Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Heading south on the trail, I blinked rapidly in the enveloping darkness as I walked under the 35th Street overpass and entered the first section of the trail that provided a substantial, but not quite complete, escape from the city. Almost immediately, Austin and its tell-tale signs of urban life were lost as a rock face emerged, partially blocking views of traffic to the left; to my right, Shoal Creek itself widened, becoming more of a true water course rather than just the trickle of urban runoff those who did not appreciate its hidden quite places touted it to be.
Emerging once again into full sunlight from beneath the shade of the over pass and stopping for just a moment at Seiders Springs, where the small springs bubbled out from the rock face which I postulated must be some limestone formation, pooled at the bottom and spilled across the trail, I admired the small St. Francis de Assisi statue someone had placed sometime back. With a brief thought of how peaceful the spot was, I immediately recalled with a small shudder once reading about a settler, Gideon White, who built a house near the springs in 1839, with the intent to develop the area, only to be massacred by Native Americans in 1842. The story went that White, who saw a fortune to be made from the cool water that naturally collected in the area, built a small resort near the springs and constructed pools to collect the forthcoming water. Remnants of those pools still exist along Shoal Creek Trail and are especially forthcoming during the wet season. Recalling White and such a violent and sudden end to a life with potential for much more brought a sense of foreboding that left my skin piqued with goose flesh, even on this warming day.
Walking on, the undulating elevation and terrain along my path increasingly continued to change. A predominately blacktop trail, punctuated with spans of cement, transitioned into softer crumbling rock and dirt floor underfoot. The trail itself temporarily moved away from the creek, in order to accommodate several houses perilously hugging its banks and towards an almost forgotten civilization, as in between breaks in natural rock and built brick I caught several glimpses of the street; flirted with city scenes. Eventually I reached my favorite span along the trail, just south of 31st Street and a quick immersion with city life and houses, I once again connected with the water way. At this point, one feels completely withdrawn and hidden from the version of Austin that most know. This hidden passage forms a small canyon as a major cliff runs parallel, yet below, Lamar Street. Traveling under the rocky overhangs and hearing the unaware cars pass above, I wondered how many people must drive parallel to this small geological wonder everyday, utterly unknowing of its existence.
It was on this stretch of trail, in the cool shade of the cliff and over-arching trees, where shafts of sunlight continually broke through their branches and cast sharp rays at odd angles against my squinting eyelids, that it came to me. In an instant I realized without even a second thought, as if it was destined to occur on this day without my knowing, where I was headed- and for what reason. Today I would not be making the usual right turn onto Gaston in order to enclose the loop and start back on my normal route home. Today I would head further south on Lamar; where the street hazardously curves, following the abrupt contour of the creek to the spot. I was going back. After all, he had asked me to. He wanted me to find out.
He first appeared to me a few days after the accident. The first time it happened, I had been in my peculiarly small bathroom with the blue flowered bamboo wallpaper that didn’t at all match the surrounding black and white tile when he revealed himself. As I finished my shower, turned off the water in the cubby hole that I bath in and drew back the curtain to reach for my towel that I had earlier thrown on the floor so that it could be easily reached, I saw him. He caught me off guard. Without time for a proper response- a casting back of the curtain to hide his unwelcome figure from sight, the surprise and freight of his image constricted my breathing so that my scream rang hollow and incomplete in my throat. He stood facing me, a young man less than thirty years old and approaching a heavier frame than someone his age should carry; wearing the same blue jeans, nondescript t-shirt and black leather jacket that I had first seen upon him that day. With that strawberry blond hair and unseeing hazy gray-blue eyes that stood at half mast, he still did not see me despite a seeming momentary resurrection. His right arm was outstretched toward my direction and from his hand I could see the disfigured and dismantled fingers in the same oddly grotesque placement as was that of the vision that had stood out to me more than anything else the day of the accident. My stomach instantly dropped to the lowest point of my bowls with a nauseating quiver while my heart quickened and adrenaline filled my veins with an ice-cold power I've come to be too familiar with. Perhaps one second passed. I blinked, and he had vanished.
