Visiting and Revisiting the Ghost of Who I Was

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If I were to put on Wind Song perfume, I would remember that once upon a time I was 16 and insecure and made shy by circumstances that changed my life dramatically on my 15th birthday.   The circumstances, really, are not important.  One just needs to know that I was uprooted, again, and moved to a locale where I knew no one and no one knew me.  That was not a new experience, but these new kids were not military brats.  They did not welcome me with open arms.  They were not unkind.  I was simply someone they didn’t know in a tight-knit community at an age where one doesn’t really socialize outside their tribe.

I had no tribe. I was invisible.

I did have the third floor of a brick house as bedroom to myself.  As do teenagers, I spent hours holed up in my attic.  The princess in exile in the tower.

I can slip into the steaming hot water of the claw footed bathtub and wash my hair with Herbal Essence shampoo.  Luxuriating in the warmth and comfort of the water while tears silently slip down my face.  Another lonely day is about to begin at school.  More than a year’s worth now. 

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Push the River

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Don’t push the river.  It flows by itself is allegedly a Chinese proverb and only useful advice if you want to go in the same direction the river is moving.  It’s akin to don’t tilt at windmills.  Theoretically, it gets you nowhere. 

And then there’s what do you do if the river is fixing to tumble you over a waterfall smashing you on the rocks below?

Photo by J V on Unsplash

Proverbs are not always worthy of heeding.

We have to go against the flow sometimes.  Or at least I do.   

I spent a lot of years just letting the river carry me to wherever.  I would make landfall and sojourn a while before letting the river take me somewhere else. 

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Beartown State Park

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Walter didn’t walk.  He ambled.  Today, though, he had a destination.

Walter wasn’t much of a planner, preferring to be spontaneous or, as he put it, just going with the flow.  But the flow today, required some preparation.  He had packed a lunch:  cheese sandwich, apple, Hostess pink Sno Balls and a bottle of Gatorade.  Green. 

He had seen the photo in a magazine.  Beartown.  He was even intrigued by the name.  A Vietnam memorial to a lost son deep in the heart of the West Virginia high mountains.  A series of boardwalks and large rocks, verdant and mysterious.  A sanctuary, sacred and oozing peace.  The perfect place to soothe a soul or lift a spirit.

Somewhere he could amble, but he had to get there first. 

Not yet dawn and the day was drizzly.  He threw a poncho in the backpack with his lunch and DSLR. Yup, he’d pulled out the big guns for Beartown.  It looked like a photographer’s dream location – moody yet tranquil.  He wondered if there were really bear up there on that part of Droop Mountain.  Droop Mountain, for sure, but in this state park?  He didn’t know.

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Donnie’s Wake

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Donnie talked about Pocahontas County all the time. Camping there. I wasn’t interested. We were neck deep in converting the barn and my whole life was a primitive camping trip. I didn’t think I needed to wander into the Wild and Wonderful to experience more awkward cooking attempts and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. My life was full of such.

She continued to wax poetic. Lyrical, an ode to the Williams River and I told her I was sure it was beautiful. But declined.

And then she was diagnosed with breast cancer. And then it metastasized before we were even able to process the news.

She wanted a last trip to the river. And we agreed to go along.

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