When I was younger we lived in a place called Mammoth. It was a small town nestled in the mountains. It was a fun place 'cause there was always things to do there. Every day was exciting 'cause every day was different. A guy could see the seasons change there and feel the power of nature. There is a special place there I have. I share it with my Dad. It doesn't look special, but it is. It is just a big old rock sitting on top of a hill. From there you can see the town and the majesty of the mountains that surround you. On the other side is the valley as it strolls away from you down to the lake that it cradles. From there you can see into eternity. You can see the past and you can see the future. It is a magical place because all of life is gathered there like a dream in the mind of a child. My Dad took me there after my Mom died; I was twelve. We started walking up the hill away from town. There was nothing unusual about this 'cause he used to always take me walking. I was just following along like a puppy after its mother. It was kinda hot that day, and in Mammoth-when it's hot-the day is perfect. You know the kinda day-bright-so bright it's like the sun took off his shirt and stretched. The clouds won't dare come out on a day like today because it is a happy day so they hide far away. And still, the kinda stillness that is almost deafening, like the earth stopped spinning and stood up to give out all its glory. And just enough breeze to let you know it's not a dream, enough to rustle the trees and take the bite out of the heat, flowing down like a river of good feelings. A day like that makes a guy glad he's alive-funny how just good weather can do that.
So we walked up a trail and turned off through the sagebrush. There was that sound the brush makes, between the heat and the bugs, the dust and the light. It's a loud sound 'cause the more you're in it the louder it gets. It is the sound of the quiet. It gets so loud it can overpower you 'cause there's nothing there, just you and the sweat. I remember now, it was hot, and the more we walked the hotter it got. I started thinking about water and rivers and lakes. I watched the pounding of our feet in the dirt and the dust it made. I started feeling heavy like I was an elephant meandering my way through some arid desert. Then we were there.
"Come on, Joshua," he said, "I want to show you something." We stood up next to the rock. Funny this big rock, how it sat there all alone, but I was glad for it, 'cause it cast a shadow. It was cool there next to it and it had a feel to it. The solid granite was cool to the touch as if it was wet. This big rock seemed friendly to me, after walking through the sagebrush. It towered over us like a giant. He lifted me up high over his shoulders and I climbed up, clawing my way to the top; I sat down.
"Look around, Joshua," his voice broke the stillness, "from here you can see forever." I sat there looking up at him, the man I called Dad and he stood there looking about. He had a look to him as if he commanded the rock and the land it sat on, as if the land itself knew its master. There was a power to him that I rarely saw; it was the power of the wind and the forces of nature. "I came here a lot when your mother died." It had about a year now maybe exactly a year. "I cried here a lot then," he said as his eyes defied him and conveyed the pain, "and this rock became my friend. I want to share it with you."
I tried as hard as I could to look through his eyes, to see what he saw, but that's not easy when you're only twelve. But there, I saw something in my father as he looked at mountains. I saw forever in him, as if time and space and reality came together for a moment.
"If you sit here long enough the mountains will speak to you." He paused to look at me. "Those mountains have seen everything, from the beginning of time till now. And there they are, Joshua, watching over us. If you are really quite you will hear them, because they know everything. They have seen the sadness of man, the anguish of futility. They have seen the glory of life over a millennium of time. They seen it all and watched it all, there isn't anything they don't know."
I tried to see it as I sat there. He could see it but I was just a kid. It's weird though 'cause I almost did see it. I started thinking about how the Indians were there with their horses and how the deer ran through the valley in huge herds. How the eagles ruled the skies and a mountain lion peered down from his lofty throne.
"I would come here and talk to your mother, Joshua," he said as he sat next to me. "Sometimes it was as if I could hear her." I remembered the sound of her voice and her laughter as I listened to him. "I made a promise to her here," he paused. "To take care of you and your brothers. I promised her I would bring you here one day so you could be near her because she lives in the wind and the mountains know her name." I kinda hate moments like that 'cause it starts to hurt again, but they are the moments that stay with you a lifetime. He told me that he'd bring my brothers here one day and how he thought I needed to be here now. You see I was in the car when she died, just me and her. I went to the hospital, but she didn't.