It was always the same. He came to me there, in that small space that I couldn't escape but also couldn't avoid because of necessity. Knowing what it might bring, I started to take deep breaths before drawing back the shower curtain at the conclusion of my daily routine in the event that he would once again be there in front of me, a spectre silently pleading with me; for what I did not yet know. During moments of more rational thought I wondered if I was in fact conjuring his image in some subconscious manner, or was he truly appearing to me because he wanted something?
Naturally, and at least for my own sense of well being, I wanted to dismiss his appearances with a self-diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder or some other psychological fodder I wasn't completely sure I even believed in but needed a convenient explanation for. Potentially I could ignore him away if I didn't really believe he should be there. After time, however, and a losing battle with my resolve, I began to waffle over what I firmly believed in and what could be possible. That spring day brought every thought and experience to a head.
On that expanse of peaceful solace I often saught out, when I realized exactly what it was that he wanted me to find out, I thought that I must be caught in a space of macbre curiosity. How would anyone outside of myself undestand what he was requesting of me? Could I potentially ever share with anyone else without them thinking I had suffered an inconsolable trauma the notion that he wanted me to revisit that site to determine if his blood still stained the concrete? After all, that was all he requested. I knew with certain clarity that he just wanted to know if his blood remained behind- an effigy of sorts that couldn't be washed away. Deep within I thought I knew the answer. Of course, there were caustic and abrasive cleaners that would be employed afterwards to clean up the ugly scene. But still, I had to see the space- that spot where asphault and concrete claimed something precious to people I did not know- in order to answer his final question. I would do it for him. I still didn't even know his name. Well I didn't remeber it. The paper had ran a brief mention of the accident- his name and age. He was only 22. His name I couldn't remember.
Reaching Gaston, I continued south along Lamar and finding a decent spot to traverse the thoroughfare without a proper cross street, I approached what I knew would relinquish remeberings I wasn't sure I was prepared to face. And it came...there were the spray-painted markings left from the police as they marked the points where his motorcycle had begun its indecent decent across oncoming traffic, trailing the street and leaving gratings in the seemingly impervious blacktop. The officials had cirled the markings where the bike had abraded the concrete sidewalk, gashes made in a normally unyielding surface, until it finally came to rest, still running, in the bushes just adjacent. In a moment I was back there on that day.
We- myself, my sister and her boyfriend- had been traveling north on Lamar, leaving a lovely birthday celebration of a good friend when we happened upon the scene: a man laying face down on the northbound sidewalk of Lamar. He wasn't moving; a bike was laying just beyond and a few people mulling around. Sara and I initially made a remark as to stop and when Richard replied that there were people already pulled over I said "yes, but none of them are doing anything". Richard immediately pulled over, doors swung open as Sara and I poured out of the car, sending doors slamming behind us. Without second thought, we were pounding down the sidewalk to reach what we were both unsure of and probably ultimately feared. Fast feet crept up to a scene that made my heart fall. I thought upon initial survaillance that perhaprs I could have known he was gone before I even touched him.
Blood, much too crimson for life, as it had been exposed to oxygen for too long and no longer retained the bright glisten that fresh blood held surrounded his head. He was laying face down, helmet still on and umoving; a pool of that same blood surrounded his head for nearly two feet in each direction. Falling to the concrete, I reached for his hand. That hand I would later remember as disfigured, recounting that all fingers had been bent back at unnatural angles. Almost as if it as was normal for one to be able to extend their fingers beind their knuckels to he same extent they could in front of their knuckles, towards their palm. No pulse was to be found at that wrist. Try again...and again. Struggling with a brief second of confussion, I looked upwards to the people standing above him. "How long has he been here", I asked of the couple standing silent above. With no response from them, I thought to myself, answer the fucking question, it's not that hard! How long has he been here! Repeating aloud the question, they finally stumbled out an answer of maybe a couple of minutes. Fear beyond paralysis and breach of neck and back set in. He had to be moved. Over. We had to turn him over. We had to understand where he was. More people had arrived and were weighing in on the judgement. With shouts of "don't move him" echoing around I knew it had to be done if there was ever a chance to save him, although somewhere within I knew it was too late.
