jumpingfish

1. Prelude

Ok, then. What shall we say about the humble little camper sitting there shining in the morning sun?

Some of you might have suggestions.

Maybe you’ll remind us that this was the place where Bunka slept. How you told us to be quiet when we walked by the camper late at night. Or maybe you’ll talk about how it used to come and go in his truck but has long since become a permanent fixture of this place. Maybe you’ll talk about how its roof required constant attention, to which I would add that the silver roof-sealing paint got splotched onto my favorite sweatshirt, and I still look on that splotch as a of badge of honor of sorts. Or you might talk about those years when Bunka talked about getting a bigger camper, how we’d stop at dealerships with him and walk thru the newest models, how he really wanted a fifth wheel trailer to pull rather than a camper to mount.

But instead, I look out my window here in Texas and see grey skies and falling rain — rain that has been falling daily for almost two weeks, and I am taken back to a summer on that hill by that lake. A summer when the rains never stopped.

I can’t pretend to understand what it must have been like for the adults that year. That place is usually a refuge for parents, a place where the kids can run in the woods, explore the swamps and wear themselves out in the water. It must have been horrible for the adults that year.

Thanks to the rain, there was virtually no swimming. And there was little walking in the woods, because the mosquitos swarmed thick around your ears as soon as you got away from the breeze off the lake. And the sand… oh, the sand! The kids were constantly tracking wet sand into the cottage, sand that had to be constantly swept off the dank concrete floor and tossed back outside into the falling rain only to be tracked back in moments later.

2. From a Kid’s Point of View

Although I can’t imagine what that rainy summer must have been like for the adults, I can imagine it as a kid. Because I was one.

First of all, we were in the habit of spending virtually every waking hour in the lake, so the rain didn’t bother us. And we were used to running around barefoot up and down the dirt-and-sand stairs and back and forth on the sandy beach, so wet sand on our feet didn’t bother us, either. But most importantly, we were together again — all us kids. Together again since last year. And there was a lot of lost time to make up for. 

Um… what about that camper?

Oh yes… the camper. It was our game room.

In there, we played cards and board games. We had Uno and regular cards. We had The Game of Life and Sorry and Space Chase. My brother could tell you the others. We had a bottomless supply of them stacked in a pile on the counter immediately to the right just as you stepped into the camper.

We’d sit in there, crammed into that tiny space, at that tiny table that doubled for a bed when lowered into position. We’d sit there with wet clothes, with wet hair, with damp arms rubbing against each other, with wet, sandy toes. We’d laugh and yell. We’d win and lose. And we’d stay in there hour after hour while a breeze blew in thru the slightly-opened windows and the rain made loud dripping sounds on the sand and pine needles outside.

We’d sit shoulder-to-shoulder in that space playing games day after day while the rain kept coming. And life could not have been better.

1. Getting Things Wrong

“You got a few things wrong in that story about the white table,” my mother said.

“I kinda expected that,” I said. The truth of the matter is that I figured that’s the way “oral” history goes, so I told it as best I could.

“But don’t be timid mom,” I added. “Send corrections.”

I could hear her smile. “You know me… I don’t have that problem.” 

Yes, mom, you don’t have that problem — a trait you in fact handed down to your eldest son.

“Are you going to tell stories for the rest of those pictures?” she asked.

Well now. There’s a thought. Of course, there were a dozen pictures. That’s quite a project, and any of us might grow tired before the stories end. Yet…

2. Not A Cabin

So consider this picture from among those:

I actually had it open on my desktop at work the other day. It was late on Friday. The office was mostly empty. And my boss’s boss wandered by and looked over my shoulder.

He was quiet for a moment, and then he smiled and said, “A shed.” 

I looked at the picture. Then at him. Then back at the picture.

“Actually, an outhouse,” I said.

“Oh,” he replied politely.

3. A Story About It

Let me tell you, dear reader, a story about that outhouse…

To start with, you should know that the western side of the lower peninsula of Michigan is sand. I mean it; it’s all sand. (The glaciers did it.) The forests, the orchards, the berry farms, the asparagus fields and all the lakes, swamps and bogs are just decoration on top of pure sand. (For example, see this.) As a consequence, digging holes up there is a breeze compared to, say, digging in the black gunk and white caliche and limestone down here in Central Texas. 

Now, my family likes to dig. We like to dig in general, but holes in particular. Partly, I suppose that’s because a hole is to dig, as Ruth Krauss and Maurice Sendak tell us. But we also dig because there are things that need digging in order to get done… like outhouses.

