Mother Earth
Micro fiction by Kristy Gherlone
Pleased with what she had created, Mother Earth wanted to rest for a while and admire her beautiful children.
They climbed all over her, showering her face with sweet-scented kisses, so happy to have her near. She sang lullabies to settle them as they clamored for a place closest to her heart.
“No need to fight, dear ones,” she whispered. “You ARE my heart.”
I’m not sure of how serious a venture this is, but I do enjoy writing small stories about my duck, Sassafras.
She is a willing participant and has been very popular on Facebook! I hope you find these occasional small stories enjoyable as well.
Sassafras and…
Home Is Where The Love IS
by Kristy Gherlone
“Mama, I have a question. Does everyone live in a house like ours?” Sassafras asked one spring morning.
“Goodness, no,” her mama answered. “There are many different types of houses. Let’s take a walk around and see what we find.”
“I think I found a house!” Sassafras called out excitedly. “At least it looks something like a house, but it’s very small.”
“Right you are!” Sassafras’s mother said. “That is the chickadees house.”
“I found another, but this one is blue!”
“Very good! That is where the thrushes live.”
“What about this, Sassafras? Do you think this could be a house?” Her mama asked.
“Hmm,” Sassafras pondered, looking at the big pile of sticks. I didn’t look like any house she had ever seen. “I’m not sure.”
“It is.” Her mama said. “This house belongs to a raccoon. Some creatures use leaves, sticks, and mud to make their homes.”
Sassafras wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”
“Well, I’m sure they think so,” her mama laughed.
“I know this is a house!” Sassafras exclaimed proudly. “I’ve seen Mrs. Robin sleeping here.”
“Great job, Sassy! You are right! You have found the Robin’s house.”
“When her eggs hatch, maybe Mrs. Robin will let me babysit,” Sassafras giggled.
“There is a hole in the ground. Could something live here?” Sassafras asked.
“Watch for a moment and see if anything comes out,” her mama said.
Sassafras stood over the hole and waited. “Ants!” She cried. “I think this is an ants house!”
“Very good, Sassafras!”
“I found our house again!” Sassafras cried. “I like it the best.”
“Just remember, Sassafras…It doesn’t matter where you live as long as you are loved.”
Jericho
By Kristy Gherlone
I spend a lot of time talking and writing about my home state of Maine, so out of fairness to the place I actually live now, I thought I would write about a fantastic adventure here in New Hampshire.
Jericho Mountain State Park is just about my most favorite thing here. It’s only two hours from home, but miles away in terms of ambience. You can get there a couple of different ways, either from the town of Gorham New Hampshire or from Berlin, NH. Each town offers a range of accommodations, and I have found the people there welcoming and accommodating. No matter where you stay, or how you choose to enter Jericho, however, you’ll not be hiking, or driving… you’ll be riding an ATV!
*I’m definitely not a travel blogger, and I don’t sell vacations, but I always have the time of my life here, so I thought I would share.
People come from all over the world to ride the trails there. Both towns allow the riding of ATV’s on the public road ways, so you can ride right down the main streets and park in front of any restaurant or store and even park in front of your hotel!
The towns are connected by a trail so you can skip from one town to the other, but be sure to stop to see the waterfall along the way!
The park itself, is vast and diverse. The terrain can range from easy, to what the park classifies as black diamond trails. ( very difficult and dangerous) The main speed limit is 25 on most trails, but you won’t be able to go that fast in quite a few places.
*This is the exit to one of the black diamond trails that my husband tried. I opted out, as I’ve had recent surgery and the trail is riddled with large boulders, steep drops and dangerous terrain throughout.
Jericho is a gorgeous park, rugged and wild, with a lot of the same sights and smells of my own home state. The flora and fauna are abundant. We’ve seen moose, and deer, which is surprising if you consider how noisy ATV’s actually are. You’d think the animals would be scared away, but they don’t seem to mind. If you take some time to look around in the mud, you can find the tracks of coyote, and all sorts of creatures.
*Fresh moose print. We didn’t miss her by much
*Moose droppings (definitely not fresh)
When I enter the forest there, tangy pine and wild flowers perfume the air in a way that completely envelops the senses. The sights take my breath away. The mountain range is deep and layered. Though I try, I’ll never be able to capture the beauty with a camera. You’d actually have to stand there and take it all in yourself. Mount Washington hails in the distance and is only about a twenty minute drive from Gorham.
