Last Year in the Nest and Beyond

Honestly, I don’t remember much from that last year that I lived as a dependent minor. We were in a mobile home in the hills. Dad was working on his dream home in the country and my brothers and I were helpers in the labor. The land was bought on contract for under $10k and was very choice. I had a little nest outside in an opening just below the house where the forest gave way to sun where I stashed my obsidian. It’s where I sat to chip arrowheads. Grandpa had made two runs to Glass Bute and brought me a supply each time, once when I was ten and then again when I was fifteen. After I got out of the Air force I stopped breaking the stones up for arrowheads pending the acquisition of a rock saw. I’ll slab up the remainder and that should last me the rest of time. There came a point where it would be too wasteful to get arrowhead blanks out of what I have without slabbing the stone.

This backward photo is of “the bunkhouse” where the washer and dryer were and my bedroom was in the main room. No heat. One window. It’s where I bunked for a few months after i got out of the Air Force also. Dad was there part of the time then he moved into town. The attic was where the “chicken” drawing was found among mildewed school work saved from our entire school careers. Here was where dad talked me out of leaving when I was sixteen or seventeen when I had absolutely had it with my mother.

After dad moved to town to be nearer his sweetie pie (he and mom had long since parted ways) I made a bunk bed out of trees hewn down for that purpose. I also played Pink Floyd at high volume to hear it echo down the canyon. Now that I think of it, that was rude.

I cut my hand with a saw once, and I ran inside to grab my journal so I could write in it with this uniquely organic ink. Then I bandaged up and went back to cutting wood.

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We dug out roots to make way for a yard and we carted out tons of red earth from the basement via wheel barrow. I liked the work despite its tedium but was spared participation in the dig after my brother sent me flying when as a passenger on his little Harley Davidson motorcycle I was unable to retain my seat when he drove into the back of a pickup under acceleration.

Ann was uniquely suited as my girl friend, though the status was short lived. She was bright and sunny. Either it was a testament to the simplicity of my new writing system or more likely to her brains but she mastered that alphabet easily and we sent notes back and forth in study hall using it.

I always had fond memories of her. Finally I met her a few years ago at the place she’d worked for decades and we caught up on each other. Honestly, I have no recollection of our ‘break up’ but it left a different impression on her than on me. I’m glad we got each other’s perspective and I love learning what exactly happened. I still don’t recall the details personally but was happy to learn that no one had misbehaved or done anything wrong.

I used to go to her house to see her and her four year old little sister thought it was fun to step on my foot and ask if it hurt. I told her it tickled or that it felt nice. She was a tiny thing. She complained to her mom, “He says EVERYTHING feels good!”

One night I went up on bald mountain which was near her house. Jim brought his minibike and used it to transport us all to the top where we were rained out. It also got us to the bottom and we spent the night on Ann’s living room floor and in the morning her mom cooked us pancakes and chocolate milk.

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Oh, about that motorcycle accident, it was hot outside and we were returning from work at the bean field. I think it was August. I didn’t want to wear the helmet but there was no where to stow it. I put it on my head but didn’t buckle it on so it protected me on first impact, flew off, and did me no good afterward. Probably it saved my life. I woke up confused on the road.

Photo below: stump removal behind the corner wall of the basement. Dad had the walls inspected and was informed that he’d have to drop rebar between the cinderblocks and fill the voids with concrete. We all put work into that place. I wish I’d been able to buy it. Here, I’m a junior or senior in high school and resting after triumphing over the little stump. Should have just dug it out.

This is how my high school year book photo looked shortly after I got the book. I didn’t like the picture and felt that the long denied beard was stock equipment. So it was added and the beadie used car salesman eyes were sunglassed. All thanks to the miracle of Bic pen. Mom knitted the sweater. It was something she was expert at.