At the End of the Street
By Susan Whitlock
Up the street she walked: summer,
winter, autumn, spring. Over the mound
of weedy grass that led from the white curb to the first swaying trees. The trail led through some brush and down a
path on a tree-dotted hill. Then there
was a wide, pan-shaped meadow of dirt and grass and little tree-lings that held
out hopping, chirping, buzzing, golden days.
Alone or
with friends she would go; drawn by some magical string that connected her
navel to “the woods”. She loved the
smells and sights and touch of those fifty-odd acres of freedom. Loved her little, suburban wilderness. They were as close as she could get, on a
regular basis before she could drive, to the forests and glens and rivers of
her dreams and daydreams.
Along the
paths to the right or the left – or straight-ahead, down the slope to the
little stream – she would plunge. Was it
a stream? Or was it a creek? Certainly not a river – though she could
pretend if a river was needed.
More like a
combination of natural creek and housing development drainage for who knows
what! It didn’t always smell nice. Sometimes in the hot, too hot, of summer
there was a definite sewage edge to the whole adventure. But that could be ignored.
In winter
she would plow through the cold and snow, with friend Janet in tow, and spend
an afternoon with Big Bertha - a large, smooth branch made into a staff (a
thing they transformed into a spear or icebreaker as the mood took them). And somehow they found Big John, a just-right
flat stone for smashing things in the creek or for carrying over to a little
camp fire for a sit.
They would
break the ice and ooh and ahh over the beauty of crystals and water and stones
and little creatures that should not have been alive in a place so cold. They would build a fire on a stony portion of
the creek bed – and smoke cigarettes and eat little snacky things pulled from
their pockets. And laugh.
There was
so much laughter ringing through those woods of her childhood. So many times alone in the golden sun,
experimenting with another kind of grass before Jesus led her away from Hippiville. Long hours spent wondering or writing great
books in her mind, she would stroll over the soft dust of the paths – unaware
of time or place or person.
So many
friends came there with her. In her mind
and by her side!
Boys that were like brothers – one
of whom she fell in and out of love with for the best five of her teen
years. Friendly boys, who took the place
of her only, older brother who had packed off to college in Lawrence, and finally moved away to California. The woods sealed these adopted brothers in
her heart forever. They guarded her
during her wild flings outside the woods.
Remember
the Hole? Of course you don’t! Let me
explain.
At the top
of the woods, right behind two of the boy’s home, there was a hole. And, with pick and shovel and boards and
nails and tin and whatnot – they expanded the hole and covered it with a roof. It was like a basement with no house; a
clubhouse that housed a club of giddy children - on the verge of being
unchildren. Here again with the smoking
of pot and the bumming of cigarettes and the telling of ridiculous jokes and
gigantic dreams; scheming, teenage girls and swaggering, sweaty teenage boys.
The woods
at the end of the street sheltered them all.
And she ran there to find herself when she knew she was lost. She ran in the hope that life was not as dull
as it appeared during school and while watching TV.
Sometimes
she would sit in a nest of clover or leaves and be so silent that others would
not notice her as they trekked through the woods on their way to growing up
themselves. Maybe it would be some of
her boy/brothers – or a couple holding hands and looking for a place that would
hold more, much more. Or just another
single soul – out for a walk and a fantasy before doing homework or going to
batting practice. And she would wonder
what they were talking or thinking about.
She would wonder if they felt the magic of these trees as she did. Did they come here by choice, or were they,
too, pulled up by the roots of their belly and reeled into the grove for
reasons beyond human reasoning?
It was a
good place to grow up. For that is what
she did there. So much more than in her
bedroom, or arguing with her parents in the kitchen or humming along with her
friends to the noisy music of puberty.
Here she decided to be extravagant.
Here she grew in the micro-increments of the soul, not in school where
you were graded on a curve. Here she knew
beyond the shadow of a doubt that she would serve Love like a slave…no, like a
bondservant of an older time– for she was willing. More than willing, eager – for this service
is why she lived. Here she knew that she
would make it. Here she decided – on
purpose – to never give up on high ideals and her dreamiest dreams.
The woods
at the end of the street held her secrets.
Not all of them – but the best ones.
The woods lifted her prayers to a God she would not know until she was
ready to climb out of that tree-place and walk away for good. The woods heard her cry. Knew her tears and why they fell. The little creek took those salty splashes in
and moved them along to the place where their message would be heard. Heard and responded to by White Light and
Hope. By Salvation – though she could
never have named Him then.
At the end
of the street, in the little, yellow woods, she wept the torrent of grief and
fear and longing that took over when they told her that her dad had cancer.
They told
her that he had cancer in his esophagus and that they were going to cut it out
and then there would be “treatments” and then he would be well. OK – how about some pizza? Did she want to drive the lusty, red
convertible down to the Pizza Hut and pick it up and bring it back for the
three of them to chew on like cardboard or leather while the agony backed up in
their throats and made breathing a real effort?
Sure! Into the smooth, white
interior she slid and turned on the key to hear that purr she loved to hear. Down the street she drove – turned right onto Cooper Road – and
right into the back end of a car belonging to some nice, middle-aged guy on his
way to wherever. And he walks back to
the snazzy, red Grand Sport and asks the little blond girl if she is OK… and
gets a deluge. Poor guy! Standing in the middle of a Friday night
there on Cooper Road
as this youngster sobs that she is sorry, but her dad has cancer…
*
* * * * *
She doesn’t
remember who delivered dinner or if the pizza was ever retrieved…but she knows
where her steps led when dad drove the bumped car back into the driveway and
gave her a hug and said – it will be all right, my little Suzie. Her steps said – I will be back in a few –
just going for a little walk…need a little smoke - O God! did she say that to
her daddy who had cancer? Her steps blurred
into a jog, into a run, into the woods at the top of the street. Down through the bush, down on the path, down
the bank to her favorite smooth tree that grew sideways out of the cliff and
over the water. And there she wept. For hours and hours she wept. Alone and not alone at all. And she grew up just a fraction more.
Up she grew
and the woods watched with sweet understanding as she fought through the next
wild and frightening years. She and the
woods - two lovers who were desperately trying to hold onto each other: but
death loosed their grip - one finger at a time… and misplaced her. They misplaced her – but they never lost
her. And for everyone looking on she
seemed mighty self-centered and hardheaded and crazy and insensitive to her dad
and to her grieving mom. But the woods
understood. Understood that she was dying
too – a version of her was dying, just as he was dying. A girl who was sheltered by her dad passed
away.
And after
those last two years – she stood up and walked out of the woods. Out of the woods after his funeral. Out of the woods after the lecture that she
was to stand by her mom. Out of the
woods into a new world of faith and healing and love. Out of the woods she marched – straight into
her life. Marched up the aisle and into
Rex’s heart. Marched away with the boy
who became the man who aged along with her.
And the woods gave the bride away.
At last – they gave her away.
O, the
places we find in the world to hold us as we live…as we expand…as we find and
nurture and exalt and fall and rise again.
They are all around us – a gift from God. They are in our own back yard. They are not far away. They are there when we need them.
Those
lovely, wistful places we are drawn to - right at the end of the street.