Miles of riding takes you through the park. There are maps at each junction that give you the layout and direct you to off-shoot trails that thrill.
There are many twists and turns along the way. The road will rattle your teeth, jiggle your insides, and fling mud all over you, but it’s exhilarating!
There is a warming hut that is open year round for viewing, but is there mainly for the winter snowmobilers. The view from the door-step is astounding!
And on top of a rise, there are wind mills. Five of them, if I remember right. They sit high up on a hill, their blades causing shadows across the landscape as they rotate as quietly as a whisper.
Bridges cross over rushing streams and stagnant bogs. I know there must be a trout or two hanging out in there, so next time, I intend to bring my fishing pole!
After our two days of riding, I was absolutely exhausted. I may have taken on too much, but to me, it’s like eating an entire cake. It’s bad for you, but so hard to resist! My body is still feeling it two days later!
We went back into town, cleaned the mud off our faces, took some ibuprofen, changed, and debated about where to eat for dinner. As it turns out, Gorham was hosting a carnival!
It has been a few years since I’ve been to a small town carnival. In my home town, when I was a child, one would come every year in April. It always gave me a thrill.
We decided, all at once, to grab some dinner at the fair and then I just had to ride one ride. The one I always chose when I was a kid…The Scrambler! Not quite as exciting as I remember, but fun just the same.
Anyway, it was a great trip. If you are ever up this way, I would highly recommend it!
*This story did make the literary pages! It was published by the The Squawk Back and appeared in edition 167 on March 19, 2017.
The Rain Maker
by Kristy Gherlone
The Rain Maker hears their cries long before she comes sweeping in to pass judgment. She hears it in the deafening stillness of the water. The creatures within lay in wait for her presence, listening in painful silence, praying for a miracle as the muddy depths suck them in and swallow them whole.
Rivers and streams pause suspended, then shrink away as if chased by demons, hiding behind rocks and sinking in holes, their miserable tears devoured by the sun-cracked shores.
She hears it in the crackling discomfort of the forest, assaulted by the hot wind’s laughing breath as it takes reign, snapping brittle branches and sending them crashing to the ground onto the splintering roots. Dry leaves toss and turn trying to find comfort in their stifling beds.
The tree birds whistle as though their beaks are full of crackers, their calls become parched cackles that scream warnings below. They scatter in flight, running from gray ghosts born of tossed embers that shield the sun and choke their eyes.
The Rain Maker moves in closer, growing heavy with sorrow. Creatures cry out for comfort, their tongues swollen with thirst. Tendrils reach for her, winnowing upwards for a taste of her relief. She knows she is being spiteful, withholding; but drought is making the rules. She fights with him, throwing cooling droplets that tease but he sends dusty swirls through the air that snuff out her moisture. He holds her back for only he can hear what whispers from beneath the earth and inside the decaying willows.
Soft wails of release from long hidden prisoners, spilled seeds and locked treasures deep in the ground, denied of light from their ancestors: they’ve been patient, just waiting for release, begging for the fire The Rain Maker steals.
Drought nurtures the flames that sweep through and open the land. The wind howls wickedly as she helps spread its demise, but some things must die so that others might live. Bringing new life that springs from the ashes and fulfilling promises broken each time The Rain Maker wept.
His score harshly settled, the wounds deep and raw, drought takes leave when the captives emerge.
The Rain Maker sweeps in with maternal bliss and offers the forest a Rain Maker’s kiss.
Dear Old Golden Rule Days
Summer Series (Final story in the series)
By Kristy Gherlone
*If you would like to read the entire series, begin with The Long Dirt Road
**some names have been changed to protect privacy
My mother huffed a puff of air from the corner of her mouth as she fished a week’s worth of mail out our box in town. A few strands of overgrown hair scattered up and away from her eyes. “Thank God! The catalogs are in,” she sang with relief, as she sifted through the pile. She tossed two thick, glossy books onto the table, where they landed with a thud. She set the rest of the stack on the counter for my dad. “You guys can bring them up to camp and pick out your clothes for the year,” she stated with satisfaction.
I felt like throwing up. My entire body filled with dread as I dared a glance. The Sears and JC Penny’s catalogs lay there, taunting me. Any excitement I felt about the prospect of new clothes was squashed by the reason I needed them… School!
