Before I Wake

Dear, innocent Malcolm asked me recently where I wanted to be buried. ("God help me, what's he up to now," I had to ask myself. "Planning portfolio strategies already? Good luck weasel, it's all soundly invested in your name in a little place called the Drew School where you are having the time of your life right now.") So, I said, "For lord's sake, don't bury me! I love bugs, and I'd hate to think of them making a meal out of me after all I've done for them."

"Like what?" he asked, dubiously. "The pest guy comes every few months to keep the spiders and scorpions out of my room, right? How is that eco-friendly, Mom?" (. . .sarcasm oozing out his ears and onto the cell phone text pad from which he has not lifted his eyes for the last hour.)

"Rosemary and thyme pellets, dear heart. They sprinkle rosemary and thyme pellets that create a barrier. Them herbs don't kill." (Say "them herbs" out loud; odd.)

"Yeah, right Mom. That stuff doesn't work. No way they do that!" (tap tap tap tap tappity tap tap)

Surprise, surprise. Yet another denial (lick index finger, tick off imaginary check box) crowding out some really fine attempts by us and an eager set of young, idealistic teachers to wedge service learning into his rock 'n roll psyche. California's looming drought? "Mom, it rained today." The economy? "A Mac Book would be really cool for my birthday." Improvement in John McCain's poll numbers? "If you paint a little fuzz under his nose, he looks like Hitler." Starving children in Myanmar? "We saw a picture of kids who look pregnant!" "What's it going to take," I ask myself fretfully. It's not like we don't model the social consciousness and encourage him to join. We do this all the time, but if it doesn't come in the form of hella' lyrics with a nimble guitar stream and a muscular bassline, it ain't happening. Actually, that's not entirely true. I give him points for taking a side in the discussion. Heck just observing his surroundings is a sign he's pointed in the right direction. What's really going on? I've noticed more and more socially and politically impassioned kids these days who feel empowered to get involved. God love 'em (and their heart-swelling headlines in the local paper.) Other kids, however, take longer. My guess: The sensitive ones, the ones who took great offense when contractions woke them out of a warm, oceanic slumber and started pumelling them through the birth canal, are not entirely convinced of their ability to protect themselves if, God forbid, something bad happens to mom and dad, more narrowly defined in their eyes as "tour guides to my freakin' future." Boys are especially vulnerable. Right from the get-go they learn, "we like you better when you mask your fear and keep your feelings to yourself" and "don't worry, you'll grow up to be a soldier and learn to shoot a gun, and we'll all be safe." You gotta wonder. . . are we scaring them shitless? Remember the nuclear attack test sirens that sent us under the desks? Ever notice how much faster the boys contorted themselves into those tight little spaces?

I think Malcolm, who's a pretty anxious kid to begin with, when he sees the hurricane a comin', checks, checks, and rechecks the health of the tether that holds him fast to the steady stake we've secured to this uncertain world. Nothing new; lots of parents do it. What to do for the ones who need more convincing? My scheme: show Malcolm a few photos of his tether (me) in some of the places I love in hopes he might be compelled someday to ensure their longevity. (Mwa ha ha!) And if that fails, at least he'll know where to scatter me when the time comes:

Yosemite Valley,









the creek at the cabin, just below the water barrel where nature hospitably toppled a Ponderosa pine to fashion the world's best foot bridge.










and Blue Slides, where I can hang out with some of my favorite people.

Idaho

Idaho is one of those vast lands dotted with grand features of endless farms next to coniferous mountain ranges all laid out under an eternal sky that, when not heartbreakingly blue, struts its weather like no other. Rain clouds gather with the breathtaking grace Audrey Hepburn used to command the billowy skirts of her gown on the red carpet. Winds searing through the enduring prairies stir the soul like the long slow moan of a new lover across the light and shadow of spent bed sheets. And rain falls with the purr of a sleeping newborn, pure and clean and forgiving. I spent a few days in Idaho to visit my brother and in that short time, I was greeted by a little bit of all of that. Especially memorable was a long hike up to Stevens Lakes on the western side of the Bitterroot Mountains. Eric is a rugged, impatient kind of guy who ironically spends hours upon hours of his spare time photographing the minute and beautiful details of nature. We knelt at fungal altars of several brilliant mushroom species. We magnified with his macro lens the crystallized riddle of frost on fall leaves. We bushwacked our way to uncharted vistas that only poets and painters could replicate. There’s a sense of the wild still left in that corner of the west, plenty of room to distance yourself from civilization, even if it’s the Starbucks look-alike five miles from the nearest residence or the near empty parking lot at the mall. It’s that frontier essence that makes Eric ache when he sees densely packed developments spread their commercial loins across unspoiled territory. But enough remains of the vastness, so go, if you can, and soon. It may take a few more decades before it looks more like Los Angeles, but according to Eric, a little piece of its heart gets ripped out when another farm gets sold.