So what you see in this picture, is our outhouse. And there ever has only been one: the very same structure with the very same seats (yes, two differently-sized seats, side-by-side) and the very same door that has adorned this corner of the woods, behind our cottage for generations. But although it’s been the same outhouse, from time to time, we have had to move it. To a different place. To a different hole. Because… you know.

As I recollect it, when we were young, my cousin and brother and I dug a hole that was almost over our heads. Then followed many years of frequent gatherings of many people in that place. And some time when I was in graduate school, my cousin and brother dug another hole in the sand (because… well you know). I heard the story of how that hole they dug was the deepest that had ever been, the stuff of legend.

And then years came and went. Another generation was born, and they grew up, and then one summer, it came time again to move the outhouse, because… you know. So it fell upon them to dig a new hole. From Texas, I heard the story of how that hole those three cousins dug was another great one. And if I am not mistaken, they also dug a spectacular compost pit that lasted for years and years, because it too was so deep.

This year, my brother cleaned out the outhouse, texting me an outhouse ready message as we were driving from Texas. Swept the floor. Stocked the toilet paper. Made sure the buckets of lime were full. Chased away the daddy long legs. 

And there it stands in that picture, early in the morning with the eastern sun slanting thru the forest. It’s turned away from the cottage, of course, facing into the woods. So, if you are so inclined, you can sit there with door wide open and gaze out on the spectacular view of Oak and Maple and great White Pines and even a now-twelve-foot-tall Beech that my grandfather tended in his later years from the day he spotted it poking out of the leaf mould, lopping overhanging branches from a crooked Maple sapling that had a head start. There you can sit, contemplating whatever you might contemplate.

No, it’s not quite a shed; it’s an outhouse: The Outhouse.

Wait, David. Close your eyes. That red table on the hill nailed to that tree. Can you see it, David?

I see it.

The tree. Now look closely at the tree. And at the bark, look at the bark. Do you see it?

Yes, I see it.

Look closer. Can you see the texture? How it’s smooth-ish?

Yes.

What kind of tree is it, David?

Well, it’s not a White Pine, as in the story I told. I can see clearly now. Smooth-ish bark. And a bit of red paint slopped onto the trunk from when we painted the table. It’s… it’s… it’s a Maple. No, wait. Oh heck, maybe an Oak. No, Maple. Well certainly not a White Pine. Oh, I really messed up that story, didn’t I?

Today is Mr. Guinness’s birthday. 

Fifteen years ago, Trudy threw a party for him. It was his first, and to celebrate, she had invited the dogs up and down the street to a party where they wore party hats and ate hot dogs. I can only imagine the event, because Trudy and I had only just met online and were tentatively getting to know each other on the phone and with brief visits on the playground behind the school that was a kind of no man’s land between where each of us lived.

What I’m saying is that I wasn’t invited to the party. But on that day (or maybe the day before or after), Ben and I walked across no man’s land and delivered an envelope to the mailbox in front of Trudy’s and Guinness’s house. It was a birthday card that I had drawn myself with all the flourishes and designs and celebratory colors I could muster. A birthday card for her dog. On his first birthday. 

It was the smartest move of my life. And because of it, I am happy to say, Mr. Guinness and Trudy and I have been together on this side no man’s land for fifteen years and running. 

But he’s moving slowly now. His back hurts. His front legs sometimes hurt when he takes a step. And he hasn’t been eating, even though he wants to be hungry. And so he doesn’t jump, anymore. And he doesn’t bark at the door, anymore. He doesn’t run around in the rain, anymore. And his waist is wasting away to almost nothing.

Yet his dark liquid eyes still look up at us. And on a good day, his smiles still smile. And no matter the day, when you walk up to where he is standing motionlessly because it must hurt too much to move, his eyes look into yours, and … and his tail still wags his prize-winning wag.

Mr. Guinness is sixteen today. That’s old. Very old. He hurts so much that it sometimes makes him tremble. He takes a very long time to wake up in the morning. And it’s a chore to get him to eat maybe just a bite of anything. 

But today was his birthday, and in celebration tonite he ate well — two slices of ham, part of a hot dog, a slice of cheese and a small piece of watermelon. (He refused anything else.) Having eaten, he wagged his tail and looked up and said, “What about a walk?” which was quite a surprise. So we went halfway down the block, he and I, until he decided that was far enough. And as we returned, the fair and industrious Trudy drove by, at which point he began to pull on the leash so that he might meet his mommy in the driveway. And once back in the house, he wandered into the backyard and let out a loud bark just like we used to tell him not to do.

Happy birthday, Mr. Guinness. It was a good day. 

“Did I tell you the rain barrels are full?”

She laughed and slapped her hand on her leg. “Yes… just three times!”

Ok. So I’m excited. I suspect the trees are, too.