With a heave, Sara and I lifted his heavy and listless body over. As he rolled and came to rest on his back I knew the next step would be to remove his helmet. With trembling fingers I loosened the strap beneath his neck, noticing the grazing stubble on his chin and the small piercing within his left ear. That same black stud I would remember as being present on his person when he invaded my shower. Craddling his head, I slipt the helmet off to reveal the extent of his injuries. Blood had been pouring from nose, ears, and mouth. He's gone, he's gone, was all I could think. But at the same time I couldn't let that be the end. He could be saved, after all, it happened all the time. Someone behind us had a direct line to a paramedic and they were instructed us to clear the breath passages. No shit I thought. Really, I wish you were here and could see this. You would know how far we are beyond that point and there are all these people standing around looking at me as if there is something to be done. Not now. He had to have died when he landed. Good God, I mean he hit an oncoming car and eventually landed over here...there was a pool of blood...he didn't respond...he had no pulse...he was gone.
The EMS arrived after what seemed like an eternity. As heavily equipped personnel arrived to take over I stepped back, touching Sara's shoulder and shouted aloud to everyone who was bottle necking, there for the scene, to step back and go home. Suddenly, I was upset and ashamed that a man had died, and the most personal and solely experienced times in one's life was being made a scene of. It really never occurred to me until that point that most things one does in one's life can be shared with others. Death can't. It's something one must enter to and face alone. I hated all of those people standing there watching what was his death. Sara, Richard, and I were the first to leave. We got back in the car and drove home where Sara and I would wash his blood from our hands.
The day that I returned to his spot, his blood did not stain the ground. I stood over that spot for a moment, as long as I could before people on bicycles came rushing past and I had to move. I laughed, realizing we were both done and started my trip home.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Starting from a slightly different location, farther to the east than was typical of past trips, they soon approached and adjoined her favorite expanses of blacktop that kept countless fond memories and inspired so many emotions and thoughts. In Lampasas they merged onto Highway 281 and so began the connectivity of all those small towns, many of which possessed names that people had a strong likelihood of mispronouncing if they weren’t from around those parts. It was a compilation of roads that flowed through the heart of the Texas Hill Country like one of its own rivers; not too loud or boisterous like the Colorado or the Brazos but calmer and slower like the Pecos, Bosque, or Leon. She always likened herself to a river- a Texas river. While some people consider themselves beach people or mountain folks, she knew if her spirit was to take a more literal earthly form she would have been a river. Her life's path had been less than linear and was relentlessly changing course.
Reaching one town she would immediately recall which one was to come next while driving through the current, looking for, and finding each of the normal landmarks encountered in years past. All the usual suspects were there. The cafes still served the same pies with mile-high meringue. The churches, rooted and devout in the sun, still wanted for the shade found over the adjacent graveyards with the small, weathered markers and plastic wreathes with red flowers faded pink over time. The old men wearing belted Wrangler’s and boots, collared shirts, and old vinyl ball caps, who spoke only when needed, were found as expected- sitting on the benches outside of the smoke-filled filling stations. They always reminded her of the Farmer's Almanac, the smell of stale tobacco, and manners long ago neglected by most. At times she envied them because she imagined their lifestyle was mostly consumed with the present need of producing what was needed to subsist today. Therefore, they had little time to contemplate the inadequacies of their lives but could enjoy living in the now, rather than always wanting for something more or better. The antique stores still attempted to peddle wares that had been there for ages. One aspect of these towns that rang most special to her was their structure and layout- all oriented around the town square so that one would drive right past the courthouse (most were county seats); dating the towns and reminding one of a time when justice was more prominently on display. With the onset of winter and the Christmas holiday, these courthouses would be elaborately decorated with strands of crystal white lights and shiny red and green garlands. The streetlights throughout town would be decorated as well so that if one drove through at night, it was if you were passing under and elaborate promenade of tinsel and light. For her, those trips became most special when they happened to reach some of the towns further south at night and they would be transformed into small vignettes that could be peered into, much like the quaint village figurines and displays individuals collect and display in their own homes during the holidays.
It had proven to be quite a beautiful fall day and in between cities and towns, the landscape varied from pleasant to breath taking as they traveled further north. The colors had begun to change and the oranges and shocking reds blazing on the flame leaf sumac and red oaks were stunning. This was the first week in November and fall had just hit Texas, yet another reminder of how the state seemed to take its time with almost everything it did- completely unprogressive and unconcerned with the trends around it. Even the King Ranch bluestem had turned a to a deep purple/mauve at its seed head, and cast the surrounding fields with a dark tint. She had a shade of eye shadow in that exact purple hue. As the cars ahead speed past, the grass stands growing adjacent to the shoulder of the road protested against the force of the air in a perfect rolling wave- the purple seed heads reaching towards the ground and flashing a bit of straw colored stem before snapping upright again in an undulating motion.