“Only two weeks left! I want your list no later than Friday,” she added, as she descended into the basement to finish the laundry before it was time to head back up to camp for our last weeks of summer.
My lip curled in disappointment and disgust. Only two weeks of summer left! It couldn’t be over already! No more fishing, or swimming, or frog catching! We’d be closing camp for the season and moving back to town! That thought pained me in ways I can’t describe. My life was over!
I sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs and shoved the catalogs away. I didn’t want them in my sight.
“Mom, can I have Andrea up?” I asked, brightening a little with hope. I was grasping for anything that would take my mind off from the impending doom.
“Absolutely not! We have a lot of stuff to do at camp to get it ready for winter, and we’re not coming back into town next week. I want you girls to clean up that wood and all those nails out at the colony. Then, I want you to go through those games on the porch and put the pieces back where they belong and then…”
“Oh geez, that’s right! I gotta hurry up and get stuff done.” My dad breezed in and took the laundry basket from my mother. “I gotta get that wood chopped and stacked. I’m gonna need some help.” He gave my sister and I a meaningful look.
Just shoot me…
That week, most of my friends would be driving an hour to the mall in Bangor. They’d go in groups with their parents, shop in cool stores, eat lunch in neat restaurants, and maybe even go to the movies after, but the fact that they were having fun and I wouldn’t be, wasn’t what was bothered me.
In our family, we always shopped by mail order. My mother hated driving and hated department stores even more. We’d learned to accept that long ago. I didn’t really mind because it meant I got to stay at camp longer.
No, the problem was that my sister and one of the boys that lived next to us at camp had been telling me a thing or two about seventh grade all summer, and I didn’t like what I’d heard. I’d been getting more nervous about it as time wore on.
“Who’d you get for home room?” my sister had asked that last day of sixth grade, when I’d come home with the packet from the office. She jumped up and down over my shoulder as I read, so she could see too.
I flipped it over and held it to my chest. “None of your business, Miss Nosey,” I said.
She ran over to the back door and stuck her head out. “Mom! Kristy won’t let me see who she got next year! Make her tell me!” she wailed. My mother was busy packing the truck, so my sister came back in and tried to snatch the notice away from me.
“Oh for heaven’s sake. What’s the big deal?” my mother said, hustling back in for more boxes. “Just tell her.”
“Fine.” I rolled my eyes. “I got Mrs. McDermott. Who’d you get?”
“Ha!” A wicked grin spread over my sister’s freckled face. “Mrs. McDermott?! Ha ha! She’s mean! She hits kids and everything. You’re going to hate her. Everyone does.”
“Oh stop that!” my mother protested. “She’s a very nice lady.”
“You wouldn’t know,” my sister sassed. “Last year she threw a chair at a kid for talking in class.”
“That’s not true, and you know it! You’d better stop that! You’re going to scare your sister to death!”
“It is too true. Rebecca told me.” She stuck her tongue out and sneered when my mother turned away.
A nervous feeling pitted in my gut. I’d heard the rumors too, but I didn’t pay much attention because it didn’t have anything to do with me at the time. Now, it seemed it would. However, seventh grade was months away. I tried to forget about it as I soldiered forth into the long summer ahead. Unfortunately, my sister had other plans.
“Hey guess what?” she laughed, running over to the greet the boys next door as soon as we got to camp. “Kristy got Mrs. McDermott for home room next year. And she has her for History too. She’s going to hate her, isn’t she?” She raised her eyebrows knowingly.
Shane whistled through his teeth. “Geez. Good luck.” He shook his head. “She’s tough! I heard no one passes her class. She yells at kids and last year she made someone cry.”
She turned to me and smirked. “See? I told you.”
It was like that all summer. Not just with Mrs. McDermott, but the other teachers on my list were picked apart and analyzed for their worst qualities.
Now, there I sat with just two weeks left. I was a mess!
“Shake it up in there! Let’s get a move on!” My dad bellowed impatiently from the truck outside.
I sighed and started for the door.
“Don’t forget the catalogs!” my mother called.
My sister rushed ahead of me and scooped them off the table. “I’m looking first.”
“Good.” I pouted.
We climbed into our truck and started on our final journey to camp that year.
