A Shoulder to Land On

There was an afternoon, an Easter Sunday, I believe, when I was 20. I'd taken my bike out for a long ride around Pocatello, across her green foothills, pedaling through historic Old Town, around her winding and circuitous edges, to all the places I'd grown accustomed to seeing through the windshield of Cleo, my car rather than out in the open. I was pedaling up the long line of Pocatello Creek Road, through the neighborhood where I'd grown up. It was a lovely day. The Mormon churchgoers were out in their shiny new clothes, the heathens were mowing their lawns or washing their cars, and I had the street mostly to myself. There was no such thing as iPods and I didn't own a Walkman so I could hear the sounds of the world around me: the birds in the willows along the creek, the barking of the dogs, the laughter of children from their backyards, the rush of hose water and slop of soapy sponges on cars, the voice of a small boy telling his father, "Daddy, look at that bird attacking that man on the bike."

I'd been staring down at the road beneath my front tire, reveling in the feel of my legs working the hill, the crunch of the loose gravel under my tires, the sound of my heart in my ears. That's when I noticed the large bird-shaped shadow descend upon me, it's wings spread wide, it's body hovering directly over and behind mine. I turned just in time to hear it scream and rush at me, snagging my hat and tearing it from my head. I nearly lost control of the bike as I ducked and swerved out of the way. I watched the crow, a big one, shiny and black, turn effortlessly and come at me again, this time from the front, its body swooping straight toward my face, its eyes locked on mine, a scream rising from its throat. I swerved again, put my foot down, yanked hard on the handlebars and turned around. 

"Hurry!" the voice of a man called from his carport. "Get over here!" I pedaled across the street and skidded to a stop directly in front of he and his small son. "That was close," he marveled. "She nearly got you!"

"What the hell..." I stammered through my heavy breaths. "Why...."

"She's been doing it to people all morning. Even a couple of cars. We figure she's got a nest up there somewhere." His eyes scanned the line of trees across the street. "You want some water?"

I nodded as he hurried inside, got a glass of cold water, and returned. I guzzled it down, spilling half of it on my bare chest, barely able to hold the glass in my adrenaline-shaking hands. When I finished I handed it back to him.

"You can stay as long as you like, but I think she's gone. You could make a break for it."

And so I did, pedaling as fast as I could up into the mountains, my head turning this way and that as I kept a look-out for an attack that never came.

This morning I awoke early. There were errands to run and I needed to take my car in for a checkup. There wasn't time to take Duncan on our Saturday morning walk around the lake, so we crossed the street and strolled down the trail that winds through the prairie dog metropolis along the greenway. The birds were loud in the trees and the traffic hadn't picked up on Quincy where they're doing the roadwork, so everything was perfect. Despite tomorrow's imminent snow and days of cold weather ahead of us, the sun was bright and warm and I was enjoying sharing that moment with Roo.

And that's when I saw the shadow. I didn't have much time to react because no sooner had I seen it, and heard the rush of a body through the air, than I felt the soft weight strike my shoulder and stop. I'd ducked a little but when I turned my head I saw the grackle standing on my shoulder, perched as though I was the most natural place in the world to alight. Duncan, who'd also startled, turned and saw the bird, big and black, sitting inches from my face. His eyes widened and he moved toward me. The bird and I stared at one another for what felt like a very long time, me in what surely looked like shock and idiocy, it with what I can only describe as calm trust. It adjusted itself as I stood up, stepped back and forth, its soft nails clinging to my shirt tightly, but not enough to pinch. It was close enough that it could have plucked my eye out had it wanted. Instead, it screeched that rusty swing-set call, hopped forward, fluttered its wings very lightly, and touched down on Dunc's back. Roo jumped sideways, pulling the leash from my hand, and shook the bird loose. It hopped down in the long grass in front of him and allowed him to sniff its back. It screeched again, looked back at me, and then flew away as though there was nothing out of the ordinary, just another Saturday morning adventure. My heart was racing in my chest and Duncan was on full alert, his eyes alternately scanning the grass where it had landed and the trees above us where the grackle had vanished. After a few moments he barked and wagged his tail, I laughed, and we continued on our way, the soft weight of the grackle forever remembered by my shoulder.



