The Hunter

  Jamie lay by the little brook listening to the small swirls of turbulence as the water rushed over and around the rocks.  After the dry summer, the previous night’s rain had the creek singing once more.    Jamie had an extraordinary gift of listening.   The sounds naturally blended to his ear like a symphony.  Sound was his medium.  With sound he could paint the wind bending the grass, blend in the color of rustling leaves, and accent the little creatures that scurry along the forest floor.

A variety of birds found their way into his masterpiece, and he identified each by their unique song.  He claimed that his hearing was not so much better than others; it was just that he heard more out of the sounds, the details that normally went unnoticed. 

Jamie also had an acute sense of touch. He could feel the wind on his face and tell and what direction it was blowing from and whether it held the promise of rain.   And he possessed an uncanny gift for identifying things with his hands.  But most of all he loved the feel of the sun on his face. 

Lying on his back with his hands behind his head he allowed the full brightness of the mid-day sun to bathe his youthful countenance.  Staring up at the sky, on a bright sunny day, Jamie could just barely detect a hint of light, his only moments of respite from a world of darkness. 

Blind since birth, Jamie met the exigencies of life with resolve.  His sovereignty in everyday life skills was owed to his parents, who disallowed any pity or indulgence.  His constant companion and best friend, Pal, gave him the eyes that nature had deprived.  Pal was a Yellow Lab, and like most of his breed, was a devout anthromorph.  Endowed with human-like sensibility, he shared Jamie’s quiet times lying close beside him and laying his paw across the boy’s lap.  And like the time Jamie’s mother passed, a shy whimper might escape his throat.  He would even sit and listen, tilting his head side to side, straining to comprehend the stories Jamie’s grandfather would tell on Saturday nights.  The boy and the dog went everywhere together, roaming the fields of the farm and the backwoods along the creek.   

This place was a favorite destination, a long walk down an abandoned farm road where it crossed the little brook over an old culvert.  Here Jamie spent many quiet times musing over the sounds of the surrounding woods, the loss of his mother, or his imminent future as a blind adult.  He often confided in the loyal canine, which would sit and listen and gaze upon the boy like a Sunday worshipper.  But presently Pal was off terrorizing a rabbit that had dared to venture into the clearing while the vigilant canine was on watch. 

As the dog emerged from the brush he detected a distant sound.  Then Jamie heard it, a vehicle bouncing down the old farm road.  It was an old pickup truck, Jamie knew from the sound of rusted springs, and the rattling of body in the process of separating from it’s frame, an all too common occurrence in this farm country, which was rife with old pickups.  Pal sat, ears erect and squared the way Labs do, hyper-vigilant to the approaching noise.   It was rare to see a vehicle on this old road, but it was early in the hunting season and it might be someone after squirrel or rabbit; it was much too early for deer.  Jamie and the dog listened as the noisy vehicle came closer.

Finally the truck bounced over the culvert and slowed to a stop.  Jamie heard the creak of old hinges and the rattled closing of an elderly truck door.  Pal stiffened and a low growl emerged from deep in his throat.  

“Hello there, seen any rabbits?”  A friendly voice rang out.

Jamie had guessed the truck most likely carried one of the locals.  But he did not recognize the voice.  “Well, I can’t see anything, but I think my dog was chasing one around a while ago,” Jamie offered.

The stranger was carrying a shotgun over his shoulder.  He walked closer to Jamie.  His head thrust forward and a quizzical look came to his eyes, “Excuse me, but are you blind, young man?”

“Yes, all my life.”  Jamie noted a sympathetic tone in the stranger’s voice that put him more at ease.

“Well how in the world did you get way out here in these woods?” The stranger asked.

“Its my dog, Pal, he helps me, he knows every inch of these woods, he’s my eyes.”  Jamie proudly proclaimed.

“Well he is a real good lookin’ dog, I gotta say.”

“Thanks mister, you can pet him if you want,” Jamie offered.

“Oh, no thanks,” the stranger waved the offer off, “I like dogs but I was bit one time so now I’m careful about dogs.”

“Well, Pal would never hurt anyone, but I understand how you feel, that’s fine.  My name is Jamie, are you from around here?”

“No, my name is Nem, I live in the city.  I was just driving around and saw this old road and it looked like a good place to hunt.”

