I still feel them on my skin, thousands of tiny legs and antennae flicking all about. Or I think I can. The sense of touch is a vague but strong memory. Yet I wonder if the memory was a real event or a fabrication of my mother, great aunt, and grandmother. They were master storytellers. Adding their word spice to everyday farm life, which makes me question the veracity of it all. Then again, there is the existence of that old black and white photograph. In which I sat as a toddler on an anthill, totally naked, totally covered in ants. Often at family gatherings the photo was passed around with the retelling of its story. Family, right?

As the years passed, ants have appeared in many dreams. But out of the many, only one ant dream repeats itself. This has happened so often that it feels real. One of those dreams that linger, hovering in mind throughout the day.

The most recent ant dream proceeded as most of them do. It’s always early in the morning before sunrise, resting on a bench somewhere after a long jog. I sit staring off dreamily trying to catch my breath. This is when they slowly appear. Streams of them coming together from all directions into a mound that rises upward. Millions of ants forming themselves into a dark silhouette that resembles a person. Almost like a mirror image of myself or someone. As strange as this seems there is a comfort and familiarity to them. They don’t speak, there is total silence. Yet we communicate and understand each other, somehow. It’s bizarre to say but I always sense ancient wisdom.

They always offer a tempting trade. In exchange for immortality I must agree to a symbiotic relationship with all ants everywhere. They go on to explain what they mean by immortality and symbiosis.

Immortality is the honeypot they offer to select humans. Realizing our innate fear of death, at least for our individual self, many of us find the idea of living forever to be the dream come true, an Avalon, a paradise. The ants explain that they don’t share our fear of death, since all colonies are connected in the now and for what we call time. Despite having different tasks in their life, they share a sameness of being. They have an inner deep connection to all of nature, Earth, and the universe. While we often feel alone and separate, unconnected to much of anything around us. We are trapped in that state of being an individual.

While the symbiotic relationship requires the implant of a colony of specialized ants. They called them NanoAnts. I’m promised that I will never know they are inside of me, except for the obvious fact that I will remain in perfect health and not grow old. Also, I will never be actually hungry or thirsty, and if I wish and given enough time the NanoAnts are capable of changing my outward appearance: height, weight, eye and hair color, strength, speed, voice, and even intelligence. Also, unaware to me, the NanoAnts will be in constant and immediate contact with all ant colonies on this planet.

It seems a simple and desirable trade of immortality and bodily perfection in exchange for a symbiotic relationship between the ants and me. Yet, I will be forever watched with absolutely no privacy, all is shared both ways between me and the ants. That is the deal. I will endlessly repeat the human condition, but without suffering and death, and the ants get to observe everything. It will be impossible to speak of our arrangement with anyone, as the NanoAnts will not allow it.

This is the point where I always awaken from the dream. No agreement is ever reached. I am left pondering the predicament and issues surrounding the idea of immortality. That is, immortality trapped within a human body.

As always, I am left wondering why ants care or reach out and contact humans. Of all of the creatures on Earth we often seem the worst choice for much of anything. Is there something about us being overlooked? Our curiosity? Is it our ability to create things? Our we in some way capable of creating something that saves the planet from a big asteroid or the dying of the sun or from ourselves even? Can it be that a big brain along with eye-hand coordination is enough to save life on Earth? Or, more likely, in dreams our imagination has no boundaries. We see more clearly with our eyes closed and our senses on standby. Much to ponder.

It seems to me that many people live their life as if walking on the edge. For them any newness, any decision, any commitment is an edge. And all edges should be avoided, put off until later, side stepped, and most of all never crossed unless forced to do so by circumstances outside of their own willpower. In the extreme cases, they actually step over cracks in the sidewalk. A firm belief that no line needs ever be crossed. Perhaps they would find the other side, if only they would cross over sometimes, to be fulfilling and not just desirable. But they never take the leap. As if the very act of jumping will put an end to hope itself. Their state of constantly hoping is a sort of nirvana it seems. They wonder, without consciously knowing, that fulfilling their desires may result in a lack of hope.

After all, who needs hope if all is well? Hope is best in small doses.

Mostly I have noticed this entwinement and/or paradox between desire and hope in others that I have encountered over the years. I have felt this way a few times in my own life. Does this make me an “edge walker”? I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. As I have often stepped on cracks, jumped and leaped headlong into love, pursued and committed to this that and many situations and things. I just don’t see hope as a very desirable constant companion. Of course, I always have a sense of hope for others and all of existence, which is a far grander idea that isn’t so up close and in your face all of the time. But for myself and my lot in this life, the act of constantly hoping above all else is just too much of a golden carrot on a very very long stick. Becoming a bridge too far that spans a long winding rut of forever being lead onward by some unknown attractor. There’s nothing greener about all of that. What is so bad about just being? Here, now, so let it go and let it be. Make the best of what there is and focus on the felt moment of your experiences. Even, and especially, if that moment is less than ideal. If beauty does truly exist, and just not a word we utter, then it may be that beauty is most apparent in those wabi-sabi moments. The flaws in life can make beauty harder to see. On the other hand, as many have said before, it may be that beauty is truth but only a seldom experienced flash in the pan sort of thing. Yet I find it far more interesting and healthy to focus on feeling and seeing whatever beauty is right here right now regardless of flaws. Hoping for beauty or greener pastures seems to be a waste of the now and each of our passing moments.

So when viewed in retrospect over a long life I may have been living as a different sort of “edge walker”. Walking that very fine edge between now, then, and the hope of what will be. Perhaps these edges we walk are thin slivers of whatever this universe and what we call life. We or what we sense are the tiniest piece of an unimaginably large pie. As a walker, a solid life form, we are only capable of vaguely grasping these edges with the passage of time. On first glance, it seems disappointing that we miss out on so much because we are so ill equipped to handle our surroundings. Then again, perhaps that is where beauty and hope can only exist, in these flawed moments we so often misinterpret and ignore.

Roly-polies covered the planet. Everyone looked like Poppin’ Fresh the dough boy, or one of those Teletubbies, or a Weeble that’s about to wobble. It was funny, colorful, ridiculous, and sad. But it was also absolutely necessary. All surface water had mysteriously risen up above the air. Water was the lightest thing on the planet. No one could live outside of an Aqua-suit, and if you tried it only took seconds for you to become a small pile of ash. The water inside of you would bubble out instantaneously, kind of like the bends that happened to scuba divers long ago. Except this wasn’t a gas, it was water molecules and they were very serious about escaping out and up through your skin. Our planet had become barren and filled with humans wobbling here and there in their colorful suits. Pretty and bleak.

I am considered an elder now, but I remember how things used to be. I miss the clouds, oceans, rivers, lakes, snow, ice, and even puddles. I miss shoes, clothing, fresh air, green plants, flowers, and the wind. Aqua-suits were both clothing and domicile. Everyone’s address and home was the suit that you had to wear. We had become colorful nomads with our constant deliberately slow walking. The nonstop walking powered the suit, somehow. I really miss eating and all of those foods I can barely remember now. Yes, it’s possible to forget what ice cream was all about. Somehow, the suits provide everything we need to live. Inside them there’s something like fresh air, water, waste removal, and a direct connection to “Know It All” ... kind of like the internet was but only way better.

