At about the time when the Berlin wall was crumbling in what I had been taught was the homogenous, 'iron' world of 'babichkas', poverty and handkerchiefs wrapped around temples, a storm was forming over Lake Erie. The clouds were thick, gray and heavy--the kind that remind you of a torrential rain, not like the spurts that are seen in the south or along the coasts. It careened its way onto land, passed over Presquile Isle and traversed what is known as the moraine country: the border between where the Appalachian low-lands of South Western Pennsylvania intersect with the glacial plains of the Lake Erie piedmont area. In the beginning, the wind began to howl and rain splattered in thunderous drops onto concrete. It began to pick up speed. It was cold, hard rain. Loose dirt was blasted up into the air and whirled into a mixture of brown soup that smelled and roiled into long troughs of near impassable sludge. Trucks couldn't make it through the muck, and the slime grabbed a'hold of the rubber soles of sneakers and was reluctant to release. I heard a thick sucking sound with each step I took; it was a battle between me and the forces of nature, to see which one us would win the right to rip asunder the shoe and reveal my white, Hills-bought sock. From that moment on, this land of pine needles and pine cones; R.V.s and pop-ups; peeling paint and an dilapidated goofy-golf; Disney-themed fishing poles and bikes with plastic spoke noise makers; now-and-laters and 'smores over the fire, would be known as "The Muddy Camp Ground".
Usually before I doze off for the last time in a day, I find myself in a reflective state of mind. Memories of long-forgotten friends, smells, or routines come back in wistful, fleeting pictures. It's as if a merry-go-round is at work within my subconscious; bringing to the forefront a memory, but never stopping, always taking it back around for another ride. I know not how long, nor how slowly it moves. Sometimes, I jump on for a ride, and am whisked away into the world of the past-- my own history. With each passing second, I begin to visualize years and clothing. Sometimes, I relive a moment of my life that has been locked away, somewhere, for over 14, sometimes 20 years. Where did these memories go before? And why, only now, in 2010, in the Czech Republic, am I reminded of them during the quiet of night? Recently, I spent a night in intervals of sleep; waking up to write down what I was envisioning in my early-dream state: this time, it was my childhood at Skyview (Muddy Camp Ground) in Mercer County.
---
The dew on the tall field grass rubbed along my arms, making them damp and itchy. I hated the feeling. The sun was just rising above the large Oak and Pine trees that lined our path; I could see spider webs adorned in diamonds of water that hung in place along their silky strands. Chipmunks scurried in front of us; burrowing into the moist, worm-strewn soil under the shale stones that littered the undergrowth. Grasshoppers jumped from strand to strand, making a thumping sound with their unbelievably strong legs; flapping their wings in an attempt to extend their leap just a few feet further. Sometimes I would catch a few of them, shocking the creatures so thoroughly, causing them to release brown gunk from their mouths, which I had been taught was called 'tar'. My dad always woke up early on Saturday mornings to make his annual pilgrimage to the breakfast sausage, and maple-syrup pancakes on Styrofoam plates that were served in the camp communal hall situated over the bridge, across from the lake. I tagged along. The smell of fresh coffee brewing through filters, and the murmured voices of men sitting in squeaky, plastic chairs adorned in mesh baseball caps gave me the feeling as if I had entered the realm of chiefs and kings of the weekend get-a-way.
---
The propensity for dead, brown leaves to fall into the middle of the pool was always quite a mystery to me. All I knew was that I despised the feeling of 'uncleanliness' that it emitted. The pool itself was surrounded by a beat-up, twice painted over, wire fence that had only one main entrance, where the latch hung loosely against the hinged door. Each time it would be opened, a distinctive whine would ring out from the grinding steel; signifying another round of splashing and yelling. The pool basin itself was surrounded by pebbled concrete and formed into the shape a square. The blue paint that lined the walls was chipped, and the steps always struck me as looking like a layered cake--the top, closest to the water, being the smallest. The railing was chrome and a tad-bit rusty; it wobbled whenever one would grab a hold of it, as the foundational screws had somehow jarred loose. In the far-end, the water was deep and had a darker tone than nearer to the steps. There was a mysterious looking vent that sat at the bottom of 12 ft, which filled my mind with the most horrific of thoughts: "What if it sucked me down? And, I got stuck.... and I couldn't get away...and my legs and fingers would be squeezed through the small grate...and I would...DIE!" This was not exactly my paradise. I feared it, the whole thing.
