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In March 1903, President Theodore Roosevelt declared Pelican Island in Florida "a preserve and breeding ground for native birds." That was the first federally protected area for birds. By 2003 this had grown to more than 540 wildlife refuges comprising 4% of US lands - 95 million acres. That initial designation was not without a backlash. It was done when bird feathers were the height of women's fashion, even to stuffed hummingbirds as an adornment for hats. The "plumers" (those who killed the birds by the thousands for their feathers) and the milliners were certainly among those who were most unhappy, but Roosevelt persevered in doing what he knew was right. An appendix in Douglas Brinkley's The Wilderness Warrior lists accomplishments during hiTheodore Roosevelt's eight years as president. There were 150 national forests created or enlarged; 51 federal bird reservations; 4 national game preserves; 6 national parks; and 18 national monuments. Curiously, none of these was in a great circle from Maine to Georgia across to Arkansas, up to Iowa and back east to Ohio. Two national forests in Arkansas were the one exception. Nearly everything was in Florida or well west of the Mississippi River. I found no explanation of why this is the case.
Roosevelt believed in the healing powers of nature. He understood biological diversity and ecology long before it was popular. He believed in Darwinism from an early age (He called Darwin the "Isaac Newton of biology."). Although he believed in a supreme being, Roosevelt saw the natural world as a "series of accidents." Humans had a "sacred obligation" to protect nature in his view.
Roosevelt drew a clear distinction between hunting game and pets. He believed all creatures felt pain so that abusive treatment of any animal was anathema to him. At the same time, he was an ardent hunter who believed, drawing on Darwin, that the natural world was violent. If wild animals killed one another, then an efficient death by hunting was actually a humane way to end their lives.
Roosevelt seems to have been bred and born to be a naturalist. His mother's tales of growing up in the antebellum South replete with "Georgia red clay, black bears, and beige panthers" led to a life-long obsession with natural history, especially birds. By age nine he was writing his father asking him to find certain plants that were hard to find. His father, a successful businessman and founder of the American Museum of Natural History, encouraged all his children to study the natural world. None took it to the lengths that Roosevelt did throughout his life. Even as President he would burst into a Cabinet meeting excitedly exclaiming that a certain bird had appeared that morning on the lawn long before it should have. He never lost the child-like wonder that comes with continually learning something new.
No biography would be complete without an account of the bear hunt because it illustrates so many of the positive aspects of Roosevelt, including sportsmanship and integrity. Brinkley devotes most of one chapter to this 1902 hunt in the Mississippi Delta. The bear was a bedraggled adult, which had killed one dog, not a cuddly, cute cub. The hunt was led by Holt Collier, an illiterate former slave and probably the greatest bear hunter in the country. A character in William Faulkner's "The Bear" was based in part on him. It was Collier who stunned the bear and tied him to a tree. The blow was so hard that it actually bent the barrel of his rifle. TR refused to kill the bear, and the next day newspapers carried stories about his sense of sportsmanship. The following day Berryman's cartoon appeared in The Washington Post, depicting his refusal to kill that "cute cub."
But, there was even more to the story. Word got out that Roosevelt befriended Collier, which, on the heels of having invited Booker T. Washington to the White House, caused some political problems. True to his ideals, Roosevelt did not let this deter his friendship with Collier. Then, Rose Michtom made two little stuffed bears and she and her husband got permission to make more and call them "Teddy's Bear." At $1.50 each the bears made a fortune for the Michtom's and the other companies that began to make them. Although Roosevelt had given his personal permission, he absolutely loathed being called Teddy.
Exhaustive, exhilarating, entertaining, enlightening. Massively researched, The Wilderness Warrior is well suited for an audience with a particular interest in conservation and all that encompasses as its focus is rather narrow, despite the 940 pages. If we are to believe contemporaneous accounts about Roosevelt's voracious reading and retention, he could have roared through this book in a couple of evenings and been able to quote long passages from it. For the modern reader, this is a biography to be read slowly and savored in small segments.
1.
A pity the selfsame vehicle that spirits me away from
factories of tedium should likewise serve to drag
me backwards into panic, or that panic should erect
massive factories of its own, their virulent pollutants
havocking loved waterways, frothing all the reed-
fringed margins acid pink and gathering in the shell
and soft tissues of the snails unknowingly in danger
as they inch up stems. Through the bulkhead door
I can hear their spirals plunk into the sluggish south-
bound current and dissolve therein with such brutal
regularity their dying has given rise to the custom
of measuring time here in a unit known as the snailsdeath.
The snailsdeath refers to the average length of time,
about 43 seconds, elapsing between the loss of the first
snail to toxic waters and the loss of the next, a value
equivalent to the pause between swallows in a human
throat, while the adverb “here” refers to my person
and all its outskirts, beginning on the so-called cellular
level extending more or less undaunted all the way down
to the vale at the foot of the bed. I often fear I’ll wake
to find you waiting there and won’t know how to speak
on the subject of my production, or rather my woeful
lack thereof, but in your absence, once again, I will begin
drafting apologies in a language ineffectual as doves.
2.
Daybreak on my marshland: a single egret, blotched,
trudges through the froth. I take its photograph
from the rooftop observation deck from which I watch
day’s delivery trucks advance. I take advantage of
the quiet before their arrival to organize my thoughts
on the paranormal thusly: 1. If the human psyche
has proven spirited enough to produce such a range
of material effects upon what we’ll call the closed
system of its custodial body, indeed if it’s expected to,
and 2. If such effects might be thought to constitute
the physical expression of that psyche, an emanation
willed into matter in a manner not unlike a brand-
new car or cream-filled cake or disposable camera,
and 3. If the system of the body can be swapped out
for another, maybe an abandoned factory or a vale,
then might it not also prove possible for the psyche
by aptitude or lather or sheer circumstance to impress
its thumbprint on some other system, a production
in the basement, or in a video store, as when I find you
inching up steps or down a shady aisle or pathway,
dragging your long chains behind you most morosely
if you ask me, the question is: Did you choose this, or was it
imposed on you, but even as I ask your hands move
wildly about your throat to indicate you cannot speak.
