Grass Stained
June 27, 2009
First published in The Terrace Standard, June 24, 2009
I was driving my daughter’s boyfriend home the other day, when I was struck by wonderful take-me-back sight. He lives in a freshly built house, in an area that’s seen a lot of recent development. The object of my, “Oh, I love those!” was a large mountain of dirt, the result of some foundation or another. It was at least a season old, thoroughly covered in knee-high wild grass—the broad-bladed kind that you can whistle on if you’re blessed with that talent (mournfully, I’m not), the kind you can tug carefully from its lower section to reveal a soft, tender, so-light-it’s-almost-white green end that’s delicious to eat, the kind that makes your bare legs itch when you go swishing through it, the kind that’s a haven for spit bugs who love to decorate it with their white foam, the kind that undulates in waves making a whispering, rushing-roar in the wind.
You may or may not have guessed by now, but I have a special affinity for that kind of hill, for that kind of grass.
Once upon a time, my grandparents built a huge new house in Hazelton, BC to replace what was forevermore to be called “the old house.” While the new house (twenty-five-years later, it’s still the new house) was being built and for a summer or two after it was moved into, my aunt/best friend and I called that hill, home. And castle. And ocean. And, well, a great many other things actually.
We each claimed a side of the mountain and made homes. Often, however, we were driven far from our green refuges. We were burned out in wars, were enlisted to go on holy quests, needed to find elf stones, or were surprised while berry picking by creepy-yet-wise crones who informed us of our real identities: royalty ferreted away while we were still babies to save our lives. Now duty called us. Our far off country was in dire need of someone strong enough, ferocious enough, mystical enough to vanquish the evil ruler who long ago killed our parents and took over the kingdom that was rightfully ours.
The latter made deep sense to us. We had, though happy with our simple lives, always suspected we had some unknown destiny. Scared but brave, we’d pack a paper bag full of smoked ooligans and another full of almost-but-not-quite ripe crab apples (My mouth waters even recalling those snacks!), and we’d head out while the sun was still high in the sky. Literally and figuratively, it would be a long while before we returned.
East, west, north, south—a different direction, depending on the adventure.
Across the short gnawed lawn and into the field usually meant we were pirates. Maybe even today, somewhere in that field, there’s still a lumpy weird island marked as ours with a big steer skull (though I’m sure it’s fallen off the stick by now). And there’s still a treasure. I know because I buried it myself. And we made a map. A tricky one. Too tricky. We never found our treasure.
Up the hill to the old barn to jump off hay bales—any number of misadventures could be necessitating those perilous leaps!
To the bone yard. Deserted vehicle after deserted vehicle after deserted vehicle—so many, you wouldn’t believe it. Is it five-hundred-years in the future and have we been teleported back to earth to see if we can somehow postpone its sure destruction?
To the beaver pond. To the end of the long driveway and along the gravel road toward—a destination never quite reached. Something, someone, would alert us—regardless of the world that we lived in—that it was time to head in. There was a feast to attend to.
After the feast, we headed for the hills again until the lovely summer sky turned purple-blue. Then we returned to our mountain, and if we were lucky, got to lie in the grassy sea and watch the first stars come out before we were remembered, and hailed, for bed.
My grandma scrubbed our feet with a soft brush and lots of soap in an attempt to get the dirt off our thick-as-leather soles, so we wouldn’t track up the sheets. But clean or not, our feet still looked black. She could never fully rid us of the grasses’ deep stains. It’s been many years since I’ve run wild all summer long in that favourite of childhood places. But the grass is still there, whispering, roar-rushing in me.
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