The two fell into a talk about hunting.  Jamie related something his father had told him about rabbit hunting; that you needed a good dog to get rabbits these days.  Pal was a good dog, but he was not the right dog, what was needed was a good beagle, a beagle will chase a rabbit and bring him right back to you.  The hunter was only a little older than Jamie, perhaps eighteen, and had not been hunting long.  He admitted that he had yet to shoot anything.  It was mid-day, the sun was high and bright, and the hunting would not be very good. So the two young men sat on the bank and talked of things, as young men will.  The dog lay down a few feet away and slept in the warm September sun.

“You must go to school don’t you?”  The hunter asked.

“Of course, I get by ok, and there is an aide that helps me with the visual stuff, and special ed classes, I like school,” Jamie said.

Nem picked a long weed and stuck it between his teeth, “I kinda miss school, there were lots of girls. Not that it did me any good,” he confessed.

“Why?” Jamie probed.

“Oh, mostly because of this scar, that’s where that dog got me, in my face, and it ain’t too pretty…” Nem’s voice trailed off.

“Man, is it really bad?  I can’t see of course.”

“Here, feel it,” The hunter took Jamie’s hand and placed it on his face.

Jamie had never seen a face, but as a very young child he would caress his mother’s.   And he was let to explore others; like his father’s, and his grandmother’s.  He knew what a human face felt like, and had formed a clear image of what it should look like.

The deep and jagged scar traveled across the hunter’s nose and down through his upper and then lower lip.  It was a deep and horrible disfigurement.  Jamie was shaken, the scar was bad, but Jamie would not say anything, he would avoid making the hunter feel any worse than he most likely already felt.  But the hunter saw his look, the same look he saw in everyone’s face that met him, or walked by him on the street.  It was something he had to live with.  People would stare, then catch themselves and look away, but their eyes would ultimately be drawn back.  It is human nature.   The children would stare, as there is an inherent honesty in childhood, if you want to know what people think, watch the children. 

“Oh I don’t blame the dog any.  You know dogs get scared and they’ll snap at you.  It’s just natural for them I guess.  You can’t blame dogs, I guess,” the hunter attempted to reconcile himself to his deformity.

“I guess we all got something we have to deal with, whether a person can’t see, or a person has scars, we all got something,” Jamie said.

“I suppose it’s the scars you can’t see that go the deepest,” Nem declared in a more distant voice.

Jamie said nothing.  But he had felt those scars also, those scars unseen that no surgery could ameliorate, the irretractable loss, the forsaken gifts of life that everyone else takes for granted, that are forever lost to a person who is different, a person with scars on his face, or a person who can not see.  He had felt it in school, and he felt in on the hunter’s face, the perpetual state of grief; and the constant and ever-present tinge of exclusion.

“Well, I better get going back home, I don’t feel much like hunting anyway,” Nem rose to his feet and spat the blade of grass he had been chewing.

“It was good talking to you, I usually have no one but old Pal to talk to,” Jamie said.

“I’ll say goodbye to your dog then too.” 

Jamie was still lying in the grass when the thunderous explosion occurred.   The sound was so close, so terrifying that he reflexively uttered an indiscernible roar and grabbed his head and curled into a fetal position.  There he froze for a few seconds, his sensitive ears taking time to recover, his face buried in the grass.

Terrified, Jamie called out, “What was that?  Pal where are you?  Pal!”

He heard the truck door slam; he heard the engine start; the truck shifted into gear and drove away.  Still protectively curled in the grass, the sounds began to return; the rushing water, the leaves of the trees; his own breathing.  But one sound was conspicuously absent, a sound that you would expect after such a violent encounter, a sound that Jamie wanted and needed to hear, the sound of his dog barking.

“Pal?”  Jamie called softly. 

Suddenly, a pang of horror seized him, more visceral than cerebral.  Alternating flashes of denial and terror ran through his brain.  For a moment he was frozen, and a bitter nausea welled deep in his throat.

“Pal!”  The call became frantic.  Jamie crawled through the grass like a madman, grasping in every direction.  He found the still, wet warmth that was only moments ago his companion, his closest friend.   Jamie collapsed on the dead animal and pressed his body into it as if to give it life.  To lose his eyes twice in one life was too great a loss.

June 1948

June 1948

The night rain had cooled the air that was now lifting the mist off the still waters of the bay.  The lady surveyed the array of wooden boats that lingered in the shallow water of their slips.  After paying the marina the day rental, she wisely chose the boat with the least leakage, for they all leaked.  She wore a light quilted jacket against the morning chill, and dungaree pants with flannel inside; the cuffs were rolled up exposing the colorful lining.  A kerchief wrapped her head and was tied tightly under her chin, framing her tanned countenance. 

