Columbia
Before
these fields were filled with white-porch houses, there was nothing here but
corn, tall, waving stalks you could lose yourself in, surrounding me on three
sides. Every Spring the manure was laid, the pungent smell of dung signaling
how near or far I was to home. // Out back, on the wood and nail porch, is
where the rocking horse once sat. In Summer its creaking iron springs hummed
with the swaying of my body, until a nest of hornets took up residence within,
and a black spur was lodged in my palm. The chair was relocated over by the
shed where it sat for many years, rusting into nothing but a painful memory. //
The back garden, a field of open green, is my playground. When it grows thirsty,
we uncoil the green, serpent hose, and shower it. The Jack Russel, the runt,
snaps at the water stream, the nub of her trimmed tail bouncing like a piston.
// There is a time we think we have lost her, but the dull yip of her bark leads
us to the neighbor’s barn, where below ground, in a little burrow, she corners
an opossum, both too afraid to move, both acting like they have something to
prove. // A forest stretches acres behind the home, a sea of skunkweed creeping
along its floor. A single misstep will
break the foil foliage, staining the air with stink, but deep enough, a forgotten
path leads to a clearing, where a monstrous gaggle of wild turkeys roam,
scattering like a retreating army at our approach. We didn’t mean to scare
them. // When night falls on the town, and moonlight shines, the coyotes howl,
their wild eyes flashing in the dark scribble of the tree line.
The
Fairgrounds (Hebron, Woodstock, Brooklyn)
At
the county fairs, you name it, they deep dry it; Fried dough, fried oreos,
snickers, twinkies, cheesecake, pickles, or ice cream. This is the true American
dream. // We enter the fairgrounds by the south gate where farmers showcase
their vintage equipment. Steam powered machines sputter hot oil as we pass, the
chugging combustion of the industrial age, the beginning of the future, or of
the end. // In the animal yards, oxen compete in a contest of strength. Sweat
drips from their furled brows, the bulk of their bodies pressing forward
through the yolks around their necks. Sunburnt men place bets on which will
budge the cinderblocks the furthest. // In the next pasture, a stuttering track
of trumpets plays over a horse show, the disc jumping when the beast gallops
too close, and standing astride her back, a dancing woman waits for applause
that will never come. // In the “Better Living Barn” we coo over a scaled down
version of the World Fair. I am smitten by a machine that claims to know your
personality by the psychology of your print. I slap my autograph on a post card
and feed it through, knees buckling as cogs spin, and whistles tweet, until my
result spits out the tail end, a crisp, warm, printed ticket. I greedily absorb
each word of my personality profile and stand aghast, wondering how it could
ever get me so unbelievably wrong.
Amston
Lake
Locals
swear by this legend, that years ago when the land was first flooded to form
this man-made lake, a farmhouse was left untouched, swallowed by the water. One
diver is said to have explored the depths, found the house, and there within
its walls, a lone armchair, still upright, waiting for its owner to come home.
// At the dock’s end we scatter breadcrumbs, watch the fish slap the surface of
the water with their lips. We dip our hands in, tempting them with our little
fingers, daring each other to let them have a taste. // Swaying in the hammock,
we guzzle down the local brew, soda, sourced from the river, purified. Black
cherry, birch beer, tangerine, this is what Summer tastes like. // We take the
kayaks out on the water, chart a course, a clean line across the middle of the
lake to the jumping rocks. The rougher kids are already there, pushing each other
higher. They taunt us, rub their recklessness in our faces, daring us to
challenge them. Some of us jump, but I do not. I wade in the shallows, tracking
the movement of a disturbed snapping turtle, wishing that turtle would bite
those mean boys, bite them right where it hurts. // Here at the lake’s heart,
my diabetic friend and I sit, our paddleboat slowly sinking, and I baling the
water with cupped hands as she slips into shock. The others soon arrive with a
carton of orange juice and a tether to cart us back home, but for a moment, I
was our only hope of ever seeing the shore again. // At night, we strip, we
wear nothing but moonlight. The water is warm, and we dive in, but the boys
stand ankle deep, arms crossed, for fear the fish might bite their nipples or
nibble on their most precious parts.
The Shoreline
(Mystic, Westbrook, Old Saybrook, Hammonasett Beach)
Mystic
is best for salt water taffy. We leave the shop with a brown bag full of it,
chomping and chewing down to the sand. The brine of brackish water mixes with
the salt on our tongues and we taste the ocean. // Looking into the harbor, all
sense of time is lost. Clipper ships sit anchored at dock, white linen sails
perfectly manicured, and the musk of gunpowder clouding the air. // Over the
edge of the pier lives an aquatic metropolis, barnacles suction pressed to the
wooden beams, jellyfish bouncing like bubbles from a motorboat, and anemone pulsing
in time with the tide. // The aquarium is famous for its beluga, the dome
headed whales. They are prone to mischief, mocking tourists when their backs
are turned, and blowing bubbles at children who dirty the glass with sticky
fingers. // The shores of Hammonasett are so crowded, we can’t step without
kicking sand into someone’s face. On the edge of the water we test our balance
on the rocky crag, hopscotching our way out to where the fishermen cast their
lines, resting the rods in the cracks of the broken bluff, hooks baited, ready
to catch. // At low tide, we hunt crabs on the sandbar, squealing as they
scuttle over our bare feet. We begin to burry ourselves in sand, until the
boozers come and crowd us out. // At sunset, we break out the sparklers and
write our names in light. Fireworks pop on the horizon, and in the glow, we
swear we can just see the shadow of Rhode Island.
Willimantic
This
is, as the Chippewa called it, the land of the swift running water, otherwise referred
to as Thread City, but most recently and lovingly dubbed Heroine Town. // Researchers
believe it is the strategic placement of the town’s airport which helped make
it the smack capitol of the state. A police task force has heightened patrol in
recent years, but if you ask the man who overdosed in the gas station toilet, I’m
not sure if he would thank them. // On the south side of town is one of several
abandoned textile mills, the water wheel still lightly licking the river. Inside
the cameras are rolling, zooming in on our rotten flesh. For whatever reason,
acting like the living dead comes naturally to us. // We take the footbridge
home from school, stopping midway to spit over the edge and listen to hear
whose hits the water first. The next leg
of the journey brings us past the florist. The coolers are filled with
corsages. It is prom season, and you buy baby’s breath, roses, and queen anne’s
lace. Next stop, what the kids call Pot Park. No one is selling today, the
place is empty, its only attractions, an orange rusted slide and a rickety pair
of swings. We each choose a side and float until the storms in our stomachs
send us running home for dinner. // One day we walk the train tracks, past the
busted box cars where the river meets the rails. We shed down to our underwear
and try our feet on the cold slabs of stone, slipping into the current,
becoming weightless. This part of town is called Tent City, and this river is
where its denizens bathe. Emerging from the water we stand back to back, naked
for a moment as we change into something dry. Notice now the empty fire pits,
the folded lawn chairs, the make shift fishing poles. I wonder, do the homeless
still call this place home?
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