See you next Sunday, Albert,” said Father Tom with a quarter-mile stare and slight nod, “and have a Happy New Year.” The Father spoke slowly as if choosing with great care each word spoken – even if they were general pleasantries – and to some he came off as aloof, but to Albert (who always looked forward to Father Tom’s masses) the deliberate pattern made Father all the more human. Albert didn’t always know the right English word to say or the proper way to conjugate a verb, and often spoke with the same careful cadence. Because of it, most people talked to Albert like a dense child – loudly and with wild gestures – but Father Tom always spoke to him in a hushed confidential tone, they way two friends share a secret joke. And Albert always left smiling.

Albert volunteered every Sunday at the Church, handing out fliers, greeting parishioners with a friendly ‘good morning’, and performing whatever little odds-and-ends came up over the course of the morning. At the end of the Advent, the Nativity scene on the grass lot was kept standing until the New Year. A few older voices grumbled that it should be taken down Christmas evening, but most people enjoyed the sight of the Baby Jesus, so there it stayed for an extra week, greeting the members of the flock.

On this New Year’s Sunday when the final mass was completed, a timid volunteer coordinator asked if any of the usual helpers could stay after for a few minutes to box up the Nativity. Albert was the only member who came forward, so he did it alone. As always, Albert smiled.

Albert was left with a large cardboard box for the wooden manger, and a series of boxes for each member of the scene – even the donkeys, oxen, and sheep had their own boxes. The volunteer coordinator handed Albert a key to the rectory before departing, telling Albert, “to…lock…the…door…and…put the…key…through the…mail…slot.” Albert smiled and shook the man’s hand.

“Happy New Year.” Albert called out with a vigorous wave as the coordinator hurried to the parking lot, but the man either hadn’t heard Albert, or had moved on to other matters. The man didn’t wave back.

Albert began by boxing up the animals – if there was a respectful order for dismantling the Nativity, Albert decided it would be most appropriate to begin here. He then struck the Sheppard, mindful when placing him in the foam padding, not to break the delicate wooden crook. Next, Albert collected the three Wise Men, who – Albert felt rightly – shared a single box. Finally, Albert was left starring at the stark scene of Mary and Joseph standing over the Child Jesus, their wooden faces filled with pride and with love and with relief.

Albert removed the star that hung above the wooden barn. He dismantled the roof and the three walls, until the new family was left in the open air – the sun was shining, so Albert didn’t think the Baby Jesus would mind.

Sorry to break this up, Joseph, Albert thought, picking up the figurine, but Mary and Jesus need a minute alone. Joseph’s likeness was heavy and solid, about two and half feet tall, and Albert needed both hands to lay it softly to rest in its box. Joseph’s painted-on face seemed to glow against the bright white packing foam in which it hugged so very closely.

“Thank you, Mary,” Albert said out loud without realizing, as he knelt in the grass to lift up the Mother of God. He cradled her in his arms; in the same way Mary is depicted cradling the Baby Jesus in countless reverential paintings. Mary face was in a state of permanent smile. Albert thought of saying the Hail Mary after placing Her to rest, but he simply smiled back.

Albert lifted the Baby Jesus out of the manger with both hands, though the Child was small enough to fit in one, Albert didn’t dare. He held Jesus in his cupped hands, examining His innocent face and all of the intricate details. Albert was thankful for the opportunity to hold the Christ Child, and thought about communion. He placed Jesus in the cardboard box and sealed the top.

It seemed a shame to keep the Baby Jesus tucked away for so much of the year only to bring him out for a small time, but Albert thought it made him appreciate the Nativity more because its physical presence was finite.

It took Albert five trips to lug all the boxes to the rectory, and beads of sweat dripped from his brow as he locked the door. The key jangled as it slid through the mail slot and landed on the wooden floor beyond.