Time is something that can either be a friend or a foe, and as I arrived back at camp for my last two weeks of summer vacation, I felt it snaking around my neck and tightening into a noose. It was my enemy, and I cursed it as much as a kid my age dared.
At the beginning of the summer, there was so much time, I had plenty to waste. It stretched further than I could see, and held months of mysteries and possibilities. School and Mrs. McDermott had been far into my future, but now it was almost here.
I stomped down to the lake, found the biggest and clunkiest rock I could find, and hurled it into the water.
“Stupid school,” I said, scowling into the ripples I’d made.
My dad saw and heard me. “What in the name of jeeslum is the matter with you?”
I didn’t turn around.
“She’s being a big baby cause summer’s almost over and she’s gotta go to school soon.” My sneered.
My dad shook his head. “Are you going to pout the whole rest of the GD summer?”
“Maybe,” I glowered.
“Well, it seems to me like that’ll be an awful waste. Why don’t you go fishing? Who knows? There might just be a trout out there on a day like this.” He winked.
I started up the pine dock, slowly, with my head down. I didn’t want to let on that his suggestion had brightened my mood in the slightest.
My mother cut in, “Oh no she doesn’t. She’s going to get in here and help with some of this stuff.” She heaved a plastic tote off the ground and started up the stairs.
I sighed heavily and started back down.
“Let the kid fish, Jo.” It wasn’t a question. My dad had spoken and I loved him for it. He knew what I needed.
“Fine,” she huffed. “One hour and then I want you in here.” She let the screened door slam behind her.
I ran the rest of the way up the dock and sat down in my special place on the big gray rock.
You can work out a lot of problems in your head while holding a fishing pole, and after a few minutes, I’d thought of a couple of things that made me feel a little better…sick days, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas vacation… If I planned it right, I might not have to spend that much time in school after all!
I smiled and cast out again. My bobber landed with a plop on the wavy surface, dipped out of sight for just a second, then popped back up.
I looked out over the landscape. The trees on the far shore were changing. Yellows and reds were a contrast to the dark green pines. My heart squeezed. Time really was growing late. I would miss camp over the months ahead. It was my place. I was safe there, but brave. I was a woodsman and a builder. I was a trail blazer and a fisherman. I was a hiker and a frog hunter. I was anything I wanted to be.
I would miss the sound of the loons calling at night and the waves crashing against the shore. I would miss the pine soft ground under my bare feet and the smell of the boggy water.
The breeze blowing off the lake was chilly and persistent. I zipped up my sweatshirt and shivered slightly. From then forward, the cool wind would be a daily reminder of the changes to come and wouldn’t let up much.
That time of year my dad called them ‘the winds of change.’
“You know why it’s so damn cold dontcha?” he’d ask. “Cause that wind is coming straight down from Canada. Yup, they’re sending us winter, that’s for sure.”
I didn’t much care for Canada after I’d heard that, but as I sat there, the wind ruffled my hair, tickled my cheek, and helped to dry the tears I didn’t want my dad to see.
My sister stuck her head out of the front door. “Mom says you have to get in here and now,” she smirked.
I rolled my eyes, set my pole down, and got up. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking and flapping, bound for someplace warmer. To a place where they could extend their summer by weeks. I wanted to go with them.
I went inside and washed my hands.
My sister thrust the catalogs my way as I was drying off. “Mom said you should pick out your school clothes. I already did mine.” She grinned proudly and added, “If I were you, I’d pick something besides jeans and T-shirts. I heard Mrs. McDermott always makes favorites out of the kids who dress nice.”
Really, just kill me…
Those two weeks went fast, just like I thought they would. I visited all my favorite places at least a dozen times and said goodbye to the frogs and chipmunks. I walked the length of our cove’s shoreline with the kids next door and lost a shoe in the mud. I helped stack wood, and clean up the colony.
I managed to pick out my clothes, too. All nice things. No T-shirts or anything. I was going to need all the help I could get.
The last day at camp, my chest felt tight as we gathered up our things and packed them into the truck. My nerves were jangled as I thought of the coming week and Mrs. McDermott and school.
I slumped down to the shore and gazed out at my lake and mountain one last time. It was quiet and still for the first time in a while. I wanted to capture that moment and those sights and hold onto them for as long as I could. Maybe it would help sustain me through the rough times ahead. Nine months was a long time to miss something I loved so much.