She made her way down the rickety dock, carrying an outboard motor in one hand.  The other hand grasped a basket that held an infant generously wrapped in blankets.  She placed the baby in the bow of the boat, hoisted the motor into the boat and bolted it to the stern.  She returned to her car to gather fishing poles, bait, a thermos of coffee, and the reserve gas can.

The morning sun was still a lazy pink haze in the eastern sky when she pushed away from the dock and rowed a short way into deeper water.  Several vigorous pulls started the Mercury outboard, and the lady disappeared into the morning mist; motoring out of the shallow bay, out to the waters of Lake Ontario for a day of fishing. 

This was her domain.  She was at home on the vast inland sea.  She loved the water and she loved to fish.   The vagaries of wind and waves did not frighten her. And she would travel in small boats on that great lake to places few lone men and no women would venture, while in her solitude, save the little child in the basket, rocking in the bow of the boat. 

The men at the marina would shake their heads and wonder at the lone woman and her infant in the basket so far out to sea, all alone.  At the end of the day she would return to the marina with a stringer full of fish, while many of the men would return empty handed.  Then over their beer they would talk about the lady with the baby who ventured out to the big lake alone and returned always with fish. 

But there would be no acrimony in their talk, no derisive tones would their inflection reveal.  They admired and respected the lady.   For she possessed a pleasant nature, without haughtiness or brazen pride, with a quietude and kindliness that made her courageous watery treks even more admirable to the men who knew the lake. They knew its propensity for rage and its uncompromising impetuosity.

But the lady was adept at handling a small craft.  She could row a straight and true course, meet large waves at just the right angle, and bring a boat to dock in a smooth and graceful manner.  And she could sense the eminent changes in the weather as her eyes darted about the skies and her face lifted to feel the wind. 

But it was not her ability to catch fish, nor her handling of watercraft, or her knowledge of the weather that the men admired.  It was her freedom; they admired the grace and dignity with which she pursued the things she loved.

She was a truly liberated woman.  A liberation that grew out of love, the love of fishing and water.  She harbored a sense of freedom that grew from inside her and all around her.   Like all heroes, she was able to overcome a force greater than herself.  And like all heroes, she was driven by love; love of life, a life she had chosen.  Her freedom was not wrangled forcibly from the clutches of oppressors with masculine posturing, but was gently gathered up through feminine determination and perseverance.

I learned all I needed to learn about life from this lady, my hero.  I learned to appreciate the beauty of nature; to embrace the challenges that lie within and without; and to always follow my dreams.  But mostly she taught me a lot about women, and a lot about freedom.  You see, I was that little baby, in the basket, in the bow of the boat.

.

Crazy Ange

I remember the night little Annie disappeared.  It was one of those hot summer nights when everyone was outside.  Old ladies in black dresses sat on their front porches speaking in Italian about who was sick or who died or who had a baby.  The men sat on the porch steps in white T-shirts, smoking cigarettes and talking about work or baseball.  The children were everywhere, running from yard to yard, playing in the street, running up and down stairs. On those nights I often walked down Magnie Street to Fanetti’s to buy spumoni.  On the way there I would walk by Angelo’s house. 

Angelo, the kids called him Crazy Ange, was always in his front yard, which was fenced-in.  He used to lean on the fence wearing a white T-shirt and baggy pants pulled up high nearly to his chest.  He was in his early twenties but his mother still helped him dress.  She would slick his hair down with Vaseline but stubborn cowlicks would rise in defiance.  Moisture clung thickly to his lower lip that hung down to the middle of his chin.  Mean little children would run by clattering sticks along the fence and yell, “Crazy Ange!” 

Angelo would respond by shaking his hands and tonguing these strange sounds, “ali, ali, ali…” trying to speak with this big wet smile that made his lip plunge even further.  His father would storm out of the house hollering at the children in Italian.  The kids ran away down the street and disappeared between the houses.  But Angelo seemed to enjoy the attention; he ran to the other end of the yard with his wide waddle-like gallop, mimicking the children’s escape.  Sometimes Angelo would try to follow them, but his father would catch him before he went too far.

   I was sitting on the curb in front of Fanetti’s, eating my spumoni when I began hearing the calls for Annie.  At first it was Annie’s mother, Mrs. Testa.  Soon relatives and neighbors echoed the calls for Annie, some near and some farther away, up and down the street, in and around the houses and backyards.   Annie was 5 years old, she had been playing in her yard where, owing to her fragile years, she was sworn to remain.  But the general thought was that with all the children running in and out of the yards, Annie might have taken up with them; caught up in the hot excitement of the evening.