To be fair, there are some benefits to our current situation. There are no diseases, no pandemics, no suffering, no predators since all land based life is extinct (except for us), and all criminal activity ceased a long time ago. Because we live much longer, yes, even old folk like myself. At this point, I believe I am way over 300 years old.

After the water rose the planet became a very flat and barren place, even flatter than the Moon. Not that we can see the Moon, stars, or sun anymore, but I will get to all of that in a moment. You can now walk in any direction you choose without any obstacle to challenge or slow you down. So we wander about. They say it’s good to stretch your legs, right? We even sleep standing while walking, as the suit has an avoidance radar system so we don’t run into another weeble wondering about. Basically these silly looking suits provide for our every human need. While ignoring touch and a closeness with others.

Now that the planet was encircled by a huge amount of water that formed a blueish green dome the light level was always exactly the same. A bit like twilight used to be. It was never too bright or too dark, and just like the temperature everywhere was like a warm dim spring day. They say the now nonexistent UV rays were partially responsible for our excellent health and longer lifetimes. Of course, the “Know It All” isn’t sure how long we can live. It seems to me that calling it the “Know It All” is missing the mark by a long shot. Am I complaining?

It’s been said that change is inevitable and it is the only thing you can rely on in this universe. The umbrella of water surrounding us makes me feel odd. A sadness and I really hate the very thing keeping me alive, this damn suit.

Well, yesterday (and for posterity’s sake it was Thursday, March 31, 2022 according to Pope Gregory XIII anyways) I published an episode called “Odd Umbrella” in the tiny story called “The Mundane Speaks” ... wow, titles are hard to come up with. How do you encompass many words, as in 600 ha-ha, with just a quick phrase?

As I discussed in a previous episode, there were several options, I mentioned four, that I could use to try to write this story. A story based on a “what if” situation involving all water rising up to become a hydrosphere, way above the planet. So I ignored my own advice to myself and just dove in and imagined I was inside some person inside an Aqua-suit. I looked around. After doing that, a story emerged which I hope is interesting to read and if possible makes the reader stop and think for minute or two. After all, in our really real world, global warming and trashing the planet is a real big problem. You’ve noticed, right? And it seems like the more of us there are the more of us there are to ignore the problems. As we keep on keeping on, as in, someone else will solve it or a miracle will happen. But most of us have soup to make, if you get my drift. And it is true that sometimes the simplest daily routines can be a bit overwhelming, with so many soups and so little time. Enough of that.

Even though I have read a lot of books over the years, I do not consider myself a literary scholar. I do not feel learned about reading or writing. On the other hand, I do believe we acquire a sense of and for many things outside our individual experiences. That word vicariously comes to mind, as in through the act of reading and the passage of time even if we are not consciously doing so we pick up stuff. I say all of this to say, that the writing of a character involves getting fully into that character. Being fully inside a character can leave you feeling stranded. What if that character can’t express themselves? Here you are inside a particular perspective, someone else’s head, but you have to leave enough breadcrumbs or unwind enough string to find your way back to you. All the while retaining enough of what happened to express it all in words, sentences, and paragraphs. I know, nonsensical and a bit maddening, right? Well, this is just how I see writing so far, it’s early in the process and I have much to learn, well, based on watching YouTube videos by and about writers and established authors. Not that my goal is to become one of those people, even though there is nothing wrong with that of course. For me, it’s the same as art, writing is art after all, and so an expression from within, that can and should be shared. Especially in the year 2022 when there are so many outlets for expression, with so many art and writing websites available for free (well, ignoring the cost of a computer and internet usage).

On a lighter note, these writing genres will drive you a bit wonky. I thought just knowing and recognizing some writing as fiction or nonfiction(most of which is probably fiction) was all I would ever need to know about writing. Apparently not. There’s even this big umbrella genre called “speculative fiction” which includes sci-fi, dystopian, horror, but mostly it seems to be about asking and answering a “what if” question. Do I really need to be aware of genres or lock my writing into a specific one? I don’t think so but maybe I’m missing something. Or maybe I got hit in the head too many times while playing sports during my glory days.

BEATRICE

I could no longer tell where this “darn suit” ended and where I began. The aquasuit felt smothering, and a bit like there was something that was always hovering nearby, too close for comfort. Suit as shackles. Vulgarity was never my thing, so I often waffled between calling the suit a “darn” or a “damn” thing. Of course, the suit was actually the only life line left for humans on Earth. I know, I know, it’s a good thing, really it is, really. But for some reason, I found myself vaguely remembering a condition from a long time ago that elderly folk suffered from called dementia. I could not really recall exactly what dementia was all about in any detail, but it seemed very similar to everyone's current situation. Where we walk on forever through a very dense fog, our existence now.

Having a name like Beatrice, or any name for that matter, no longer had any meaning to anyone it seems. Although the person that had once been Beatrice sometimes seemed so close, I wanted to be her again. Touching Beatrice would be grand. But being enmeshed with the aquasuit meant never seeing or touching oneself, it wasn’t possible, nor anyone else. On rare occasions, and with practice and much strain, I was just able to tilt my head and body upwards and darkly see the blue-green glow from the umbrella of water that surrounded all of us. Yet, trying to see other folk, or rather their suit as I pass them by is somehow made even darker by the visor. Other folk look like chubby blobs of washed out color. No two the same color.

The visor of the KnewSkin was called a PUD. PUD, short for Pop Up Display, referred to a visual screen in front of my eyes filled with pop-ups of information and various system readings. Except when curiosity got the better of me, I mostly tried to ignore it all. But in your face is in your face. Obviously from all that I know about the suit, it was the best thing since sliced bread. A clever phrase I recall from long ago. As time had marched onward, I found myself missing more and more of those vaguely remembered things. I really missed faces, smiles, eyes, smells, tastes, breezes, colors other than the blue green haze that was now everywhere. Is it possible that all advancement in the universe, no matter whether it’s for the better or just absolutely necessary, leaves a very long trail of desirable debris behind it? Left adrift in only our memories.

I wonder if these moments of what feel like an epiphany are due to my own thoughts or due to the constant direct connection with the Know-It-All. After all, I still confusingly refer to my suit as an aquasuit, which is a very old prototype name for them, instead of the new name of KnewSkin. Hmm, methinks the Know-It-All picked that new name. Thoughts such as this leaves me wondering if there are blackouts, or disconnects, between my suit and the Know-It-All. So maybe some of my thoughts really are my own. A pleasant thought.

As someone who was frozen forever as an old lady, so to speak, and now that we live forever, I may just be perpetually dazed and confused. The Know-It-All is a constant companion, never seen and never parted. It answers all of my questions, but again, as hundreds of years have passed I have fewer and fewer questions. I suppose this twiddling of curiosity is akin to what aging once was, before these darn suits.