Albert passed the grass lot out front of the Church, now ghostly in the absence of the Nativity. He knew that he’d miss if for the next couple of weeks – he did every year – and every December its reappearance would surprise him with joy. Albert hoped that he wouldn’t be surprised this year. This year he’d remember. Albert walked home, smiling.

Paul moved silently past the decorated homes. A thousand Holy Infants were born to a thousand different mangers in a thousand different front yards. The streetlights flashed red and green in the spirit of the season, and though the stars should have shown stark against the evening sky, even they struggled to rise above the fabricated glow. Paul had to squint to find the Old North Mother.

A bell rang out in a rusty peel: midnight. Paul was late.

Paul crossed against the warning red of an outstretched hand, rushed but not hurried. The church would be full, even Catholics who spend Easter Sunday’s at the buffet attend at Christmas, and Paul knew he would have no trouble slipping unseen into the back and leaning on his hands against the wall. There was something inherently childlike about this mass – it felt more local, less committal. And Paul knew the lyrics to all the songs. Everybody did. So, everybody sang.

In the distance, at first so soft it sounded like a hum, Paul could hear the peaks and valleys of the organ. And finally, he could hear the church and make out the words.

“Oh Sing all ye angels, sing in exaltation…”

People were still arriving in groups of twos and threes, fours and fives, friends and strangers (and near-strangers.) Paul slid up the freshly shoveled steps amongst a young couple and their gaggle of puffy-coated toddlers. The children buzzed with wide-eyed excitement, for them the mass was something new, a gift – a chance to see the side of the world hidden from the day. An elderly, avian woman remained singing as she shook Paul’s hand offering him a hymnal sheet. Paul refused with a smile. No need, he thought. Save the paper.

“Adeste Fideles…”

Paul did not know the meaning of these lyrics, though he had sung them many times, but he liked their sound – the shape they made in his mouth.

“Venite adoremus…Dominum.”

The final note of the organ echoed through the vaulting space – filling it. A community was met in the dead of night – filling it with life. Men and women from all corners, from this town (and beyond) had moved in what seemed like a secret to be with one another on this night – on this new day.

Paul thought of the incoming New Year, and of the year curtailing: he wasn’t unhappy, yet he was far from satisfied. A yearly hallmark always seemed to stir up the sediment of lost possibilities.

The priest rose, echoed by the crowd, and then spoke…and, for a moment, everyone listened.

Peace.

I found Charlie curled up in the linen closet under a spotty old blanket.

“No fair!” he shouted, and let out a big sigh, “You can count to ten faster than I can. It makes the game no fun.”

I told him the game wasn’t that much fun to begin with, but he didn’t really listen. Sam, my uncle’s old retriever, awoke from all the commotion and started up the stairs; his nails clacked against the wood. He wanted out of the farmhouse as much as we did, but with the rain, we were all prisoners for the afternoon. I was in charge: no one in, no one out.

“You hide now, Max,” said Charlie, “It’s my turn to seek.”

Hiding didn’t interest me, so we both just sort of searched for no one in particular. We had only been at Uncle’s a few months, so there was still a lot to explore. Sam tagged along.

Under the bed, Charlie found a dime and few pennies, excitement enough for him, but nothing to get me too worked up over. Sam licked at an old hog bone and spiraled down onto a hair-strewn quilt. Charlie petted him for a while, and counted his newly found treasures.

In uncle’s closet, I found neatly-folded dungarees and a pressed black suit; the space smelled like mothballs, so I closed it back up and left the room. Mother was given the guest bed; it looked like no one slept there at all. There were only a handful of dresses hanging on wire hangers, and two pairs of shoes – there wasn’t even dust under the bed. There was nothing, save for a bundle wrapped in brown paper. I fished in out and called for Charlie.

The package was named and addressed, but there was no postage. I didn’t recognize the street (or even the city), but I’d heard the name before: it was my father’s.

“Do you remember him at all?” Charlie asked.

I didn’t, but said that I did.