*Please leave a comment. They're like lovely little morsels. Thanks!

Another Idaho Sky

It happened again last night, as it does every time I return home to my mother's patch of mountain on the outskirts of Pocatello--the sky here took my breath away.

It's sad that I've grown so used to the orange-tinted halogen nights of Denver, with the low grumble of distant traffic masquerading as silence each time Duncan and I venture out to the park or climb the hill overlooking the lake. I spend ninety-five percent of the year thinking I know what quiet is, like last week when Ken and I stood on the patio at two in the morning and I marveled at the seeming stillness of the world simply because Bowles was empty and calm. And then I come home and am shaken to my core to discover I know nothing, that I've forgotten everything which must relearned before I drive away again.

We went out late last night for one last walk and a bathroom break for Roo, who has not had a Big Job since we arrived. The snow is very deep and comes just up to his chin. He loves it, of course, but there is no place to squat so we stepped down the drive and walked along the road nearly to the old highway. It snowed all day yesterday, thick, relentless sheets of the stuff, large, powdery, dry flakes which still have not turned heavy or wet. It is easy to walk through and gusts up around my ankles like a pile of loose feathers, but it clings and balls up tightly and is no easy task to wipe away from Duncan's shanks and belly. He is quite finicky and needs a nice smooth place, clear and dry with easy access, so we stuck to the road and the places where the plough moved through, pushing up frozen waves along its edges.

The sky had finally cleared and as we left the gate and turned south I looked up, right into the eyes of Orion, who was as clear as I remember but had somehow forgotten. I gasped and felt my knees buckle as they always do at the sight of the deep night and the stars over the mountain and came to an immediate stop, which startled Duncan and caused him to turn and frown at me. The dogs which mom's neighbors let run loose out here had been mercifully removed inside and the night was ours with the exception of the occasional rig speeding across the interstate. The silence was shocking and even my whispered awe seemed loud.

On our walks I occasionally play blind and close my eyes, letting Duncan lead the way. I might as well have done that for as he led me down the road, wandering this way and that, pulling on the leash, my head was craned far back, a few final flakes sifting down from the trees and the tall sage alighting on my face and stinging like the kindest, most gentle pin pricks. We rounded the curve and headed toward the old highway, Duncan taking slow and cautious steps as though he'd heard something. It wasn't until we'd gone perhaps fifty feet and he'd stopped dead in his tracks, the leash falling slack at my feet, that I looked away from the constellations and at the road where we stood.

Christmas Eve 1991 had been an adventure. My friends from the Quality Inn where I worked gathered at Kevi's house for an impromptu party which lasted until the wee hours. After it ended, my friend Harvey, who'd just bought a used pick-up truck with enormous tires, wanted desperately to show me how powerful it was and somehow coaxed me into taking a ride up in the mountains south of town between Inkom and Pocatello, not too far from where my mother now lives. He knew a trail to the top of the hill where we could see the entirety of the Portneuf River Valley covered in a new snow much like the snow that fell yesterday. It would be his gift to me for he knew how much I loved to see new places, especially places I know but in a new light. So, like the idiots we were we climbed into his truck without coats or a sand bag or shovel and headed up in the mountains, taking Harvey's secret path to the top. Halfway up we got stuck and after an hour or more of trying to back out we realized we were beat and had to walk the eight miles back to Kevi's house where Cleo, my little red car, was waiting.