I keep on truckin’.

Everyone called him “Mac the Knife” and I never understood why until we hung out a few times. We worked together as emergency room security guards at a big hospital in a big city. A lot of very bizarre stuff happens in an emergency room, like restraining folk in need of a spinal tap. But all of those stories are best told another time. It was a career job for him. For me, I was just working there during my inactive time before entering the military full time. A part of the whole six year deal owed the government back in the late 1970’s. Only six months to go. Those six months seemed to drag on forever. Especially, with all of the fast pace craziness in that emergency room, and the ten hour long work shifts, and only one day off every seven days. Each and every day was totally exhausting. On top of that, my wife was pregnant and his wife had not so long ago given birth. It was a burden, for everyone. A good thing we were all young.

Once I took a ride home with him from work. Meet the wife, Lydia, meet the kid, Trevor. Lydia was a slip of a woman, which made two words spring to mind: librarian and mouse. Later I would find out that she had been a librarian and intensely hated mice. That kid was a tiny clone of Mac, except for not having a big handlebar mustache, and being shy. Since Mac was very serious about being a security guard, he was armed at work, and in his car I noticed two guns. A shotgun strapped behind the driver’s seat and a pistol in the glove box. I noticed the pistol when he told Lydia to get the flashlight and a big ring of keys from the glove box. My gut sensed a tense situation. There was just something off about the way she did as “she was told”, a reaction I knew well. Plus the terrorized look in Trevor’s eye, his complexion was a blank in need of color. Probably because Mac slapped the boy upside his head after he had spoken to me. He had said “Hi” softly, but he had said that without permission to do so. I was feeling uncomfortable but I really needed a ride home, as my sporty Triumph Spitfire wouldn’t start. Spitfire was not a good name choice for those cars, definitely not mine, as the one thing it seemed to do best was not to spit fire. I was the proud owner of something I often had to jump start and push around. British convertibles may not be so cool. So I tried to ignore my concern, plus I had grown up in a very rough family. We drove on in the dark rainy night.

Back in those days, there were still many dirt roads around. Some of them between cow pastures, and some that seem to only lead to abandoned houses. Mac had turned off onto one of those, the dark outline of an old house was ahead. He turned the headlights off and drove on. I felt compelled to say this was the wrong turn to get me home. He slammed on the brakes. Lydia turned on the flashlight. Trevor cowered on the floorboard between the front and back seats. A tingle ran up my spine as the thought swept over me that they had done this routine before. She aimed the flashlight into Mac’s lap revealing what I knew to be a Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum. I grew up with all kinds of guns. The flashlight also revealed the stick shift in the car, it appeared to be custom made with a removable Bowie knife used as the grip to shift gears. Mac was pulling and clicking it, in and out of place. Well, that explains the “Mac the Knife” thing. He spun around to face me.

Frozen in place I looked all about the car. Looking at Trevor wedged and unmoving down there on the floor between the seats on his hands and knees, seemed familiar to me from childhood. Looking at Lydia who was staring at me with a voyeur sadistic smile. Looking at Mac whose eyes seemed to be searching me up and down for some kind of reaction. I should have felt fear, but I was just too exhausted to feel much of anything. Mostly I was frozen in astonishment that this is how my life might end, at the whim of a crazy coworker. I would be left for the bugs and worms to mull over in one of the many nearby cow pastures. I had suspected that Mac was maybe a bit eccentric from work conversations during those graveyard shifts. But I did not expect him to be a gun toting, knife wielding, snuff spitting murderer. He did remind me of a Doc Holliday photo.

After what seemed like an eternity, he smiled at me, spun around in his seat, switched the car lights back on, put his gun away, clicked the knife back into the gear shifter, and off we went towards the house up ahead. Then he said do not fret, that he would take me home soon enough. I took a breath thinking the whole creepy moment was just a kind of “gotcha” thing, so back to normal. But then he added that we needed to go into the house, check on the dogs, drink some whiskey, and absolutely get something straight between us. Yes, he said “absolutely”, so it seemed the creepy had creeped back. Perhaps there is a more descriptive word than creepy, but that is how I felt being outnumbered and outgunned. So I complied, what choice did I have. I have never ever been into horror movies, but this seemed like the right moment to have run away as fast as possible. But I really needed a ride home. Home, a simple word, mostly a good place to be, other times not so good, but at the moment it sounded very good. So I suppressed the bad thoughts and clung to the good ones.

Everyone got out of the car. Mac went to open the front door. There always seemed to be one of them in front and behind me. Lydia walked behind me holding a pistol by her side. It was not pointed at me but the hammer was cocked. Trevor, with his head down, walked between us. I could not help but wonder what this poor boy had seen or been through in his brief life. I suppose my concern for him diverted my thoughts from myself and what lay ahead.

Upon entering the house, everything was very simple and seemed appropriate for a time before electricity. Lots of oil lamps and candles, most of which Mac ordered Lydia to light, by striking matches of course. Trevor curled up in the corner of a soda near a fireplace. Mac was eyeing me as he arranged logs and kindling to start a fire. I still felt closely watched, no opening to make a run for it. Where would I go? I only had a vague notion of where I was relative to home. A thought flashed about running and hiding somewhere until the sunrise. That is when the five dogs enter from the back porch. They moved as a pack, like wolves. Now I felt a bit like I was being herded by everyone, except for Trevor. He was quiet, motionless, and eyes shut.

All of the smells inside the house seem to blend together and be separate at the same time. The soot of oil lamps was everywhere, kerosine, pipe tobacco, something like pumpkin pie. At this point, I was being offered a slice of pumpkin pie by Lydia as Mac slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses down hard on the big kitchen table. He motioned me to come and join him at the table by waving his pistol at me. I sat down.

Lydia sat down at the other end of the table, holding another pistol. Trevor did not budge. The dogs laid down in front of the fireplace. And so began the interrogation, I mean conversation.

He started asking me all sorts of questions about my life, my job, my family. I answered without revealing too much. He wanted to know if I had a girlfriend or boyfriend. I said I was married. Then he asked about sexual preferences and fantasies. This is where things took a turn for the bizarre. He detailed all sorts of perverse things that he wanted me to do with Lydia. I was young so everything he said seemed so strange to me. After all, being married does not mean being experienced with all of the alternatives. Things that I will not go into here. Needless to say, I was not comfortable with his suggestions. Lydia would occasionally giggle or nod in agreement with Mac’s questions or suggestions. The dogs were sleeping soundly in front of the fireplace, yet I felt watched by them.

So I asked him why he was asking me all of these personal questions and making these suggestions. He said that he wanted to know if I was “worthy”. Worthy of what, I asked? He told me to take another swig of whiskey. At that point, he had already pounded down several full to the brim shot glasses.