Tears stung my eyes as I whispered my goodbyes. “I’ll be back,” I said. My heart was heavy as I turned my back and walked away.
“Let’s shake a leg!” my dad bellowed. He shut the door, secured the padlock, and hustled into the truck. “I wanna get home! I’ve gotta go and I might as well do it where I can flush.”
Oh dad..
On a side note:
Mrs. McDermott turned out to be tough, but fair. She was not half as bad as my sister and Shane told me, so I worried all that time for nothing! In the end, I think I may have been her favorite. Perhaps it was because of my purple velvet jacket and ruffled white shirt?
I think back to those years at camp as some of the best in my life.
The camp was sold a few years back, and it broke my heart. I never had the chance to say goodbye, but at least I will always have the experiences and moments I shared there, if only in my memories.
*Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines. However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced. I hope you find some thrills in reading them.
The Colony
by Kristy Gherlone
Summer Series
Through the black and white birches, over the maze of pitchy pine roots, and just past the dead pools of standing lake water, there is a place where my childhood lingers. When I close my eyes, I imagine that I’m still there, playing amidst a sea of boulders.
Ancient glacial fingers lost their grip on gigantic rocks as big as trucks, long ago, dropping them in a scatter throughout that hidden stretch of land.
Amber beds of pine needles and white moss covered them in blankets of fragrant carpets. Crooked cedar jutted out from the tops, like weary soldiers. Their thick roots wound around in spindles, like spiral stairways waiting to be climbed. It was a magical place where ferns, tea berries, and imaginations bloomed.
When my dad bought our cottage in the woods in the late 1970’s, the adjacent property was uninhabited. Rows of pines and maples stood guard at the entrance to that the deeper, dark forest that surrounded our cove for miles and miles. It was deserted and desolate as I stood on the edge peering in with fearful eyes. I was sure that bears and vicious creatures lurked behind every corner. It took a year or so of brave, but short, excursions with my sister and the boys next door before we finally ventured all the way in.
To us, when we came upon those hulking gray rocks, they looked like houses. Big, empty structures waiting for inhabitants. It was nature’s playground!
Railroad spikes and blocks of old wood were hammered together and became pretend televisions. Pieces of discarded lumber turned into chairs and tables. Days were spent crafting furniture out of whatever we could scavenge.
I became Roxanne Howl. I was rich with my snow-white mossy carpet and my fine home furnishings. My rock house was the last in the row, and I was sure it was the best. I made my fortune selling Brach’s candies to the others from my store nearby. Instant oatmeal packages became the paper bags used to carry away the purchases. Our currency was pennies and I used mine to purchase Kool Aid from the colony bar keep.
Dad came out to inspect our work. “You’ve got yourselves quite a colony here,” he said, chuckling.
None of us knew what that meant at the time, but we thought it was a pretty good name for our club. We made a sign and posted it at the entrance. ‘The Colony’.
We built a log raft to transport us to and from the main camp, but it sunk on the first trial, so we blazed trails instead. Our chattering voices echoed across the lake as we traveled to and from our hideaway each day.
We led extravagant lives in those woods, among those rocks. We escaped to our made-up world as often as we could.
Back in the days before video games and cell phones, imagination was all we had. It was a valuable tool, taken for granted, but never forgotten.
Whenever I see a boulder, my mind transports me to that time and place, and so I believe my spirit remains like a shadow among the forests of my youth.
*Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines. However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced. I hope you find some thrills in reading them. (the photo presented is an actual photo of me during that time)
Imagination Rock
Summer Story Series
By Kristy Gherlone
Mornings came early at the lake when I was a child. Chickadees began to prattle before the light even peeked over the horizon. They’d wake me with their busy conversations.
I’d poke my nose up and take a whiff around. The smells inside our camp would tell me a lot. Hints of sweet birch smoke meant the fire in the old black wood stove had been lit sometime in the night. It would be chilly enough for a sweater. If I couldn’t smell coffee, it meant my mother wasn’t up yet. I’d have to hurry before she asked me to sweep the outhouse! If she was, sometimes I’d pull the handkerchief quilt she made for me back up around my chin and think about sleeping in, but even I had to laugh at that. The fish were waiting!
