The
hillsides were open: deer crossed the meadows intermittently, like domesticated
cattle. Under the cover of foggy days, they brazenly came down to the creek to
drink. On sunny days they prudently waited for the cover of dusk.
When it rained too much, water came spouting out from the gopher holes draining the forested gullies, and upper reaches of the hillside. Thinking it was quartz, once I found what seemed to be rendered fat in a gopher hole. White globules waxed my water withered fingers.
My grey and blue pants that my grandmother had made from a remnant from the church bazaar, were heavy with rain, and hung low on my hips, the additional burden of chocolate mud on the cuffs. My tennies were slurching like a powerful thirst as I wandered up the path, turned into a small river, battling my way home.
When it rained too much, water came spouting out from the gopher holes draining the forested gullies, and upper reaches of the hillside. Thinking it was quartz, once I found what seemed to be rendered fat in a gopher hole. White globules waxed my water withered fingers.
My grey and blue pants that my grandmother had made from a remnant from the church bazaar, were heavy with rain, and hung low on my hips, the additional burden of chocolate mud on the cuffs. My tennies were slurching like a powerful thirst as I wandered up the path, turned into a small river, battling my way home.
Once
inside, I dropped my clothes on the thick layer of newspaper that took up
residency at the front door each winter. They fell like the hide of some beast
too much in a hurry, like the gritty rhinoceros.
Mad rush to the fire; this is the kind of wet-cold that doesn’t leave willingly. My grandmother clucked about catching cold, the dreaded bronchitis, and the tiny tubes everyone in the family inherited.
Thick coating on my tongue, dark breath, and roaring ears. In the night I begin a cough that goes on and on for weeks; soon the doctor will give me orange flavored syrup. Years later, I will hate the taste of oranges.
Tomorrow we will have to beg a ride to the doctor’s whose office is out in Point Reyes. A long winding ride through Taylor Park, where the redwoods cover the sky, and it is always dusk. I suffer from carsickness, but can’t tell the difference between illness and motion.
Mad rush to the fire; this is the kind of wet-cold that doesn’t leave willingly. My grandmother clucked about catching cold, the dreaded bronchitis, and the tiny tubes everyone in the family inherited.
Thick coating on my tongue, dark breath, and roaring ears. In the night I begin a cough that goes on and on for weeks; soon the doctor will give me orange flavored syrup. Years later, I will hate the taste of oranges.
Tomorrow we will have to beg a ride to the doctor’s whose office is out in Point Reyes. A long winding ride through Taylor Park, where the redwoods cover the sky, and it is always dusk. I suffer from carsickness, but can’t tell the difference between illness and motion.
At
the top of Olema hill, near a small curve in the road, we searched for the
first glimpse of Tomales Bay. Onto the flats, past the old artichoke fields, I
eagerly awaited the pasture where the donkey and goose lived with the wooden
“Library Car” caboose. The goose was happily swimming in the volunteer lake at
the low end of the pasture while the donkey’s ears dripped at 30° angles as he
huddled next to the meager shelter of the chrome-green caboose.
Green like the smell of the doctor’s office: alcohol and Pinesol. The odd couple lived out their days together, the caboose was eventually taken over by the blackberries and poison oak. I learned to overcome my aversion to orange juice but equated donkeys and geese and green cabooses with doctors. How can you express what is inexpressible?
Green like the smell of the doctor’s office: alcohol and Pinesol. The odd couple lived out their days together, the caboose was eventually taken over by the blackberries and poison oak. I learned to overcome my aversion to orange juice but equated donkeys and geese and green cabooses with doctors. How can you express what is inexpressible?
Another
early memory of Tomales fogged in, the steady drip of trees thrumming the
ground. I licked rain from the thick potato chip edges of salal leaves, salt
tang. At Heart’s Desire Beach, I kept looking for the heart, not understanding
the concept of desire. That would come much later.
6/3/83? CPITS writing
