In the first place, it’s only natural. In the second place, well, just keep reading…
Ever since we moved from Maryland’s Eastern Shore in ’99, I’ve been writing about the effects of relocation. Northern New Mexico is so utterly different from the Land of Pleasant Living that merely contrasting the physical and social environments could occupy one for years. But the outer journey, as difficult and exciting as it’s been, is also the visible face of a hidden, mysterious process I doubt I can ever explain. The following incident has something of the sense of it, though. See what you think, and then we’ll move on:
Once upon a time in the early ’80s in Pomona, south of Chestertown, I was mowing the large yard of our rented country house for the first time. The ancient riding mower I’d purchased from the previous tenants roared over a small hummock at the far end of the property, out by the road, and clattered to a stop as the blade dug into the dirt. I got off to look and saw that I’d accidentally uncovered a shallow burrow in the weeds, exposing a nest of tiny baby rabbits. Lady, my white German shepherd, had been sniffing around some distance away but came trotting over once the motor stopped. I had my head turned momentarily away as I bent over and tugged at the thick grass stems jammed under the mowing deck, but that was all it took. As soon as I heard the dog’s oddly muted growl, I stood up and saw her furiously shaking a bunny clamped firmly in her jaws. “NO!” I shouted, but I couldn’t get her to stop, and of course it was too late anyway. I shoved her away from the nest and grabbed for her collar. She dropped the first rabbit, jerked out of my grasp, and promptly lunged back into the nest: snap, chomp, fling, and she’d gotten the others, quick as a flash! I was dumbfounded and mad, but I couldn’t really punish her for being a dog. One of the babies was still alive but grievously punctured — I laid it back in the burrow, pushed dirt over the hole, and gave a firm stomp. Oh yeah, praise Jesus, and give me a medal.
Meanwhile, back in the desert, I got homesick as hell. You can’t imagine the early days. Even now it sometimes hits me, or something does. So this morning I read a forwarded email from an old friend. In it she mentions the son of another friend, someone I haven’t seen in 20 years at least, and the kid is in college, also playing in a bluegrass band. They have a sort of shaky Web site, but the persona comes through loud and clear. Out of the blue, the first thing I feel is envy, and I try to understand. There’s a picture of them standing in the shallow water at the edge of the river, and it all comes rushing back: the way the rippled sandy bottom feels against the soles of my bare feet as the warm water tickles the hair on my legs, the hot humid air, the shed crab shells bleaching in the sun. I want to be part of it all. I feel the awful fear of missing out on something special. I feel, I feel … OLD!
Good God. When I was just a little older than these guys, I had the most incredible adventures on the water by myself. I’d take off in the ancient wooden skiff I’d patched up so it wouldn’t leak too much, hope the wheezing outboard wouldn’t leave me stranded, and see what I could find. I probably passed the very spot they’re standing on a dozen times or more. I had my time floating in the sun, I realize, and now it’s theirs, their time to see what they can do, eyes all ablaze and mostly innocent. They’re standing in the same damn water, MY river, where I knew every secret cove and sandbar, and I can’t go back. Chomp. Snap. Fling.
Except I am returning, it hits me. I’m heading for the same place they came from, and as this sinks in just a bit, I almost think a man can heal. It has to be “almost” for now, because I’m still a little envious and can’t quite surrender.
Maybe soon, though.
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