Cottonwood Drive

Step out the front door and the view is simple, yet majestic. A field of gassy horses and sheep lay directly across the street.

Down the road on the right, as our house sat on an inside corner of the 'U' that made the Mouth of the Canyon, there was a field that sloped down a small hill and opened up into wildflowers and all sorts of greens and browns that attached themselves to my clothing. Beyond the field sat the forest. Another story...another time.

A plum tree grew next to an old rusty roll of barbed wire fencing that I had made my little home. I put carpet remnants on the bottom inside so I could lay there, staring at the clouds or the stars through the broken gaps in the orange deteriorating wire. I wove (weaved?) yarn and photos and other important items through the tangles of the fence and it became my perfect escape. My very own world. It was far enough away from the house that it perfected my escape, but it was within close enough proximity that I was not without needs that can only come from a home.

Beyond my escape, there was a tree that taunted and none rivaled. Becky climbed it one day and although the exact details of the climb and sudden descent are hazy, I recall with perfect clarity the spiral her body made as it plummeted in slow motion. The pain of my heart stopping and the pressure of the blood in my head.

I have an intense vivid anxiety thinking back... as her feet stayed suspended in the air but her head and torso continued to fall. Upside down, her thick, matted chocolate hair was not cushion enough to silence the bile inducing crack that followed her head settling between two small boulders.

Her body and legs seemed to crumple so slowly into her neck until finally she fell sideways.

I knew she had died. I knew that I should have been able to continue in the speed of the real world to save her as she climbed, glancing back over her shoulder, giggling, her hair bouncing as she looked back up toward the sky...all of this happening in a fraction of time, but seeing it in slow motion - then reverse.

Screaming.

Horror.

Terrified pain in all of us.

Screams from Becky.

Muted, but noise enough. She hadn't died!

Becky lived!

Our family’s shared best friend was alive!!!

Then real time.....the world was spinning too fast and as we filled the universe with chaos and noise, I couldn't utter a prayer to slow the time... to slow the bleeding...to ease the pain. To allow any of us a clean thought to know what to do.

Good thing for mothers. My mom knew what to do and several hours and stitches later, Becky arrived home from the hospital. My only friend. The coolest person alive. She had lived. Lived to tell her story and to fall again.

Beyond the tree was Becky's house. The grass always too long, the fruit trees shedding their pounds to the earth allowing us to watch nature take place. The deer and the birds - it was beautiful.  It seemed like her dad, Jack, was always mowing the lawn though.  My only explanation is that it was an old metal mower that seemed to cut only when it felt like it.

Inside her house was cozy but I never felt quite comfortable upstairs.  Unless I was by the enormous windows looking over their deck and forest.

My memory of Becky's basement holds room for cabbage patch dolls, the 1980’s horror flick The Changeling, Top Gun and Ramen.

Her backyard was another world all together. An enormous towering deck with bird feeders covering the rails and hanging from every branch.. The wall of glass from her living room looking out onto the deck where we spent countless evenings with Jack singing of bugs, and frogs and Maraih...the wind

I found an egg, a tiny blue egg, abandoned in one the feeders one day. It was still warm, so I carefully took it back to my house where I knew a Robin and her eggs lived. In the pine tree of the front lawn, sat a carefully built nest. The mother bird was out hunting or stretching and so I placed my tiny blue egg so carefully among the other 3. They were larger with white speckles on them and my egg was tiny and the color of the sky in the hour before it storms.

I said a prayer, hoping I wasn't too late to save the egg and miniscule beautiful being it would become, and went back to Becky's house.

That night, I walked home with my flashlight held high above me, encircling me with light. That, and my primary songs quietly sung, made it impossible for any harm to come to me.

I decided to see if mother Robin had come home from her days jaunt, but I was crushed instead of warmed.

The egg had been pecked open and thrown out of the nest. I couldn't understand how any creature could destroy an infant like that.

I was destroyed.

Nature had failed me.

Animals must eat other animals - sometimes babies - to survive. I am not naive. I know this, and I, being a dirty little Indian, accepted that fact as the way of Mother Earth.

But for a bird to throw out an abandoned, helpless infant egg...

I lost faith in birds after that.

I later found out that it was my doing that got the egg killed. Birds will throw out even their own egg or chick, if there are human oils on them.

It's natural. Instinctive. Not vindictive.

Beyond Becky's house was a raspberry field, followed by a gigantic, perfectly manicured lawn.

The Berg’s house.

On its left were the rock strips where I hunted (humanely for pets) garner snakes.

I caught many snakes there but my favorite was the one that dared to bite.  I had kept him for a few days he got lost once up inside the saw table in the shed just off the carport, but he was the best pet a girl ever caught and kidnapped. 

