The Crow woke me up. He is perched at the top of the old redwood, his raucous cries circling and drifting, jerking me from my dreams. Half of me wants to shake him for waking me; the other half wants to scatter extra birdseed around his redwood for letting me be a part of this dance of dawn. From the sleeping platform, I can see the pale gray sky, marred only by the occasional red-winged blackbird’s flight. Cedars and pines and redwoods fringe the sky. Trees grow taller, here in this magical place called the Cedars. Birds fly slower as if savoring the texture of the wind. The sun is hotter and higher here and I relish it. The Cedars is a haven for the weary birds, for the straggled plants, for the harassed, tired people, so rushed and choked from the city. Beside me, Oma and Opa wake up. “What a beautiful day!” Opa smiles. “The most wonderful day for our hike,” Oma says. “Shall we play the tree game?” she asks, smiling. “Yes.” I squeeze her hand. “What is that tree over there?” “A Jeffrey pine, I think.” “Good! Later, we’ll get some cones,” Oma praised. “If I had to smell one smell all my life, I would smell the vanilla scent of a Jeffrey pine,” I say. “Time for the countdown!” Opa warns. “If I had to smell one smell all my life, I would smell the vanilla scent of a Jeffrey pine” We all stare fixedly at the golden watch on Oma’s wrist, watching the silver hand wheedle seconds away. Soon, the eight o’clock Oh Joe bell will ring. I picture a roustabout, maybe Trevor, maybe Alex, or Justin, or even Kate, walk across the dirt at the low welcoming building we call the Grill. The Grill pulls you in, and holds you before letting you out, I think drowsily. The roustabout will tightly grip the metal rod, recoil at its chill and hold it poised over the huge metal triangle, muscles taut, tense, waiting. Exactly eight o’clock. The rhythm starts, ringing across the valleys and meadows of the Cedars. It echoes off trees, slams into boulders, shivers down streams, and slips into the earth until cabins shake. Bang der-de bang iti bang iti bang, BANG BANG, BANG! I tap the rhythm on my comforter. Nodding, Opa, Oma and I take a deep breath along with the thirty other Cedarites. We yell, “Ohhhhh Joeeeee!” I shiver with the rhythm, the beat, the shout. “Wow. We did it really well that time. I think the old cedar tree shook,” I laugh. “What’ll Jim think of that!” Opa grins. “Let’s go get dressed.” “Uh-huh. We’ve got to hurry” I shiver. “Of course we do! We want to leave by nine o’clock,” Oma says firmly. I leap out of bed. The cold slices through my brisk resolution like a knife. I want to dive back in the covers. “Brrr! It’s chilly! Come on, let’s go down to the outhouse.” Oma smiles. I smile back, and the smile warms me up, soft and buttery. I help Oma down the stairs, then grab my jeans, a torn T-shirt, and a dirty sweater. I pinch together my frayed shoelaces and gather my scattered hair into a high ponytail. I’m dressed. At the Cedars, how you look just fades away. All that remains is your personality. Oma, Opa and I hold hands and jog down the creaking boards and the chilled dirt to the main cabin. A cheery fire crackles in the old, dusty Benjamin Franldin stove, warding out demons of cold. The stove sits like a hunched tiger behind the stained wooden table and chairs. Beside it are the logs that Opa cut and Meggy, Luke, Char, Noah and I stacked behind the lattice, so the bears wouldn’t gnaw on them. The plastic bucket, sloshing, filled to the brim with water, sits lifeguard next to the stove. Today, the table has been pushed aside, and Meggy, Luke, Noah and Char have pulled up chairs, dangling their bug-bitten toes. I join them and play peek-a-boo with Sydney, tickling her frayed bit of blanket. Uncle Nick is talking to Ed. Helene is rocking Ana, with her pale cheeks dimpling. Aunt Ann is standing at the oven, scrambling eggs that sizzle and slide into a creamy paste in the pan. Opa is checking the first-aid kit. “Hot cocoa?” Oma asks. “It’s free for the taking.” “Me! Yes! Yeah! Please?” we clamor. Oma smiles as she stacks cups, and measures powdered milk. Aunt Ann is dishing out the scrambled eggs, and I toss pieces of toast at people. Oma places steaming mugs of cocoa in front of us. We eat our fill. Hot cocoa simmers. A log falls in the stove, crumbled to ashes. I feel full and satisfied. At eight-thirty the cold is swept away as suddenly as it came. The sun peeks from behind a cedar tree. The clear blue sky spreads, untroubled as our minds. I throw open the Dutch doors, and change quickly into my khaki shorts. Soon, all of us are sitting on the porch table, rubbing on sunscreen. Bug spray passes over us, its tart and toxic aroma tickling our noses. The smoke from the chimney piece falters, in the clear blue sky. “So I guess we’ll go up Parkinson’s,” Opa is saying. “Darn, darn, darn it,” I mutter. “What’s so bad about Parkinson’s?” Ed asks. “Parkinson’s,” I explain, “is vertical. Straight up. At least it’s shady. Like the devil, it only has one virtue.” “The devil has a virtue?” Ed questions. “Yeah. He lets us put the blame on him.” I slip a bottle of sunscreen into my backpack. “Oh look, guys! Here comes Carly! Hey girl!” The neighbor’s dog wriggles ecstatically under my hand, then deposits her gift at my feet, a spit-saturated tennis ball! I bend down, get a good grip on the ball, and throw it in a high arc. My neighbor, Mrs. Camerlynck, smiles,
November/December 2004
The Boy and His Grammaw
Laughing and smiling And sitting and hugging A dirty little boy and A graying woman are Sitting near a dingy trailer. Rough steps and an old bike Rusting before their eyes Yet their smiles Can dazzle even This blank scene . . . Timmy McWhirter, 12York, South Carolina
