One our way to her home in Orange Beach, Lane tells me about her brother and how hard his decisions have been on the family. She sets up the scene of pains and family warfare. I expect to walk in to her house and feel the squeeze of tensions that have been hanging on walls of her life since she was a teenager.
We walk in and her parents’ faces light up. Her mom’s smile comes with a sparkle in her eye and her dad’s laughter rings from his heart as he catches her up on all she has missed since she was last home.
Later we walk across a lawn, pass the house raised on poles, and look toward the water. The inner coastal waterway is a calming sight and it’s hard to believe it connects to a sea of violent possibility. A sailboat is anchored 100 yards off the end of the shore. A man stands in the water on one side of the dock, working on setting a large fishing net. Some people float around on inflatable rafts laughing and talking. Some others sit on the dock. They are responsible for tossing the floaters more cans of beer when needed. A large wagon sits on the dock, full of ice and drinks; there is no need to cross the yard and go back to the house for refills. Lane tells me these are the people she grew up with. These are the people she loves; I want to love them for that reason. I need to love them; I do.
I am romanced by them, by without their knowledge of it. I’m romanced by their individual histories, their unspoken vivacious stories of identity and how they learned to spend their time. I fall in love with the people they grew up with, knowing that many pieces of my friends’ characters, hearts, and minds that I appreciate exist because of the behavior and influences of those unsuspecting contributors.
I can turn it over and over in my mind and it doesn’t lose its beauty. Where my friends come from is a special ingredient to who they are, who they are becoming, and who they will forever be. I treasure these opportunities I get, to take trips to the unique places they come from. It’s through these visits that I am given the gifts of knowing them more intimately, appreciating them more intensely, and I can’t help but to love them more profoundly.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Eclectic, Alabama
My gas light lit up orange ten miles ago and a cruel red X has devoured the service bars on my cell phone screen. The clock on my dashboard dimly flashes 11 p.m. I am in Eclectic, Alabama, where I have never been before, and I don’t know how to get where I am going.
I stopped on the old, broken, holey, paved road where a hill let me have a bar of service to make a desperate call for rescue to Ben. I don’t remember how I met Ben: probably through friends or at a bar in Auburn. He is a dear friend of happy fate and I am going back to his home town, back to his place of growing, to see what makes this Ben I know.
“Stop when you get to the fork in the road,” he instructed me, “I’ll meet you there.” Two minutes later we were in the driveway of his family home. I took a deep beautiful breath, stepped out of my truck, and remembered why I had made the trip out there.
The bitter November night grabbed my hand, numbed my fingers and made me question if it was worth sacrificing the warmth of my coat pocket to hold on to my newly opened can of cold cheap beer. With my other arm wrapped tightly around Ben, I sat on the back of the four-wheeler as we sped down the road. Six of us rode on four ATVs up and down and over the dirt roads of Ben’s home town. Despite the cold, I couldn’t help but smile at the Midnight adventure, a re-creation of how Ben spent his days before Auburn. I was in his world. I was getting a trip back to see how he came to be the man I know now and I soaked in every simple moment of the precious experience.
As the ATVs roared down the road, Ben turned his head; eyes still ahead, voice aimed for me and told me, as we passed a ditch, of the time his friends wrecked a couple of four-wheelers; and when we passed the creek, he let me in on the time he spent an Independence Day floating down it with friends. His free hand danced in the air in front of him as he told me about the time he sunk his new four-wheeler in the swamp three years before. Every story was another piece of Ben, another glimpse into the things he treasures most in life, the way he reacts to events of life and what he takes away from his experiences.
We journeyed off the dirt road and made the ATVs climb a hill. The isolated path we took wouldn’t have been found by anyone that didn’t know it was there. If it hadn’t been done hundreds of times before, I would have thought it impossible to navigate the four-wheeler to the top. Ben and his friends called this hilltop we were traveling to, ‘the lookout spot’ and I wondered what I should expect as I hid behind Ben’s back to avoid being smacked by tree branches on the way up.
Reaching the top of the hill was like falling into a world away from reality. When the sound of the ATV motors shut off, silence consumed the noise of the world and became the loudest part of the night. The flat hilltop was no bigger than my apartment, but up there I felt bigger than any issue I’d been dealing with. No tree grew tall enough to block our view, and no star was dull enough to be forgotten.
Since building a fire was the next brilliant idea we had, Don walked off into the darkness to find sticks and wood to burn. Hannah laughed at Don and told us that the correct term for Brad’s title was her fee-ons not fee-on-say, while Brad quietly started stacking Don’s stick collection in a campfire ready stance. And when Hannah made another joke about Josh being a red-head, he stammered about nothing and walked off with a smile to make sure Don hadn’t fallen off the edge of their hill.
“Who owns this property?” I asked, wondering who would be upset in the morning to find their bale of hay gone and a black spot of soot in the middle of flattened circular hilltop. “We don’t know,” replied Ben, “we think its Alabama Power or something. A lot of the property around here is owned by them or hunting clubs.”
My chest felt full of life; ready to burst. They all told stories of their high school mischief. Revealing more of themselves, remembering more of each other. “I have to be honest, Josh; we did set your trashcans on fire that one time,” Ben confessed. “It was fun, but sorry about that.”