One day while hunting in the rocks for a friend for him, my dad and the fam pulled up in our blazer that he had recently taken the top off of.  He said it was time to go on our drive up to Tony Grove and I yelled to him that I needed to put the snake back in his box real quick.  I guess the sound of my yelling voice startled the snake and it bit down hard on my index fingertip.  It hurt but not as bad as I thought it would, so it didn’t bother me. The thing that bothered me was that he didn’t let go.  As I ran toward the house to put him back in his cozy box his jaws became tighter and his fangs sank deeper.  My concern at that point was that his germs might infect his little fang marks in my finger… if he ever let go.  I got home to his box and didn’t know how to make him let go other than just pulling him off but I didn’t want to rip my skin and I didn’t want to break his teeth.. snakes need teeth.

Holly came running up a few minutes later to get me because everyone was waiting in the blazer.  She saw my predicament and suggested that I just start flinging my hand around and that he would let go.. but then we remembered Brant’s incident with the praying mantis and how shaking it only made it dig deeper into Brant’s finger.

We then tried just being really still and really quiet, which didn’t work either.

After a few minutes longer, we heard my mom’s notorious whistle that meant ‘drop everything and come NOW’.

Logic and reason abandoned us and Holly grabbed the snake by its middle section and tugged, and then tossed, then grabbed my arm and pulled me as she ran toward the blazer. 

My finger bled and the snake was up inside the saw table when we got back, but it turned out way better than my little unbathed head had planned for.

To the right of the rock strips wound the river that passed through Becky's back yard. There was a bridge that was the driveway that capped the rock strips, the endless lawn, and the river.

Under the bridge, a perfect moss covered slide was being groomed by my dear friend Nature. Many swim shorts and swim suits were shredded and dyed green - which did not look like moss stains - more like over excited, over fed, under washed children's bottoms.

We took the canoe down that slide and down the river and cracked it once. We never told Becky's dad. Mostly we slid down it over and over on our bums and worried that the tiny little black leeches were going to get under our skivvies and suck us dry.

My canyon went on for days.

Each day, a new adventure.

Each adventure, a new tale.

I lived the in the mouth of Smithfield Canyon. I have introduced you to one side of one block of Cottonwood Drive...the street I grew up on.

The street I was roughly and painfully carved into existence on.

My canyon did not end.

And neither will my tales.

The Climb

There was a magic in the canyon that only those of us who lived there, or spent time there knew about.

That magic draws unfortunate people in, as well as wonderful people, but it seems to pull the extreme polar opposites of societies “norm”.

It has been exploited and developed since I lived there and mostly rich people with giant houses trampling what I’m sure was an Indian burial ground live there now.

But I loved growing up in my canyon. I would not trade it for anything. I would not trade the abuse, the isolation, the strange fear that always loomed, the gangs that hung out, or the danger I was constantly in.

I died many times. I should have anyway. I would never trade the wild mushrooms and onions, the camping under the sky alone, riding my neighbor’s wild horses bareback just to prove that I really was a dirty little Indian.

There was probably only one childhood better than mine…

I was alone most of my childhood and spent much of my time in my head in my own world in that magical canyon, but there are few memories I have where my siblings are involved.

This is one of them.

Lower’s Hill

The trek was made whether it was covered in ice or sun beams. The hill was torturous. And winding. And it was never ever ending. Not to mention it was a very long journey just to get to the bottom of the hill. The beginning of worsts…from our back yard we could see the base of the hill. It was across a field. A lush field, not of hay or yellow stuff. But of wild growing green stuff. Flowers, and bunches of aspen trees, and clover all over. To the left of the green field lay an old barn, and farther on, a white house. To the right of the field lay the owners of said field and the occupants of the brown house. To get there quickly, we would have to jump the fence, brave the dogs, and the neighbors in the brown house who are horrifying, and the older neighbor boys in the white house as they throw plums at us and hope we didn’t pass out from loss of blood. We were more than likely cut from the fence and now had rabies. I have many scars from that fence.

We learned early on that it is best to take the long way around. To go out the front door, yell down the road to Becky, veer left, head to canyon road, take a left, and follow the road, pass by the tree where that kid exploded his head cause his motorcycle got to close and lost control, pass the skunk trail, pass my secret entrance to my briar hut, walk a bit farther… till we arrive at the base of the hill.

But before that adventure can begin, we must go hunt for gold.

We had to be So secretive, and VERY protective. There was no such thing as all for one and one for all.

I was not the kind of Indian that stayed put for long. I was a hunter/gatherer. A nomad. I knew that was what I would be when I grew up.

So, I was gathering all the time. I knew the value of a penny. We were poor. I was aware of that. I was fine with it as well.

