meadowlarks sing in that country
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| Pinelow camp |
Exploded safety glass scattered across hot tarmac crunches under saltwater sandals, Justin and I scrambling to keep up with mom and dad running ahead of our hastily parked car, fifty feet from the scene of the crash. High-speed head on. Straight highway, open country somewhere east of Ephrata. Nineteen fifty-one.
He's not dead.
A big kid, skinny girl in pigtails and sun suite, grimy little brother at her heels, announced as we came around the back of the first smashed car. I believed her. Carrying the authority of five minutes seniority at the wreck, and the status of at least a third grader, maybe older, she must know.
We were gawking at the figure of a man, black from head to foot, motionless on an army blanket just off the edge of the pavement. Must have been thrown clear and rolled across the road and into the shoulder when the cars came together at sixty miles an hour.
Kid culture stories in those days often included wrecks in which someone, usually a GI, escaped harm by being thrown clear of the wreck, harmlessly landing in the bushes. Didn't work out so well for this guy.
We were gawking at the figure of a man, black from head to foot, motionless on an army blanket just off the edge of the pavement. Must have been thrown clear and rolled across the road and into the shoulder when the cars came together at sixty miles an hour.
Kid culture stories in those days often included wrecks in which someone, usually a GI, escaped harm by being thrown clear of the wreck, harmlessly landing in the bushes. Didn't work out so well for this guy.
On our way to Pinelow camp, thirty-odd miles north of Spokane. August. Not yet the heat of the day. Dad in his best fedora behind the wheel, mom half turned toward him on the right, silk scarf, peddle pushers. Thirty-five, preachers wife not allowed to wear makeup. Me and Justin bouncing around the back seat. Windows down taking in the last morning air. Two door light green forty-nine Chev.
High spirits suddenly changed as dad slammed on the brakes, pulled over to the shoulder behind a couple other stopped cars and ran ahead to the accident scene to help. No police or aid cars on scene yet. He may have seen the smoke of the crash up ahead on the highway.
She's dead, the girl announced, leading us around to the right side of the second car as if she were a tour guide at a roadside attraction. Little green Chev similar if not identical to ours, front destroyed in the impact.
Middle age woman stone dead sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on eternity. Dust-colored long overcoat, motionless hands clutching a shopping bag in her lap. The kind with twine handles. No signs of trauma. Killed instantly. Four little kids gawking through the blown-out window from a couple feet away. She would have felt embarrassed to find herself the center of attention.
Third victim, her husband no doubt, seemed like he would be okay to me. Laying on a blanket next to the car on the same side, adults bending over to hear what may well have been his last words. Bright red streaks of blood trickled down his deeply tanned bald scalp. Dozens of cuts, but they were small, nothing a few Band-Aids and Mercurochrome couldn't fix. Or so I thought at the time.
Never understood how death seemed as familiar as an old friend out on that highway. Something visceral hit our little breasts the instant we saw. Didn't have to be told, we knew.
Folks must have been exhausted by the time we made it out to Pinelow camp. Me and Justin lit out through the woods running. He always pelted me with pine cones whenever we got close to the trees. Something nice about the smell of hot pine forest, dusty camp cabins, sounds of families unloaded and moving in for the week.
Still see the painted plywood dining hall ceiling, forest of bare bulbs, two-hundred watt. Little kid looking over the edge of the long table, wedged between my brother and mom on the bench. Families and friends crowded around all the tables. Family style, serving dishes making the rounds. Meat and mashed potatoes lots of rich brown gravy. Creamed corn white bread and yellow butter. Laughter and singing.
Mable Mable strong and able get your elbows off the table.
At the chant, the entire crowd breaks into the song
Round the table you must go, you must go, you must go. Round the table, you must go...
Singing and laughter continued until Mable extracted herself from the long bench and scurried around the table as penitence for her breach of etiquette. Every meal that week at least one person got the treatment, sometimes more. I kept my elbows down.
Mom and dad were reliving some of their best moments from college years. Times that loomed large in their memories at that stage of their lives.
Suddenly mom rushed Justin to the side door where he barfed the creamed corn, never touched the stuff again as long as he lived. Later, in line for the candy window, mom told Justin that he had to share one with little brother. I wanted sugar babies, Justin Hershey bar. We wrestled each other to the ground, rolling around squealing in the dirt at the feet of folks standing in line. Mom must have felt embarrassed.
They had aluminum row boats. Justin caught little sunfish while we drifted over by the lily pads up toward one end of the lake. Dad teased me about pulling an old Band-aid off the transom of the boat, maybe it would sink.
Huge bonfire in the evening with songs and skits, devotional with lots of personal testimonies. Dreaded the day when being a little kid would no longer exempt me from that part of the rituals. Nevertheless, one felt warm and safe in the congregation gathered round the light of the fire.
No one in our family ever spoke about the accident. The scene always runs as an open tab, handy for quick reference. No idea why, but the tab gets clicked a lot. Probably effected my life in more ways than I know. Certainly, never ride shotgun with a shopping bag on my lap.