It was getting dark and the calls for Annie increased.  The streetlights came on; the children retreated to their homes.  Mrs. Testa was frantic.  Mr. Testa, always sober and deliberate, had taken off walking down the street with a deliberate step like he knew exactly where Annie was, but he didn’t, it was just his way. 

Mr. Testa walked by Angelo’s house, stopped for a moment and called out to Angelo’s father.  “Mr. Vitalone!”  Mr. Testa didn’t like Mr. Vitalone very much, he was Sicilian, and Testa was Neapolitan.  To Mr. Testa, all Sicilians were criminals; “cutthroats” is how he referred to them.  And he was convinced that Angelo’s condition was the result of some sin his father had committed.  Mr. Vitalone emerged from his front door and stood on the porch.

“I am looking for my daughter Annie,” Testa said, speaking Italian.

“ I hear people calling for her, I haven’t seen her,” Vitalone replied.

“Where is Angelo?”  Testa asked.

Vitalone bristled; he knew what people thought of Angelo.  Angelo was different, he wasn’t like everyone else, and they were afraid.  These foolish Neapolitans were afraid and superstitious; they were peasants.  “Why?”

Testa shrugged and walked on.  Both men knew why he asked about Angelo. Vitalone’s feelings were valid, the people were uneasy about Angelo.  He was an adult now, a large man, with the mind of a five year-old.  He was different, and the neighbors were vigilant and mistrustful. 

Mr. Vitalone turned and walked back into the house, he called for Angelo.  When Angelo didn’t come he checked his bedroom, then he looked in the backyard.  Angelo wasn’t there.  Angelo sometimes walked out of the yard but he would never go far. Although he may have followed some children, his father thought.

 Mr. Vitalone went out to look for Angelo.  He was hesitant to call Angelo’s name, the coincidence with the little girl missing might cause a panic.  If the people panic and find Angelo, God knows what they might do.  It was getting dark and Angelo would be scared.  He could never find his way home in the dark.  Mr. Vitalone was not predisposed to panic, as he possessed a stoicism that did not lend itself to such excess of emotion.  But there was a strange tightness in his stomach, and his breathing revealed a slight nervous tremble as he searched the darkened backyards and empty lots.  

After a while a dim streetlight revealed a shadowy figure moving toward him.  He recognized the wide, unsteady gait as Angelo’s.  He heard him crying.  The trembling in his throat eased, and Mr. Vitalone rushed to meet his son. 

Suddenly Vitalone was startled as a small figure emerged from the shadows behind Angelo.  “Angelo was lost, I helped him.”  A little voice said.

Mr. Vitalone picked Annie up and kissed her forehead.  He held her for a moment with closed eyes.  Mr. Vitalone and Annie brought Angelo home then proceeded to the Testa home.  The Testa family was spent from their ordeal; panic had given way to despair.  But with Annie home safe they broke into tears, and with embraces and toasts of anisette they heralded Mr. Vitalone as their hero.

“No,” Mr. Vitalone confessed, “I think Annie is the hero.”

Annie was admonished for leaving the yard that night, though not too severely.   It was never revealed why she was wandering those backyards and empty lots that hot summer night.  But from then on Vitalone and Testa formed a new, though delicate, respect for each other.

 

My Life Story

I was born two days ago, with a headache, at Highland Hospital.   The doctor came in and asked me whom I was.  I told him I didn’t know, I was just born.  My first day was exciting; people kept coming and going all day.  Everyone asked me questions.  But I didn’t know anything after all; I was only a day old.  The one question everyone wanted to know was who am I.  I told them I didn’t know.  One person said I had amnesia.  I said no, just corn flakes and orange juice. 

So my life went on into the early afternoon.  There was a nice man in the next bed that coughed a lot.  We got along great and after a while I could cough just like him.  I’ll never forget that time we went for a walk; it was one of the highlights of my life.  The nurse said I was a good walker even with the needle in the back of my hand and all those tubes.  I had to push a stand with an upside down bottle along.  That’s the way people are born, with needles in their hand.  We walked all the way down the hall and looked out the big window at the traffic.  I’ll never forget those days as long as I live.  People kept asking me where I was from, I told them I was born in room 436.