3. After the memory of the trucks withdrawing heavy with their cargo fans out and fades into late-morning hunger, I relocate in time to the lit bank of vending
machines still humming in the staffroom corner for a light meal of cheese curls, orange soda, and what history will come to mourn as the last two cream-filled cakes.
Eating in silence, a breeze in the half-light, absently thinking of trying not to think, I imagine the Bethlehem steel smokestacks above me piping nonstop, the sky
wide open without any question, steam and dioxides of carbon and sulfur, hands pressed to the wall as I walk down the corridor to stop myself from falling awake
again on the floor in embarrassment. If there’s any use of imagination more productive or time less painful it hasn’t tried hard enough to push through to find me
wandering the wings of a ghost-run factory as Earth approaches the dark vale cut in the heart of the galaxy. Taking shots of the sunbaked fields of putrefaction
visible from the observation deck. Hoping to capture what I can point to as the way it feels. Sensing my hand in what I push away. Watching it dissolve into plumes
rising like aerosols, or like ghosts of indigenous peoples, or the lump in the throat to keep me from saying that surviving almost everything has felt like having killed it.
4. (Plunk) Up from the floor with the sun to the sound of dawn’s first sacrifice to the residues of commerce. On autofog, on disbelief: rejuvenation in a boxer brief
crashed three miles wide in the waves off Madagascar, cause of great flooding in the Bible and in Gilgamesh. Massive sphere of rock and ice, of all events in history
(Plunk) thought to be the lethalmost. A snailsdeath semiquavers from pang to ghost where the habit of ghosts of inhabiting timepieces, of conniving their phantom
tendrils through parlor air and into the escapements of some inoperative heirloom clock on a mantle shows not the dead’s ongoing interest in their old adversary
(Plunk) time so much as an urge to return to the hard mechanical kind of being. An erotic longing to reanimate the long-inert pendulum. As I have felt you banging
nights in my machine, jostling the salt from a pretzel. This passion for the material realm after death however refuses to be reconciled with a willingness to destroy
(Plunk) it while alive. When the last of the human voices told me what I had to do, they rattled off a shopping list of artifacts they wanted thrown down open throats.
That left me feeling in on it, chosen, a real fun-time guy albeit somewhat sleep-deprived; detail-oriented, modern, yes, but also dubious, maudlin, bedridden, speechless.
5. Graffiti on the stonework around the service entrance makes the doorway at night look like the mystagogic mouth of a big beast, amphibious, outfitted with fangs,
snout, the suggestion of a tongue, throat, and alimentary canal leading to a complex of caves, tunnels, temples . . . There are rooms I won’t enter, at whose threshold I say
this is as far as I go, no farther, almost as if I can sense there’s something in there I don’t want to see, or for which to see means having wanted already to forget, unless
stepping into the mouth at last, pressed into its damp, the advantage of not knowing is swapped out for a loss of apartness from what you’d held unknown, meaning
you don’t come to know it so much as become it, wholly warping into its absorbent fold. I can’t let that happen if it hasn’t already. What draws me on might be thought
canine, keen-sighted, but it’s still incapable of divining why the constant hum around or inside me has to choose among being a nocturne of toxic manufacture, the call
of what remains of the jungle, or else just another prank on my gullible anatomy. Am I not now beset in the utmost basement of industry? Is that basement itself not beset
by the broad, black-green, waxy leaves of Mesoamerica? And haven’t I parted those selfsame leaves, discovering me asleep on my own weapon, threat to no one but myself?
6. Asked again what I miss the most about my former life, I remember to pause this time, look left, a little off camera an entire snailsdeath, an air of sifting the possibilities,
I eliminate certain objects and events from the running right off the bat, such as when their great displeasure brought the gods to turn to darkness all that had been
light, submerging mountaintops in stormwater, the gods shocked by their own power, and heartsick to watch their once dear people stippling the surf like little fishes.
Or when the flaming peccary of a comet struck the earth with much the same effect, waves as high as ziggurats crashing mathematically against our coastlines, scalding
plumes of vapor and aerosols tossed into the atmosphere spawning storms to pummel the far side of the earth, approximately 80 percent of all life vanished in a week.
Or when we squandered that very earth and shat on it with much the same effect, and more or less on purpose, emitting nonstop gases in the flow of our production,
shoveling it in as ancient ice caps melted, what difference could another make now. And so I clear my throat, look directly into the camera, and even though it will make me
come off bovine in their eyes, I say that what I miss the most has to be those cream-filled cakes I used to like, but then they prod me with their volts and lead me back to the barn.
7. After the panic grew more or less customary, the pity dissolved into a mobile fogbank, dense, reducing visibility from the rooftop observation deck. Mobile in the sense
that it possessed mobility, not in the sense that it actually moved. Because it didn’t. It just stayed there, reducing visibility but not in the sense that it simply diminished it
or diminished it partly. Because it didn’t. It pretty much managed to do away with it altogether, as my photography will come to show: field after field of untouched white.
After the possibility of change grew funny, threadbare, too embarrassing to be with, I eased into the knowledge that you’d never appear at the foot of the bed, the vale
turned into a lifetime’s heap of laundry, and not the gentle tuffets and streambanks of an afterlife it seems we only imagined remembering, that watercolor done in greens
and about which I predicted its monotony of fair weather over time might deaden one all over again, unless being changed with death means not only changing past change
but past even the wish for it. I worried to aspire towards that condition might actually dull one’s aptitude for change. That I would grow to protect what I wished to keep from
change at the cost of perpetuating much that required it. In this sense I had come to resemble the fogbank, at once given to motion but no less motionless than its photograph.