I was trying to remain calm and figure out what was going on. Trevor had not moved, just sat on the sofa near the fireplace with his eyes shut. Lydia seemed to be enjoying the conversation as she sipped her whiskey too. I did not move at first but looked around, surveying the situation. There were many pistols on the table. I very carefully stood and turned away from Mac’s eyes, as he poured another glass of whiskey and chugged it. Feeling the full effect of the alcohol, I made my move. I reached for a pistol but he had anticipated this so I did not actually grab it. It was now that he started to laugh. A deep, guttural laugh that sent a chill up my spine. The interludes of quiet were very quiet, but creepy too. The dogs were all awake, watching me. Mac continued to laugh and said that he would take me home soon. He told Lydia to come closer and she did as he asked, giggling all the while.

Trevor had not moved but stared at me with his eyes wide open. Mac sat down across from me, still laughing and drinking whiskey. He told me that I was going to be “entertained” for the evening. I asked him what he meant by that but he just continued laughing. At this point, I looked more closely at Trevor and realized that he was watching me closely now as well. The dogs were now staring intently at me again. This felt like a trap to me so I slowly sat back down, trying not to look afraid or nervous. Mac just laughed a little louder and motioned for Lydia to come even closer to him. She was about a foot away from his face, giggling and looking at me with a sinister grin on her face.

I was suddenly worried that I was in way over my head. What had started out as a simple ride home had quickly turned into something much more serious. I could feel the tension in the air and knew that I needed to say something to diffuse the situation. But before I could say anything, Lydia leaned in and kissed Mac on the mouth.

Mac resumed laughing and drinking whiskey. He told me that I was their “entertainment” for the evening. I asked him what he meant by that but he just continued laughing. I was not feeling “entertained” at all.

Looking out at our backyard bayou, it's easy to see why some people might be scared of this place. The water is unmoving and murky with all of the trees covered in Spanish moss casting their dark shadows everywhere. But there's something about this place that I find peaceful and calming, well, most of the time. I did not grow up anywhere near swamps. I am a hillbilly. Things are too flat here giving me the feeling that water had at long last reached the lowest point on planet Earth.

For the first years of life in Louisiana, the family and I felt that beneath the surface of the still water lurked the unknown. There seemed to be lots of critters creeping into and out of the bayou, and always in shadow, even in sunlight. This was water best not waded into on a hot summer's day just to cool off. The local folklore told of many monsters lurking just beneath the surface of the inky water, waiting for someone to step in and sink away. Of course, this made us extra cautious about letting kids play in the backyard. There was no boogeyman here, only critters scurrying away from the human intruders. And in reality, there was actually a lot of life above and beneath the surface. Often there were a pair of eyes that just broke the surface of the stagnant still water belonging to one of the alligators laying low in the water. Once a female gator took a liking to the kids sandbox, laid her eggs, and guarded her brood. So our backyard never entirely felt like our backyard, we had to share.

But slowly over time, I came to understand that maybe this place was not so bad, definitely not evil, just a very active cycle of life and death. The most impossible thing to get used to was the humidity, it was off the charts, making the air reek of decomposing vegetation, but that's something I became accustomed to. And since life was like living in a terrarium, the heat combined with the humidity, made the place a nirvana for the insects, they were beyond belief. There were flying cockroaches outside and in the house. Mosquitos were very aggressive. There were also no-see-ums, which are impossible to swat, and their bites feel like someone is stabbing you with a red hot poker. The situation with all of the prolific insect life really gives added definition to the word swarm, they were relentless.

The first summer was the hardest to get used to, but as fall arrived, and then winter, the temperatures and humidity became somewhat more tolerable. It was a welcome relief to not have to worry about being eaten alive every time I stepped outside.

Although the winters were much milder than where I grew up, there was still the occasional cold snap. These usually happened in January or February, and sometimes the temps would dip below freezing for a few nights. This would kill barely any of the vegetation, which was also relentless in its growth. Mowing was a year-round chore.

But despite all of these dangers, there is something about this place that calls to me - a sense of calm and serenity that brings me peace and comfort no matter what

Often I gazed out at the backyard bayou from our deck, and it was easy to see why some people might be scared of this place. The still water and dark, infinite critters, looming trees cast an ominous shadow over this seemingly peaceful body of water. But despite its dangers lurking beneath the surface, there's something about it that I find tranquil and calming - the cycle of life with no frills.

The longer we lived there, the more I appreciated that bayou in our backyard. It's a place where I could stare into, never entering, but still clear my head. And while I still don't recommend swimming in the water, I have come to appreciate the beauty of this place.

A circle had formed; three cats and me. A praying mantis was watching from the hood of my car. At that moment I was too tired to notice the oddness, all of us aligned like the four points on a compass. I had just finished jogging five miles and mowing the grass in two yards on a very hot and humid August day in the mountains of Virginia. A sweaty daze.

At the north point, there was the female cat I knew best, I called her KitKat even though her pink collar with a bell said Annabelle. For some reason, I think she was the reason for this gathering. She was almost always at my house instead of the neighbor's house. I think she did not like her brother, the Captain (also a cat), and all of those barking dogs. I did not know the third cat, he was around sometimes with a sharp interest in KitKat. He was mangy, so I thought Shabby was a good name for him. Shabby always came across as unlucky. Unlucky in fights with other toms and unlucky with the ladies. His appearance was as if he had been ridden hard and put away wet, every night for a very long time. He liked the cheap canned cat food that I had offered in the past, while the other cats stared at me and walked away. Their look seemed to say I could do better than that, give us the "sugar, we are your neighbors' “. Cat sugar, that is, as in real sardines from a can in spring water.

Then a lime green praying mantis creeps right into the middle of the cat circle. For some reason, boredom or exhaustion I just sat there on the steps watching. I was captivated. I was also thinking that this mantis is moving, albeit slowly, but cats have a thing for any movement. If a mantis could actually pray then now is the time, better yet fly away. The three cats just sat there watching the mantis. All eyes turned to Shabby.

After what seemed like an hour, Shabby was making his move. He lunged at the mantis with all of his might and speed. He chomped the mantis into two pieces. One half of its body crawls one way and the other half goes the opposite way. Shabby pauses to glare at both KitKat and then the Captain. Nothing. Apparently this was not as impressive a kill as he had hoped for, so he quickly chased the two halves down and swallowed them. Gone was that lime green splash of color.

The three cats went their separate ways. Shabby headed to the street to see what was happening there, the Captain walked away towards home, and KitKat sauntered up the steps to where I was sitting. We looked at each other for a long moment. I swear that cat smiled at me before she turned and went home next door.

I never saw Shabby again and the Captain only came around when he wanted food. KitKat continued to come by most days, but she would never let me get too close. In some other skirmish she was missing half of her tail. Often she would meow outside various windows, waiting until I came out of the house and then followed me around until she just up and left. And so it went, day after day, summer into fall and then winter. One day she just stopped coming around. I never saw her again either.

I always wondered what became of those three cats. Did they find new homes? Did they have happy lives? I like to think they did. Are cat circles a thing?