At the corners, the package was worn. It looked like one of Charlie’s presents on Christmas morning: opened and resealed. The tacky tape peeled back easy, and a pair of man’s bib overalls slid out. I held them up like a caught fish.

“He was big,” Charlie marveled.

I nodded and handed the pair to him. The pockets were empty.

“Do you think father misses his pants, Max?”

“He probably got some new ones and doesn’t even think about them.”

Charlie agreed that was mostly likely so, but he didn’t look happy about it. Once we were satisfied, we folded the overalls as best as we could, resealed the packaging, and placed it under the foot of the bed. Sam chewed at his bone.

We lost our urge to explore; so all three of us padded back down stairs. When we reached the kitchen, I asked Charlie not to tell mother that we’d been snooping. He liked the idea of sharing a secret and swore to it.

The remainder of the day was no more exciting than a rerun.

When uncle got home, he let Sam out. The dog buried his bone in the wet soil near the walk path.

Mother got home late; Charlie was already asleep. She kissed me on the forehead and pulled the blanket tight. I told her Charlie found thirteen cents and that I had missed her.

The realtor had told me that Mr. Cook was a punctual man, and he had been correct; Mr. Cook stood on the front steps a full fifteen minutes before the agreed-upon time, waiting. I felt late as I pulled into the driveway and hustled Emily up the stone walkway. My nerves calmed somewhat when the old man smiled and handed Emily a small potted plant, but I had a desire to impress him for fear he might rescind the sales offer and take the house off the market completely.

Mr. Cook gave Emily a hug and pulled me in close to shake my hand as if to tell me a secret, the way a lot of older men (particularly old salesmen) often do.

“Have you received the grand tour?” Mr. Cook asked beaming, “She’s a lovely home. Perfect for a young family.”

We had toured the home several times before, but said we’d appreciate his intimate knowledge, and now that the papers had been signed, he could be honest about any leaky pipes and loose floorboards.

“I wanted to meet you both separate from the lawyers and the bankers,” he said unlocking the front doors, “I trust it’s not too great an inconvenience.”

“We are so grateful for this wonderful home, and for you,” assured Emily, “We’ve been looking for so long, and now it’s all happening so fast. I don’t think it’s sunk in quite yet”

“Well, mi casa es su casa,” Mr. Cook concluded, “or at least it will be.”

Emily and I grinned.

The home opened into a hallway leading to the kitchen and dining room. Emily deposited our new plant on the marble countertop, and we both marveled at the bare white walls and naked wood floors.

“I hope the plant wasn’t too presumptuous,” Mr. Cook said, “It’s a tomato plant. They were always my wife’s favorite. She could never get them to ripen to save her life, but she did love tending them a great deal.”

Mr. Cook took us on a standard tour of water shut-off valves and circuit breakers, of toilets with jiggly handles and of doors with squeaky hinges. It wall all very kind and reassuring. In the master bath, he sat for a while on the edge of the tub explaining that he didn’t have the stamina for long walks like he used to. We lingered for what felt an appropriate length of time, but reminded Mr. Cook that I had to return to work. He apologized, but held my shoulder in his large hand.

“I’ve taken up too much of your time already,” he said, “but I have a favor to ask of you both and I think I’m in a position to ask for it.”

We agreed that he was.

“My wife loved this house. It was the only home we knew together. And though she’s gone, she continues to love it. I know because she still visits me, often at night but not always – but always in our home. I hope her bond to me is stronger, but I often worry. And I’d hate to lose her again. If you see her, tell her I’ve moved to be closer to our daughter. Into one of those old folks places we always dreaded. Tell her to come to me. And not to be afraid.”

That was our agreement and we stuck to it. We moved in three weeks later.

Emily and I grew tomatoes in that house and even though we had no experience as gardeners, they grew large, and red, and wonderful.

“Are we going to get to ride that,” Charlie shouted pointing at the approaching ferry, his mouth still splotched with chocolate soft-serve.