The last time I saw myself alive, I drew the curtain back from the bed, stood by my sleeping body. I felt tenderness towards it. I knew how long it had waited, and how little
time remained for it to prepare its bundle of grave goods. When I tried to speak, rather than my voice, my mouth released the tight, distinctive shriek of an aerophone of clay.
I wanted to stop the shock of that from taking away from what I felt. I couldn’t quite manage it. Even at this late hour, even here, the purity of a feeling is ruined by the world.
8. The noises from the basement were not auspicious noises. I wanted to live forever. I wanted to live forever and die right then and there. I had heard the tight, distinctive shriek.
Here again and now. I no longer have legs. I am sleeping. Long tendrils of tobacco smoke, composed of carbon dioxide, water vapor, ammonia, nitrogen oxide, hydrogen cyanide,
and 4000 other chemical compounds, penetrate the room through the gap beneath the door and through heating vents with confidence. They are the spectral forms of anaconda.
The ruler of the underworld smokes cigars. A certain brand. Hand-rolled. He smiles as if there is much to smile about. And there is. He is hollow-eyed, toothless. His hat, infamous:
broad-brimmed, embellished with feathers, a live macaw. His cape is depicted, often, as a length of fabric in distinctive black and white chevrons. Otherwise, as here, the full pelt
of a jaguar. On a barge of plywood and empty milk cartons he trudges through the froth. He is the lord of black sorcery and lord of percussion. He is patron of commerce. He parts
the leaves of Mesoamerica, traveling with a retinue of drunk ax wielders, collection agents. His scribe is a white rabbit. Daughter of moon and of night. Elsewhere, you are having
your teeth taken out. There is no music left, but I still feel held captive by the cinema, and in its custom, I believe myself capable of protecting myself by hiding my face in my hands.
The night sky in North Korea might be the most brilliant in northeast Asia, the only airspace spared the coal dust, Gobi Desert sand, and carbon monoxide choking the rest of the continent. And no electrical glow competes with the intensity of the stars there. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, which had propped up its old Communist ally with cheap fuel oil, North Korea’s power stations rusted into ruin. The lights went out. Now when the sun drops low in the sky, the landscape fades to gray and the squat little houses are swallowed by the night. Entire villages vanish into the dusk. Even in parts of Pyongyang, the capital, you can stroll down the middle of a street at night without being able to see the buildings on either side.
Such darkness is a curse, of course, but it also has its advantages. If you are a teenager dating somebody you can’t be seen with, invisibility confers measures of privacy and freedom that are hard to come by in North Korea. You can do what you like without worrying about the eyes of parents, neighbors, or the secret police.
The boy found a spot behind the wall of the girl’s building where nobody would notice him as the light seeped out of the day. The noise of neighbors washing dishes or using the toilet obscured the sound of his footsteps. He would wait hours for her. Two hours, three hours—it didn’t matter: nobody owned a watch in North Korea.
There was only one road that ran through town and headed up to the mountains. They walked as briskly as they could without appearing to be running away from something. They passed a billboard of the smiling face of Kim Il Sung, North Korea’s founder and leader, and another praising Kim Jong Il, the leader’s son and successor. They walked under a wide archway painted with blue flowers. As the road began to climb, a valley opened on one side and the hills rose steeply on the other. Thickets of pine clung to the rocky slopes and between them, large unkempt mounds of purple wildflowers spilled over the rocks.
At first the young couple would walk in silence, then their voices gradually rose to whispers and then to normal conversational levels as they left the village and relaxed into the night. They maintained an arm’s-length distance from each other until they were sure they wouldn’t be spotted. Walking and talking, that was all they did. The conversations were animated, consuming. They would walk through the night, scattering ginkgo leaves in their wake.
Mi-ran and Jun-sang grew up in the outskirts of Ch'ongjin, one of the industrial cities in the northeast of the peninsula, not far from the border with Russia. They met in 1986, when there was still enough electricity to run the movie projectors at the local cinema.
When she was born, in 1973, Mi-ran was the youngest of four girls, which was as much a calamity in the Confucian culture of North Korea as it was in Jane Austen’s England. Mi-ran’s parents were ultimately spared the tragedy of having no sons with the birth of Sok-ju three years later, but his arrival meant that Mi-ran became the forgotten child of the family.
Her family was poor, but so was everyone she knew. Since all outside publications, films, and broadcasts were banned, Mi-ran assumed that nowhere else in the world were people better-off and that most probably fared far worse. She heard many, many times on the radio and television that South Koreans, in particular, were miserable under the thumb of the American puppet President Park Chung Hee and, later, his successor, Chun Doo-Hwan. They learned that China’s diluted brand of Communism was less successful than that brought by Kim Il Sung and that millions of Chinese were going hungry.
So Mi-ran felt she was quite lucky to have been born in North Korea under the loving care of the fatherly leader; and, in fact, the village where she grew up, just beyond the smokestacks of Ch’ongjin, was not such a bad place in the seventies and eighties. It was a cookie-cutter North Korean village of about a thousand people, stamped out by central planning to be indistinguishable from other such villages. In keeping with her father’s status as a mine worker, her family lived in what was called a “harmonica house,” a single-story building with homes stuck together like the little boxes that make up the chambers of the musical instrument. The entrance led directly into a small kitchen that doubled as a furnace room. Wood or coal was shoveled into a slot in the floor, and the fire it produced was used for both cooking and heating. A sliding door separated the kitchen from the main room where the entire family slept on mats that were rolled up during the day. With the birth of the boy, they were eight people—the five children, their parents, and a grandmother—and Mi-ran’s father bribed the head of the People’s Committee to give them an adjacent unit.
