The Bend in the Road
This bend in the road is familiar to me. I have walked it many times before; the gravel loosened by washing rains that flowed from both directions to spill into a slight ravine that heads, I imagine, to one of several small creeks, probably dried now by the summer heat. The area beyond the road, perhaps fifteen feet or so, though mostly rock and desiccated earth, is riddled with clumps of dead, yellowed grasses and other plants, perhaps wildflowers that recover here each year after the winter and spring rains. Beyond the edges, nature has started its reclamation of the land, and small trees declare possession of this time and space, spreading their branches in their victories — their own recoveries from the harshness of near death brought upon them from the gravel trucks that once dominated this old quarry road.
I have not always come so far as this. When I began to walk this road again,when I began this conquest I am on, I would venture only just beyond my own mailbox before fear and exhaustion turned me back to the comfort of the confines of my cabin. I would seek the console of the old green couch, the impression of my body visible in its structure, on which I have laid these many weeks, many months, fighting the pain my treatments would bring, and living through the sheer exhaustion that would follow. But I could not continue in this state. I must take responsibility for my future; I must find my strength; I must rebuild the framework of my life to live again. And so I began my plan, a daily walk with a final destination of the old stone quarry, abandoned years ago, that rested at the end of a three mile dirt and gravel road not far from my own dirt road leading to the small cabin I had retreated to so long ago.
The exhaustion of my initial journeys was always countered with feelings of pride and accomplishment. Returning to my sanctum I would visualize my achievements, remembering at first just the general, familiar sights of my escape: the beautiful curve and craftsmanship of the stonewall that followed the entrance of the cabin to the dirt road beyond; the rural postbox I had replaced, selecting the larger box so that magazines and catalogues would lay flat, allowing the postman to deliver my books and other small packages without interruption at my door. A small, flowered vine grows along the edge of the post. I do not know its name or how long it has grown there, but each spring that I have known here it emerges and begins its conquest anew.
In some time I could travel so far as my neighbors drive, just a few tenths of a mile or so from my own, but what a journey and achievement it seemed to me. Returning, I would attempt to recall in my exhaustion each leaf, each bending limb, and each bird that sang and hopped through the branches of the wild plums that grow on the edge of the road. The breeze against my face feels warm and comforting. A white rail fence surrounds my neighbor’s property which consists of an old farm-style home; a small barn; a multitude of walnut trees; and a now deserted horse stall near the rear of the property, its door rusted open and its shelter presently reserved for feral cats and wandering possums. I lean against the fence rails and notice their peeling paint and loose nails, the scars of time, and I try to remember the name of the white and gray speckled horse that once grazed beneath these walnut trees. I hear my neighbor’s voice in the distance, talking perhaps on the phone as performs her daily rituals of cleaning debris from her pool or pulling the odd weed here and there.
A sudden cramp shoots through my leg and I shift to try to massage it. For a moment I forget the rail and Dusty, I do remember, Dusty, the gray speckled gelding that was such a pleasure in my life. From my own yard I would look across the small meadow that separated us and watch him graze and frolic among the trees. Several people were taken with giving him slices of apple or carrots and would stop along the fence and call him. He always greeted his benefactors with such exuberance and spirit. His head and tail alert, he would canter to the fence to accept his treats allowing the friendly pat and the scratching of his ears that his visitors enjoyed so much. His sudden loss two summers ago was such disenchantment to me, and, as I remember him, I think further back to the animals that have touched my life. I feel my own dog shifting at my feet.
In short time I am able to reach the main road with some ease. Although only
half a mile from the start of my own driveway, this is such encouragement to me. To continue to the destination I have envisioned, I must cross this road and persist farther to where the old quarry road begins. A right hand turn on the main road though would bring me quickly to town — a shorter journey of a different end. Although it is a very small community, the activity of town, the coming and going of familiar faces, entices me, and as I stand at that intersection, my image of Main Street is so intense that I can almost hear the voices of those I’ve known and whose friendship I have enjoyed. Their words echo in my mind like fragments of a dream.
The closeness of town was a major attraction to me. I could enjoy the quiet solitude of the country, but have as well the social interaction that I needed in my life. Trips to town became a daily event with separate morning and afternoon agendas, each generally occupied by a different cast of characters. The morning coffee crowd gathered in the small cafe, with talk of the weather, vegetable gardens, and the need to stop any future development that would destroy the sheltering charm a small town brings to those who seek it. By afternoon the town would fill with tourists dreaded for their trespass, but relied on for their commerce. On weekends the spas would fill with them and he locals would avoid town completely. I miss them now, and I long for all of he elements of life that are escaping. I stare towards town as far as I can imagine, but I must cross this road and continue with my journey. I dismiss their voices and their interpellation, and they weaken as I continue past this intersection to the road I now choose.
The sun is shining brightly this morning; I feel it warm my face. I hesitate, the main road now far behind me, and I look down from the old stone bridge to a small creek, the water flowing slowly, almost not at all. In previous summers I would climb around the stone column and follow a steep pathway of dirt and larger rocks to reach the creek bed below. Underneath the bridge, on the westerly side of the bank, the most delicious blackberries ripen in the coolness of the dappled light. Shaded by oaks and freshened by the cold water, these berries were always the best to be found. I thought it to be one of my secret spots, berries placed there just for me, but I shall not taste their sweetness today. Leaving them behind to the scrub jays, I keep my direction and continue down my road.