Back in those days we watched television at night.  There was a big room with two big couches and a bunch of chairs.  A lot of people had their own wheel chairs.  We watched Jeopardy and everyone in the room had a different answer for each question, those were crazy days.   The hospital served refreshments; cider, coffee, tea, and cookies.  I asked if they had any amnesia because someone had suggested it that morning.  When it was time for bed everyone went to sleep except me.  The nurse said I had to stay awake a while because of a head injury.  So I waited for the head injury but it never came.  Oh to be young again.

The next morning I woke up and the needle was gone.  I guess it’s all part of growing up.  More people came to visit me.  Everyone wanted to know who I was.  I thought they would know who I was, and they thought I would know.  I wonder if all births are so confusing.  That same man said he thought I might have amnesia again, but they brought pancakes and grapefruit.  They must have quite a menu there.

My friend next to me stopped coughing.  He just lay there with his mouth wide open and didn’t move.  Bunches of people rushed in and were running all around him yelling.   He must have done something wrong.  They covered his head and wheeled him out of the room.  I made sure I did as I was told after that. 

A lady came to visit me and said she had found a home for me to live in.  That made sense, I was getting older and I couldn’t stay in the same room where I was born forever.  I was almost two days old and it was time to leave the nest.  The lady asked me what name she should use.  I said why don’t you use the one on your nametag?  She suggested I had amnesia also, but they brought apple juice.

Well, that was yesterday and now I live in this nice house with seven other men.  We sit in the living room and watch Jeopardy.  It’s easier now with only eight answers for every question.  People keep suggesting I have amnesia but I say no thanks just coffee.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget where I was born and those early childhood days at Highland Hospital.  Oh to be young again.

Springtime in the North Woods

Springtime comes over these hills like a conquering army of pale green.  The American Beech are blooming their pointy blossoms that will soon morph into their spear-like leaves.  The soft maples are struggling beneath the canopy of dominating white pines.  And the cherry trees, with their flakey dark brown bark, have returned for one more summer.  They, however, do not appear so healthy and sturdy as a tree should.  The cherry tree recovers the land following logging, but then becomes shaded away by the fast growing towering white pine.  The sandy soil is not a safe haven for any tree except the most resourceful and adaptive.  The gnarled and twisted of the cherry trees will yield some fine winter warmth upon the hour of their demise.  But their straight brothers may be destined for other greatness.  A paddle maker at Long Lake uses cherry wood to craft his fine canoe and kayak paddles.  There may be a place in his workshop for our noble cherry tree.  What greater beatification in its second coming than to be reborn in the hands of a wilderness paddler.  A tree never dies.

Orwellian Rhapsody

It's been a few years now since I built that cabin.  She was a stout little thing that was built entirely with logs and planks from the land on which it sat, almost a half mile off the road on the hundred acres I had purchased with 40 years of savings.  The twelve by twelve size reflected the maximum allowable structure that required no permit.

Permits.  I often wondered as I worked the land, fell the tress, cut and fitted the logs, how would Thoreau react to the modern permit process?  The cabin at Walden Pond was built on Emerson's land.  Emerson and Thoreau, the two eminent transcendentalists, bastions of self-reliance, proponents of individual freedom and civil disobedience.  What a sight to behold, the two  sagacious philosophers wrestling with the Draconian rules, regulations, inspections, certifications, and the exacting codes defining the principles and practices of the craft.  Would there be anything left to their own devises, their natural talents, their keen intellect?  Most likely not; the government has surgically extracted the human element from the entire process.

So I was let to build the cabin, which I called Little Walden, by virtue of its compliant size, without benefit of a permit.  I was able to fell a good amount of tall white pine in the range of 8-10 inches.  A portable sawmill was brought in to cut planks for the floor, rafters and purlins for the roof.  The air was filled with the scent of 70 years growth as the dust and chips of the fitted logs covered the surrounding earth.  There is a certain love, a symbiotic kinship that happens when man puts his saw to a tree base. The tree will protect the man from the rain and snow and cold winter winds.  For the tree, a noble fit for posterity, instead of growing old, growing bare, and toppling to the forest floor.  Here the tree was born again, entering its new life as an integral part of my history.  It will be central in the life of its dweller; home, sanctuary, and safe haven.

So the labor of the spring and summer yielded a sturdy little cabin in the north woods, tight to the weather and with no loss of the clean fresh smell of nature.  Completed with a bunk and a small wood stove, Little Walden came to life and I settled in.  Days were filled with  cutting firewood, reading, writing, and wandering about the woodland.  Nights were spent in front of the campfire, looking up at the starts, and wondering after the nature of things.

