Wear Clean Draws  (because there’s 5 million ways to kill a ceo)

my dad died. so i’ll repost this weird thing i wrote once. i’d been up all night working and had this weird experience as the sun rose. the light was streaming in and there were interesting shadows thrown on the wall. i could smell all sorts of smells from childhood. the scents were so strong i could hear them. and so i wrote this weird memory that never really happened. but it did.

Every summer, we built a fort by the creek. We’d scavenge lumber, oil drums, corrugated tin, cinder blocks, metal tubing, and railroad ties from a state agency building nearby where we could scavenge all kinds of scraps.

We’d raid dad’s workshop which I used far more than dad ever did. The only time I remember dad venturing in there was to capture one of the gerbils that had escaped and squeezed beneath the closed door. Unfortunately, Herbie scooted under the gas furnace and that was the end of Herbie. Hammers, nails, latches, saws, hooks, and screwdrivers — all were carefully trundled to the creek along with stolen lighter fluid, matches, and all the fixings for s’mores. Not far away was a flooring store where we’d raid the dumpsters for remnants of carpet, padding, and vinyl flooring from the waste bins. We’d roll it up and one of us would hold one end between the handle bars on the bike taking up the back end of the caravan. The other, the one out front, would hold onto the roll from behind, peddling the bike up the small hill, balancing the carpet between the two bikes.

Toward the end of spring, when summer recess hadn’t yet begun, but the smell of summer was in the air, we’d start the yearly fort building. Each year was an opportunity to build one bigger and better and longer-lasting than the year before. We’d start then, working long into the evening after school and all day on weekends. We wanted it ready for summer when the trees would grow thick with green and yellow leaves and the sumac bushes would grow heavy with clusters of deep red, velvety sumac berries. By then, our fort would be completely hidden from our parents and the weird kids who attended a little red, four room school house that crowned the center of the street we all shared. They wouldn’t play with us, would stand back, looking at us, whenever we encountered a few of them on weekends or nights when they’d come with their father, the principal of the Seventh Day Adventist’s school. As odd as they were, it never occurred to us not to take over their playground every night and weekend, and all summer long, treating it as ours, not a care in the world.

We hopscotched and jump-roped on their sidewalks, sat on the schoolhouse steps for endless games of cats cradle. Sometimes, sitting on the concrete sidewalks, we sprawl our legs wide, sitting in a circle, toes of our sneaks touching, playing endless games of jacks, seeing who could beat whom and how fast, playing over and over again until the sides of our hands were rough from the constant scraping of skin against concrete. And even then, we’d keep playing, priding ourselves on our ability to pick up 10 jacks in a way that would keep our hands from scraping too hard.

Bored, we’d walk around to the back where there were cellar windows big enough and light enough to peer into the schoolhouse — just to see what we could see. Never much. To the side of the schoolhouse was a ballfield. Although we’d often use Mr Dye’s yard, less dust, this was perfect for games of kickball and softball, where I can remember getting in fights over the score and taking bats to one another every so often. I don’t know where Carol Gilligan got the idea that girls solve problems of injustice in a way boys don’t. Bats, rocks, fistfuls of dirt and hard worked great for us as they did for boys.

It was behind the little red school house where we’d build our fort, at the foot of a small hill. In the winter, it served as a challenging hill for sledding and tubing. We’d build snow forts, elaborate snow people, and sled for hours in the snowy cold. We were little red-cheeked girls bundled up in layers and layers of winter coats, leggings, pants and 5 pair of socks. We’d be out there so long, we’d warm up and sweat under the onslaught of so much wool and cotton batting. The moisture from our perspiring faces would hit the cold air and turn to icicles hanging from the wisps of hair that escaped from our hats, scarves, and hoods.

With sledding, the trick was to work up the most speed and swerve at the last minute to avoid the not-yet frozen creek. Or, when the creek finally froze, the challenge was to get up enough speed hit the snow piled high for a snow stop, leap over it and then land on the creek with a smack of the plastic sled. Whee! — we’d swerve at the last minute to finish up the run racing like maniacs along the swollen, frozen-solid creek slick with that dusting of snow on ice that makes for — whee! — speed.

After the winter flooding and freezing of our creek in the winter, the spring thaw would leave us with a creek shore that was slick, soggy mud. We didn’t care. It was the perfect place for fort building. We trudge through the mud, trying not to slip on the banks of slick slime and fall in the water. By the time summer recess liberated us, though, the soggy mud would become solid, cracked clay earth beneath our sneaks.