Le Guin, Ursula K.. Steering The Craft (p. 58) Exercise 6:

An old woman is busy doing something—washing the dishes, or gardening, or editing a PhD dissertation in mathematics, whatever you like—as she thinks about an event that happened in her youth. You’re going to intercut between the two times. “Now” is where she is and what she’s doing; “then” is her memory of something that happened when she was young. Your narration will move back and forth between “now” and “then.”

She often loses the now as she drifts back to then. She tells herself and anyone who will listen that she is an old woman. This fact comforts her so it is ok to not just remember her youth but to briefly revisit. Maybe not the best idea while doing lawn work; mowing grass, cutting tree limbs, tilling the small garden. These are all gas powered dangerous machines when “her now” is a bit fuzzy.

She's an old woman, she tells herself and anyone who will listen. It comforts her to know that even though she may forget what day it is or where she put her car keys, at least she's old. So it's ok to drift back to her youth every now and then - even if it's while mowing the lawn.

Maybe not the best idea while doing lawn work; mowing grass, cutting tree limbs, tilling the small garden. These are all gas-powered dangerous machines when “her now” is a bit fuzzy.

It's not the best idea, of course. She often loses focus of what she's doing and ends up going too far back in time. She remembers things from when she was a child, or even younger.

As the tiller digs into the new lettuce, butter lettuce her fav, she is suddenly ten years old again. It is her job to help with the garden. She loved it then, and she loves it now. The smell of fresh dirt, the feel of the sun on her skin, and the satisfaction of a job well done. She's no longer in her own backyard. She's in her childhood home, on the family farm. It's a beautiful day, just like today. She can hear the laughter of her siblings and cousins as they run and play. She can smell the fresh-baked cookies coming from the farmhouse kitchen. And she can feel the warmth of the sun on her face.

But then she hears the sound of the tiller and snaps back to reality. She's no longer ten years old, but an eighty-year-old woman. And she's in her own backyard, not the family farm. The smell of fresh dirt turns to the smell of gasoline, and the warmth of the sun turns to the heat of the engine. Dazed and confused she looks down to see her prize lettuce all mangled.

Now she's twelve, looking up at her dad. "No, I don't want to shoot the gun at the bunny, please no" she cried. He had taken her out hunting for the first time that day. She was so excited to go, but when it came time to shoot, she just couldn't do it. "It's not right to do this for fun" she said. But her dad just laughed and said "that's not why we're here". He explained that she must learned how harsh life can be. "We need it for stew" he said. And that's when she understood.

Now, she's a mother herself. Her own children are grown and gone. But she remembers the days when they were young. The laughter, the chaos, the never-ending messes. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

She snaps back to reality just in time to see the tree limb she was cutting come crashing down. Thank goodness she moved just in time. But now her heart is racing and she's a little shaken up.

She tells herself again, that she's an old woman. And it's ok to drift back to her youth every now and then. Even if it's while doing something dangerous like mowing the lawn or cutting tree limbs. Deja vu, again, she's seventeen and her boyfriend says goodbye as he heads off to college. She's sure she'll never see him again. And she'll never forget the way her heart feels in this moment.

But then she hears the sound of the mower and she's back in her own yard. She's an old woman, and she's safe. For now. Oh the poor lettuce, and now the carrots are mangled too. Maybe it's time to go inside and have a cup of tea. Yes, that's a good idea.

I sit in the old Ford Fairlane, her body is blacker than a moonless night, trying to start her up. It's been a while since I've driven, they took my license away. But it doesn't matter, not really. I am too old they keep saying. Too old for this world that is changing so fast. Is it really any faster or have I just slowed down? Way down!

They took my job away too. Said I was a liability. Can't have an old man working on the line, really, I assembled Barbie dolls for Christ's sake. It's just too dangerous, they said. How? Danger where? So what, I attach an arm where a leg should go, kids are smart, they will figure it out.

So here I am, trying to start up this old car. She's been sitting in front of the garage for months now, and basically so have I. I 'm not sure why I am doing this now. Going for a drive. Maybe to the river where I used to fish as a boy. The starter clicks but she won't turn over. Just like my life, clicking but going nowhere. This is it then, time to give up, time to go into that long sleep. But first, one last try for the old girl. She's been good to me over the years. Even if she is just a car.

This time I pump the gas pedal three times before turning the key and she finally roars to life. The engine sounds so good, better than it has in years. I remember when I was young, things were different then. We had AM radio, and it was actually good. Not like today with all of that static in my ears. But I don't mind too much, it reminds me of the good old days. Or is all reminiscing seen through rose-colored glasses?

Reaching over to the glove box I see Kathy sitting beside me, as real as can be. We are at the drive-in watching Elvis prance around on that big screen. She loves Elvis. I kind of loved Elvis too, just not out loud. I was not that much of a rebel. But that's what she loved about me. A regular "stable able" kind of guy. The other guys were Elvis wannabes, not me, and no way my legs moved like his.

Wait, back again, oh yeah, Kathy is gone now. She died years ago. I saw the obit in the paper. But I know it was because her heart wasn't in it anymore. When you lose your love, what do you have left?

The car finally sputters to life and I catapult into the garage door. Memories flood back all too often nowadays. This is the fourth time I have smashed into the garage door while "time traveling" in my noggin. The doctors call it dementia. But I know it is just old age. My kids are going to probably take the car away for good, or as they would say "for my good." But I don't care, really. I am too old for this world, too set in my ways. This is the way things were done and I'll be damned if I'm going to change now.

The car finally comes to a stop, my head hits the rear view mirror. I bleed therefore I am, or I've heard it said. I sit there for a moment, not quite here, not quite there. It's been a long time since Kathy and I went to the drive-in. Maybe it's time to go again. After all, what do I have to lose? Wait, this is not real? What is real? I'm so confused.

I guess I should be grateful that I can still remember the good times. But sometimes I wish I could forget. Just for a little while. It would be nice to have some peace and quiet in my head.

He looked up to find an old woman sitting across the table. Her eyes were tired, but there was a mischievous glint in them that made him uneasy. There was a dirty old pack of playing cards stacked loosely on the table between them. She looked up at him.

“Shall we play a game?” she asked, her voice rough from years of smoking.

He hesitated for a moment before finally nodding. This could be his chance to get some information out of her. Why he felt the desire “to get some information out of her” he could not remember. He watched as she riffle-shuffled the cards expertly and dealt out two hands. They played for what felt like hours. In the end, he had lost everything he had brought with him - including his coat.

“That wasn’t very fair,” he said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. He vaguely remembered a time when he played poker every Friday evening. She is dealing from the bottom of the deck, he thinks.

“No, it wasn’t,” she agreed. “But life isn’t fair. You should know that by now.”

He gritted his teeth and stood up, ready to leave. But before he could, she spoke again.

“Sit down, boy. I’m not done with you yet.”

He reluctantly sat back down, his heart pounding in his chest, for some reason. What did she want from him?

“I can see that you’re a smart one,” she continued, her eyes boring into him. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. But you’re too reckless. You need to learn to think before you act.”

He frowned, not liking the way this conversation was going.