Grandmother said that we would, but that the people onboard must disembark first, so we both would need to be patient. She pulled a handkerchief from her large beach bag and wiped it across Charlie’s smiling face. That calmed him down for a while.

The large boat churned into the dock, sending the seagulls scattering into the gray sky. It was one of the large ferries with two stories for vehicles and two for passengers; Grandmother said it would take at least twenty minutes to clear, so she told Charlie to keep an eye out for sea otters. “They sometimes come around the big boats looking for a handout,” she said, “If you spot one, I’ve got some crackers in my bag you can give them.” Charlie learned out over the rail and squinted hard.

An attendant in a bright orange vest opened the small gate that connected the front of the ferry to the dock and I heard a chorus of engines turn over. Cars poured out in single-file parade. Others who had been waiting at the water’s edge returned to their cars anticipating their opportunity to board, but the three of us remained; Charlie and I would be walk-ons.

Passengers, mostly young men with canvas backpacks, exited down the steep gangway and filed past. There were two sets of queue paths like those of a carnival ride – one for entering and one for exiting – separated by a thin rope.

“I thought I saw an otter,” Charlie said kicking at the pier, “but it was only a rock.”

Grandmother told him to keep trying.

Moving down the gangway, I spotted something white amongst the dark woolen coats and faded flannel shirts like a coin sparkling at the bottom of a dark well: and then it was obscured. I waited for it, whatever it was, to resurface. It would have to pass me, so I knew I would get my look.

An older gentlemen in a pea coat bent to tie his shoe, and I saw her. She was, as far as I could tell, my own age (within a year at least) and in her hands she twirled a white parasol. I smiled. When I remember her, I always remember her smiling back at me, but I can’t be certain that’s how it really happened. But, for a moment, we saw each other. Her eyes were the blue of robins’ eggs.

“The otters are all sleeping,” said Charlie with scholarly confidence, “there aren’t any here today.”

Grandmother told Charlie that he’d make a great lookout someday, and that he needed to keep an eye on me so that one of us didn’t get lost. “Uncle will meet you at your destination,” she said, “but until then, you both have each other.”

“Grandmother?” I asked, “All these people leaving, do they live here?”

She said that some came for visits (like Charlie and me), but most lived here at least part time.

“Can we come back real soon?”

“That’s up to your mother, Max,” she said, “but I’d love to have you both any time.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I want to see an otter,” Charlie stated in agreement.

Grandmother gave us both a big hug and a sack lunch for the trip.

“Tell your mother to call me when you get home safe,” she said.

The line of passengers lurched into motion, we said our final goodbyes, and boarded for the journey home.

I never saw that white parasol again, but it resurfaces every once in a while in my mind, and every time that it does, I smile.

The events of September 11th will always be inexorably linked (in my mind anyway) with the events of several years prior that took place at a Columbine, Colorado. If I were five or six years older I may have felt the same about the Challenger disaster, but (as it is) I am too young to remember that tragedy first hand. These were the events that unfolded for me (and for millions of people my age) on television screens in classrooms, on the kinds of devices that were just out-of-date enough to be available in public schools, and were often strapped by a kind of seat belt to a rolling metal dolly that can only be found in Audio Visual departments and some hospitals.

Looking back, it still seems surreal that I experienced that horrible day they same way that I learned about The Cosmos from Carl Sagan, but we as a class (or a school, or a country) processed those images of confusion and of horror as a community, and that was important. I have never talked to anyone my age (In fact, I don’t remember talking to anyone, period) that watched those events alone. Some moments are simply too large for one person to comprehend without support.

I was in high school in Redmond, Washington on that particular Tuesday, and our school began at seven o’clock Pacific Standard time (10 am EST), and I was out of district, meaning that I had to wake up by about 5:30am (or about ten minutes before the first plane struck the North Tower) and start my commute at around six am (or right about the time second plane struck the South Tower). I learned of the worst attack on American soil in my lifetime from a Seattle alternative music station morning drive-time DJ – it was initially hard to believe. I think it was hard for everyone to believe until they saw the impacts and the aftermath and the always-put-together nightly news anchors with mussed hair and nothing to say.