The creek-side fort building, legend had it, had been going on for generation after generation of boy kids. But this was a neighborhood with only girl kids. For whatever reason, all the families had girls around the same 7 year span and what few boys there were, they were too young or too old to play the kinds of games we played.

Even if fort building was the domain of boy kid space for generations before us, we — girld kids — were determined to carry on the tradition regardless. The generation that had done the annual fort building before were mysterious once-boys, now-teenaged and young adults. They were home for the summer from college or a job in a bigger city. They had long, unkempt hair. Boy kids and boy men, they were so different from Dad men. Sometimes we’d catch them haunting their old fort space, sitting around our fort space, surveying the scene and laughing deep, hearty laughs. We’d hide in the tall grass in the overgrown abandoned field behind fort space, watching and noticing that they had a musty sweet scent that was a lot like Dad men, but just a little different.

Nope, they definitely were not Dad men. They were odd.

They disrupted our world because they were something in-between-boys-and-men. We crouched in the tall grass and breathed deeply, taking in the musky sweetness, the mark of the not quite dad men but definitely not boisterous boy kids. What did they do, we wondered, that was not what we did? Why were they boys, but not really boys? Why were they men, but not really men?

Dad men, they were quiet. The not-yet-dad-men-but-not-boy-kids? They talked. They laughed. They whispered in deep conversations to one another. They sat around, together, kicked backed while a fire burned brightly spilling a wide glow of excess that reached beyond fort space to where we hid, watching.

Not-dad-men-but-not-boy-kids, though, did something that both Dad men and boy kids did.

We’d watch, shusching each other as they became silent, watching the fire and listening to the crisp crackling sounds as the fire made the damp wood wheeze and spit. It was a quiet comfortable silence filled with absence. The fire crackling, a bullfrog croaking, a fish splashing. We waited as the wind whistled over the tall grasses where we hid. We were waiting for that inevitable moment when the silence would be broken by the breaking of wind. The laughter and guffaws and rounds of “he did it, not me” filled up the night sky. Then, we’d run for it, laughing all the way back home to finish the night sleeping under the pine trees, counting shooting stars until we awoke the next morning, covered in dew.

Not-yet-dad-men-but-not-boy-kids.

Boy kids were boisterous. There was never that silent time of alone-togetherness under a sky blackened by a golden yellow moon. Dad men? Dad men were quiet, never boisterous and loud.

When they drove the car on a trip, they didn’t talk much. Dad men would roll down a window and light cigarettes, flicking the red hot ash into the rushing air. Dad men coughed that smoker’s cough. Dad men cleared throats. Dad men heaved big sighs which took up a space and made a presence in girl kid space just as surely as if they had bellowed. Dad men also smiled.

Dad men were quiet. They liked to lounge in an easy chair and read the newspaper, the noise of a radio in the background, airing early evening news. Dad men didn’t watch television in our world. They slept television. Sometimes they snored television. Sometimes they even snorted weird jerky snores of television. Some dads were especially good at mumbling television. Dad men never really watched television — unless Mom women wanted them to watch an old movie together or gather around for a family viewing of a special show. When dad men watched television with mom women and the kids, they stayed awake.

On weekends, dad men slept, snored, and sometimes even snorted or mumbled television. Which is to say, dads lounged on the sofa or floor and slept their funny open-mouthed sleep, snoring, mubling, snorting as the radio or t.v. played. When the sleeping and snoring sounds became deep and rhythmic we’d sneak up with pulling our girl kid space with us. Then, we’d oh-so-quietly, oh-so-carefully hold our breaths and sneak up to the television… to turn the dial. Quiet as mice. We didn’t even shush each other.

Twisty, turn that dial.

Thlich.

“I was watching that,” a deep, mumbly, agitated voice would say.

“No you weren’t daddy. You were sleeping.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“Daddy! That’s sleeping!”

“Look you girls. After work all week, my eyes need to rest so I rest them while the television is on. Turn it back on the game (WWII movie) (Hogan’s Heroes re-run.)”

A collective sigh. A collective sagging of shoulders. We’d been foiled once again by Dad men who snored television.

Sometimes Dad men rested their eyes, snoring television, while a newspaper fanned across a gently heaving chest. Sometimes a book balanced precariously on a beer belly that would occasionally erupt with irregular leaps when they mumbled or snorted television, resting their work-weary eyes.

Dad men were quiet. They’d stand at the edges of their property, looking over to the field where we’d play ball, looking away now and then to ponder the setting sun or survey the neighborhood. They’d stand there quietly as Dad men did, sometimes moving to weed grass around a lamppost or mailbox or pick up fallen branches from the tall, swaying pines and sturdy maples.