They passed various fixtures typical to a rural backdrop that hinted to a lifestyle almost forgotten: houses with screened-in wrap-around porches, an old truck on cinder blocks without its wheels, a hand-placed stone fence of unquestionable age bisecting a pasture. She smiled when they reached the house completely surrounded by a dike that could not be missed, and one could not wonder what neurosis had inspired such an undertaking. In addition to the earthen barrier surrounding the house, was a series of American flags across the property. This had to be the surest bastion of American patriotism, and by the looks of the earthen barrier around the house, the inhabitants were ready to uphold that status come hell or high water. North of Hamilton, they had to break quickly as four deer leaped the fence to the right and crossed the road in front of them before another leap easily and gracefully carried them across the fence on their left. It was odd to see them so active at the noon hour, but from the number of dead deer they had encountered, remnants from last night’s collisions, she thought they must really be on the move with the cooler weather and the subliminal changes in behavior that the waning daylight brought about in the species this time of year. Last night had not been a good night for the deer.
She mused that it had always been the deer that had brought them up and down these roads, for what seemed must have been a thousand times before, as well as she knew them. Each trip had taken place before she was yet old enough to drive, at least a portion of that 8-hour trip from the Metroplex to a remote portion of South Texas brush country where they spent weekends and a few remaining days of holiday breaks during hunting season on a highly coveted hunting lease. Land so rough and hardscrabble that most would consider it desolate despite the variety and abundance of life that flourished there. They spent hours on those roads covering the distance between two places so distinctly disparate they almost seemed to be alternate experiences in space and time. She loved every minute spent on the road with him. She would spend her time in the back seat, pretending not to be paying attention while listening to him as he talked to the other companions in the car- the adults telling stories and jokes. Some times he would earnestly break into song or start humming a favorite tune with great fervor, but mostly for amusement's sake, and she would just laugh. As much as she loved the time spent in that south Texas landscape, early steps in the development of her appreciation for natural systems and land stewardship, she most treasured the time spent in the car on those roads. The endless possibilities of new places and people one might chance upon, with a host of new stories and adventures created a sense of wonder in her and created a longing to find new routes to wander.
Small towns were different than what she knew. Each time she traveled these roads she wondered what it might be like to have grown up in one. A place where most folks knew one another just as well as they knew where the sidewalks in town would lead. What impact would such an upbringing have made on her life? More often than not she considered her upbringing and exposure to diversity a blessing, but had the availability of luxuries of urban life made her complacent? Would a longing for more, experienced in a town that had little to offer (at least on the surface), driven her to achieve more in her life? Would she have fought harder to reach her goals the first go-around if she had grown up with an ache for a life outside of a small town?
The thoughts played round and round while they continued to travel north. Soon, they began to notice more cars on the road and traffic increased. Around Granbury it became an annoyance and she realized with a start that what she was feeling was not disgruntlement for the traffic but for that gnawing concern in the pit of the stomach. She kept telling herself it was not necessary as everything would work out as it should, statistically speaking, but she couldn't ignore the queasy anticipation anymore. It had begun about a month before when she received the news. He had not acted concerned at the time, and still did not, but delivered what was to happen in a simple email with little detail: a surgery, a time, and a place. It would all work out fine, he reassured. She took the news in stride, but now, as they approached their destination and knew she would be seeing him soon, maybe for the last time, she couldn't stop the worry and the thoughts just came forth…
At dawn tomorrow they will shave your chest, put you to sleep, and open up your torso. They will keep you alive for those few precious hours with artificial life offered up from computers and machines and, potentially, others’ blood. They will cut out that small piece of your heart that has never worked correctly but they say now has reached a point of inefficiency it can no longer meet the demands of your body and sustain your life. Then, they will replace it with a foreign object, make repairs, stitch you up, and wait as you wake from slumber. And I’m so scared. Not at the thought of what is to happen, the procedure itself, but what I have come to realize life would be like without you. You are my guiding light; I would be utterly lost without you. You, who taught me how to appreciate, how to dream, how to be proud, how to take life, how to respect life, how one person can love more than I thought would ever be possible by loving others more than themselves. Where would I turn for the advice and comfort that only a father can render at 2 am in the morning when things have fallen apart and his little girl is in trouble? You were not always so good at it though, and in awkward times didn’t always know how to talk to us. You learned, however, and the comfort you bring has meant so much to us. And all of this time of knowing what was coming, you have been the strongest. You have remained calm and not once shown a single sign of worry, because you put us three before yourself. You have unselfishly kept us safe.