By the time I had parked and walked the block or two to school (I wasn’t yet an upperclassman, and therefore unable to park on campus), most classrooms were already filled, some spilling students out into nearly vacant halls. Most mornings, the majority of the student body hung out in the large common areas, usually near vending machines, but this morning even the students who tried their best to look the least interested in academia, were sitting quiet and present at desks fifteen (maybe twenty) minutes before first period. There was no prodding everyone just instinctively knew it was what must be done. I don’t know why (maybe it was because I knew the kinds of students who wish to study extra calculus lessons before school) but I watched the continual loop of collisions in the Advanced Math classroom. Much later, I saw the footage that had gone out live (and then, thankfully, was pulled) of people jumping from the buildings, and sometimes I get all of those visuals mixed in my memory, but it did seem like Peter Jennings and the ABC News Team must have shown the second plane hit the tower ten times in the short span that I watched.

The first tower collapsed five minutes before the first period bell at Redmond High School, and even the teachers didn’t know how to proceed. I took my book-bag and headed to my own classroom, but was quite certain that we wouldn’t be discussing a great deal of English Literature on this morning. The class was half-full, and the teacher told us that our room’s television didn’t get reception, so she was going to put on a VHS copy of a Shakespeare production, and that if any student wished to watch the news in another class, they would be free to do so. Most of us left to stand along the back wall of the Calculus room. By second period, I (and everyone else, I suppose) had learned of the crash at the Pentagon and was hearing rumors of a fourth hijacking (students who are raised in Microsoft’s backyard are adept at using the Internet for news, but had also learned of its spotty reliability.)

I didn’t learn of the crash of Flight 77 in a Pennsylvania field until forth period after lunch. By that time, nearly all students were attempting to have as normal a day as could be possible, and were attending their regularly assigned classes (mine was, fittingly enough, US Government). We watched the news with the volume low and discussed all of the names and terms that all Americans learned on that day. That afternoon al-Qaeda entered the US lexicon and has never really left.

Once school had let out, the flag was already at half-mast and many students lingered. It felt like we had all learned of the terrible event together and thus, were reluctant to break that tenuous bond (Or maybe we were just too dazed to do much of anything.) But other than the students who needed a ride on the big yellow buses, nobody went home. In the cafeteria, I talked with a group of friends about our futures, about that of the country. We wanted to do something, anything, but (for the live of us) we couldn’t figure out what it was.

After school, I watched more of the news (I think everyone did), and called a group of friends to answer my one pressing question: Do you go to soccer practice on 9/11? It turned out that I did. And so did everyone else on my team. We had a distracted lesson, and at its completion the sun had gone down. I don’t remember how I slept, but I was a teenager, so I probably slept fine enough.

Conventional wisdom says that the Sept. 11 attacks were the defining moment of my generation (or an instigating event, or some such thing), but at the time it just felt confusing. And in many ways it still does. Compared to the Columbine massacre, the motives behind the attacks felt murkier and farther away. I may not be breaking new ground, by claiming that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold acted out of anger when they decided to open fire on their faculty and fellow students, but that anger wouldn’t have been present if the boys didn’t ultimately want to fit in. And every teen can identify with that desire.

In contrast, I did not understand the fanaticism required to plan and execute such a cold-blooded act as 9/11. I have learned a great since of both the history of Western interference in the Mid-East and of Islamist extremism (and it was an extremist element that carried out the attack), but I can’t say that I yet understand the motivation. On an intellectual level I can connect the dots, but I certainly don’t empathize on a gut level. And maybe that’s a good thing, but it makes tragedies like this seem all the scarier. I just don’t get it. And I probably never will.