Quietly, I’d get up and dress. I’d sneak down the spiral staircase my grandpa made, being careful to avoid the squeaky step. I’d tiptoe over to the door and head outside.
With a can full of juicy worms and fishing pole in hand, I’d skip down to the lake and up the rickety pine dock that led the top of the big rock on the shore, and sit in my special spot.
I’d thread the worm onto my hook and cast out as far as my line would let me, and wait.
The water, all glassy, mirrored both mountain and sky. Dappled sunlight danced across my face, making it hard to see until my eyes could adjust. On clear days, I could see the entire mountain. It looked like it had been expelled from the lake in one big upwards push. It was jagged and mysterious. I would think about the people climbing at that moment, and suddenly, I’d be there too! I’d be working my way up the rocky, terrain, scurrying over fallen trees, and scaling gigantic boulders. Then I’d stand at the top, out of breath and sweaty from the effort, and wave at everyone below.
Sometimes, a jet would fly over my head, way up past the puffs of clouds, leaving a powdery, white trail behind. I’d wonder about where it was going. I’d close my eyes and then I would be on that jet too! I’d be heading to Florida or Hawaii or maybe even the other side of the world! In a pressed, pink business suit, I would order a Shirley Temple from the stewardess, peek out the tiny window, and smile down at the girl fishing on the lake.
Sometimes, boats would race into our cove, and circle the island before leaving again in a hurry. Before I knew it, I’d be on that boat! I would be in my bathing suit, heading to the lake store for ice cream and hotdogs, or maybe even to the sandy beach! I’d drop my fishing line in and *troll the whole way or maybe even pull a *Togue up from the depths.
If the air was still and the wind didn’t rustle the leaves, I could hear all the way to the Golden Road. The sounds made there would echo across our lake. Giant trucks full to the top with tree-length logs zipped up and down. I could hear the engines shift as they maneuvered the hills. Suddenly, I would be in one of those trucks! I would be dodging moose and speeding over the dirt roads on my way to Canada!
After a while, I’d hear the pans rattling in the kitchen inside camp. My tummy would rumble and then I’d know it was time to head back inside. My mother would be wondering where I’d run off to.
She would meet me at the front door and ask, “Where have you been?”
I would say, “Everywhere.”
*Togue- A lake trout. Usually quite large in size.
*Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines. However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced. I hope you find some thrills in reading them. (the photo presented is an actual photo of me during that time)
The Long Dirt Road
Part One: A Story of Summer
By Kristy Gherlone
There’s a road that inhabits a fair amount of space in my mind. I call it forward whenever I need a smile. I close my eyes and suddenly it’s there. Long and narrow, wash boarded and potholed. When I was a child, it was as familiar to me as it was a mystery. While the road itself didn’t change, the scenery often did. I never knew what we might see as my dad and I drove along.
Sometimes there were moose. They’d come crashing out of the woods, shaking their heads and twitching their ears, crazy from the black flies and heat. They’d stomp all gangly legged in front of us before turning to trot back in again. I felt bad for them. They were tormented by bugs in the summer, and up to their bellies in snow during the winter. I used to try and convince my dad to build houses for them to escape to.
If we were lucky, there might be a black bear nibbling raspberries in the dusty bushes that lined the sides, but they were either shy or snobby. They didn’t care for company, and would bound off as soon as they heard us coming. To see one was a real treat.
I’d scan obsessively for bull frogs all along that road. They’d sit in the puddles, snapping up flies. I could spot their glassy eyes protruding on the murky surface a mile away, but they would always dive under as we neared, sending ripples in their wake. They couldn’t hide from me. I’d go back later to collect them. Knee deep in mud catching frogs was my life!
I remember rolling down the window on the gold Custom Deluxe truck.
I used to poke my head out and breathe in the powerful, tangy scent of pines. To this day, that smell makes me happy in a way that can’t be duplicated. The stream that ran along most parts of the road rushed restlessly in the spring and trickled lazily in the fall. Its smell was both boggy and clean as we drove over it on the old splintered bridge. I used to dream about the fish I’d catch in there the next time I had the chance and then I’d hang out as far as I could and try to spit far enough to hit the water.
I’d reach out when we came to the clusters of sapling trees and let the leaves tickle my palm. Every now and then I’d find a big one and tear it off.
Dad would say, “You know what that is, don’t ya? It’s woodsman’s toilet paper!”