Thornton's place a little past the edge of Ephrata left turn off the highway. Row of houses on one side of the road, cool green lawns summer dry fields around. Me and Justin spent the night there once. DG and Vickie, kids a few years older than us, rigged a tin can and string telephone that went all the way to the backyard. Played that game where you throw a ball over the top of the house. Kid culture sing-song chant went with that one too, but I can't remember it just now.
Dog got into it with a porcupine under the house. Remember the kids old man Dell using pliers to pull quills out of the poor fella's nose. That's the place where I first noticed the meadowlark song. On a hot summer day out in that country the song of those birds fills the heart with joy.
I have to go past images of the wreck to access any of the fun recollections from those days. That little girl's voice always announcing death before she will open her other files.
Lately though, it occurred to me that meadowlarks sang from fence posts not a hundred feet behind her head as she spoke.
High spirits suddenly changed as dad slammed on the brakes, pulled over to the shoulder behind a couple other stopped cars and ran ahead to the accident scene to help. No police or aid cars on scene yet. He may have seen the smoke of the crash up ahead on the highway.
She's dead, the girl announced, leading us around to the right side of the second car as if she were a tour guide at a roadside attraction. Little green Chev similar if not identical to ours, front destroyed in the impact.
Middle age woman stone dead sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on eternity. Dust-colored long overcoat, motionless hands clutching a shopping bag in her lap. The kind with twine handles. No signs of trauma. Killed instantly. Four little kids gawking through the blown-out window from a couple feet away. She would have felt embarrassed to find herself the center of attention.
Third victim, her husband no doubt, seemed like he would be okay to me. Laying on a blanket next to the car on the same side, adults bending over to hear what may well have been his last words. Bright red streaks of blood trickled down his deeply tanned bald scalp. Dozens of cuts, but they were small, nothing a few Band-Aids and Mercurochrome couldn't fix. Or so I thought at the time.
Never understood how death seemed as familiar as an old friend out on that highway. Something visceral hit our little breasts the instant we saw. Didn't have to be told, we knew.
Folks must have been exhausted by the time we made it out to Pinelow camp. Me and Justin lit out through the woods running. He always pelted me with pine cones whenever we got close to the trees. Something nice about the smell of hot pine forest, dusty camp cabins, sounds of families unloaded and moving in for the week.
Still see the painted plywood dining hall ceiling, forest of bare bulbs, two-hundred watt. Little kid looking over the edge of the long table, wedged between my brother and mom on the bench. Families and friends crowded around all the tables. Family style, serving dishes making the rounds. Meat and mashed potatoes lots of rich brown gravy. Creamed corn white bread and yellow butter. Laughter and singing.
Mable Mable strong and able get your elbows off the table.
At the chant, the entire crowd breaks into the song
Round the table you must go, you must go, you must go. Round the table, you must go...
Singing and laughter continued until Mable extracted herself from the long bench and scurried around the table as penitence for her breach of etiquette. Every meal that week at least one person got the treatment, sometimes more. I kept my elbows down.
Mom and dad were reliving some of their best moments from college years. Times that loomed large in their memories at that stage of their lives.
Suddenly mom rushed Justin to the side door where he barfed the creamed corn, never touched the stuff again as long as he lived. Later, in line for the candy window, mom told Justin that he had to share one with little brother. I wanted sugar babies, Justin Hershey bar. We wrestled each other to the ground, rolling around squealing in the dirt at the feet of folks standing in line. Mom must have felt embarrassed.
They had aluminum row boats. Justin caught little sunfish while we drifted over by the lily pads up toward one end of the lake. Dad teased me about pulling an old Band-aid off the transom of the boat, maybe it would sink.
Huge bonfire in the evening with songs and skits, devotional with lots of personal testimonies. Dreaded the day when being a little kid would no longer exempt me from that part of the rituals. Nevertheless, one felt warm and safe in the congregation gathered round the light of the fire.
No one in our family ever spoke about the accident. The scene always runs as an open tab, handy for quick reference. No idea why, but the tab gets clicked a lot. Probably effected my life in more ways than I know. Certainly, never ride shotgun with a shopping bag on my lap.
Thornton's place a little past the edge of Ephrata left turn off the highway. Row of houses on one side of the road, cool green lawns summer dry fields around. Me and Justin spent the night there once. DG and Vickie, kids a few years older than us, rigged a tin can and string telephone that went all the way to the backyard. Played that game where you throw a ball over the top of the house. Kid culture sing-song chant went with that one too, but I can't remember it just now.
Dog got into it with a porcupine under the house. Remember the kids old man Dell using pliers to pull quills out of the poor fella's nose. That's the place where I first noticed the meadowlark song. On a hot summer day out in that country the song of those birds fills the heart with joy.
I have to go past images of the wreck to access any of the fun recollections from those days. That little girl's voice always announcing death before she will open her other files.
Lately though, it occurred to me that meadowlarks sang from fence posts not a hundred feet behind her head as she spoke.
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