This week I had every intention of
writing on the history of my place: how it came to be, what the future
holds. I went through all the motions:
met with one of Mortar Board’s faculty advisors, took pages of notes in my tiny
journal while I listened to plans and stories.
Information in hand I arrived at
the garden while the longer lasting sun began to sink. I hopped over puddles to stand on the now
exposed mulch they piled on the path before the heavy snowstorms started. Even in today’s Fall/Spring weather the
pathway still feels frozen.
So I stand on the frozen-maybenot-mulch
covered trail and consider history.
History…..
History…..
The
history of this place?
The
history of this place within the history of Chatham.
The
history of Chatham?
History……
History…..
Right
now the consideration of history feels about as muddy as the melted snow-soaked
lawn in front of me. I balance on my
left leg and tentatively tap my right Minnetonka clad food against the muggy ground. Though I hope for a
tap
tap
is
instead I get a
squish
glop.
Squish
How
did the garden get here?
Glop
What will become of this garden?
And just like that the ideas about
history fall under my moccasin, which squishes them into the goopy, grass
bits. Like the ring a scorned woman of a
sappy movie throws to the storm. Or my
dog’s favorite toy she forgot outside when called in for the night.
I suppose if I swam in lakes as a
child I might compare the mucky lawn to the water’s ground. But I had—and still have—an aversion to
lakes.
It’s not the idea of the floor,
squishing beneath my bare feet. In fact,
I run through lawns on muddy, summer days.
A slip in my step with toes curled as they kick and flip clods of dirt
to the back of my calves and thighs.
With excited screams drowned out by the thunder my friends and I try to
out run, flip-flops in hand.
No, It is
not the feel of the ground between my toes, but rather the in ability to see my toes. The uncertain murkiness of the of the lake’s
water. I can’t watch whatever watches
me. I step blindly towards monsters that
snap, stab, and slither. The debris that
never settles, camouflages the world below.
This fear
is not irrational. At too young an age I
was sent to Lake Rickabear, a Girl Scout Day Camp. Where swimming lessons in the questionable
lake were not a suggestion but an enforced requirement. I wasn’t too keen on the idea from the start,
but the day a snake stealthily swam beneath camp-goers for a day on the beach,
I completely gave up on lakes.
In long, I suppose, I dislike
lakes. But it’s not just lakes. I never venture into bodies of water farther
than I can see my feat. Lakes, the
ocean, or rivers, I often tread water at a V to keep my feet in view. Why are my feet more important than my ass?
The muck can grab me either way
Pull
me back to the goopy grass
Where
my foot muddles the history
With
a squish and a glop.
I’ll leave
this idea of the garden’s history hidden in the mud
and wait for the debris to settle.
I think you'll know be able to come back to this post with these memories and have that invaluable first impression. I enjoy the history break in form, as you've created an echo. I also appreciate how the sound effects are scattered just as real sound effects are.
ReplyDeleteNow* (typing from my phone like a dummy) again. Also, sideways, but I'm so obsessed with form and the freedom of it lately I forgot to say that the look-backs at Girl Scout Camp, dislike of lakes and "Why are my feet more important than my ass?" (Ha!) were nice to read as well.
DeleteBeautiful Ash, It's so interesting to look at the ways in which a lone bad experience can shape your psyche out into adulthood.
ReplyDeleteAlso, watching as your original writing intentions were pulled away by your fearful memories, into a place you felt more inclined to naturally explore, cool.
I like the play with form. I hope you do do some research on the history of the place but stay committed to evoking so strongly the sense of place.
ReplyDelete