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Nomad
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Nomad |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap 
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Morning is over, for all practical purposes; as usual, I am about three hours late. Still on California time, I muse, watching the first half of the day fade into the restless noon as I sip my coffee gingerly. This afternoon promises to be balmy. Not a surprise, really, given that Florida's humidity rarely drops below ninety-eight percent on any given summer day. In the eastern distance, skies are already showing signs of the three o'clock storms. "Could set yer watch by ‘em," my grandfather always said – and it did seem that way, sometimes. Summer thunderstorms here are like unwanted dinner guests: always punctual, of course, and invariably the only thing known to make more noise than the cicidas. I grinned at the approaching clouds, gator that I am; I love the storms, if only because the tourists hate them. There is little in life more entertaining that watching a drenched Brazilian vacationer stumble into a beachside shop, garish Florida T-shirt plastered to his body, his dignity dripping away into little pools of rainwater about his feet. So much for those imported leather sandals, mister. It does nothing at all to cure them of their inherent rudeness, to be sure – but it does wonders for my twisted sense of justice. In truth, though, the storms are much more to me than Nature's revenge against the tourist population. Florida natives – or ‘gators,' as we have been dubbed – have rough weather in our blood. We remember splashing in mammoth mud puddles that never had the chance to dry up before they were filled again, hefting a child's proud harvest of wriggling tadpoles in a jelly jar filled with yesterday's rain. Or lying flat on the open grass when the sudden rain caught us too far from home, carefully avoiding the shelter of the trees because they had some mysterious power to attract lightning. And later, sneaking into the house, dripping wet, only to find Mother waiting with a sound scolding and a warm towel. We fell asleep to the growl of thunder. For the most part, the storms were what I missed when I left this place – that, and the green. Florida's two "seasons" – summer, and not-quite-summer – leave little room for the normal life cycle of vegetation. In short, we are green year-round: cloyingly, painfully green at times, when the rains coax the smell of verdancy from the earth and every breath is warm and sticky with life. Central California, beautiful as it was, emerged as a bit of a shock to me. My first visit there had been in the beginning of Spring, and at first it was not too different than what I was used to, mountains notwithstanding. There was still green grass -- and blue sky, provided your eyes didn't stray too close to the horizon where the smog lingered. I soon learned, though, that smog was the least of the differences I would see. The rivers there were rocky and restless; nothing like the wide, brown serpents I was accustomed to, slithering sedately between their banks as though they had no particular place to go, nor any reason to get there. It almost seemed more foam than water, in some places; rushing desperately between boulders, or over them, voicing its displeasure in a dull roar which hung over the surface of the water like a mist. In others, it was simply a silent, glassy black, with only an almost-imperceptible churning to belie the deadly undercurrent that coiled beneath the calm. No need for cottonmouths, I remember thinking. The rivers here can kill you all by themselves. The irony of the river was only compounded by the fact that it ran through, of all things, a park. The area was the ideal of a pastoral scene, complete with flowers of every hue swaying in gentle breezes and the sound of children playing in the distance. Tourists brandished their cameras and plodded noisily on paved paths which cut an orderly, if unsightly, swath through the green; pairs of lovers scorned the paths, taking their whisperings to the relative shelter of the surrounding boulders and brush. And Death, in icy black and churning white, insinuated himself amongst the trappings of Life as though he had a right to be there – which, perhaps, he did. Still, it was a bit unnerving. If summer in California could have been more unlike summer in Florida, I can't imagine how. The only real similarity was the heat, but even that was different; California was hot and arid, desertlike even in the agrarian areas; Florida's heat was, of course, close and humid. It took my lungs a while to get used to the drier air; at times I found myself sympathizing with a frog trapped on a hot rock. As the days went by and temperatures climbed, I discovered that "The Golden State" was not a misnomer: the uncompromising heat had leached all the green from the earth, leaving everything painted in some variation of sun-bleached gold. At first, it was pretty, being new to me, but as the season wore on, it became intimidating and finally, exhausting. I spent the better part of every afternoon praying for rain, cursing the novelty of being able to actually see the slant of the three o'clock sun. The mountains, blessed reservoirs of cooler air, were still my refuge. Visiting the sequoias for the first time was an experience I shall not soon forget. Many an hour I have spent pondering their lifespans of centuries, which culminate in the proud maturity of being the largest living creature on earth. Had I seen the very mountains draw breath and speak, I could not have been more awed. California was a conundrum indeed; here, I saw towering mountains melt into featureless desert; I heard winds that roared like waterfalls and trees that, finding that there was no soil to be had, grew happily in nothing but sterile rock. It was here that I stretched so close to the sky that I tasted the crispness of the blue. Here, I saw clearly the colors of the stars, and here was where I first knew silence. It came upon me in the wake of a breeze that smelled heavily of pine. The trees shook in gentle quiescence, and the zephyr, satisfied, faded to a whisper and died. A thrush called, and then there was nothing. I stopped, mesmerized and amazed by the absence of sound. It lasted a mere instant -- it was as much the fault of my ears being depressurized as it was the stillness of the forest – but it was there, it was real. I had never heard anything more strange in my life; in Florida, the scolding of jays and the buzzing of cicidas only give way to the song of crickets and the hum of mosquitos. Never, even in the remotest location, had I ever head a hush so complete and yet so natural. It was as time stood still, pausing in his march for that moment, that a mere human might know a glimpse of true peace. It has been said that many ancient cultures lived a nomadic lifestyle, sometimes for many generations, until they finally settled in their own "promised land." They traveled, restless, until they found the place that called to them, that declared itself ‘home' without benefit of or need for words or consideration. There they lived and there they died, finally giving their bodies to the place that owned their hearts and their souls from the very first time they laid eyes on it. Perhaps it was the fishing and hunting that called to them; perhaps it was the rich soil for planting that convinced these ancient peoples to stay. Or perhaps it was where, on reaching that alien summit, they first heard silence. Suddenly, the Florida air is too close, and the birds' gay songs loud and grating. "Too hot for coffee," I mutter, retreating from my porch into the shuttered house, which is full of shadow and memory. YOUR LIFE IS A TEST It is only a test ... If this were your Actual Life, you would have been given better instructions! |
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| © Copyright 2000 Linda Anderson - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Simply magnificent! I loved this story and found these words gave me shivers: they first heard silence Wow! |
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
I loved this one muchly! I liked how you tied it all in with the Nomads of history and offered your thoughts on them... and that moment of silence was perfect.. Silence is golden, indeed... Abrahm Simons "Keep on dreamin' boy 'cause when you stop dreaming it's time to die" - Blind Melon |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Perhaps it was the Cali boy in me which made this so powerful, but this piece was amazing. It took me on a journey and placed me in your shoes. Again, I would love to tear this apart... but it hits too close to home.  |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
Amazing it is...and Chris, I would like to see you try to tear this apart...you, Skyfyre, are one helluva writer. |
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