A couple of tears fell as they pulled into the subdivision she remembered but had grown so big. She hoped her sister didn’t notice and didn’t think she had because of the sunglasses that covered her face. Knowing what tomorrow could bring, she’s had her moment of weakness and then hardened. Tomorrow the roles would change- he would be rendered weak and they would be strong for him.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Smaller indicators to this conclusion had materialized through-out my childhood but were easily dismissed at the time. After reaching an appropriate age to not only become acquainted with, but to also appreciate our parents' surviving vinyl collection, Sara and I knew that our mother and father must have once been pretty cool folks. Two people still holding onto the albums of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, The Beetles, The Stones, Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, Carole King, James Taylor, Simon & Garfunkle, Chicago, Led Zeppelin, Elton John, The Grateful Dead, Crosby, Still, Nash & Young, Harry Nilsson, Willie Nelson, Ray Price, Dolly Parton, and Jerry Jeff Walker (amongst others) had inevitably had some fun at one point in their lives. We had heard tales about attendance at 4th of July picnic's with Willie Nelson, concerts witnessed at the now extinct Armadillo World Headquarters, as well as adventures and misadventures about and around Austin involving such spots as Barton Springs, Deep Eddie, and Hippie Hollow. But that was in their pasts- their distant pasts. Careers, children, suburbans, PTA meetings, political and social shifts had happened since. The former-life Austin hippies had grown up to be respectable, moderately conservative, middle-class professional parents. Most importantly, in my eyes, they were about as far from hip as I could imagine. And I was comfortable with that arrangement. Sure, they set a good example for me- a great example- but it was one that I would be able to benefit from and one day out-perform. I thought that Sara and I would always prevail as the hip duo in the relationship. We would now set the example for them as to what was socially acceptable and what should be aspired to. When, exactly, had things started to change? When had the shift begun to occur and how had I ignored the implications?
Perhaps the first step on their path towards this new status occurred during the presidential election campaigns of 2000 when my father shocked us by declaring his intent to vote for a non-conventional candidate. Yes, the man who had adamantly defended Bush Sr. and his stance on US and UN involvement during the first Gulf War was now going to vote for Ralph Nader- of the Green Party! Perhaps the growing cracks and flaws in the policies of the Republican party had finally shaken his miss-held belief in the party's miss-stated values and focus. For my farther, his admission was a turning point- almost as if the statement was a vocalization of some new resolution to change. My mother, on the other hand, had somehow managed to remain truer to her political roots by largely tending to vote Democrat if the candidate was acceptable. As such, I do not include this as a defining moment for her; Dad was simply catching up-to-speed. Regardless, this new perspective on political responsibility- that now included more areas and avenues of accountability, such as environmental stewardship and social and cultural awareness- would ultimately materialize in both my parents' lives in very tangible ways. Another step, that was more accurately a large leap in the procession, was their purchase, upon my father's retirement, 0f 160 acres just outside of Comanche, Texas with the intent to farm, ranch, and live off the land- well, at least in some respects. In fact, this move was the true catalyst in what had become the outwardly spiraling movement toward "hip-dom".
Comanche Ridge, as the farm later became Christened, provided the venue through which Mom and Dad could live-out their socially and environmentally conscious pursuits. Although, during the origins of Comanche Ridge, I think it was more of a subconscious movement rather than a waking venture. Days became filled with the activities associated with raising free-roaming Red Angus, establishing organic gardens, dabbling in apiculture, raising chickens for egg production; and as more time was spent upon farm improvements and adventures, the more Mom and Dad became impassioned with these pursuits and found new avenues for their implementation. It was no longer apparent which entity was the driving force in this operation- were my parents domesticating and cultivating the farm to their bidding, or was the farm fostering and breeding new ideas and thoughts of environmental sustainability in my folks? Clearly, the answer was that this had become a mutually beneficial symbiosis in which stimulation of one entity upon the other brought about maturity and progression- an earthly and spiritual manifestation of the natural force of succession.