“Now, I’m going to give you a choice,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You can either take my advice and use it to your advantage, or you can keep going down the path you’re on and end up like me - old and alone.”

He thought for a moment before finally deciding to listen to her advice. After all, what did he have to lose?

“So what do you suggest I do?” he asked.

“I suggest you use that head of yours,” she said. “Think about your choices before you make them. Weigh the pros and cons. And don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it.”

He nodded, knowing that she was right. It was time for him to make wiser choices. And with her help, he could do just that.

“Thank you,” he said, standing up and offering her his hand.

She took it and smiled. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “Just remember what I’ve told you.”

And with that, he was gone. He felt as if he had been wandering the streets for hours, trying to figure out what to do next. He was cold and hungry, and he knew he needed to find a place to sleep for the night. But where could he go? He didn’t have any money, and he didn’t know anyone in the city.

He nodded, taking her words to heart. Maybe there was still time for him to turn his life around.

“Now, go on,” she said, shooing him away. “You’ve got a lot of living to do.”

He stood up and smiled at her before turning and walking away. He knew he would never forget the advice she had given him. And he was determined to use it to improve his life. Thank you, he thought, for giving me a second chance.

“That was fun,” she said, as she gathered up the cards and all of his stuff. “But I’m tired now. It’s time for you to go.”

He got up reluctantly, feeling as though she had played him for a fool. As he turned to leave, she called out to him.

“Remember, age is just a number. Don’t let it stop you from living.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of her words, but they stayed with him long after he left. While he walked down the hallway to exit, a nurse said, “Hey you, it is time to get you back to your room, and I will bring you some warm milk.” The nurse led him to his room with a gold number 13 on the door. Just then, the old woman approached and opened her door across the hallway from him. The nurse reassured him she would get his stuff, and coat, back to him, while saying, “She took you again, huh?”

She paused at the edge where the land and snow met the lake and ice, trying to take in all of nature's beauty. Yrsa had bundled up and wandered down the long path to the lake as Arne sniffed the air and raced in every direction except straight ahead. With his thick winter dog fur, Arne loved the cold and long walks. Ulf always stayed home, preferring to be toasty by a smelting fire as he hammered out his silver trinkets. 

He often said that going to the lake to perform a kulning was way too "trol-la-la-la-ing" for him. On the other hand, Yrsa didn’t mind a bit of time away from her husband, especially during the long winters. It seemed like a healthy thing to do. Besides, it had just been her and Arne all alone for many years up here in Norrland; it’s sometimes enjoyable to relive the past.

When she performed the Kulning before marrying Ulf, cattle and caribou roamed about without being entirely confined by fences into pastures. Those days are gone now. Kulning had become performance art for her. A romanticized version of what was once used to relate to the animals. Back then, they were not seen as just a herd for folk to do with as they please. Instead, the practice of kulning was about talking with them, singing to them, and, yes, calling on them to come back home. The caribou, commonly known as reindeer, were like family, or so the stories had been told. So she began breathing in deeply and letting out a long, high-pitched melody, repeating it repeatedly. Sad to think that no animal would respond to her mimicry and come to listen.

Across the lake, a herd of caribou, she preferred them as reindeer, emerged from the forest to drink at the water’s edge. Then, out of nowhere, a colossal reindeer stood beside her, a stark white stag with a hint of greenish glow from the Northern Lights dancing in the night sky. Tilting his head and gigantic white rack of antlers down, he stepped closer, staring into her eyes. Everything was beautiful and so serene, yet strange somehow. Finally, he spoke, or so it seemed.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I am not a stag! Not one of Santa’s reindeer; he and his elven are not our friends!” Going on to say, “This noise making, you call it kulning, is disturbing my entire herd! My lady friends are getting grumpy, so please cease and desist, or at least don’t do it in the middle of the night. We do sleep, you know.”

Yrsa said, “My name is Yrsa, and I am glad to meet you. I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

“Well, Yrsa, your kind has been saying that for many years. I miss the days when you folk only followed behind our herds as we went to and fro in search of food. Your folk harvested our fallen antlers. You ate the mushrooms that grew in our poo. You stripped the fur off our dead to keep you warm; our relationship was more symbiotic in those days. We were free from being herded and hypnotized by kulning, all human ideas of control. This animal husbandry made your lives easier, but that is not the same thing as an improvement; again, a very human idea.”

As in swearing an oath, Yrsa raised her right hand, “I promise to stop kulning and remain quiet when walking in the forest. But I can’t promise that Arne will not bark or howl at you. All of your information has given me pause and much to ponder.”

“Since my antlers are starting to shed, I will lean my rack down so you can break off one of my beams, a half rack; the other side isn’t ready yet. Just yoink it off quickly. It’s ready. Consider it a peace offering of remembrance as you ponder about our meeting. I hope it will be inspirational to you. Just no more kulning, please.”

Yrsa felt awkward at the surprise offer, but can one really say no to a peace offering? So she gave it a yoink. The sound was like the crack of a bone muffled by thick velvet cloth echoing out across the lake and back again. The antler beam felt heavy in her hand as some blood dripped from its end. She didn’t know what to say but “Thank you.”

As quickly as he had appeared, he and his herd vanished. Serenity returned. She stood there holding his antler gift. Arne approached, wagging his tail in a circular motion, always happy to see and be seen, now ready to go home. She felt a smile deep down inside and closed her eyes to try to linger longer.

Opening her eyes, she saw Ulf kneeling while scratching Arne’s head beside their bed. Ulf said, “You were talking in your sleep again. You mumbled something about reindeer. Which is odd because while you were napping, your mom and dad dropped off this big white antler.” He had wrapped her fingers around the antler beam. “Mom and dad thought we could use it as inspiration for artwork.” Rubbing her eyes to wake up, Ulf continued to babble on and on about silver bracelets, rings, and necklaces based on the antler’s shape. It had all been a dream that felt real. Consisting of everyday stuff like a walk to the lake, yet surreal, talking to a big white bull caribou. Had the antler gift somehow seeped into her dream, adding to its narrative? For once, and rarely for her, it was a dream that made a lot of sense. Awake now, with hot tea, staring at the antler, she sat and pondered by the fireplace.

I went in for an oil change and came out with a change of life. Spoiler alert; never marry your mechanic! After the jump-start of a honeymoon, he and his gym bag moved into my house. It only took me a few more days to realize he’s just a boy, yes, a boy trapped inside a man's overcoat of all muscles covered in oily grease. A real stunner in the dim lights of an auto repair shop, emphasis on the dim lighting. Surely I wasn’t this gullible at forty-five years of age, but I fell in. Every day, he morphed into more of a son, at twenty years old, and not the husband I desired, but an undomesticated creature who never did much of anything. 

Despite the rose-colored glasses, I should have noticed a few of the red flags all around me, with the biggest and reddest being my own apparent cougar nature. Not a complimentary slang term, that word cougar; meaning an older woman in a romantic relationship with a younger man. I’ve only ever lived in this old house, my entire life, from birth then home schooled within its walls, and now I wondered what the neighbors thought. Once I thought they expected to see me gardening odd plants, or herding cats, but never having a young stud of a husband.

