said. “Is that me?”
It wasn’t her fault.
She simply underestimated the distance already between us.
4.
S ummers before this, when I was eleven and Lindy twelve, a group of us kids spent the day gathering moss. We were back in the unkempt part of our properties, where we often played soccer and shot garden snakes with our BB guns. There were five of us: Randy Stiller, my next-door neighbor and best friend, a girl we used to call Artsy Julie (because this is how our parents referred to her when she did things like draw dragonflies on her arms in permanent marker or conduct elaborate wedding ceremonies for her cats in the front yard), Duke Kern, Lindy Simpson, and me. None of us were in high school then, and so tribes like this weren’t unusual. The idea on this day was to make the biggest pile of moss we could, and we did this by taking running leaps at the long beards hanging off the trees. We pulled down handfuls at a time.
I later found out that these lots of land were eventually developed for residential use, that there is now a Woodland Hills East, and I wonder about those trees. These were oaks that likely stood when Jean Lafitte was around, exploring territory along the MississippiRiver. These were oaks that hid dark-skinned Coushatta Indians, stalking meals of rabbit and deer.
For us they were a jungle gym.
Duke Kern, always tall, could climb any of them he pleased by grabbing the lowest branch and swinging his legs over his head like a gymnast. He had access to moss that we didn’t, so he sent down scores of the stuff. Randy and I collected it all in a pile as Lindy handled and shaped it. Meanwhile, Artsy Julie sat in the grass and made necklaces out of clovers, as if we weren’t even there.
When the gang of us had stripped every tree in sight, we had a pile about six feet long, maybe five inches deep. We stood around it, confused and breathing heavily, not having considered what to do once it was made. After a moment, Lindy suggested we jump over it.
Randy agreed.
“Whatever part of your body touches it,” he said, “gets eaten by alligators.” He tapped the moss with his toe and then limped around in pained circles. “So, you have to walk around like this.”
Artsy Julie laughed. We all did.
Duke Kern said that he thought it looked like a bed.
This idea struck me as so unimaginative, so uninteresting, that I was disappointed to see him and Lindy lie in it. The story now was that this was the Royal Bed, fit only for the king and queen of the yard. There had been no election to this effect, no discussion among the rest of us, but there was also no argument. If we were to couple up at this age, this would be the only thing to make sense. We understood that. And so Randy, always a trusty sidekick, took up his station as an imperial guard.
“Be careful, Your Highness,” he said. “If you step out of bed you’ll get eaten by sharks.”
Artsy Julie soon fell into the scene as well, tossing clovers at thefeet of the royal couple and strumming an invisible harp. Duke and Lindy smiled. They pretended to drink from jeweled goblets, orchestrate the world with their scepters, and feed each other grapes.
Duke said, “Lindy, we must have an heir.”
Then Randy stood at attention. He said, “Intruder alert!” and cast an imaginary sword toward the edge of the woods.
I looked over to see Mr. Landry lumbering toward us. He wore a green T-shirt and blue shorts, both drenched in sweat, and had a long walking stick in his hand. I was terrified of this man. We all were. We had our reasons.
One of mine was that on rare occasions, back when my father still lived with us, or later, when my sisters would come home from college to visit, my family would sit on our back patio longer than originally intended. Night would fall and there might be a piece of meat on the charcoal grill, a solo light glowing from the deep end of our swimming pool, all made comfortable by the lilt of my mother’s laugh in family
It wasn’t her fault.
She simply underestimated the distance already between us.
4.
S ummers before this, when I was eleven and Lindy twelve, a group of us kids spent the day gathering moss. We were back in the unkempt part of our properties, where we often played soccer and shot garden snakes with our BB guns. There were five of us: Randy Stiller, my next-door neighbor and best friend, a girl we used to call Artsy Julie (because this is how our parents referred to her when she did things like draw dragonflies on her arms in permanent marker or conduct elaborate wedding ceremonies for her cats in the front yard), Duke Kern, Lindy Simpson, and me. None of us were in high school then, and so tribes like this weren’t unusual. The idea on this day was to make the biggest pile of moss we could, and we did this by taking running leaps at the long beards hanging off the trees. We pulled down handfuls at a time.
I later found out that these lots of land were eventually developed for residential use, that there is now a Woodland Hills East, and I wonder about those trees. These were oaks that likely stood when Jean Lafitte was around, exploring territory along the MississippiRiver. These were oaks that hid dark-skinned Coushatta Indians, stalking meals of rabbit and deer.
For us they were a jungle gym.
Duke Kern, always tall, could climb any of them he pleased by grabbing the lowest branch and swinging his legs over his head like a gymnast. He had access to moss that we didn’t, so he sent down scores of the stuff. Randy and I collected it all in a pile as Lindy handled and shaped it. Meanwhile, Artsy Julie sat in the grass and made necklaces out of clovers, as if we weren’t even there.
When the gang of us had stripped every tree in sight, we had a pile about six feet long, maybe five inches deep. We stood around it, confused and breathing heavily, not having considered what to do once it was made. After a moment, Lindy suggested we jump over it.
Randy agreed.
“Whatever part of your body touches it,” he said, “gets eaten by alligators.” He tapped the moss with his toe and then limped around in pained circles. “So, you have to walk around like this.”
Artsy Julie laughed. We all did.
Duke Kern said that he thought it looked like a bed.
This idea struck me as so unimaginative, so uninteresting, that I was disappointed to see him and Lindy lie in it. The story now was that this was the Royal Bed, fit only for the king and queen of the yard. There had been no election to this effect, no discussion among the rest of us, but there was also no argument. If we were to couple up at this age, this would be the only thing to make sense. We understood that. And so Randy, always a trusty sidekick, took up his station as an imperial guard.
“Be careful, Your Highness,” he said. “If you step out of bed you’ll get eaten by sharks.”
Artsy Julie soon fell into the scene as well, tossing clovers at thefeet of the royal couple and strumming an invisible harp. Duke and Lindy smiled. They pretended to drink from jeweled goblets, orchestrate the world with their scepters, and feed each other grapes.
Duke said, “Lindy, we must have an heir.”
Then Randy stood at attention. He said, “Intruder alert!” and cast an imaginary sword toward the edge of the woods.
I looked over to see Mr. Landry lumbering toward us. He wore a green T-shirt and blue shorts, both drenched in sweat, and had a long walking stick in his hand. I was terrified of this man. We all were. We had our reasons.
One of mine was that on rare occasions, back when my father still lived with us, or later, when my sisters would come home from college to visit, my family would sit on our back patio longer than originally intended. Night would fall and there might be a piece of meat on the charcoal grill, a solo light glowing from the deep end of our swimming pool, all made comfortable by the lilt of my mother’s laugh in family
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