The walk was not as bad as I'd thought. The air was cool but not uncomfortable and the sound of our feet on the sanded roads was rhythmic and soft, the dusting of snow in the empty fields all around twinkling and whispering as we passed. We talked at first, making fun of the ridiculous situation we'd put ourselves in, but after a while we fell silent, each caught up in the silence around us and the sky overhead. After four or five miles the road narrowed and turned under the interstate. As we passed beneath it and emerged into the bright moonlit on the other side the world fell strangely silent around us, as though the silence we'd marched through for an hour had been a cacophony. We both stopped in the middle of the road and it took a long minute to see the tall shadows standing around us in a wide circle at the center of which we stood. Harvey gasped and a smile came to my face, the air cold on my lips and gums. Somehow we'd wandered into a herd of deer, perhaps twenty or thirty strong. They'd remained motionless but watchful and I couldn't help but feel as though we'd interrupted an important meeting or were the guests of honor at a surprise party. We stood there a long time as they milled around us, never coming too close and looking up every now and then to check our position. Eventually the herd moved slowly away, off toward the mountain where they faded into the shadows cast by the moon on the sage brush. Harvey and I did not speak until they were long gone and sound returned, to the world, filling the void we'd stumbled into. "What just happened?" he whispered as we softly resumed our march back into town. Christmas that year was magical, my last before leaving for college in Lake Forest, but what I remember most was the emptiness where we'd stood holding our breath, guests of wonder.

There were not sixty deer on the road last night, only a few, perhaps the very ones who strolled through mom's yard the night before. They were huddled up tight on the corner between an unruly, gnarled elm and the street sign not twenty feet away. Duncan's ears were up, his tail straight out, and for the second time in minutes I caught my breath and stood frozen, afraid to move. Duncan, a consummate rabbit hunter, did not pull on his leash but merely stood, his mouth closed tightly, his body rigid with fascination. Eventually they wandered away leaving us there in the darkness and silence, the smiling face of Orion looking down on us from above.

Softly, Deer

Last night after a good meal made by Kevin, warm family chats in front of the fire and Mom's Christmas lights glowing all around us, the hum of the road faded from my back and palms and Duncan and I slipped into the back room to sleep. Mom had loaded the bed with extra blankets because she knows I like to sleep warm while my face is cool above the covers. After I changed into my pajamas she knocked on the door and whispered, "Curt, if you look out the window there's a herd of deer in the backyard." I turned out the light and very softly, without making a sound, pulled the blinds. Six deer had arranged themselves in two tight clusters across the slope of the hill directly behind the house, not ten feet from my window. Their heads were down as they sifted through the snow in search of grass and the last of mom's summer and fall plants.

I watched them a moment, thinking of all the times Grandma and I had cuddled on the top bunk in her camper watching the deer move through the camp. It was a special thing for us, keeping our eyes on the hillsides or along the edge of the road in the tall sage or amid the lodge pole pines where they stood nearly invisible. Deer were always a special bond between Grandma and me. In fact, when I was born she made me a blanket on which was sewn a butterfly dancing in the air inches above Bambi's twitching tail. That film became a favorite of ours and she even bought me the soundtrack on vinyl, which I still have. Even when I lived in Chicago, where the deer are plentiful--and even a bit of a hazard--on the north shore, I always marveled at them, even when they galloped across narrow Sheridan Road in front of Cleo, my little red Nissan Sentra. Deer are symbols of gentleness and grace, unconditional love, the power of gratitude and also alternative paths to a goal. Those gathered in the yard outside my window, with their white bottoms and big ears, were my reward for the journey we made yesterday, Grandma's joy at my return home to celebrate the holiday she loved so much in the mountains where we were born.

Duncan had already curled up on the pillow where I planned to sleep, so I nudged him and called him to the window. He climbed to his feet with a soft groan and leaned forward, resting his paws on the sill where he watched them in rapt attention, his own ears raised, his tail swishing softly against the comforter from side to side. I stood next to him, my hand on his shoulders, and we watched them for more than an hour, the pale glow of the moon washing across the mountain, bathing the backyard in powder white. Finally I climbed under the covers and as I fell asleep Duncan stood guard, whining very quietly when they took cautious steps around the saplings, growling once or twice when they approached the window to peek in. And when I awoke this morning he was curled up next to me, spooned against my back, one paw draped over my shoulder.

Unconditional love and graitude.