In the larger space, the sexes were segregated. At mealtime, the women would huddle together over a low wooden table near the kitchen, eating cornmeal, which was cheaper and less nutritious than rice, the preferred staple of North Koreans. The father and son ate rice at their own table. If the older sisters noticed, they didn’t make a fuss, but Mi-ran would burst into tears.
“Why is Sok-ju the only one who gets new shoes?” she demanded. “Why does Mama only take care of Sok-ju and not me?” They would hush her up without answering. In North Korea at the time, girls weren’t supposed to ride bicycles. There was a social stigma—people thought it unsightly and sexually suggestive—and periodically the Workers’ Party would issue formal edicts, making it technically illegal. Mi-ran ignored the rules. From the time she was eleven years old she would set out on the family’s only bicycle, a used Japanese model, on the road to Ch’ongjin. She needed to get away from her little village, to go anywhere at all. It was an arduous ride for a child, about three hours, uphill mostly, on an unpaved road. Men cursed her for her audacity—“You’ll tear your cunt!”—and teenage boys would try to knock her off the bicycle. Mi-ran screamed back, matching obscenity with obscenity, and she kept pedaling. The North Korean landscape is strikingly beautiful in places. It could be said to resemble America’s Pacific Northwest—but substantially drained of color. The palette ranges only from the dark greens of firs, junipers, and spruce to the milky gray of granite peaks. The lush green patchwork of rice paddies that is characteristic of the Asian countryside can be seen only during a few months of the summer rainy season. The fall brings a brief flash of brilliant foliage. The rest of the year everything is yellow and brown—and to an outsider the land appears empty: there are almost no signs, and few motor vehicles. Private ownership of cars is largely illegal, not that anyone can afford them, and even tractors are hard to come by, heavily outnumbered by scraggly oxen dragging plows. The houses are simple, utilitarian, and monochromatic. There is little that predates the Korean War. Yet every town in North Korea, no matter how small, has a movie theater, thanks to Kim Jong Il’s conviction that film is an indispensable tool for instilling loyalty in the masses. When Mi-ran was growing up, Hollywood films were banned from North Korea, as were virtually all other foreign films, with the exception of an occasional entry from Russia, and the North Korean films all bore the same message: the path to happiness is self-sacrifice and suppression of individualism for the good of the collective, while capitalism is pure degradation. Mi-ran didn’t mind the propaganda. She just loved going to the movies, though she especially liked the Russian films because they were less political and more romantic. Ticket prices were kept low—just half a won, a few cents, about the same as a soft drink—and from the time Mi-ran was old enough to walk to the theater herself, she begged her mother for money to buy tickets. Some movies were deemed too risqué for children, such as the 1984 film Oh My Love in which it was suggested that a man and a woman kissed. But Mi-ran saw everything she could. Jun-sang was every bit as a crazy about movies as she was. He always wanted to be among the first to see a new film. When he was fifteen, he went to see Birth of a New Government, which was set in Manchuria during World War II, where Korean Communists led by a young Kim Il Sung had been organized to resist the Japanese colonial occupation. The anti-Japanese resistance was as familiar a theme in North Korean cinema as cowboys and Indians was in early Hollywood. Jun-sang got to the theater early. He secured two tickets, one for himself and one for his brother, and he was pacing around outside the theater, waiting for his brother to show up, when he first saw Mi-ran. She was standing toward the back of a crowd that was surging toward the box office. Movie audiences in North Korea tend to be young and rowdy. This crowd was especially rough. The bigger kids had pushed to the front, blocking the younger ones from getting tickets. Jun-sang moved in to take a better look at the girl. She was stomping her feet with frustration and looked like she might cry. She looked exotic to Jun-sang, with well-defined cheekbones and a high-bridged nose. She wore simple clothing, a gray shirt and black trousers, and her hair was cropped at chin length. She didn’t make the self-effacing gestures of other North Korean girls, who masked their feelings as if they were shameful—the kind of girls, for example, who covered their mouths when they laughed. Jun-sang was immediately enchanted. He thought, I can’t believe there is a girl like this in this little town. He walked around the perimeter of the crowd a couple of times to get a better look. The movie was about to start, and his brother wasn’t there yet. If he sold this girl the extra movie ticket, she would have to sit next to him since the tickets were for assigned seats. He circled her again, formulating in his mind the exact words he would use to offer her the ticket. But he couldn’t muster the courage to speak to a girl he didn’t know. He finally slipped into the movie theater alone, and as the screen filled with the image of the movie’s heroine galloping across a snowy field, he thought of the girl outside the theater. When the credits rolled at the end of the movie, he rushed back out to look for her. But she was gone.
Barbara Demick’s Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea
It was raining as they drove out of Tacoma that morning. When the first car appeared he could see it from a long way off, dragging a cloud of mist like a parachute, and when it passed he touched the wipers to clear things up and his mind flashed to a scene of a black road, still wet, running toward mountains larded with snow like fatty meat. For some reason it made him happy, and he hadn’t been happy in a while. By seven the rain was over. The line of open sky in the east was razor sharp.
He looked over at the miniature jeans, the sweatshirt bunched beneath the seat belt’s strap, the hiking boots dangling off the floor like weights. “You OK?” he said. “You have to pee?” He slowed and drove the car onto the shoulder and the boy got out to pee. He looked at him standing on that rise in the brome and the bunchgrass, his little hips pushed forward. When the boy walked back to the car he swung the door open for him, then reached over and pulled the door shut and bumped out on the empty road.