Dad men were watchers; they observed — most of the time. They’d do their Dad men things, outdoors, and in the not-quite-indoors-or-outdoors of garage space. They moved in and out of garage space, stepping outside to quietly watch. They’d smile. They’d grimace. They’d look puzzled. Sometimes, dad men’s eyes would twinkle as they watched. Dad men didn’t talk much. Dad men showed what they were thinking with their eyes and the shape of their smiles. Dad men were always watching, standing on the border between Dad space and girl kid space.

From girl kid space, we’d see Dad men on the border, standing quietly, watching our football games with small, wistful smiles curving their lips and twinkling their eyes. Sometimes Dad men’s heads would cock to the side slightly as if they were puzzled by girl kid space. Sometimes Dad men would have a smoke, silently drawing on a cigarette as they watched a baseball game standing on the border between Dad men space and girl kid space.

Every so often Dad men left, purposefully striding toward the not-quite-indoors-or-outdoors garage space. We’d look to see Dad men’s smiles and eyes, finding no one there, only a shallow indent where a property border had once been dug. In that shallow dip in the lawn, that’s where Dad men stood quietly perched on the edges of their property, surveying the neighborhood and watching girl kids play.

Every so often Dad men entered girl kid space, striding purposefully to our homemade field with the seat cushions for lawn chairs doing temporary duty as base markers. Dad men would stand behind a batter, leaning forward to show them how to hold a bat and swing. Dad men would make us swing with our weak side, to show us that it would be a good idea to master both ride and left sides, so we could swing both ways. Dad men said, “That’s how to play ball!”

Some Dad men would stride purposefully to our pitcher’s mound to proudly show a girl kid how to throw a spit ball or curve ball or fast ball. On our mound we stood at the ready, eager to pitch that ball: fast, curved, slow, spit. But Dad men made us hold back so they could lean over and whisper to the girl kid on the mound. It was a secret conversation, whispered tantalizingly — a secret conversation that formed a mischievous smile and eye twinkle stretching between the space of man body and girl body. Then, the Dad man retreated from the field to, once again, man the border between Dad men space and girl kid space.

Sometimes, Dad men would watch, arms crossed, legs spread in a kind of tensed readiness the whole time until they could no longer stand it. Dad men needed to join in a game of basketball. Dad men strode purposefully to the driveway court to shoot hoops. They moved from the border of Dad men space and girl kid space differently, then. The energy Dad men brought to a driveway court was a slowly boiling energy pressing against something mysteriously obstructing it. The energy wasn’t boiling hard enough to break through the mysterious obstruction; it was boiling just enough to make its presence audible. When Dad men played ball on driveways, we experienced this rare Dad men energy. It was tightly capped, lidded, controlled, obstructed — and yet it was also bursting, pressing, pushing outward. It was like Dad men felt the need to hold back, but were questioning why.

Dad men were always standing at the borders of their property, watching, observing, guarding, surveying the boundary between Dad men space and girl kid space. They did so with a slight smirk tugging at the corners of their lips. As they did, they took long, slow drags on a their cigarettes and pipes. They thought. Then Dad men would turn away and go back into the not-quite-outside- or- inside garage space. Dad men would disappear to that space, after work and weekends. Ever so often, they’d emerge to present girl kids with something built inside that garage space: like a wooden balance beam they’d determined we needed for our play. We’d hold Olympic Games, complete with gymnastic routines, putting on a show for the neighborhood, just like we saw on t.v.

Dad men opened up then. They spoke. They shared with girl kid space something they’d crafted. They’d want us to be quiet, so we could watch and listen as they explained what they made. They were bursting with energy, their eyes gleaming, as they showed us how to use it. Dad men were proud of what they’d made: a gift for girl kid space. These gifts were a conduit through which we’d hear Dad men voices, so rare, and feel their broad smiles and the crinkling of warm eyes. Here, Dad men could talk to girl kids about who they were.

Then, Dad men were quiet again.

Girl kids left the Dad men space then so they could try out the new balance beam or skateboard ramp, excitedly laughing and bursting with energy. As we raced excitedly to play, we’d each manage to find a pearlized pebble that was just for us — somewhere in that stretch between Dad men space and girl kid space. They were pebbles we girl kids would stick in our pockets, pearlized pebbles with imperfections and ridges to fondle, reminding us of that moment where borders were drawn and redrawn, where spaces refigured themselves in the space of giving, receiving, for-to-giving.

