Shimmering Trees

Just as my family goes to Martha's Vineyard every year, so do we go to Newry, Maine, every year. This year, some things are different. But most things are wonderfully, beautifully, soothingly the same.

Our house is right on the side of the road, but it's flanked by an old barn that's usually filled with gigantic rolls of hay. Hale, Tomek and I clambered all over them one day, and then they left and I was all alone. The hay smelled musty and dry, and it was raining lightly outside, so I just lay back and stared up at the ceiling in the barn. Because the sky outside was that bright, blinding kind of overcast-grey, it shone through the tiny holes in the roof like stars in a metal sky. The points of light overhead, combined with the fog on the ground and the hushing of the rain outside, made me feel a bit like I was dreaming. I half-expected a spirit or a ghost or a runaway slave to rise up out of the hay and start talking to me. It was beautiful and peaceful and cozy. I watched the stars get dimmer and dimmer as the invisible sun went down, and the next night there were no clouds and I could see real stars, half-blacked out by the outrageously bright moon.

We're surrounded by open space. The second I got out of the car when we first got here, I ran off and just ran over the fields and hills around the house. There's this big sloping plane of grass behind the barn, and it's separated from the river by a line of trees. Past the end of that first field, there was another hilly area that used to empty, as I recall, but now has a house and a vegetable garden gracing it. There's a tall wooden pole with a tattered American flag at the end, and two more poles branching out over the garden that have sparkly owl cutouts hanging from them to scare away pesky birds. And from that second field, you can work your way down to the Bear River.

That river is such a a good friend of mine. I've been playing with it for years, and my family has its share of anecdotes that took place in or around its banks. The water is always absolutely freezing, because it's melted snow and ice that runs down from the White Mountains (they surround our cabin). But once you get used to it (read: numb), it's so much fun to be in. For one thing, the water is so clear that if you hold your breath and bring your face close to the surface, you can see perfectly down to the bottom, which may be five or more feet beneath you. Mica is scattered all across the sand in the riverbed, and when the sun hits just the right spot the entire river glitters like it's got Christmas light strung through it. The clear water, cold as it is, is fascinating for a child of seven or eight, and even more so for a teenager of sixteen. I swear, I spent about fifteen minutes today looking at my foot underwater. Craziness, yo.

I haven't even gotten to the best part about the river: the current. It's got a lively, mischievous current that doesn't just flow; it pushes you back and forth and bangs you against rocks and sweeps your legs out from under you and tumbles you backwards until finally something painfully stops you. The entire riverbed is set with rocks in varying degrees of size, slipperiness, and ability to cause pain. Some rocks are big and flat and covered in soft black moss. Some rocks are dull and ridged in such a way that when you step on one, it hurts so much you're forced to stumble backwards and step on another rock which, needless to say, causes even more pain than the first. And some rocks are like chunky sand piled on top of flat bedrock, so that stepping on them hurts like hell as well, because it's like rubbing the bottom of your feet with a dull cheese grater.

Anyway, the current. The current will be merciless when it comes to the rocks, but it's slightly more affable if you know it well. There's a special place that's been our homebase on the river since I was a baby: two giant boulders, embedded in the earth, sit on either side of the ride. Actually, they're not boulders, they're parts of the bedrock the riverbed lies in that have been carved into two little islands of dry safety. However, you can totally tell that the river wasn't always so forgiving of them: they're worn almost completely smooth, with graceful paths and ridges winding through across them from millenia of water-wear. Beneath the lichen and dead leaves, the rock is as ancient as the concept of sunning yourself on a pleasant patch of moss, and that's saying something.

Between the two rocks, there's a lumpy place where the current flows fast and furious. It's also been worn down to a smooth, curving surface with little splotches of black moss dotting it. Here, the water makes the best shapes, including the Horn: a small, glassy-smooth mound of water that rises out of the river like it's got a mind of its own. Some of my earliest memories are over rafting over this little bit of rapids and coasting through the current to my father, who played catcher so none of the kids would be swept off downriver. It's wonderful to get over that Horn, but it's a bitch to climb back up towards it. Like the rest of the bedrock, the water has made the rock smooth as an ice rink, and trying to struggle against a strong-minded current with nothing to hold onto but a slick patch of rock is something I like to call "futile." Fun and tiring as hell, but you don't have much of a chance. Sure, you could walk--but where's the fun in that?

There's a lot more about the Bear River I could talk about: the rock that looks like a pile of candle wax, where I love to sun myself and read, and where it's so smooth I always lose my footing and fall into the water; the stillwater, where you can float and soak until you're so numb the rocks don't bother you anymore; the island of beach where my dad and stepmom like to hang. I could even pass on the story about my little sister losing her swimsuit in that river, but I won't. Time is short and Hale probably wouldn't appreciate it anyway.

Going over the river is a bridge, made of wood and usually the place where farmers and such drive their ATVs. I walk over it, though--and never fail to spit into the river on either the going or coming trip--and get to a wonderful field on the other side. This field is shaped like the number 8 and it completely surrounded by trees. The mountains poke over the edge in a couple places, and sometimes you can hear and see some traffic from the road in the distance; but overall, that place is one of the most peaceful spots I've ever been in. I'm pretty sure animals go through it sometimes, and it's definitely used for farming. But this late in the summer, it's just a carpet of dead grass and green gras twisted together, with weeds and bugs peeking through. The sun casts longer and longer shadows as it sinks behind the trees, but before it disappear forever I get as much sunshine as I can. It's so warm and quiet out there: just me, the bugs, and the plants. Lovely.

Today, I listened to music, read my Harpo Marx book, listened to the cicadas, and dozed for a bit on the grass. As the sun started to go down and the light got yellower and deeper, I woke up and watched the trees. When the wind blew, the leaves would twist and flutter wildly; in the light from the setting sun, they switched from bright to shadowed faster than the eye could follow. It was like watching the air turn green and start to dance. The trees were shimmering, there was no other word for it, and I watched them until the light went away and I had to go home.

I hope that my children will have the chance to see the trees shimmer.

Not much else about nature. The house is wonderful, same as always. God, I have so many memories about this house: playing "Lion, Lion, Run De Hills" with my sister and cousins, cuddling up with my mom and dad in their squeaky-framed bed, catching grasshoppers in the grass out front. My sister and I have always slept in the exact same place: two twin beds, her near the sloped ceiling and me next to the window, with the same bedside table and the same lamp and the same dresser in the corner. If I close my eyes, I can summon it--the feel of it, the view from the bed, the sense of comfort and safety, everything. In fact, there are two rooms I can do this with: the room in Martha's Vineyard and the room in Maine.

This week, I slept in a different room.

It's been very hard. I hate change, everyone knows that, and yet I chose to change here. Why? Well, the downstairs room is separate, I can stay up as late as I want without pissing people off, and it's very cozy. On the other hand, I still feel a strong urge to go upstairs and curl up in the same bed I've been sleeping in since I was two. I don't know. We all have to grow up, but do we have to do it so painfully?

Apprehensive about upcoming school year, but, case in point, must work on bio summer work. Will post later. Au revoir, amigos.

(Yes, that was on purpose.)