I think that many people who had not attended high school in a good many years, felt similarly to the Columbine events – the media sure seemed to. Largely diverse subsections of students were lumped together as “others” even if those groups were wildly dissimilar. To be clear: Harris and Klebold were not Goth. Just as Al-Qaeda was not Islam. Eric and Dylan may have worn black and sneered at the popular crowd, but so did Johnny Cash. And Johnny Cash is not Goth.

[The Gothic movement began in the 1980s with a wave of overly sensitive (mostly male) rock-pop music from the UK – think The Smiths, Morrisey, et al. – and much like the Nerd empowerment events of the same time, the Goth kids were attempting to find strength by controlling their own exclusion. Most of these kids knew they were never going to be cheerleaders or football All-Americans – they were the misfits – so they dressed and acted in a manner that guaranteed ostracism. They dressed androgynously, talked about feelings, and were usually the only kids paying any attention during discussions of 19th century poetry. They didn’t want acceptance. And it worked. And the misfits found each other. ]

Because Harris and Klebold wore trench coats and did their damnedest to be off-putting to those around them, Goth culture (teens often on the receiving end of bullying themselves) was blamed for inciting violence. America (and its media) loves the idea of “enemies from within”, but aren’t particularly skilled at defining them.

I had a friend in high school, not a close friend but the kind I would talk to at lunch almost every day, who had the misfortune to be named Osama and to live in the US in the Fall of 2001. After several ugly incidents involving older generations (the hardest kind for teens to deal with), he started going by Sam. It was for the same reasons there weren’t a lot of Adolphs running around after 1945. In the grand scheme of things it isn’t the most heart-breaking concession that came out of the era, but it’s one that has stuck with me over the past ten years.

It is impossible for me to know how the televised horrors of both Columbine and New York City have shaped me as a person, but I believe they have made me wary of generalizations. They have made me think about spheres larger than my own. And they have made me aware of mans potential both for great love, but also for great hatred. But I do my best not to dwell on any of these thoughts for too long. They are simply too much for any one person to take on alone.

By Sept. 14th (roughly), I had watched the news at every opportunity, hoping for some conclusion (some great revelation), but it would not come so quickly or so easily. I, along with many Americans, turned off the TV – and the radio, and the Internet browser – and simply tried to live as best I could with what had happened. And that all any of us can ever really do.

Asa Mercer tilted his flat-brimmed hat low over his eyes to block the noon-day sun and adjusted the sawgrass blade from the left to right side of his mouth, grimacing as it shifted, first down and then over, like cud being worked over by a cow. The white globe of the sun stood free in the blue blameless sky, but Spring had not yet shaken loose the cobwebs of winter, and Asa felt the whisper of late season rains in the air – two maybe three days away, but present – waiting.

Tonight Asa and his band of boys could sleep outside of tents if the mood struck them – it may not have been prudent, he acknowledged that, but this was the first any of these Eastern boys had seen of the great and untamed expanse of West and Asa wanted them all to remember it. He also wanted several of the boys – the talkers mostly – to feel the weather first hand and on the skin (as it were). It may drive some humility into them, thought Asa chewing at the end of the green stalk, heaven knows they will need to learn it sooner or later, better the former, for their sakes.

Asa pulled up the caravan atop a sloping green hillock around a sea of tangled cacti; he hadn’t planned to stop for another mile of so, be whenever he came across a familiar vista with its raked-over pile of campfire ashes, Asa always felt a pang of nostalgia and signaled for a halt. Winter had turned the charred remains into a soupy congealed mass, but Asa knew immediately it had been a fire of his own making from the previous year – his ashes were always scattered wide fanning out from the core, and when available, Asa liked to drop a large stone to snuff out the last remaining embers. It was a habit he had learned as a young man- a training that unlike so many other products of youth, he hadn’t discarded along the way – and it had become a bit of a calling card (a post card he sent to himself). It made Asa feel younger somehow to revisit an old campground and he liked to see if any of the young lads would pick up anything useful (a boot track, a discarded can, filings off a whittled stick); Asa liked to see what others could find. He could travel inconspicuously if the situation dictated – nearly invisibly he liked to think –but this ground was friendly and no acts of concealment had been taken. Asa doubted any voice would pipe up with useful information – interesting perhaps – but these twelve boys were young and soft on the whole, a rather sad lot really, and he didn’t expect much from them. Asa chewed the tip of his grass, enjoyed the sprawling view and waited.