The Longest Mile

The Summer of '96 was the first I spent in Illinois. I'd gone home for Summer vacation each year I was enrolled at Lake Forest College but always managed to catch the tail end of it in August. My blissful and quiet months in Idaho somehow erased the memory of how truly oppressive August could be on the edge of Lake Michigan. I'd grown up in The West where the air is like dirt, dry and weightless, and wasn't accustomed to the heavy, moist stuff that passed as oxygen in the Mid-West where the nights were spent sweating into your sheets, which remained nice and wet for you all day, where envelopes sealed themselves, bags of cereal and potato chips grew soggy and sticky and hair, which had never shown the slightest bit of curl suddenly fro'd up in long, tight ringlets. About the only thing I enjoyed were the last of the fireflies, which my corner of Idaho, a desert, sadly lacked. They were like magic to me and I spent many a Lake Forest night outside on the edge of the ravine watching them, using my lighter and a burning cigarette to mimic their patterns and dances, drawing them close enough to see even when they weren't flirting. At that time of the summer most of their magic had already burned off, but for a few days I was able to witness more fireflies in two minutes than I'd seen my entire life in Pocatello. I had no idea that June and July brought swarms of millions and that every tree and bush would be aglow with more of them than there were people in my home town.

That first Summer I worked at Barnes and Noble in Vernon Hills. I'd been hired as a full-time temporary bookseller in September of '95 before the store had even opened. My job was to help set up the shelves, learn the cash registers, hang out through the Christmas Rush and then hope to God they wanted to keep me or find something else. I'd been there for less than a month before I was made a full-time, permanent employee and then Head Cashier two weeks after that. I spent many hours counting cash drawers, balancing the safe and supervising the cashiers, sometimes coming in early mornings to handle the deposit or staying late to close up and prepare the store for the next day. It was meaningless and low-paying work but I enjoyed it because, unlike my friends who'd gone straight into their careers, I didn't bring it home with me. I can't recall a single night of waking up in a sweat because I feared the store didn't have enough copies of Howard Stern's Private Parts or The Celestine Prophecy. I merely trudged home, got stoned with my roommates and went to bed.

Toward the end of July I finally made the decision and moved in with Ken, who lived in Round Lake, a little north and east of Vernon Hills, and a bit further out in the country. It was a long drive and even on late nights when I was the only person on the road it could take up to 45 minutes. The route I took was a winding one that followed the Metra tracks through several small towns, following the bank of an unhealthy little stream and skirting the edge of an enormous landfill, which was the longest and straightest part of the drive. It smelled horrible year round but was even worse during the Summer when all that garbage, a literal mountain of it, baked and simmered in the humidity.

It was Thursday night, the night my weekend began, and David and I had just finished closing the store. Ken had let me take his truck, a big Chevy S10 that stood taller and had more power than the tiny Nissan Sentra, Cleo, who'd seen me safely across the country countless times. I liked the truck because it was very unCurt-like and had a great sound system.

After leaving the store I drove down Butterfield Road until it turned into 83 and followed that toward the landfill. Despite the odor and the heat I loved driving at night with the windows down. I'd pull the tie from around my neck, loosen my collar or remove my shirt completely and just drive. A joyful and free drive. Fast because it was late and the road was all mine. I was young and in love, it had just sprinkled and the air seemed cooler, the night rich. I was on my way home where the weekend loomed ahead of me, full and promising so I popped in Poi Dog Pondering's self-titled first album, the one with the poetic songs, sexy and fun, and cranked up "Pulling Touch," my favorite song, hung my head out the window like a dog and sang into the night.

You are a butterfly and my eyes are needles
The cold has your breast and my hand is on fire
Are you resting and reposing
Oh my veins are pulsing
And nothing can cure me, but your pulling touch
I'll stretch you out, and lay alongside you
Run my hands along, devour and divide you.
In the cool of the night, under a rain-pelted roof
Beneath cotton white linen, our love is spilt
Are you the cup that I hold by the cheekbones,
I pull you close and I drink you up.
I'll stretch you out, and lay alongside you
Run my hands along, devour and divide you

I was doing sixty on a narrow, two-lane road as I neared the landfill and the stream. My foot was tapping, I was playing the drums on the steering wheel and just before I hit the first frog I remember thinking, "This moment could not be any more perfect." It wasn't until about the two hundredth frog that I thought, "What the hell?" and slammed on the brakes, turning off the stereo with a quick flick of my hand.

