The Land & Other Stories

And So We Begin

2009-02-03T18:29:00.000-08:00

Bobby Parke was a child that much was clear. And though a child in age he might’ve been, a child in soul and experience he was not. As it often happens, children who experience very real things grow up faster than tadpoles grow into toads. Since the beginning of his time, Bobby had only known the streets of City City as his home.

A large metropolis, City City was not like any city known today. In fact it was such a city that all major imports, exports, points of business and artistic endeavors began and ended here. It seemed that the center of the world began and ended in this metropolis. To Bobby, City City provided shelter, food and many places to call home.

Now, it must be explained that Bobby had no parents, or siblings, or any blood relations to call his own. However, he did have a guardian. This guardian was an old woman who called herself B.H. B.H. was a black woman with a hard, unkind face but loving and tender eyes. Her soft skin was not very wrinkled and her hair was not very gray, but her walk was slow, painful and hard to watch if you happened to catch her attempt a stroll in the park. She may not have been a nice lady, but her kindness and understanding was only for Bobby and no one else.

It’s also important to note that B.H. had a vice. She called it magic-water, but what people tended to believe was that it was alcohol in nature. The truth of this is quite unknown, and it would not be kind to assume what it was and what it wasn’t, but one thing we do know is that B.H. called it magic-water.

It was several years ago – seven at least since Bobby is now twelve – when B.H. discovered him inside a box lined with trash bags and food scraps. Having lost her own son many years earlier, she felt a motherly attachment to the small child. There sat Bobby, legs crossed, a smile on his face, eating melon rinds and molded bread. Pinned to the back of his shirt was a note that read:

If you find this child know that he was loved,

know that he is missed,

and know that we did the best that we could.

Sometimes life can be too much.
With best intentions, M.

Immediately B.H. picked up the child and claimed him for her own. This might have been the wrong thing to do as there are places for unfortunate children, but B.H. knew this little being would one day be more than a boy in a box.

Time moved forward and Bobby became twelve. He would pocket wallets and billfolds and ask for spare change from passing strangers. Everyone seemed to oblige not only their coins but their vulnerable money clips and purses as well. The arrangement was brilliant. B.H., a one time jazz singer, sang wonderful torch songs and ballads for tips at the corner of Paciencia and Fides while Bobby went to work. Most days the two made enough money for three meals each. On better days Bobby would have enough to buy stale bread for the ducks and geese in City City Park.

Bobby loved the park. The pond and the grass and the trees made him feel good. He felt the animals where his friends. He would imagine conversations and debates between the squirrels and rabbits about which were the better tasting nuts. Even the fish and frongs would challenge each other to race the whole distance of the pond. His favorite, though, were the trees.

Bobby loved all the trees. He felt that if he could be anything in the world he would want to be a tree. Trees where beautiful and old and he would often close his eyes and imagine their life. The things they’ve seen, he would often think to himself. They have seen the world grow up around them, how cool is that?! He imagined himself tall and wise and loved by everyone. He imagined being climbed, and hung from, even carved into by newly married couples. He imagined holding the sky and touching the birds and seeing the whole of City City everyday. Trees are needed and people get sad when trees die, he thought. I want to be a tree.

It came to pass that on this one particular day in spring, the clouds opened their faucets and released a deluge of rain onto the city. Rain was the worst thing that could happen to Bobby and B.H. Anything was easier than being wet. It also didn’t help their situation that the dark corner of the bridge they called home was cleared of everything they owned. A Blue – as B.H. often referred the police – patrolled the area. The old woman knew a Blue was bad news especially when hovering under the bridge.

“He’s wait’n. The damn Blue is wait’n,” she said.

“Let's go see what he wants."

“He’s wait’n for us to return to arrest us.” B.H. began looking around as if ideas would reveal themselves from the building walls or street drains. “If they find us Bobby," she whispered her hands on his face to help him understand, "then I’ll be gone and you’ll be gone too, away from me.” An idea suddenly came, “How much money you got?”

Bobby took out his money and handed it to B.H. “This much, it’s not a lot though.”

“That’s okay, sweetness," she counted, "we can at least see a couple of movies.”

It was often on these sorts of rainy occasions that the pair would stumble into a movie-plex and watch one movie then sneak into another. Maybe even a third if they timed it right. The local shelter provided showers and laundry services for those who needed such amenities. On the rainy days both would take advantage of these facilities before heading off to the cinema. B.H., full of pride and vanity, despite how she may have looked, would never allow herself to be seen in public looking how she lived.

Today, however, the cop was unexpected and caught B.H. off guard. There was no time to walk downtown, use the facilities, and walk back. The richest part of City City is where their bridge was located; down by the creek, under the overpass. This present reality upset her. It upset her so much she started to cry, something Bobby was not accustomed to seeing. In fact he had NEVER seen her cry. He did what he could, even offered her his ticket money so she could buy some soap to wash in the rain.

“No thank you Bobby that’s very sweet, but we watch movies together, never alone.” Her voice was sad yet still rough and deep. She opened her little yellow umbrella and gave it to Bobby.

“Really. It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Bobby was referring to the money and the umbrella.

“Let’s get going, sweetness, so we can make it to at least two shows, okay?”

Bobby blinked twice and smiled; a look B.H. had come to love.

It was never clear why B.H. took to Bobby like she did. In her days – The Great Days as she called it – B.H. was the most popular jazz singer to circle the clubs of City City. Everyone loved her. She was the featured singer at every celebration and she celebrated with everyone. A little too much it seemed. She loved so much that her money burned a hole not only through her pockets but through the floors and out the door as well. She became broke. “So broke I laughed,” she would say. And once jazz fell out of style so too did she and the streets became her new closest friends.