Not much had changed, really. A half hour out of Hoquiam he began to see the clear-cuts through the firs: a strange, white light, as if the world dropped away fifty feet out from the pavement. He hoped the boy wouldn’t notice. The two of them had been talking about what to do if you saw a mountain lion (don’t run, never run), and what they’d have for lunch. Twenty minutes later they were past it, and the light behind the trees had disappeared.
He’d been at the house by dawn, as he’d promised. He sat in the driveway for a while looking at the yard, the azaleas he’d planted, the grass in the yard beaten flat by the rain. For a long time he hadn’t wanted her back, hadn’t wanted much of anything, really. He went inside, wiping his shoes and ducking his head like a visitor, and when the boy came running into the living room he threw him over his shoulder, careful not to hit his head on the corner of the TV, and at some point he saw her watching them, leaning against the kitchen counter in her bathrobe, and when he looked at her she shook her head and looked away and at that moment he thought, maybe—maybe he could make this right.
The forest-service road had grown over so much that only his memory of where it had been told him where to turn off. The last nine miles would take them an hour. This is it, kid, the old man would say whenever they turned off the main road, you excited? Every year. The car lurched and swayed, the grass hissing against the undercarriage. He could see him, standing in the river hacking his lungs out, laying out an eighty-foot line. “Almost there,” he said to the little boy next to him. “You excited?”
He slowed under the trees to let his eyes adjust and when he rolled down the window the air shoved in and he could hear the white noise of the river. God, how he needed this place, the nests of vines like something scratched out, the furred trunks, soft with rot. He’d been waiting for this a long time. A low vine scraped against the roof. He smiled. Go ahead and scrape, you fucker, he thought, scrape it all.
Eight years. It didn’t seem that long. Where the valley widened out he could see what the winter had left behind: the gouged-out pools, the sixty-foot trunks rammed into the deadfalls, the circles of upturned roots like giant blossoms of Queen Anne’s lace. A gust of warmer air shoved in: vegetation, sunlight, the slow fire of decay. Sometimes it wasn’t so easy to know how to go, how to keep things alive. Sometimes the vise got so tight you could forget there was anything good left in the world. But he’d been talking about this place—the rivers, the elk, the steelhead in the pools—since the boy was old enough to understand. And now it was here. He looked at the water, rushing slowly like flowing glass over car-size boulders nudged together like eggs.
He explained it all as they lay out their things in the mossy parking place at the road’s end. The trail continued across the Quinault; they’d ford the river, then walk about three miles to an old settler’s barn where they could spend the night. They’d set up their tent inside anyway because the roof was pretty well gone. Of course they’d have a campfire—there was a fire ring right there—and sometimes, if you were quiet, herds of elk would graze in the meadow at dusk.
When they came out of the trees and onto the stony beach he felt a small shock, as if he were looking at a house he’d grown up in but now barely recognized. The river was bigger than he remembered it, stronger; it moved like a swiftly flowing field. He didn’t remember the opposite shore being so far off. He stood there, listening to it seething in its bed, to the inane chatter of the pebbles in the shallows, the hollow tock of the stones knocking against each other in the deeper water. Downstream, a branch caught in a deadfall reared up like something shot, then tore loose. For a moment he considered pulling out, explaining . . . but there was nowhere else to go. And he’d promised.
“Well there she is,” he said.
They took off their packs and squatted down next to each other on the embankment. “You want to take your time, kiddo,” he said. “People in a hurry get in trouble.” The boy nodded, very serious. He’d bring their packs over and then come right back for him. It would take a little while, but he’d be able to see him the whole time. He’d wave when he got to the other side.
He took off his pants and socks and boots, stuffed the pants and socks into the top of the pack, then tied the boots back on over his bare feet. The boy’s weightless blue backpack, fat with his sleeping bag and teddy bear, he strapped to the top as well, then swung the whole thing on his back. No belt. He looked at the boy. “First rule of river crossing—never buckle your waist belt. If you go down, you have to be able to get your pack off as quickly as possible, OK?” The boy nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
It wasn’t too bad. He took it slow, carefully planting the stick downstream with his right arm, resisting the urge to look back. Ten yards out the water rose above his knees and he slowed even more, feeling for the edges of the rocks with his boots, moving from security to security. The heavier current swept the stick before it touched the bottom, making it harder to control, and he began drawing it out and stabbing it down ahead of himself and slightly upstream to make up for the drift, and then he was on the long, gravelly flat and across. He threw down the packs and looked back. The boy was just where he’d left him, sitting on the rocks, hugging his knees. He waved quickly and started back. You just had to be careful. So what do you do if you fall? he remembered asking once—how old could he have been, seventeen?—and the old man calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t fuckin’ fall.”
The second crossing, with the boy on his back, was actually easier. They talked the whole time, and he made his way carefully, steadily, feeling the skinny legs bouncing against his thighs, leaning into the hands buckled across his collarbone, and halfway across, with the hot smell of the pines coming from the shore and the sun strong on his face, he knew he’d made it out the other side. Where had it come from—this slide into weakness, this vision of death like a tunnel at the end of the road and no way to get off or turn around? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was had passed. He and his son would be friends. Nothing mattered more.
The barn was just where he remembered it, standing against the trees like a rib cage. What could they have been thinking, building a barn, here, with ninety inches of rain a year? Its roof was half gone and its floor rotted through but there was something about pitching a tent inside that skeleton that was pretty neat, they agreed, and snapping the compression poles together—always a good trick—he remembered the two of them working together, quietly, easily, then his father crawling into the tent to lay out the sleeping bags. Something about rooms in rooms.