I remember my mother in her one-piece black bathing suit with golden trim, and a nice soft skirt around her waist. She was wading in the water up to her belly; her hair never was wet. She was swinging her arms from side to side, enticing me to jump in. I refused with an emphatic proclamation, but I still saw her crack a smile through watery eyes. "Come on Jeremy. I'll catch you. You don't need to worry." I took a few steps backwards and felt the ball of my feet rub against a crack of cement. I looked at the water, as it limply flowed back and forth creating crystal-like streaks of light across my mother's clip-on sunglasses. I held my breath, and ran forward. Felt the slick rim of the pool and let go of all inhibition. The cold water touched my legs first, and then quickly moved up to engulf my chest and even my neck. My mouth just grazed the water line. I screamed. My mother had me in her hands, but I still felt like she let me go too deep into the depth. I climbed into her arms and felt that the back of my hair was bunching up from the chlorinated water. I had jumped. But, man, I didn't want to do it again.
---
I always heard the sputtering truck as it made its round to collect the garbage from the nights previous. A man by the name of Rick would step out the truck and saunter over to a fire ring or steel can, and take the contents. His key loop would sing from side to side as his gait was long and a little hard. The keys would make a jingling, clanging sound as they slapped in-between his front pocket and his hip. I always liked the idea of wearing pieces of equipment around my waist; it made one seem more important: policemen had a whole array of shiny contraptions, and batman always had nicely, organized yellow boxes that contained all sorts of clip hooks, wires, latches and rope. Rick was quite a unique looking fellow, in that his glasses were thick plastic and tinted. He had a ruff of thick black hair that was pulled back, revealing a round, almost chubby face. He was fairly clean-shaven, but managed to sport a stylish, black mustache. His uniform was a tan/brown button up with pockets on the breast. The Nissan truck he drove was rusted, and the tail gate never was closed. With each bump in the road, the whole truck would wobble up and down like a boat over waves, because the suspension was pretty bad. The back lights were a stacked red, white and yellow, which reminded me of a popsicle. In the morning, I saw him make his rounds, and loved how the dust would fly up from the back tires...
---
There were towering deciduous trees that lined the field. The baseball backstop was a dilapidated structure of brown-stained wood and chicken wire that had gigantic holes from where a fastball, coming off a hot bat, was fouled backwards. The sand had been absorbed into the soil, and grass was growing up; only the pitcher's mound was still discernable.
---
The trigger was easy to squeeze, and I remember hearing a 'booiiiiing' as the plastic plane made its inaugural launch from my hand. It flew to about a height of 20feet and crashed back down, straight down. The nose of the plane was wrapped in a soft, felt covering, which seemed to be a tad too heavy for the plastic fuselage and cardboard wings.
---
The rumbling air-conditioner made the whole window pane shake. I heard the water fall into the plastic container below the vents. There were strands of paper taped to the main vent flailing in the wind from the mechanically-produced, chilled air. There were shelves full of camping supplies: plastic pocket knives, with toothpicks and tweezers on the side; kerosene lanterns; cooking utensils; fold-up tables; fishing lines; bobbers and reels; camp patches; canned soup; sausage. The ceiling had two large, brown spots right in the middle, where water had leaked through the flat-top roof and pooled on the ceiling tiles. There was a back-ground 'hum' from the luminescent lights, giving off a yellow-tinged hue to the whole scene.
---
It was a granite mystery, a giant, perhaps, from millions of years ago. It found its rest nestled between the spindly saplings of oak trees and beech wood, and had a bed comprised of leaves and needles. There was green moss that covered about half of the surface, which gave the creature a slick, almost slimy feel. There were ridges and groves over which we could place our rumps into; it was a seat fit not only for imaginative little boys, but for kings, maybe, of the northern forest, or Robin Hood-type characters living a reclusive life in the woodlands; securing justice for the people, and compiling adventures to boot.
My father used to lead us on marches through the trails and into the tree line. My brothers and I would file into lines on his flanks: two to the right, the other two, to the left. We were adorned in breastplates of rubber-stamped sweatshirts, helmets of ill-fitting, elastic-fit baseball caps; carried lances more fit for spearing the bosom of hotdogs, not enemies; and, boots crafted from the finest material 'Kids' or 'L.A. Gear' had to offer. Our coat of arms was a mouse with large ears, red shorts and a squeaky, feminine intonation.
We called it, simply, "Big Rock".
Many years later, I gazed upon a yellow-tinged Polaroid of the beast, and found it to be not as impressive as my mind had imagined, and remembered it to be: it couldn't have been more than 4 ft. and height, and less than 6 ft. in circumference. It's a shame that life takes you on journeys and gives you bigger and 'better' examples of what had enchanted your mind when you were young, so when you go back home, or you revisit a building, it always seems so much smaller, less-significant than before. Oh, the joys of wonder from a time that is gone...
No comments:
Post a Comment