I draw back from my path and thoughts that consume me. Sounds of life diffuse my mind. I imagine footsteps, a clink of glass, and the smell of a distant aroma of coffee brewing. I feel the comfort of afternoon sun warming a room. Music drifts lightly from an adjoining space, drawing me momentarily from my focus. But these disruptions of life unsettle me and blur the road in front of me. I struggle to pull back to the comfort of my journey, the place I find in my memory of life, free from the harshness reality reveals.
This bend in the road is familiar to me. It is here I have turned so many times in these past weeks to retreat to recovery. Retracing my steps home, walking slowly but with the purpose of memory, claiming each tree, each stone, each blade of grass my own. But today I linger and look forward to the turn. Each small step presents an altered view, a new array of vistas as the road unfolds in its circle. I turn around, not to return, but to look back from where I came. The road behind me looks so distant now, so difficult to return to, so difficult to negotiate those memories again. I take a single step of retreat and pause. No, today I will venture farther, beyond this bend, to the quarry walls and to the cool dark waters that rest in its deep crevices.
I am tired and long to sleep, but the excitement of the journey feeds me and my steps quicken as I approach the final leg. A tall chain-linked fence blocks the road, but its edge has been pulled back enough to allow one person to twist his body through the breach, being careful not to be captured by the loose wires that threaten you, always exerting some pressure against the tension of the linking that guards this place like a spider’s web to an entrance of a cave or an old, abandoned life, a building left, if only for moments, to nature’s repossession. I push my way through, but stumble to the ground in sheer exhaustion. I want to lay here for a moment; the dust and rocks are cool on my face. I remember seeing catbirds pressing their bodies and wings into the dirt beneath a rose hedge on a hot afternoon, covering their feathers in the dry summer dust. This is the coolness they must feel. Feeling refreshment from the earth, I place my head flat against the dirt and press my body to the ground as I fall quickly to sleep where I lay.
I do not know how long I have slept here. My morning is morning again. It is at least another day as I push myself up from the ground and wonder if I have been missed. The air is cool and the breeze, freshened by the cold, deep waters of the quarry, soothes me. I am hungry and think I must go back, but I have come too far not to stand on the quarry’s edge. I have come too far not to meet this purpose that has driven me here and I walk up the rocky path to stand at the edge of this great creation, hewed by man, but reclaimed by the natural splendor of time. As I stand at the quarry’s edge, I look below some forty or fifty feet to dark water that lies so still below me. Filled by a natural spring, I know the water is clear and pure, but from above, looking deep into the crevices, the early morning sun casts a broad shadow on its surface, darkened further by the contrast of the sun’s wakening of the western walls and the vegetation that has grown in these fissures left by man.
When we first discovered this beauty, Jim and I would scale down the narrow path to larger ledges below and swim in the cold spring waters. Climbing back up, we would lie naked on the cold stone and warm our bodies in the summer sun. We would laugh, tell stories of our past, and share dreams of our future together — the things we would do, the adventures we would share, the memories we would create together. When we first learned of Jim’s illness, we would sit at the edges of this quarry and promise each other of our shared visions of recovery, our continued laughter, and the fulfillment of all of the dreams we created together. It was here, on this ledge I now stand, that I let his ashes drift down to the cool waters below.
The morning sun is rising. Shafts of light reach down the quarry walls and
bounce into the small ripples of the water below. Reflections bounce against the rock and create a living web of light and shadow, constantly changing patterns against these solid walls. I step forward towards this dance of life and fall to the water below me. At first the suddenness of the fall frightens me and my body stiffens from the cold, but I am quickly overcome by a warming numbness that relaxes my body and my mind as I fall softly into the shafts of sunlight and the sparkling prisms surrounding me.
***
The noise of sirens filters through the windows. David crosses the room, looks
out on the Chelsea neighborhood and starts to close the window, opting instead to let the fresh air into the apartment. Turning around to cardboard boxes, and shelves of books, he focuses momentarily on an old green couch before resuming packing. A phone ringing interrupts him this time.
“Hello.” He pushes aside a pile of brown packing paper and sits down on a worn leather side chair. “Hey Phillip, how are you. It’s been awhile. How is everything in California?” He shifts a little uncomfortably and leans forward
slightly. “No, that’s fine. I’m glad you were able to reach me. I’m just packing
up some of Carl’s things to send home to his family. Yes, I was here, have been
here. I had been stopping by from time to time these past few months, but, as
things got worse, I moved in with him a few weeks ago. At first I thought he was getting better, I mean he had some bad days, but some good ones too, and then, about five or six days ago he went into a coma. He never woke up.”
David crosses the room, listening, answering briefly, pacing around the packing boxes, piles of clothes, paintings stacked and leaning against walls. “We are having a remembrance on Sunday. Up at the cabin that he and Jim rented during their first summers together. It’s hard to believe that it was
that long ago. I’ve never been there, but Paul has, and he knows the road to
the old quarry. We’re going to spread his ashes there. It’s what he used to say
he wanted. He always said we’d find the spot, a short distance, he said, beyond the bend in the road.”
###