So we sat there listening to the great spirit of the land. The mountains seemed to grow and loom over us, giving us comfort. The breeze picked up and I swear I heard her voice. As I sat there stone faced, as motionlessly as everything around me, I began to cry inside. For the first time since it happened a tear rolled down my cheek. My father put his arm around me and I began to weep. There, high on a lonely rock in the middle of a tranquil valley, surrounded by the guardians known as the Sherwin Mountains, I began to heal. Like dew sent from heaven I cried and the more I cried the more it cooled the open wound of loss. The great spirit of the land bandaged me with its embrace of life and hope. I will forever be linked to that moment, because life itself beckoned me and I can never forget the power of the great spirit.
I have been back there many times, sitting on the rock, listening to the spirit. Every time we go back there I hike up to the rock, but always alone. You see, my father and I have never spoken about it since. Oh we talk about Mom and all, just not about being there on the rock. I guess it's a personal thing, something between you and God. But every time I am there I feel her, and know part of her watches over me.
It has been some time since my father and I sat on the rock; I am sixteen now. Life has gone on and other things have happened. I guess my bothers and I have all dealt with the loss of our mother differently. I see them as they play and run about; I do the same. But it isn't really the same, because she's not here. I know they hurt just like me, but it is the hurt that keeps us silent, to hide from the pain and the injustice of it all. Death really has no friends, only beggars from the realities of life seek it.
When I was very little all I remember was my mother. She was always there and doing things for us. I guess I occupied a lot of her time. I went everywhere with her and everything I did; she was there. It wasn't really something you thought about; it just was. She was my Mom. Maybe I should have let my brothers spend more time with her. If we went skiing, she would come. If we rode our bikes, she would watch. It made the glory of being a boy so much sweeter, to see her smile. Oh we would irritate her as well, my brothers and I. We are four boys, you know. We track in mud and dirt, play our music too loud, we wrestle on the floor and never do the small things she thinks is so important. We giggle too much, but she would laugh with us. We are always on the go, but she would take us. She said we are dreamers, but she was the inspiration.
Sitting here looking back on it, there are a lot of good times we all had with her. She knew each of us, how we were made. I guess that's what special memories are, things only two of you share. Late at night she would sit in the living room, after she put everyone to bed, reading the bible. She would have a nightgown on late at night. The house would be quiet: the dishwasher having finished its cycle, the kids in bed, the clothes all folded and her husband fast asleep. She was a housewife. She found nothing demeaning in it. She used to say her family was her career, one that she took pride in. She used to have a job, I think, but Dad was making good money then and four boys at home is a lot of work. Sometimes I would get up and sneak into the living room. She would let me curl up with her in the big recliner as she read. It was the safest place I knew.
I learned a lot about life then and about people who lived it. There was Cain and Able, Noah and Abraham, Lot and Jonah, Moses and King David. She has a way of making a story come alive. You could see them there, struggling with things, like they were real. It just made you want to do the right thing sitting next to her. It made you love God and life to hear her voice. Life was filled with hope and the future was a bright place to look forward to.
"What do you think was on Noah's mind, Joshua?" I smile now, as I remember the sound of her voice.
"Um, how stinky all those animals are." I was only eight, I think.
She smiled and said, "yes, I imagine they did smell a wee little bit all stuff in the ark. Why do you suppose God asked Noah to put all those animals in the ark?"
"Um, 'cause he likes animals and he didn't want them to get wet." I remember looking at her and how perfect things seem to be. To be honest, I really didn't care about Noah; I just liked being with her.
She smiled again and said, "yes, the rain would have made them wet, wouldn't it? I wonder why God made it rain. Do you know?"