They set up the rain fly just in case, then shined the flashlight at the bats clustered under the peak of the roof, making them squeak like kittens, and went outside to the fire ring. It was a beautiful evening, still and perfect, the sky above the trees deepening to the blue of a butterfly wing he’d once found by the side of a trail in Guatemala, and they took turns eating the macaroni out of the pot (he let him pour in the orange cheese powder) and afterward they fenced with the marshmallow sticks and waved the torches they made against the darkness and when the marshmallows were black and sagging, they pulled out their uncooked hearts and ate them off the wood with their lips and teeth, delicate as horses. At some point it started to rain, and standing in the double door of the barn, the boy on a pile of boards, they could see the shapes of the elk coming into the meadow and they watched, staring into the dark, until the only way you could tell the herd was still there was that every few seconds one would shiver the rain out of its hide, making a small white cloud, like breath. He could hardly make out the boy next to him: now his hand against the dark wood, now the plane of his cheek. “Dad?” he heard him say. “Do the elk have to sleep in the rain?”
“I think they’re pretty well used to it,” he said.
“You think they’re cold?”
“Hard to tell. Wet, anyway.”
He put his arm around him—that tiny shoulder, tight as a nest—but, aware of the weight, didn’t let it rest completely. And they were quiet. Thank you, he thought, then mouthed the words to himself in the dark.
The rain made sleep easy. The two of them lay side by side in their softly crackling sleeping bags like pods, identical but for size. When he crawled out of the tent in the middle of the night to pee, the rain had stopped and he could see stars through the missing places in the roof. Later he thought he heard the rain again, but he’d been dreaming something about rain, and with half the boy’s rib cage cupped in his palm, he slept.
In the morning the ground was soaked but he managed to get up a fire anyway. There was a heavy mist on the meadow, and it rose and drifted across the sky in long smoky sweeps. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something so beautiful. After breakfast they left their packs in the barn and went exploring. He’d promised he’d have him back that night. They didn’t have to leave till noon.
The morning went too quickly, but he didn’t mind. Better not to overdo it the first time. There would be other trips. He wanted to leave things undone. They walked a mile up the trail to a tributary of the river where they found a big track pressed into the mud that looked like it might have been a cat’s, and then it was time to go.
They were about a mile from the river when he realized that coming back he’d have to hold the stick in his left hand: the current would be coming from the other side now. It didn’t matter; his right shoulder was a little stiffer maybe, so sitting the boy on his arm would be a little less comfortable, but that was all. It shouldn’t matter much.
He had thought the river sounded louder even before they came out of the trees, and it did. He understood right away. It wasn’t the rain—there hadn’t been enough to make a difference. It was the afternoon melt: in the mountains, forty miles away, the snowfields were melting in the sun. They’d slow in the evening cold, and not pick up again until the following day. He knew this. He’d forgotten.
Still, it didn’t amount to all that much. Looking at the river, you could hardly tell the difference. The boy had run ahead; he could see him throwing sticks into the current. He’d just have to take it slow, that’s all. Anyway, it wasn’t as though they could wait till the next morning; he’d promised to have him back. There was no way of letting her know. But it didn’t matter. Slow down, fella, he said to himself, but the sound of his own voice made him uncomfortable, so he didn’t say anything more.
He walked in over the wet stones and splashed some water on his face, then pointed out where the current ran clear and flat over fist-size rocks, thigh deep. He was thinking too much. He took off his shoes and socks and pants, retied his shoes, and slipped on the two packs, the belt dangling free.
“OK, kiddo,” he said, “same thing as yesterday. You just stay put right here, and I’ll wave from the other side.”
The current was stronger—he could tell right away from the pull on his calves, the sound it made—not much stronger, but stronger. He worked slowly, picking his path, lifting the stick completely clear of the water and jabbing it down, leaning into the current, avoiding any rocks larger than a plate. It was a good track. With a river of any size, there was only one way—straight across, maybe slightly quartering upstream. You had to pick your path and go. You had to plan ahead, never take a step you couldn’t move from.
Halfway across he stopped and rested his arm. It felt strange to be standing there, the current wrapping itself hard around his thigh. He looked at his watch. It was taking a little longer. So what? He’d crossed this thing a dozen times. More. Eight years was nothing. Same man, same river.
When he made it to the beach he dumped the packs and waved quickly and started back across. It had gone well. Well enough. His left arm was a little tired but he could rest it on the way back—the current was from the other direction now—and not having the packs made a difference. He tried not to look at the boy sitting where he’d left him on the opposite shore because there was something about the smallness of him in his blue shorts against the bank of stones he didn’t like and because he wanted to keep his eyes on the water, and yet when he slipped, the toe of his right boot catching on the edge of something then sliding over rock as slick as any ice, he was looking straight down into the water. He floundered awkwardly, stumbled, thrust the stick with both hands into the current as if lunging at something under the water, and felt it catch. He hadn’t seen it—whatever it was. He breathed, feeling his heart thrashing in his ribs. You never see it, he thought.
There was no point in waiting, so less than a minute after he’d slopped out onto the rocks and flexed his arms like Mr. Universe (“You ready, kiddo?”), he squatted down and the boy crawled onto his back. “You see how I almost fell back there?” he said. “You have to be careful. I got a little sloppy.”
“I saw an eagle,” the boy said. “It was enormous, and it flew right over the river.”
“Really?” he said, already walking into the water.
The boy felt a little heavier than he had before, and thirty feet in he hoisted him up and shifted the weight. “OK?” he said. He continued on, feeling for edges, probing ahead like a snail testing the air, then stopped and readjusted him again. When he stopped the third time, he knew it was going to be a push. He should have brought the boy across first. He wished he could switch him to his left, hold the stick with his right. He had to stretch his arm for a second, he said. He dropped his arm and the boy dangled from his neck, and then he caught him up and the pressure eased from his windpipe and they continued on. He tried not to look downstream. “How you doin’ back there?” he said. He was strong. He could do this.