I’d watch for the brown wooden sign that said ‘You are now entering Indian Purchase land.’ I used to envision a whole tribe of Native Americans coming out of the woods. Their bows and arrows would be poised and ready to stop us from going further.
And then I’d see the tree that stood at the entrance to our turn-off. It meant we were almost to our destination. It was a gorgeous tree, towering well above the rest. Its leaves blazed orange before turning fiery red late in the season. I could hardly stay in my seat with all of the butterflies jumping around in my belly.
In June that road seemed a thousand miles long! We could never get to the end fast enough, but only because it led to Summer’s treasure box. Camp!
Three whole months of fishing, swimming, bike riding and frog catching fun. There would be games of monopoly, and log hopping around the cove. I’d blaze trails through the forest! I’d sit on the big gray rock, high above the lake, and watch for shooting stars at night. The possibilities were as boundless as my energy.
In late August that road seemed barely a mile. It went too quick! I was sure the very trip would ruin my life. Traveling south, it led back to town. School and dance lessons. Homework and bedtimes. Yuck!
In reality, the road was no more than eight or ten miles, but I’ve traveled it so often it might now add up to a million.
Of course, these days, I mostly travel it in my mind, but it’s definitely a road that’s worth the journey.
Nest Egg
By Kristy Gherlone
Every year when the earth decided it was time to flip over and get some color on the other side, the south wind got to missing the north so bad, she’d start crying and fill up the creeks and rivers with her sorrows.
Then the north would get to missing the south, so they’d race towards one another and meet in the middle for a kiss so dizzying it would run the sea boats aground.
The trees would get sappy about the whole ordeal and weep tears so sweet, the ground would open right up and swallow them whole. Eventually, it would turn green with sickness, and busting out of its bloomers, spew colors so bright they would melt what was left of the snow.
The fish would get blue and start blubbering about being homesick. They’d swim up the fertile rivers to their old homesteads, running an uphill battle to raise a brood of kids to keep the loneliness at bay.
Undoubtedly, all the commotion would ruffle a few feathers. The birds would decide it was time to get away from the whole soppy mess, high tail it out of there, and head to New England where things were a bit more conservative.
Maribel was one of those, and one year she was just dusting with more anticipation than normal to leave.
Over the winter she’d become quite vain, having overheard some tweets about how nicely she decorated her nests. She always did care a little too much about what others thought, but it got her to wondering about what treasures she’d find in the north. If the south had such beautiful things, the north was sure to have even better.
She’d already acquired quite a few items and, reluctant to leave them behind, bartered with the trade winds to carry them up for her.
And so it was that, after settling in for the long summer ahead, while the other members of her flock were gathering seeds and soft nesting materials, Maribel was out shopping. She had a keen eye and managed to amass quite a clutch of goods.
She found strings of shiny silver, tufts of powder blue rope, beads, smooth rocks, and colorful wrappers. Tucking them gently into her beak, she carried them home and laid them out to admire before arranging them attractively around her home. Her nest wasn’t comfortable, nor was it warm, but it was pretty. Surely everyone would be jealous. She sat waiting for them to notice, but they were too busy raising their young to care.
Unfortunately, the only ones that did pay her any mind were the black hooded thieves who’d come stealing in all hours of the day. They had eyes for shiny things too, and were either too lazy or cheap to get their own stuff, and so preferred to peck and choose from Maribel’s collection. She kept guard, working herself into a frazzle, as she’d heard they could be quite murderous.
Unwilling to go out on a limb and leave her wealth for even a second, Maribel grew thin and tired. She started to doubt she’d have enough energy to make the trip back south.
When Mother Nature began to blush, right before she undressed for the season, Maribel, as small minded as she was, realized that she had a problem. Glittery things were great to look at, but they couldn’t feed you. And while she took a lot of pleasure in counting and re-counting her hoard, it didn’t do a lot towards keeping her warm.
She gave her precious valuables one last wistful look before taking flight in search for food. It was scarce by that time, but she managed to scrape enough together. She nibbled until she was able to find the strength to catch the last warm breeze streaming to the south. She vowed never to let vanity get in the way again.
She caught up to some others, who were already in deep conversation and didn’t notice her arrival. “Have you seen Maribel lately? She’s lost so much weight! I wish I could have a figure like that. I’m so jealous.”