Often it was rumored that the loss of her son was the tumbling rock that brought on her bottomless stumble, but B.H. knew that everyone has a peak. “In life you peak and then you fall,” she’d say, often referring to herself. “I crested way too soon,” B.H. shared with Bobby, “if only I was born a few moments later then everything could have lasted longer.”

But, such wasn’t the case and now she and Bobby moved their way to the top row of the movie-plex. As they were settling in Bobby noticed B.H. was unusually sweaty and white faced. Her hands were clammy and her breath quick. “Are you okay, B.H.?” He was very worried.

“I’m fine sweetness, thank you.”

Bobby knew she hated how she looked without a shower. He knew she hadn’t taken her magic-water all day. He just grabbed her hand tighter hoping his love and good thoughts would make her feel relaxed and safe.

Gathering Graph

2009-01-09T08:34:00.000-08:00

Once, in a time not unlike the one we’re in right now, there lived a chipmunk. His name was Graph, and Graph was a great little guy, full of spunk and energy. He loved to laugh and frolic with his fellow chipmunks. He had so many chipmunk friends; every one seemed to like him and pine for his company. Graph loved life and life loved him.

He went to Gathering School and then on to higher levels of learning where he was taught advanced methods of larder and scatter hoarding, the greatest types of fungi and truffles and even new methods of scurrying and burrowing. He learned so much that Graph became symbiotic with the seeds and trees of the forest.

Moving on, as chipmunks often do from time to time, Graph built several burrows in various different places, and along the way he introduced himself to the animals and insects around him. He met badgers, bumble bees and even became friends with a bear, who, despite his size, was quite sensitive. One time, during a stroll by the creek, Bear almost sat on little Graph; the poor large bear, extremely guilty at what almost happened, wept like an upset child. Seeing a bear weep and fuss was a bit strange to the tiny chipmunk, but Graph loved his friends and his friends loved him. So much so they always wanted him around and little Graph loved that. After all, who doesn't like to feel wanted?

As seasons passed the moon began to call on all animals to prepare for the coming winter. Graph was so occupied with the creatures around him that he didn’t realize he needed to prepare for the impending cold. It wasn’t until he saw a lonely worm squirm away in defense at the sight of Graph that he knew something was a bit off kilter.

"Don’t eat me!” The worm was tinier than usual so his voice shook with fright.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“What do you mean?” The worm was confused and in a slight panic.

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“What I mean is...didn’t you hear the moon? The cold air is coming!” said the worm, backing away ever so slightly. “I must go away from you. You are going to eat me.”

Graph was confused, he never heard the moon, he didn’t even hunger for the taste of a nice squishy worm, which usually satisfied any chipmunk’s taste buds. “The moon called? It did?”

“Oh, yes, and –" Just then a bird swooped down and, almost catching Graph with his talons, found future sustenance in the worm. “See what I mean!” His voice trailed off into the sky.

“Geez,” said Graph, “I had no idea. What have I been doing?!” With that, the tiny chipmunk rushed around the forest hoarding what he could for the winter. Hustling about from tree to tree, from one part of the forest to another, he recalled several memories when fellow chipmunks would visit his burrows, he remembered the fond gatherings he used to host, even an annual truffle-hunt he brilliantly organized that somehow disappeared off his radar.

Autumn was long and arduous for the little chipmunk, but that can usually happen when one is trying to catch up on time that was lost. It wasn’t until he was in his sleeping quarters that Graph realized what had happened; it was like a violent alarm that suddenly went off in his head. Immediately he retrieved a scrap book from a shelf and began flipping through its pages

He saw all kinds of pictures while fragments and objects of memories tumbled out on his lap; everything he ever did started to reveal itself as if it had just happened. There was a picture of a yellow honey comb, a huge tree and a honey covered chipmunk; he had traveled with Bumble Bee from hive to hive to taste various types of honey. A piece of dried seaweed stuck itself onto a page; he went fishing with Bear. A photo of two friends sleeping under a weeping willow; he sprawled in the summer shade with Bob Cat. There were even wood shavings inside an envelope; he spent time with Woodpecker as she built her nest. Though he had a marvelous time with everyone doing these activities, he lost track of who he was and of the things he liked to do, even the things he needed to do. Graph lost track of what it was to be a chipmunk.

As he sat in his favorite chair, listening to the wind and winter gathering all around him, Graph reflected on the new friends he found and the old friends he had forgotten. He had no business frolicking with bobcats, hunting with bears, tasting honey or even visiting with a woodpecker. It was a fact to Graph that a great many of his friends usually want to eat him not eat with him. What he needed to do was chipmunk things, reconnect with his forgotten chipmunk friends and participate in chipmunk adventures. Graph began to long for the good times he had shared with his chipmunk friends. Graph, in that moment, started to miss his chipmunk life. A tear built up, fell out of his eyes and landed on his hand.

“I will never forget these friends,” he said, sniffling back some tears and rubbing his hands across the scrapbook, “but I am a chipmunk. I want to create my own life to share with everyone.” It was in that instance, like a chill crawling over his body, Graph realized it was time to be a chipmunk once again.

Replacing the scrapbook back on the shelf, Graph headed to his sleeping quarters; head high, stride more confident, and a heart filled with excitement. As his eyes closed and his body settled into a comfortable position he fell into a long deep winter sleep knowing that when he woke spring would be the start of something new.