They didn’t go down when it happened, but they should have. How he managed to stay up in that current, already sliding four, five feet downstream, slipping on one algae-slick rock, then another, he didn’t know. How he managed not to turn upstream or down, which would have been that, he didn’t know either. All he knew was that they were still up and the boy was still on his back and he was straightening up, still facing the shore, no more than a broomstick’s length from where they’d been a moment earlier. The current was mid-thigh and strong.
He could hear himself, breathing hard. “I’m OK, kiddo. I’m OK. That wasn’t good, but we’re fine.”
They weren’t fine. Ignoring the quivering in his shoulder he tried to take stock. The rocks were bigger here. He couldn’t get back to where they’d been. He couldn’t quarter upstream and intercept the path because there was a flat pale rock the size of a small table in the way, and the water below it was too deep. “Do me a favor, kid,” he said. “See if you can feel where my eyes are. That’s it, don’t worry—I’ve got you. Now when I count to three, I’ll close my left eye and you wipe the sweat out with your thumb, OK?” He could feel the boy’s thumb slide gently over his eyelid. “Good, now do it again.”
There had to be a way—something he couldn’t see. There was nothing. A step behind him, the rocks were smaller. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t step back. Crossing a river meant moving forward, holding the weight on the back leg while the front foot felt for purchase. Turning around was impossible. At some point he’d have to take the full weight of the current with his legs perpendicular to the shore like a tennis player anticipating a serve; unbraced, he’d come off the bottom like nothing at all. A thin stream of panic started in his head, dulling the sound of water. He looked around stupidly, blinking back the sweat. The shore looked like it was behind a screen. He moved his right foot forward, felt it begin to slide, pulled back. Fuck you, he whispered. Fuck you.
They’d get out of this. They had to get out of this. My God, all his other fuckups were just preparations for this. This wasn’t possible. He could feel the current—strong, insistent, pumping against his thigh like a drunken lover. Was this how it went? One stupid move? One stupid fucking move, and your son on your back? No. He could do this. He tried to remember the strength he’d felt, that rude, beautiful strength, felt it pushing back the curtain of fear. There was nowhere to go.
He could barely bring himself to speak. He couldn’t move. The way ahead was impossible. Far below, he could hear the water sucking on the shallow cavity made by his hip. The river. It wanted to be whole, unbroken. It wanted him gone. He could see it, forming and reforming, thick-walled jade, smoothing out its sides with its thumbs like a hypnotized potter. The water blurred. He wanted to scream for help. There was no one—just the rushing plain of the river, the trees. He couldn’t move. A muscle in his shoulder was jerking like a poisoned animal. What combination of things? Everything had come together. He couldn’t move. He was barely holding on. There was no way. The river ahead was smooth, deep, gliding over brown boulders trailing beards of moss in the deep wind. He wanted to laugh. For a second, he felt the hot, shameful fire of remorse and then unending pity—for himself, for the boy on his back, for the world—and at that moment he remembered hearing about a medieval priest who, personally taking the torch from the executioner, went down the line of victims tied to their stakes and kissed each one tenderly on the cheek before lighting the tinder.
“Dad, you OK?” he heard his son saying as if from some other place. There was nowhere to go. It didn’t matter. They had to go.
And then he heard his own voice, answering. “I’m OK, buddy,” it said. “You just hang on.”
We stop in a place called Smith’s in Paso Robles and order turkey-gumbo soup and lemon-meringue pie with black coffee. This ensemble somehow fits together although it sounds as though the tastes might clash. The theme from The Godfather is playing on the jukebox; very dreary and always reminds me of that shocking scene with the decapitated horse head. What goes on in Coppola’s mind? How could a guy come up with that? You must have to be Italian. The skinny waitress here has the worst skin I’ve seen in a long, long time. She seems to be drowning in Clearasil, poor thing. Already suffering and she’s barely sixteen. The decor in here is very weird: old-time meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, unless maybe they’re ice hooks. Either way it’s incongruous for a roadside café, it seems to me. After blowing laboriously on his gumbo soup, Dennis, out of the blue, starts telling me how his aunt had a stroke recently and can’t remember the names of things. Some sort of aphasia or something. She seems to recognize the object itself but can’t remember the correct name for it. Like “door” might become “key” in her mind or “dog” might turn into “bug.” Close but way off. I remember that happened to me once when I was a kid—not a stroke but the confusion about naming a thing. My mother became very alarmed about it and marched me over to the icebox. She threw the door open and began hauling out things like a cube of margarine, for instance, holding it up close to my face and demanding that I pronounce the name of it. I knew it wasn’t butter because we never had butter but I couldn’t remember the other name so I called it “majesty.” I remember the panic on her face, as though she suddenly thought she had a cabbage head for a son on top of everything else she was worried about like the old man and taxes and the price of milk. I think it may have also been the extreme heat back then. We were having one of those desert heat waves that summer where it would sit and swelter around a hundred and twelve at midnight for days on end. No rain. And this was in the time before air-conditioning was even thought of. The hills were all black and smoky from wildfires and when you breathed in you could taste the ash on the back of your tongue. At night I would have dreams where the clouds would just ignite into flames. Anyway, I don’t know why it was that I suddenly had this little spell of not knowing what to call things. It didn’t last long but it was as strange to me as it must have been for my mother. I absolutely could not remember the name for margarine. That’s all there was to it.