I would look in driveways, and in gutters, and I can promise you that we had the cleanest couches on earth. We had incentive to keep them clean. We were always looking for coins. My dad was very good at emptying out his pockets onto his desk when he got home from work though, so it was rare that money would fall into the cushions. One thing he was Not so good at, was counting the coins. He would just dump them in a pile on his dresser and would sort the better ones into a bowl later on. So…when they were occupied, I became very good at sneaking in a stealing just enough change that he wouldn’t notice it was gone. Steal from the rich…keep for myself. I got caught once, and got spanked. SO worth it though. Just you wait.

I did that often enough, I would get a good chunk of change.

We also had quite an extensive chore list daily, and that allowed us $8 allowance monthly. Lemonade stands, and full mini restaurants with fries and shakes and such things provided us a bit more income for the reason behind this all.

We would gather our goods for a few days to a week, sometimes two depending on if there was a drought. And when our sandwich baggies were good and full, we would council and set a time.

We would then make our voyage.

Both of my parents worked so there was usually no fear of hearing my moms whistle when we were halfway up the hill and having to run full speed back home to a sure grounding. If we planned well enough, we might even have enough left over for a bike ride down to the 7-11 for a slurpee. But, that needed to be planned a bit more. That was a few miles away, and in city area. Scary.

I digress.  Our journey has begun and it has been skipping and laughter until now.

We are at the base of the hill. No point in bringing our bikes for the short ride to the hill. The hill is a monster. Satan’s mistress. And if we left our bikes at the bottom, Becky’s older brothers (who my sister and I totally had uncomfortable crushes on) would come spray paint them and her mute mentally-unique brother (who carved at us from across the room with a butter knife and flashed us FULL MONTEY more times than I can remember) would burn them in a huge pile. It happened.

We take our deepest breaths. And climb. Don’t misunderstand. This hill is a paved road. So, we are merely walking upward. But it is quite long for our tiny legs, and it is winding and cars don’t see around the corners and they LOVE to go very fast. The cars. Not the legs. The legs loved to take Forever.

About two minutes on the beast and we are all out of breathe. We know that the top of the hill awaits, and that a drinking fountain of youth is just past the most perfectly wonderful glass door. We are nearing the top, and I have raccoon eyes. Everyone has lost 12 pounds.

We need sustenance.

There it is! We can hear the cows in the near distance. We try to pretend we don’t know what is about to happen to them. It makes us feel like minions of the beast we just climbed…knowing what we are about to do.

We push through the smeared, dusty, grimy glass doors and then wait. And wait.

 Wait in line at the fountain of JUSTICE and ACCOMPLISHMENT….I will gladly go last. I know what that means. More water…longer. Yum.

We each have our clear plastic sandwich baggy of change and everyone there knows who we are by name. The Pease’s were well known anyway because we always folded our arms when we walked around at Church and for some reason, people thought that we had a perfect family because of that. We were all good in our own respect. But we were TERRIBLE together.

Waiting in line at the counter. I can smell my mouth watering. That alone is worth it. Tannin has his already. He is back at the drinking fountain filling up for the trek back. Holly’s fingers are strumming the counter….

Brant.

I step up. Put my baggie on the counter. Smile tentatively. The graying woman smiles back with her graying smile. She counts up my change, and tells me how much I have and what 'poundage' Im allotted. Then asks me what kind I would like.

“Peppered” I respond. Only peppered. It was the best. Some people have wuss mouths though, and its not their fault. So, I don’t judge them. They did not judge me for loving Peppered.

The woman bends over into a big cooler, pulls out a handful of twig like sticks of natures candy…helped slightly by man.

She places it on the scale. It is under the weight limit!!! YES!!!

She reaches down to grab more peppered and with one shoulder forward and one shoulder back, I say with Entirely too much confidence for the occasion, “Stop! Make the rest original.”

I thought I would give it a try, but it is like taking a step back to boring land once you have been granted a pass to cool town! Brant had taken the last of it though. So…no original for me. I thought I would try to be boring like them. Nah. I was happy with being a bad ass 8 year old and loving my peppered beef jerky. She weighed the rest of the glorious meat, tallied up my winnings, made the sale… and with a heart full of confidence and gold,  and I took my reward.

With a grin on my face, my long mud colored golden glazed curls bouncing down my back, and the sun glowing on my copper skin, I quenched my remaining thirst, and pushed through the glass door, in slow motion of course. I was ready for my happy jaunt back down the mountain of doom and through the fields of mordor. I would do it today. I would venture hrough the Field of Green, dodge the Plum Bombs, weave in and out of the Half Wolf Dogs vicious teeth and saliva, smile at the neighbor as he yelled at me, and high jump the hell out of that Fence!

And no one was going to stop me, because I had the worlds best jerky in my back pocket.

I had lied, and stolen, and been beaten by siblings, plums, and weather to obtain this jerky.

I did it on a weekly basis. It was the highlight of my youth.