What the hell had happened? I thought, looking back; it seemed I had manifested a real puzzle, yet despite the changes, my actual day-to-day existence remained unchanged. Unchanged, unless he wanted something: food, laundry, sleep, or all three. Mostly though, every day continued on as before; reading, doing crossword puzzles (passionately), and trial-and-error knitting that resulted in enormous stacks of oddly shaped blankets. Well, that continued as the story of my life, but before him, there had been a dash of longing for the greener pastures of romance. Perhaps wanting was better than having, because it turned out that “dash”, aka hubby, and his “greener pastures” enclosed me like an invisible barbed wire fence, different but just as sharp as the real thing. Even with his ever-lessening morning and evening presence, my life seemed to remain much ado about nothing.

Then “the something” arrived obliterating “the nothing” entirely, oh no not on little cat’s feet, but dropped off, or in, by a fabled stork. Suddenly, every day I awoke to a bloated face staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. Both the baby and my head grew, as my tolerance and temper grew in opposite directions. I felt like the Hindenburg looked, well, before the fire. But I was a blimp firmly anchored to the ground by a passenger on board, and rarely by another passenger that is briefly on board, so to speak, if less than 30 seconds could be called boarding. I thought that the Big Bang Theory as it was called might be true, something from nothing, given how close to nothing that “less than 30 seconds” seemed to me. The hubby, named Doofus in my head, not out loud, not yet, had somehow procreated itself; he got me pregnant. Again, in my head, I had tried out other names for him: Sofa (since the shop mechanics are always sitting on it), Wingnut, Spanner, Grease Monkey, Banger or Lube Job (so not appropriate for him), Monkey Beating an Engine with a Hammer (I liked this one, a contender), Oil Burner, and Cletus (so close but not quite Doofus).

With lessening tolerance and rising temper, Doofus now gave me a wide berth. I was pretty sure that someone younger had punched his ticket, and lowered their gangplank for him to board. There was that tug of an imminent launch, geez, this nautical speak derived from my bloating, I was certain. Of course, a baby will not stay around to help another baby. My wish, please don’t let this baby in my belly be a boy, sure I will love it, but I just couldn’t mother the two of them. Did I forget to mention, my car remained unreliable and started only when it felt like it. He was not even a decent mechanic. His only solution, “I’ll jump it for you, hun!” which took him an hour as he wrestled with the theory of jumper cables, red-to-red or red-to-black, as sparks flew. 

In the end he started none of my engines, so our break up happened, divorce in the mail, so on and so forth. Now, Doofus seemed happy, which he always was, no matter what, with a new woman who appeared just about old enough to be his daughter. The baby continued growing inside me. Doofus wanted no contact. Maybe that was for the best, but time will tell. Sometimes the baby reminded me of him when my belly felt like a jungle with a Tarzan in there, swinging on that cord and planting both feet down hard on my kidneys. I peed often, yet another chore on an ever increasing to-do list. I still hoped for a Sheena, a queen of the jungle, and not another swinging you know what.

The tummy scan said it was a girl, and a girl came out. After all of that, the birth was easy-peasy. Time passed, Doofus exited stage left, yet I still spend much of my days reading and doing crosswords, but I replaced knitting with child care. It turned out that “the nothing” of my life acted like an elixir that manifested a beautiful something. She became a bundle of love, but occasionally there flashed a fleeting glimpse of a future wild child in her eyes—dad.

This time, my fourth and absolutely the last time, I took my first step, heading north out of Georgia. The beginning of a walk through a very long, mostly green tunnel of over 2,000 miles. For many hikers, the distance and obstacles encountered become a test of their endurance. For me, it meant another chance to embrace the mental state of not wanting, since not wanting is as close as I have ever come to being at peace. Of course, some wants remained, such as food, fire, shelter, and sometimes companionship. Any disturbance of what peace I may have found always occurred because of the companions encountered along the way, and just happenstance that sometimes they served as an entertaining distraction from trail mundaneness.

On the trail, almost everyone had a trail-name. Over time, I became known as Mercury, actually I am Trevor in the off trail world. After over 30 miles of hiking, time to set up a minimal camp; collect wood, start a fire, then hang a tarp on a rope strung between two trees to sleep under. A minimalist approach on this hike meant less weight to carry but fewer creature comforts, too. Less is good, I thought, as I sat resting and warming myself by the fire, always very sore at the end of day one. My minimal thoughts suddenly broken by two voices approaching out of the dark asking if they could share my fire, I gestured an invitation for them to sit. 

Now the usual introductory chatter began and so I braced myself, trail etiquette time. Both of them offered their trail and real world names; Cheri aka the Torch, Bruce aka the Potomac Chubby, so I shared mine. My name, Mercury, appeared in all the log books located inside the huts along the trail, so they had heard of me, but I knew nothing of them. Cheri the Torch, perhaps called that because of the immense pile of red curly hair sticking out from under that hat-netting-thing covering her face, I could not see her clearly. Bruce the Potomac Chubby, I did not know what to think of that name, but he explained his obsession with giving speeches from trees near the water’s edge. The Potomac part of his trail name came from the many times he had lectured, usually to himself, while perched at the tip of a pruned tree jutting out over the banks of the Potomac River. Such trees, a common sight while hiking the C&O Canal Towpath. Perfect acoustics, he said, standing atop one of those fallen tree-podiums, leaning out over the river, arms outstretched, broadcasting his live messages to no one. Also, the origin of the Chubby part of his trail name, because of standing on tree-podiums, usually held in place by big round clumps of dirt and roots, the whole arrangement resembling in silhouette a huge phallic symbol. Usually trail names do not have that much of a backstory such as his. 

Since the three of us got along okay, mostly, we continued traveling together, a situation all too common amongst hikers, brief encounters with no real ties. So for several months we hiked together, barely talking while walking, and being Mercury, for a reason, I walked faster, getting to the next campsite first, always. Yet we always regrouped for an evening to share food and talk around a fire, or during rain, staying snug under a tent or tarp cover. Bruce talked about all things science and spiritual, blending the two subjects together, sometimes making sense, other times not so much. Cheri and I feigned interest, content to let him do most of the talking. Being sure to nod our heads and ask a question when he paused, just to keep him talking. Evenings became a sort of Bruce mantra, like meditation before sleep. His best lectures, I called them, explored topics like beauty, desire, depression, and being an outcast. Often I sensed a melancholiness in each of us, perhaps depression, maybe an oafishness, but I never spoke about it.