Cracker Barrel Men’s Room: (Highway 90 West) I understand there was a man who got trapped inside a Cracker Barrel men’s room once. (I’ve heard the story three or four times now in various convenience stores and gas stations just outside of Butte, so there must be some germ of truth to it.) He was trying to take a dump in peace in one of those oversize stalls for the handicapped (even though he wasn’t). He liked the extra space around him, the aluminum handrail, the hooks to hang his hat and coat. It must have been after closing hours, I guess, because the night manager had mistakenly locked him up in there and had also left the sound system on and, evidently, Shania Twain songs played all night long in an endless loop. Over and over, that’s all he heard was Shania Twain. She sang songs of vengeance and good riddance, infidelity of all stripes, callous treatment at the hands of drunken cowboys; maudlin ballads of deprived youth, the general inability of men to see into her hidden charms. Songs where she refused to be a slave anymore to the whims of men, like for instance making toast, doing the dishes, washing clothes, frying an egg, shopping for groceries. She wasn’t buying into any of that stuff. Then she had songs full of praise for her mother, prayers to her baby sister, her great-aunt, her sister-in-law, her sister’s sister-in-law. She praised God for making her a woman. She praised Jesus for her spectacular body and her luscious red mane falling down to her luscious ass. The man became desperate to escape the Cracker Barrel men’s room. He tried to dismantle the door hinges with his trusty Swiss Army knife. He tried pounding the walls. He tried screaming his head off but there was nobody there. No dishwasher, no waiter, no cashier, no janitor, no night manager, no one but Shania Twain, over and over and over and over again. There was no escape from the onslaught. The man collapsed to the tile floor in a heap of resignation and tried to fall asleep but sleep wouldn’t come. Shania’s voice taunted and tortured him. She clawed at his ears with her long silver talons. He hauled himself up off the floor and turned all the water faucets on full blast. He punched all the hand dryers. He flushed every toilet but nothing would drown out the piercing voice. He could still hear it pealing through the background somewhere, whining away in mawkish misery. He tried climbing up on top of the toilet stall and unscrewing the speaker but he stripped all the screw heads with his trusty Swiss Army knife and fell backward to the floor, impaling himself with the open knife blade. He writhed in pain and managed to extract the knife from his left thigh but blood gushed freely into the overflowing water of the sinks and steam was rising like off some primordial stew. He dragged himself through the darkening red mess of it, back toward the door, moaning like some butchered stockyard animal. He kicked with his one good leg and flailed his hands and screamed one last time but nobody answered; nobody but Shania Twain in her endless refrain. Then he surrendered completely and did something he’d never done in his entire life. He prayed. He prayed to Jesus to stop the bleeding. He prayed to God for a little peace and quiet. He prayed someone might find him before he drowned in his own fluids. Then a miraculous thing happened (and this has been verified by at least two eyewitness accounts—window washers at the very scene): the men’s-room door swung slowly open and there she was—Shania herself, towering before him in her spectacular body, her spectacular red hair, her spectacular lips, her spectacular tits. She was singing her head off. She was singing like there was no tomorrow. She didn’t seem to notice the man on the floor, bleeding to death. In fact she stood right on his chest in her green-satin stiletto high heels and kept right on singing. She seemed to be focused on something in the far, far distance but it was hard to tell through the steam.
Van Horn, Texas: (Highway 10)
Little waitress doesn’t get it, when I push my half-eaten steak away and ask her for dessert, that I really want dessert. She thinks there’s something wrong with the steak. There’s nothing wrong with the steak. I’m just ready for dessert. Another thing she doesn’t get is that I have enough cash in my left boot right now to buy a small car or half the town and when I ask her if she wants to take a spin around the dusty block she doesn’t understand that either. She thinks I have ulterior motives. I tell her I’ve just come from “the land of milk and honey.” She backs nervously away with my half-eaten steak on the plate and bumps right into the chef coming out of the swinging chrome doors of the kitchen. Chef wants to know what’s wrong with my steak and I tell him nothing—nothing’s wrong with the steak. All I want is dessert and she giggles as though the implication is that she’s the “dessert” and the chef picks up on this and decides I’m seriously demented road trash and starts asking me to leave. I tell him I haven’t finished my lunch yet and that I was very much looking forward to the butterscotch pie. He says the pies just came out of the oven and they’re too hot to cut and I tell him I don’t mind waiting but he says he can’t cut into any of them because it would sacrifice the whole pie just trying to get a single slice out of it. I tell him sometimes sacrifice is necessary. I can see them all steaming behind him on a Formica shelf, lined up like little locomotives—puffing away. He tells me it’s going to take quite a while. It’s going to be at least an hour. I tell him that’s fine, I’ll just go out and buy a paper and come back. I’ll stroll around the town and take in the sights. He says there are no sights; there is no town. But I tell him I’m a big fan of desolation. I’m fascinated by the way things disintegrate; appear and disappear. The way something very prosperous and promising turns out to be disappointing and sad. The way people hang on in the middle of such obliteration and don’t think twice about it. The way people just keep living their lives because they don’t know what else to do. He says he has no time for small talk and leaves me staring at the sugar.
Sam Shepard's Day out of Days, which will be published by Knopf in January 2010.
Here you'll meet the best of famous authors like Truman Capote, Hemingway, Susan Sontag, Nelly Harper Lee, Colmin Toibin, Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tolstoy, Maupassant, O. Henry, Clarice Lispector, Rudyard Kipling, James Joyce, Kerouac, and many, many other writers. Also you will watch videos with musics of The Beatles, Paul McCartney, Sepultura, Amalia Rodrigues, Taiguara, Iron Maiden, etc. and other videos.
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The main idea of this Blog is spread the habit of reading. Literature is part of our lives. When enter in the Literature world, we read better and we improve our though and imagination. I want, with this, divide a little of my dreams. Is to give opportunity to people read and know about works produced by ancient and contemporary writers, and mainly, myself to be insert in this wonderful world of the Letters.