As we peered over the marshy tall grass watching the not-yet-Dad-men and not-boy-kids, we fondled the pearls in our pockets as we listened to them. They were neither silent nor boisterous. Not men, not boys. We smelled their unique muskiness. It was so distinct that scent, as if you could reach out and pluck it out of the cool night sky. And yet, it also blended into the smells wafting from creek, fort, and camp fire that you couldn’t possibly maintain your grasp. They were not-yet-dad-men and not-boy-kids.

The not-Dad-men-but-not-boy-kids would go back to their worlds, college or city jobs, leaving behind a stash of magazines. We’d find them and carefully hide them in the holes of cinder blocks used to build walls around our fort. Or tried to. We’d started to build the wall but ran out of blocks. And we just weren’t that interested in lugging more cinder blocks from the warehouse down the street.

For two weeks, we’d furiously build our magic fort space, finishing just in time for school to finally cut us loose for the forever summer. We’d piece together the odd lots of lumber, trying to figure out how to replicate the buildings around us. We bickered over who got to be the architect and boss, designing it all out on spent spiral note pads and marble composition books, worn from the previous school year. On not a few occasions, one of us would end up receiving some first aid from whatever helpful Mom woman happened to be unoccupied with cleaning or laundry or yard work.

Summer after summer of building fort space was always broken up by hikes up Stone Creek Hill. And summer after summer we naturally wove a collective fantasy. We would plan out ways to earn money and save everything we could. Then we’d buy supplies and gather everything else we’d need from our homes. When we were ready: we would abandon our fort to set up camp space at the top of Stone Creek Hill. It seemed so far away, so distant, but certainly a pleasant place. We could make it.

We imagined that we’d spend two weeks solid, just living off our own devices, camping out under the stars. Survival, on our own, girl-kid-space-yet-no-longer-girl-kid space — on top of Stone Creek Hill.

So, we set about making lists and big elaborate plans. In preparation, we would thieve things from Dad men’s and Mom women’s hiding places. They were things we thought would work for food: cheese cracker packets, a sleeve of saltines, a can of frosting, cracker jacks, and marshmallows. Other times, we’d steal things we thought we’d need: a rusty old jackknife, a rickety camp stove, matches, fishing poles, and cookware. We piled them up in an abandoned shed behind one of our homes, a creaky old place filled with rusty nails and tools that no one used. It was our secret stash for the day when we’d finally hike up Stone Creek Hill.

The prize was camping out by the creek, fending for ourselves, having done it all on our own, just so we could sleep under the dark, blue midnight sky, watching for falling stars, listening to crickets and frogs under an awning of tall pine trees.

We would spend every day between games of baseball or parking lot tennis wondering what it’d be like to catch crayfish and minnows and go fishing in Stone creek, at the top of its hill where spring waters bubbled from spaces hidden in craggy rocks under old, crooked trees. We’d imagine catching bigger fish, gutting them, and building a big fire to roast them. Our meal would be squared out with a side of cheese crackers, roasted marshmallows, and hot cocoa later. How exciting it would be to fetch water from the spring and boil hot water and drink it out of make shift camping cups. How glorious it would be to wash dishes in the icy cold water of the spring, fleeing the drudgery of washing the dishes every night after dinner.

We pictured ourselves, Huck Finn-like, lounging on the side of the creek, straw hat tipped over our eyes for shade, bare feet and curling toes, dipping the pole in the brook waiting for a bite. Then there was the lure of that beautiful green, rich grass beneath the soles of our feet, hardened from the month of playing hopscotch barefoot or riding our ten speeds with no sneaks. We’d lay back and breath in the scent of the mossy, pine needle rich soil beneath us and the scent of yellow-green maple leaves and pine sap filling the air with their excess above us.

Pine. Spring water. Moss. Rocks. Sap. Leaves. Wood. Earth. It was an intoxicating blend of scents. It was a heavy, solid, reassuring blend of an earthy muskiness that signaled a kind of grounded freedom. So connected to the earth, with our bare feet always dangling in water, toes smooshing into clay-rich soil, the balls of your feet brushing over fine grass as you lay on your back, soaking up the warmth of a 10 a.m. sun. It’s right at that moment when morning turns over to day.

You sit, lay back, knees bent, and press the balls of your feet to the soft grass and pliant, moist earth where the dew hasn’t yet been burned by the sun. You spread your toes and grab some grass and pull upward as the morning sun recedes to be replaced by the blazing heat of the midday sun.

It’s at that time you feel the second sunrise of the day.