This is the time of year when a young man’s fancy turns to…mossy oak.
Years ago, when I first returned to the south-ish after a stay in the wilds of North Jersey, I met a fellow we’ll call…aw hell, we’ll call him Ed, because that’s his name. He was a true southern gentleman, but I’m sure it was the big truck and the drawl that got me. I’m a sucker for a country boy.
He invited me to go hunting with him on Thanksgiving morning, and I accepted. That’s right – I said I’d go.
Let’s not pretend that you haven’t done anything foolish just to be near a particular member of the gender of your choice, mmkay?
On said morning, I awoke at the crack of two a.m. because hunting is one of those things that one begins before normal people are awake, since you look so freaking ridiculous in that getup. Seriously.
I showered so I would be fresh for the object of my affection, and plastered deodorant under my flowery, delicate underarm area.
Do you know where this is going?
At no time did Ed inform me that deer can smell! How was I supposed to know that they liked hippies and would flee from anyone who tried to gussy herself up a bit??
Needless to say, the trip was a wash, despite Ed’s spraying me with something I can only describe as “Deer Funk” and putting his own layers of scent-lessly-washed camouflage on top of my cute outfit. Let me tell you, I was glad I’d put on that deodorant.
But we sat under a tree, back to back, in the still hush of pre-dawn. The fog gave way to the bright golds and reds and rusty browns of a southern forest, and I was there to witness it. Only an hour from Washington D.C., I sat in utter stillness and quiet, keeping the company of a man who knew the language of his place.
And I still smelled pretty.
Tags: city girl, Ed Tober, forest, hunting, The South
on Oct 15, 2009 in
Poetry I helped bore holes into the body of the truck that we would later make love in, in a field by a pond with tall grasses and moonlight.
It made me feel big and important, the way a little girl might feel working beside her father, but I understand that’s not the right way to feel.
Perhaps [...]
The house I grew up in is now a store. A running and walking shoe store, to be exact. The point is, you can walk in whenever they’re open and see the dining room where I played piano and made up songs about my brother’s stuffed animals, the kitchen where I learned of my parents’ [...]
The weather is like this: cooler, when you can just put on a sweater and only feel as if maybe a coat would have been better. The leaves are falling and smell of sweetness and decay. The crisp football air feels good.
But there is an argument. This homecoming game littered with high school angst is [...]
on Sep 21, 2009 in
Poetry Years ago
in psychotic stupor
or schizo-affective nightmare
my brother dug into the clay muck
of ourstory.
He flung
the muddy
words onto the page and
into my life when
he delivered the mess to a
friend.
Hands sullied, eyes burned by
earthy secrets,
I balked,
embarrased at the lies and
fossils he unearthed
I couldn’t yet name
or remember.
Now I unwind the words that snaked
their way into my psyche.
They followed
me through the [...]
I just submitted my blog for your analysis the other day, and realized too late I’ve made a grave mistake.
First of all, that damn little box that asks us “who we are” is ridiculously filled with a few sentences that probably have little to do with who I am. I mean, when someone you’ve never [...]
on Sep 10, 2009 in
fiction Riiinnnnngggg.
Riiiinnnnnggggg.
“Mmmphh. Hello?”
“Bob? Bob, is that you?”
“Alan?”
“Yeah, listen. I uh, I just needed to talk to you for a sec. You awake?”
“Alan. Man, I can’t believe it’s you. But it’s like four a.m. here.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just, you know that thing with the blog, and the month off and everything? I’m losing [...]
This is a piece from my “creative” blog. I have no idea why I initially separated the work. Perhaps because that other stuff is darker, less conversational. It could continue to stand alone as a short fiction piece or it might be the beginning of a longer story. We shall see.
***
She knew you could see [...]
I climb the steps to the bridge overlooking the river, out of breath and empty after my run. The water here is a shallow, pebbled flow, fifty feet below a platform that sits on an old railroad support. I know this water, this river, like I know the sound of my name. My heart beats [...]
on Sep 1, 2009 in
Writing Dearest Friends,
After pursuing, luring and wooing you to my blog over the last year, I find myself now in a state of flux, of directionless wandering. I premised this site on my own dysfunction, my conjunction junction, my joie de viva Las Vegas, but now I feel I am pulled in too many directions and [...]