Archibald Babbich, the self-fancied leader of the pack, droned on about his prowess at a variety of tasks: hunting, fishing, love making. Asa doubted the boy had actually performed any of these feats on his own (except, of course for the latter which he figured was only done on his own), the boy had probably hunted or fished with his father or maybe a grand-dad or two, but the older men would have performed the skill work – Asa was sure of that, even if the boy pulled the trigger or flushed the line, he could not be called the real sportsman – he would have been an accomplice no better than a toy dog larfing behind its master with its squidgy tongue lolling from its self-satisfied mouth.

Physically however, the boy was strong for his age – much larger than his compatriots – and if the boy could outgrow the nasty habit of pumping his own pole around others, he just might last the logging season. A small smile washed over the edges of Asa’s lips. Money had been promised for the twelve boys timely passage – hands had, in fact, been shook – but Asa had been offered a bonus for each boy who stuck until the snowfall (money he had foolishly begun spending in his head). Looking at the gaggle of wax-faced scarecrows he had nearly carried from the train station in Northern Nevada, Asa felt he could expect no more than six or seven to remain: one would get seriously injured, that was a certainty and Asa could argue for his money in that case (it wouldn’t be his fault, the boy was careless or unlucky), two would prove to be lay-about drunkards (an unforgivable sin in an industry where functional, closet drunks were the expectation), and a handful would inevitably skulk away in the night under a cloud of failure. The big one though, the talker, he had the look about him; he would stick around.

Archibald (Archie as he referred often to himself) had the broad shoulders of a plowman, and as if in agreement, his hair was the golden-yellow of Mid-western wheat fields. Electric blue eyes darted rapidly above a bushel of close-cropped and mealy whiskers supported by a thick tree trunk neck. A garish blue sombrero, tethered by a leather lanyard, clapped Archie on the back every time he blurted a loud declaration, serving as his own personal exclamation point and offending all sense of subtlety, as far as Asa was concerned. The boy was brash, but Asa thought he would fulfill any Kansas mother’s wish for a son. He thought of his own mother and wondered what may have become of her.

“The key, you see, to hunting a small rabbit is to let the bugger’s natural instincts do the work for you. And those rabbits are buggers, aren’t they? That’s a way to live, aye boy-Os? Lucky little prick, right? A bit of rubbadub in-out intercourse is all that’s on the bushy little fellows mind at…all…times. No foolin,”

A semi circle of wide-eyed faces listened intently to the self-professed expert of the outdoors all but ignoring the sunken-skinned and leathery tracker who had shepherded them all through the wild terrain. One small lad, the smallest actually, sat on a flat rock ten paces removed from the “lecture” and eyed Asa none to his liking. The boy made Asa uncomfortable, like he knew something he wasn’t sharing – saw something that wasn’t there. Asa shrugged his shoulder and turned a palm to the sky as if to say Hey kid, whatcha want? The boy, of course, said nothing. Asa hadn’t heard him utter more than a handful of words the whole trip, and never two together. Maybe he’s a bit twig in the head, Asa thought to shake his shadowy feeling; maybe the little squint is just a right dullard. But the deep look in the boy’s eye said otherwise.

“Some trackers, fools really, will tell you that a bit of fresh greens will always attract a rabbit, but I have found that not to necessarily be so – occasionally maybe, but sure as spit, not always. Mr. Cottontail is on his hunt, you understand, for a Mrs. Cottontail – above even food, even above water. This three pound fur hat-to-be is like an injin full hack for the drink – nothing else matters.”

