-minded to whatever challenges or circumstances he might have, he was talking in a very adult and intelligent way before and after the whole ‘That was close!’ comment – and really, it’s probably just one of those things that people simply say without even realizing they’re saying it. Like ‘Whoopsie Daisy!’