Cold and dew-y at four a.m. we put out the fire and rode back to the house. Alone with Ben in the kitchen, he shared. Pieces of him standing out stronger than the rest, “I was adopted, did you know that?” turned into, “this was where everyone hung out in high school,” to “I know another season of my life is close, I just don’t know what it is.” And finally, “I have nothing without God, he’s my everything. “
“How do you get to your roof?” I asked once the conversation came to and end. A couple months earlier, Ben turned 24 and he told me that on that night, he sat on his parent’s roof, smoked a cigarette, and wanted to jump. We stepped on the couch and climbed through the window onto the second story roof. The roof was steep but the thrill of the unsafe climb made the view from the top settle well in my bones. Were we up higher than the rest of Alabama; how much of his life did he spend above the treetops, more acquainted with the stars than I, in this overwhelming, reoccurring silence? “The silence can be loud sometimes,” Ben said. “During the day you can see water towers from towns all around. You can see for counties from up here.” On our way back down, I heard a thump behind me and grabbed Ben’s belt loop as he slid down the roof, on his way to the ground, far below. He came to rest beside me and took a deep breath, “that’s never happened to me before; I can always keep my footing.”
As the sun was coming up, I fell asleep in a recliner, surrounded by my new sleeping friends, content and full from the night’s journey.
I stopped on the old, broken, holey, paved road where a hill let me have a bar of service to make a desperate call for rescue to Ben. I don’t remember how I met Ben: probably through friends or at a bar in Auburn. He is a dear friend of happy fate and I am going back to his home town, back to his place of growing, to see what makes this Ben I know.
“Stop when you get to the fork in the road,” he instructed me, “I’ll meet you there.” Two minutes later we were in the driveway of his family home. I took a deep beautiful breath, stepped out of my truck, and remembered why I had made the trip out there.
The bitter November night grabbed my hand, numbed my fingers and made me question if it was worth sacrificing the warmth of my coat pocket to hold on to my newly opened can of cold cheap beer. With my other arm wrapped tightly around Ben, I sat on the back of the four-wheeler as we sped down the road. Six of us rode on four ATVs up and down and over the dirt roads of Ben’s home town. Despite the cold, I couldn’t help but smile at the Midnight adventure, a re-creation of how Ben spent his days before Auburn. I was in his world. I was getting a trip back to see how he came to be the man I know now and I soaked in every simple moment of the precious experience.
As the ATVs roared down the road, Ben turned his head; eyes still ahead, voice aimed for me and told me, as we passed a ditch, of the time his friends wrecked a couple of four-wheelers; and when we passed the creek, he let me in on the time he spent an Independence Day floating down it with friends. His free hand danced in the air in front of him as he told me about the time he sunk his new four-wheeler in the swamp three years before. Every story was another piece of Ben, another glimpse into the things he treasures most in life, the way he reacts to events of life and what he takes away from his experiences.
We journeyed off the dirt road and made the ATVs climb a hill. The isolated path we took wouldn’t have been found by anyone that didn’t know it was there. If it hadn’t been done hundreds of times before, I would have thought it impossible to navigate the four-wheeler to the top. Ben and his friends called this hilltop we were traveling to, ‘the lookout spot’ and I wondered what I should expect as I hid behind Ben’s back to avoid being smacked by tree branches on the way up.
Reaching the top of the hill was like falling into a world away from reality. When the sound of the ATV motors shut off, silence consumed the noise of the world and became the loudest part of the night. The flat hilltop was no bigger than my apartment, but up there I felt bigger than any issue I’d been dealing with. No tree grew tall enough to block our view, and no star was dull enough to be forgotten.
Since building a fire was the next brilliant idea we had, Don walked off into the darkness to find sticks and wood to burn. Hannah laughed at Don and told us that the correct term for Brad’s title was her fee-ons not fee-on-say, while Brad quietly started stacking Don’s stick collection in a campfire ready stance. And when Hannah made another joke about Josh being a red-head, he stammered about nothing and walked off with a smile to make sure Don hadn’t fallen off the edge of their hill.
“Who owns this property?” I asked, wondering who would be upset in the morning to find their bale of hay gone and a black spot of soot in the middle of flattened circular hilltop. “We don’t know,” replied Ben, “we think its Alabama Power or something. A lot of the property around here is owned by them or hunting clubs.”
My chest felt full of life; ready to burst. They all told stories of their high school mischief. Revealing more of themselves, remembering more of each other. “I have to be honest, Josh; we did set your trashcans on fire that one time,” Ben confessed. “It was fun, but sorry about that.”
Cold and dew-y at four a.m. we put out the fire and rode back to the house. Alone with Ben in the kitchen, he shared. Pieces of him standing out stronger than the rest, “I was adopted, did you know that?” turned into, “this was where everyone hung out in high school,” to “I know another season of my life is close, I just don’t know what it is.” And finally, “I have nothing without God, he’s my everything. “
“How do you get to your roof?” I asked once the conversation came to and end. A couple months earlier, Ben turned 24 and he told me that on that night, he sat on his parent’s roof, smoked a cigarette, and wanted to jump. We stepped on the couch and climbed through the window onto the second story roof. The roof was steep but the thrill of the unsafe climb made the view from the top settle well in my bones. Were we up higher than the rest of Alabama; how much of his life did he spend above the treetops, more acquainted with the stars than I, in this overwhelming, reoccurring silence? “The silence can be loud sometimes,” Ben said. “During the day you can see water towers from towns all around. You can see for counties from up here.” On our way back down, I heard a thump behind me and grabbed Ben’s belt loop as he slid down the roof, on his way to the ground, far below. He came to rest beside me and took a deep breath, “that’s never happened to me before; I can always keep my footing.”
As the sun was coming up, I fell asleep in a recliner, surrounded by my new sleeping friends, content and full from the night’s journey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)