In a Moment It Was No More: 1963
“You’re lucky, Spencer. I wish I had a baby brother.” Ten-year-old Spencer Coleman smiled pridefully at his best friend, José Perez, and then down at his month-and-a-half-old brother, Johnny. “I’m glad that he’s a boy,”Spencer whispered. They had to be quiet, or else they’d wake the baby “Now he can’t turn out like Libby.” Liberty, Spencer’s sister, was nearly thirteen years old and as bossy as a mama hen. José grinned. “Two Libertys in your family would be a disaster.” He leaned closer to look at the sleeping baby. “Did you name him after the president?” Spencer nodded. “His real name’s John Kennedy Coleman,”he said. “But we call him Johnny for now.” “Neat.” José put his knee up on the crib ledge and reached in toward the baby. “José!” Spencer hissed. “Don’t touch him, you’ll . . .” Too late. Jose’s retreating hand brushed against Johnny’s forehead, and his eyes blinked open. Spencer grimaced. “He wasn’t supposed to wake up until 4:30.” Johnny’s face scrunched up, and he let out a loud yell. “Let’s get out of here.” The two boys dashed out of the room and down the back staircase, nearly falling over each other in their haste to get outside. “Spencer? José? What are you doing?” Mrs. Coleman was calling. “Um, we’re going to the park, Mom, we’ll be back soon!” Spencer shouted with his hand on the doorknob. He shoved the door open, and he and José tumbled out. The air smelled familial, like it always did just before winter arrived It was a cool, crisp afternoon in late November. Rotten pumpkins left over from Halloween were still out on everyone’s doorsteps, but the usual Thanksgiving decorations were starting to appear in windows, too. Spencer grabbed two baseball gloves from his garage and tossed one, along with a ball, to José. “Spencer, where are we going?” “To the park,” Spencer replied shortly. “Like I told Mom.” They turned out of the driveway and fell into silent step. The air smelled familiar, like it always did just before winter arrived. Spencer assumed it had something to do with decaying pumpkin. “Is anyone coming to your house for Thanksgiving this year?” he asked his friend. José laughed. “No way. Our apartment’s barely big enough to hold us. We’re going down to Abuelo’s house in Florida.” He smiled. “I bet it’s nice and warm there.” “Lucky you.” Spencer was staying in New York for Thanksgiving. He just hoped it didn’t snow. * * * Spencer put his head down on his desk. Paper-bag turkeys were stupid. They had made those things in kindergarten. Fifth-graders were ten and eleven years old, much too old, in Spencer’s opinion, to be pasting googly eyes on a brown bag. He wondered if José’s fourth-grade class was being put through the same torture. Mrs. Latham, their teacher, was going around the room praising the children’s pasting jobs. The setting reminded Spencer very much of Beverly Cleary’s Ramona book. Every time he looked down, those stupid wiggle-eyes stared back at him. He flicked the turkey to the far end of his desk with his index finger. Suddenly, the PA system turned on. Spencer sat up in his chair. Messages from the principal were always interesting. Sometimes they even meant getting out of school. There was the time last winter that the pipes froze. Then last month, the fire alarm went off, and there was actually a kitchen fire. “May I please request your attention. Could each teacher please turn the class radios to 1130 WNEW. Thank you.” There was a little radio sitting on the teacher’s desk. In the younger classrooms, the music stations often got turned on when the kids were working on a project. Sometimes, only on very special occasions, the principal would request that classes turn on their radios to a certain station. They had done that when Spencer was in third grade, at Kennedy’s inauguration. Spencer couldn’t remember if they had done it since. Mrs. Latham stopped praising Becky Halter’s fine googly-eye pasting job and stood up straight. “Whaddaya say, kids, should we turn on the radio?” Eager to get away from turkeys, the class nodded in unison. “Whaddaya say, kids, should we turn on the radio?” The teacher turned the knob so that the arrow pointed to 1130. Spencer pressed forward in his seat. Surprises were fun. “It looks like the shots were fired from the fifth- or sixth-floor window . . .” The first words alerted Spencer that something was very wrong. The usually calm and smooth voice of the newscaster was panicked and shocked. “. . . three shots, at the presidential car . . . Kennedy got hit, and maybe Governor Connelly, too . . .” Spencer heard the screams of police sirens and a buzz of human voices as he tried to piece together what he had heard. He slumped backwards in his seat when it hit him. Johnny isn’t named after anyone anymore. The words formed numbly in Spencer’s mind. He should have known, as soon as the newscaster shouted, “Three shots, at the presidential car.” He should have known. “Kennedy got hit.” Their President was dying. He had been shot, while riding in his car through the streets of Texas. Mrs. Latham slammed her hand on the knob and the radio turned off in a burst of static. Her face was pallid, and she could barely get out a whisper. “Class dismissed.” * * * “Mom! Mom!” Spencer yelled, bursting into the room. “Mom, are you here, Mom?” Johnny was crying. Mom came up the den stairs as fast as she could, with the baby cradled in her arms. “Your teacher called and told me you’d be home early.” Her face was almost as white as Mrs. Latham’s. “Liberty’s in the den.” Spencer was shaking as he followed Mom. This was scary. This was scarier than last year’s Cuban missile problem. At least the Soviets and Cubans were the enemies. An American, from Texas,