One day in late summer I had a visitor.  The local building inspector, or code enforcement officer as they like to be called, drove down the long driveway to inspect the project which heretofore had not required inspection.  Of course, a little thing like the law never stopped the law.   Amiable and proud, I presented Little Walden in the best possible light, intimating all the arduous intricacies of solitary labor; the cutting;  the dragging;  the lifting with pulleys and gin poles.

The officer began measuring the cabin.  "This structure is 14 x 14 feet."  He said.  The tape measure zipped to a close.

"It's 12 x 12; I built it that size so I wouldn't have to bother with permits and inspections," I said, slow enunciating the last word.

"You have one foot overhangs all round, that makes the structure 14 x 14, I'm afraid it's out of compliance.  You can either cut the overhangs back or tear the building down."

"I need overhangs, a flush roof line wouldn't do well to the weather, especially with the winters we have up here."  The blood rushed to my head and I felt a hot pounding in my face.  This is the very thing I sought to avoid.  The beauty of solitude, the peace and serenity that I held so dear was being pierced with a cold spear by this bloodless bureaucrat.  "The property line is over 1000 feet on each side, over 2000 feet off the road, and miles of state land out back, what possible impact could overhangs have?"

"It's the law."  He said as he returned to his vehicle, "I'll send you something in the mail."  His car bounced away down the driveway.

It's the law.  It was the standard justification for any mindless restriction regardless of how it impacted the individual.  It's the law.  I returned to my chores of cruising the land for standing dead trees and splitting firewood for the coming winter.  At night I read by lantern light.  But my thoughts were tormented by the little bureaucrat who I knew would not go away.  Those type of people, and those type of laws never go away.  A week later a letter of non-compliance came in the mail, with an order to tear the cabin down.  I ignored the order.  My thoughts turned to Thoreau, and his civil disobedience.  Thoreau stood for what he believed in, to the point of being arrested and jailed.  I could certainly stand up to this absurd technicality.  But my serenity had been sullied, and the peaceful quietude of my backwoods home broken.

Over the next few months I received more notices.  Fines were levied and added to my tax bills.  Occasionally the code officer drove half way down the driveway to see if the cabin was still standing.  Still more notices would arrive in the mail.  I didn't want to engage in civil disobedience, this was not 1850 and I was not Henry David Thoreau.  I just wanted to be left alone to live in my little cabin.  Sleepless nights, distracted reading, uncertainty hung over me like a guillotine.

Then one day a county sheriff came and issued a bench warrant.  Again I felt the hot pounding as the bile of rage welled up inside me.  In a rant I showed him the little cabin, I showed him the acres and acres surrounding it.  I told hm I just want to be left alone.  Finally, I told him I would cut the overhangs back to make the cabin compliant.  He sympathized but told me I had to comply with the order and remove the structure.  Structure.  My little cabin that I bled so many time for called a structure by these robots.  He said it was the law and he was just doing his job.  The sheriff drove away.

I refused to appear in town court and two months later another sheriff came to arrest me.  He asked me to identify myself as he grabbed my arm and reached for his handcuffs.  I pushed him away, he took a step backward and tripped over one of the many logs I had from cutting and splitting wood.  I retreated quickly to my cabin and locked the door.  I was in a rage, confused, disheartened and I knew somehow that this was the end of my serenity and solitude.  All my life I had worked for this one dream, to live in the woods away from people; away from their noise, away from their petty attitudes and cliches.

The sheriff had returned to his car and his radio.  I sat on my bunk with my head in my hands.  Civil disobedience had turned ugly, why had I not just cut those overhangs back.  But why didn't they recognize when a person just wants to be left alone, in peace, not bothering anyone, not asking for anything.  With all the bad people in the world and all the people getting hurt;  why were they picking on me?  In a short while two more police cars arrived.  Five uniforms broke down the cabin door.  I remembered building and hanging that door.  They arrested me and took me away.  When Thoreau was arrested, several friends contributed and paid his fines and gathered him out of jail.  No one came for me.

Its been a few years now and I'm writing this letter from the Brantingham jail.  The charges of resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer were levied;  compounded by my sullen, taciturn attitude and lack of cooperation resulted in a five year sentence.  The land has been sold.  I'm tired now; I don't believe I could ever do that again.  I don't know where I'll live when I get out, maybe an apartment somewhere in the city.  I stopped reading.  I stopped writing.  The light of freedom no longer burns brightly inside me.  But sometimes, at night, when I'm lying in my bunk, I can still smell the fragrance of freshly cut pine.