Socially, they began to flourish as well. After successfully establishing a local cycling group, they set about the ambitious task of organizing and hosting a bike ride - The Comanche Cyclone- to benefit the Comanche Hospital Auxiliary. The resultant success of the event in its inaugural year and years to follow was something that caused an enormous feeling of pride in me for my parents. It was warming to watch their approach to the new community they were now a part of and hoping to advance. At times, though, I wondered who these people were, and where they came from; the characters they were becoming appeared in such moments to be larger than life, at least certainly larger than anything I had witnessed in them before. While Mom continued to work part-time in her long-held career as a lactation consultant, she became the soul bread-winner in the relationship. Holding fast to her convictions and the small contributions she made in the fight to eradicate misconceptions and prejudices about breastfeeding, she continued to save another baby from formula feeding, two boobs at at time. With the new-found freedom from work, at least in a professional form, Dad began to master various form of media. What began with an unhealthy obsession with CNN and Book TV, brought about by the acquisition of satellite television as few other options for media connections exist in rural communities, crept slowly into web-surfing and blogging. Although we didn't have cable television or even an answering machine growing up, Dad had become so immersed in political blogging that it began to inhibit his farming obligations. Mom had to step-in, putting her foot down and curtailing his on-line activities as other domestic responsibilities were being neglected. I was beside myself when I discovered that the man had carved out a niche for himself, and not to mention a considerable following, on the Huffington Post blog site. For chrissakes, he had become an actual 0n-line character, offering up all sorts of commentary and often engaging others on the site.
Naively, I thought this final act had been revolutionary enough in itself. Then, the email hit. They were purchasing a Prius. For those individuals that live in urban hubs, this is nothing out of the ordinary- plenty of people drive hybrids these days; for Comanche, Texas, however, it's down-right unthinkable. Comanche just isn't Prius country. To be exact, it's pick-up's, tail gates, hay bales, dairy farms, simple thoughts, simple lives, and hard work, I'm not quite certain how the transition from an urban metropolis of concrete jungle mixed with the perfect ration of manicured suburbia to rural existence had so seamlessly rendered my parents hip, but it had. This troubled me- deeply. I had to look at myself and ask myself some hard questions. If they could be so personally aware and render such effective measures of change, hope, and perseverance in their own lives while living in Podunk Ville, what was my excuse for remaining so less overtly involved while residing in Austin, the mecca of everything associate with anything hip? Was I not reacting to social stimuli in the appropriate manner? Could I find new areas for activism that I had been turning a blind eye to? How could I not feel embarrassed about having parents far more hip than myself? I imagined a chorus of everyone around me asking the same question, almost in unison: "Sandra's parents are SO GREAT, where did she go wrong?". Helplessly I scrambled to come up with creative solutions to this quandary, but nothing seemed to offer any relief.
In the space of the week or two that followed my receipt of the picture of Mom silently posing before the new vehicle, I have decidedly become more resigned to the thought that my parents are more hip than myself. Through their actions in these past few years, they have silently and unassumingly set a new bar or standard for Sara and I to strive for. After all, isn't that what parenting is meant to be- an example of proper behaviour for your children? And why should such an endeavor end when one's children become adults or parents themselves? Proudly, I realize that they love us, and this world that Sara and I are a part of, enough to react and adapt to that world so as not to be left behind but to always be able to shine a light on a proper path for us.
What is next for my parents? Of this I'm not certain, but as they are now poised for the future- with a vehicle that best resembles a spaceship rather than a car restricted to travel upon paved roads- I am convinced that the sky might not be the limit. And, after further consideration of the situation, I am more secure and comfortable with the idea that as I age, I will have something to aspire to as well as look forward to. Because if my parents' lives are any indication, it should be a fun and exhilarating ride. So, maybe the old adage should be changed to read that with age comes wisdom and hip-dom.