"Um, 'cause of all the bad people hurting the earth. They were mean and making lots of trouble."
I remember the story book she read from. I still have it, I think. I remember the pictures and the stories she told. As a child the pictures had depth, as if you could see right through the pages into the land they described. I could almost touch the animals I loved so much.
"They were ruining the earth weren't they? That is why God had to do something or nothing would be left. But you see he didn't kill everyone, Noah and his family were saved. Do you why?"
"Cause Noah did what God told him to do. He made the ark and everyone laughed at him. I hate it when people laugh at me."
"People laugh at you, Joshua?"
"Sometimes . . . Chris laughs at me all the time."
"I think your brother is just playing with you, Joshua. It is his way of having a good time. Why don't you play a joke back on him?"
"Yeah, do you know a good joke?" My young eyes begged.
"Well I think you will come up with something. Just remember he is playing with you. He really loves you, he told me."
"He did? Yeah well . . . he's ok I guess."
Mom always made peace with between me and my brother; we are the same age. She taught us how to get along and how to share. She never used one of us against the other, so we respected each other. I learned a lot about people from my mother, how to treat them and how to respect them. I learned a lot about life as it is. She used to say we all live in a big pond and if we make a lot of waves everyone's boat will slosh about. The more we respect each other, the quieter the water will be.
My father taught me how to dream. He taught me how to look far into the future and see the possibilities. I could fly to the farthest planets or soar into the past. As if I was on the back of a giant dream dragon, I could go anyway, be anybody. There are no limits, only hurdles. I could think as small as a micron or as big as a quasar. The universe becomes a small place in the reaches of your mind, flowing together in perfect harmony. My father taught me how to dream; my mother taught me how to make my dreams come true.
Sometimes when it is late or when I am very tired, my mind starts to drift. The hustle of everyday life slows to a point where it is just a hum instead of a buzz. Images flow past me like photographs in the hallways of my mind. Pictures taken from the past, like beacons marking the road I have come. There are flashes of living portraits hanging in the gallery of life. In an instant they come alive and speak and move. In a second they are gone, put away again, until the next time. Some of these bring comfort of days gone by, like a warm summer day on the steps of your porch. Some of these are haunting, like a stormy night in the dead of winter on the lonely side of a road.
At times the thoughts of death and tragedy bounced around in my head like jumbled pieces to a jig saw puzzle. They tie together for an image and then break apart before I could focus on what I have seen. Sometimes, there is twisted metal and water running down the street. There is broken glass and blood is spilled on the seat. There is smoke, glowing against high powered lights. It is quiet and it plays out in slow motion. Time slows itself to a crawl and ticks one second at a time. She is there laying against the driver's side window. Her eyes are closed and her dress is torn. There is a bright light glaring against the car and it shines through her dark black hair. Angels are there, gathered around her. They are light and airy, brighter than the light that shines on us, but my eyes do not squint as I watch them. Like silhouettes they hold her and gently touch her dark complected face. The roof of the car has caved in on my head pinching my neck and warm blood runs down my soft cheek. My legs are crammed together and bent by some incredible force, something has a hold of my waist, restraining me from my breath. I am dying. I reach out to touch my mother to wake her up, but only my hand stretches its way to her and my finger points at her as it seeks her out. One of the angels touch my finger with his own and it glows against the shadows. I open my mouth to say her name and the image breaks apart and flies away into a hundred pieces-gone into the darkness of my mind.
Sometimes sitting here, on the big old rock in Mammoth is the only solid ground there is. As I sit here now, a single tear finds its way down my cheek, but mountains hold me in their embrace. The lives of my father and mother connect here, and form a union that I can stand on. The past and future collide here and give me a purpose in the present. Someday I will take my son here and show him the valley and the mountains. Maybe he will not quite understand what I see. It takes time, I guess, just like it did with me. But I am beginning to see through my father's eyes sitting in my mother's lap.
12-7-96 (c) 1996 Rod Davis