I am not the kind of person who kills things, even ants, without feeling a pang of guilt. I rescue bugs and put them outside, the only exception being that if they touch me and they're an arachnid I'm perfectly justified in executing them. Once my senior year I thought I hit a dog and spent an hour puking on the side of the road even though there was no body. My first summer back from Lake Forest I drove across the desert and hit a bird, which bounced off my hood, struck my windshield, did a somersault over the car and landed, still alive but not so happy about it, behind me. I have a respect for life, even those creatures that no one pays much attention to. Like the thousands of frogs that were caught in mid-migration on my sad and smelly little patch of Illinois 83.

I started to open the door to get out but upon looking down at the pavement reconsidered. I hit the high beams and as far as the eye could see, under that suddenly clear and brilliant night sky, the crickets louder than I'd ever heard them, the fireflies dancing and glowing all around me, I saw a country road covered in thousands, maybe tens of thousands of frogs, brown and green bumps, wet and silver under the stars, some hopping or climbing over the backs of their neighbors, some just sitting, chilling out, enjoying the night, almost all singing and chirping, content. Innocents. God's Creatures. Life. And me, in the big red truck, bearing down on them like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, or rather the 190 Horsepower Men of the Apocalypse.

I'd driven right into them without noticing. When I looked behind me I saw the field of frogs stretched far behind me and even as I watched thousands more mounted the side of the road and hopped onto the pavement, closing up whatever open, life-free patch of an escape route remained to me. There was no place to go without killing them. I sat there a long time, my heart racing, my favorite Poi Dog song long since forgotten, home and love calling to me, the weekend waiting to be claimed.

So I did what any person would do with love and sex dangling on a string in front of them, I sat back in my seat, took a deep breath, cranked up the stereo, put the truck in gear and went for it.

I was hoarse from all the screaming by the time I got home fifteen minutes later, still shaking, my fingers frozen and curled from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. As I climbed the front step, the porch light on and Ken waiting for me in the living room, I could feel the horrible bump of the road as the wheels of the truck ploughed over all those small bodies, a bump like driving over a cattle guard, only bigger and longer, as if the guard were a mile long. And squishy. And made popping noises as you passed over it. The only thing that made me feel better was Ken's smile, the way he hugged me after I told the story and, of course, the drink he fixed while I showered.

Tonight Duncan and I took the sidewalk. The snow has started to melt and the day was warm but windy–a cold wind from the north–so even as the snow softened and melted, the wind hardened and sharpened it, turning much of the park into a coarse field of brittle ice-razors. The geese had been out but even the places where their warm bodies had crushed the snow were still jagged and frozen. There was nothing pleasant to be had walking on the grass.

It was dark by the time I awoke from my nap. Duncan had been quite patient with me when I got home and a part of me felt guilty for not taking him out sooner so I let him lead me where he wanted. He was excited in that Duncan way of his, running back and forth across the sidewalk sniffing everything he could, seeing the park in a way I can only imagine. He pulled on his leash, dragging me after him, pulling me over patches of ice and eventually breaking into a run. I tromped behind, my boots thumping loudly, the air cold on my cheeks and scalp. It was like flying, racing, blind, down the sidewalk, smiling as I took big gulping breaths, trusting Duncan to keep me from falling. The few street lamps above us had wound down and blinked out and it was only when one finally buzzed back to life, illuminating the ground in a dark orange glow, I gasped and pulled hard on the leash to reign in my grinning dog.

We were standing in a long patch of sidewalk littered with fresh goose poop, both ahead of us and behind. The grass on my right was matted with the stuff, still dark green, still fresh and slimy. There was no place to go. Duncan started sniffing around and I had to pull the leash tight because sometimes if I'm not careful he'll slurp one up and chew on it. There was no time to think so I steeled my nerves, took a deep breath and spurred him on and ran screaming all the way down the sidewalk to the high school.

Frogs and geese and cement. The story of my life.