Taking a break, we sat just off the side of the trail on some boulders, eating candy bars and resting, a ritual performed a countless number of times. Finished, we stood to leave. For both of them, that meant the dreaded moment of hefting their heavy backpacks back on again, but for me, just a minimal lightweight knapsack slung over a shoulder. Looking up, we three froze as something caught our eyes at the same time. We stared, entranced, as an absolute beauty emerged. It hung beneath the limb of a nearby tree, attached to the underside as shelter from the rain or to remain unseen. Wriggling, struggling, halfway out of its cocoon, we stood speechless. Finally, escaping the chrysalis, pumping to expand its wings, radiating out iridescent colors that exploded into our eyes. I wanted to shout out loud, “come and see!” to any who could hear, but I remained silent. To get a better look at it, even Cheri lifted the hat-netting-thing covering her face, even though she rarely revealed her face, always avoiding others’ gaze. Bruce, so stunned he turned to stone, quiet for once. 

Together we witnessed the birth of a butterfly, a beautiful happenstance, seeming to prove that no cage can restrain true beauty. So delicate a creature, yet able to fly across an ocean if needs must. Then one of its own kind landed on Bruce’s left shoulder. When it flapped its wings, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a full adult. It lingered, as if it too sensed the beauty of the magical transformation in another of its kind. Unknown moments passed, both butterflies took flight, leaving us in awe. Without a word, slowly, we made our way back onto the trail.

On that evening, Bruce displayed a rare oratory form, true pontification, not the usual droning lecture. Preaching to us how we should realize that everything is energy, not only the three of us humans, but everything all around us, simply energy made solid. It is everything’s chance to experience existence outside of the flow and the oneness that is energy. Our chance to experience what it is like to not always be in movement and everywhere all at once. It is a brief gift, he said, to experience separateness and being a self, all alone, as frightening as that may be sometimes.

Several rather quiet days had passed after seeing beauty. In less than four months, we finally arrived at our last campfire together. Tomorrow we leave the trail and each other, it’s back to the real world. In my experience on long hikes with other folk, this is when truths get shared. I do not know why it happens, but it is a common ending activity after hiking with others and so the truth speeches began.

Bruce, as I expected, spoke his truth first. He spoke about his mental state since childhood, as a schizophrenic, who had always lived with his mom in her basement. Mom, also a schizophrenic, he said. They loved each other, he said, but anger and fighting became a daily ritual. So much so that for many years, he would get away from the situation by taking long hikes on this trail. He said this time he hiked because, in a fit of rage, he had picked his mom up over his head and hurled her down the stairs. His aim, poor, he said, as she bounced off the railing to the first flight of steps without falling all the way to the bottom. Mom had only broken her arm, he said, but she called the police, yet everything resolved somehow, no charges, no guilt. The last straw, he said, and now he just wanted to roam around, experience things, be homeless. Bruce became silent. Staring into the fire, he contemplated the ending of one thing at the beginning of something new. 

Now, during Cheri’s turn to speak, she removed her hat-netting-thing, revealing her face in the firelight. I tried not to stare. She pulled a small laminated old newspaper article from her pocket, and we passed it around, reading it as she explained further. As a convicted arsonist, ten years in prison, and barely surviving the blaze with self-inflicted burns on her face, she also had spent many years hiking this trail, hence the true origin of the name Torch. The newspaper article offered details about several deaths caused by the fire she had set. Truly stunning.

My truth, definitely dull by comparison to theirs, to hike the trail one more time, I said, that’s all. Adding, I had no motivation outside the event other than to work off some melancholy. What I did not say is that originally I intended to hike the trail up and back home again. After listening to their truths and having spent days focusing my thoughts on the awe and beauty we had experienced with the butterfly, I decided to get off the trail and go home. Find my way to a hotel and book a train. More time to think in comfort. Perhaps the butterfly effect is not just about large chaotic events, like hurricanes, because I felt tiny inner stirrings deep within. My initial and rather vague thoughts were about doing something creative. Time to art.

Delta loved crawdads, mudbugs, red devils; call them what you want. She was good at catching them and better at eating them. Her trap was a rusty, dented old bucket, chopped slices of bacon (a sacrifice, yes), several feet of twine; that’s all she needed to catch them. Now, slip the trap over the side of the canoe and let it sink, just touching the bottom. Pull the paddle slow and smooth from bow to stern, skimming the bucket’s rim along the bottom, matching the water’s serenity as best she could. All the while enduring the humid air laden with mosquitoes. Drift along keeping a light touch on the twine, more skimming than dredging, really. She let her intuition say when to pull up on the twine, hand over hand, it was a heavy draw until the water escaped the tiny holes in the bucket. And, usually, there they be, a writhing mass, like magic. A bucket half full of those soon to be little red devils. Boiled in water, more magic.

But this morning, Delta’s bucket came up empty - save for a single crawdad clinging to the side, too small a catch to mess with making a fire and boiling water. Disappointed, she started back to shore... when she heard a strange noise coming from deeper into the swamp. It sounded like... groaning. She rowed towards the sound, yearning for a bit of something out of the ordinary… to take her mind off an empty belly.

As she drifted closer, she could see something moving in the water. It was a huge alligator, thrashing around. And bobbling next to that gator was a bucket half-full of crawdads. Dinner served! The alligator swam away, and Delta paddled back to shore with her prize: someone’s half-full bucket of soon to be delicious crawdads. Better to be lucky than good, or so they say.

As she sat by the fire eating those, now, little red devils, she stared at that newly discovered bucket. It seemed vaguely familiar, conjuring up a memory of long ago. She recalled meeting a trapper, who seemed to her more of a poacher, really, his name was Pierre. He had a way with animals; he said. They just seemed to take to him. Setting no traps; the critters just came to him of their own accord. All it took to call them was a special murmur only they could hear. “Psst,” he said, leaning in close as if sharing some great secret. “This is what you say: ‘Come to Papa, my little pretties. Come to Papa.’ Go ahead, give it a try.”

She tried it, knowing full well he was full of something, but maybe this would be entertaining—time passes slowly in a swamp. “Psst,” Delta said into the dark water. “Come to Mama, my little pretties.” She waited for a minute, then two - nothing happened. She was about to give up when she heard a very faint splash in the water. And then, out of the dark tea-colored water emerged a little mudbug climbing up onto a cypress knee beside her canoe! She was so surprised, it took her aback for a few moments.

But that was long ago, and she never saw Pierre again. She fell asleep, warmed by the fire and a full belly, dreaming of the strangeness on that day.

Waking early, as usual, she fixed some coffee, then pushed the canoe back into the narrow bayou leading out into the swamp. Today, she was feeling down on her luck, so she tried to recreate the experience with Pierre. It was a silly thing to do as it had never worked again, but just trying it made her feel better somehow. So she hissed into the water again: “Come to Mama, my little pretties.” And once again, nothing happened. She sighed, allowing the memory of conjuring mudbugs to drift away, resuming her paddling and tugging on the bucket. Hoping. Wishing. Praying for a miracle of miracles… a full bucket. More often than not, all she had was just an old rusty bucket full of nothing, even less after the water oozed out. So it was back to shore and home, empty-handed but not entirely, not really. After all, mudbugs or no, she loved being in the swamp; its murky timelessness seemed so resonant with the past. She had plenty of time to try again tomorrow.