Faces in the crowd nodded agreeably as if this were all well accepted fact, obvious really. That boy has caught about as many rabbits as I’ve caught kangaroos, Asa thought and turned to face the western ridge of mountains. They undulated in waves like a women lying seductively on her side and called to him. It was a beautiful voice.

“What I do is, I always flush out a burrow because, what will really help you out is catching a female – preferably one that is of an age to have reared a few nasty nippers – soiled a few nests, if you know what I’m getting at. You are going to use that tarted-up old doe to catch some plump young buck by the hairs of his privates – it’s like a divining rod that will lead them right into your trap.”

The boy may have been spinning fantasies, but Asa knew that even a liar tripped over some truth eventually; he had known some woman he would have called “honey pots”, and even knew a few men who employed them.

“That doe has a scent, like a bitch in heat, that will attract males from here to Havana – rabbits will be practically rolling over themselves to two-step with your noose-trap. A doe has a…gland that you slice on out and spread a little around as bait and voila,” Archie waved his arms like a vaudevillian emcee, his sombrero now thwapping as if in a gale.

“Just take care to wash the doe’s stink off nice and thorough like, otherwise rabbits will be humping you like a Frenchmen under a full moon.”

There were several bursts of laughter, of a much more agreeable timber than the laugh inching up Asa’s throat. He supposed these boys were poised to buy anything put before them, and Asa couldn’t fault them for that; after all, he had sold them on the adventure of logging in the western territories, hadn’t he? And they had eaten up his pitch with near ravenous acceptance. They came, to have some grand ole’ stories to tell, and to be men.

Well, they weren’t men yet. And let’s see what stories they’re telling when they get to Kettle Rock, Asa thought. The day is getting away from us.

Asa rose gingerly to his feet, his legs feeling less like steal with every passing year, and picked up a palm-sized rock to his left feeling its cool rough-hewn edge and walked it over to the deceased fire pit. With a clank, the rock settled next to its stout counterpoint amidst the aging ashes. Ladies and Gentlemen of the glen, until next year, Asa thought and nodded once.

“If that’s enough rest for an old hand, that should be might generous to you young’uns. Enough flapping your gums and diddling with your carrots, it’s time to move.”

The mass of boys stirred to attention, their skinny whey-colored legs looking, in Asa’s opinion, ridiculous supporting over-stuffed packs and bulging satchels. They would become stronger, tanner in the coming months; at least Asa hoped they would. Their youth made him feel very antiquated indeed, but perhaps was all for the best, sometimes the old ways aren’t best ways.

Asa roused the splotchy old mule from his digestive comatose with a sideways click of the tongue and clapped the old fella on the rump. Braggadocio brayed like a squeaky hinge, beginning to move before finishing his half-hearted protest. This was not the mule’s first time on the trail either having made all three of Asa’s previous trips; that much experience would have made Bragg Asa’s lieutenant he supposed. What the mule had seen before his time in the Northwest, Asa didn’t know, but he suspected Bragg had been driven up from the Northern Mexican territory in search of gold. Asa unlashed the mule’s hitch with a rough downward tug. He clicked again and the mule lumbered forward, pots and pans gently thumping his flanks. The boys followed.

“Archie you take the rear,” Asa said without looking behind him.

The boy moved into position amidst some muffled voices and soft tittering. Asa always made the strongest boy take up the caboose, it was another of his trail-hand habits. Strong boys keep a good pace, and can prevent stragglers from falling behind; the fact that Asa would be separated from Archie’s near constant jabbering by eleven other boys was a bit of a fortunate byproduct.

Asa and Bragg led the way over the hillock and followed a dying creek into an open mesa flat. The first fragrant blossoms of spring were beginning to timidly open in the late afternoon sun, and their perfume momentarily cut through the stink of adolescent travelers. Reedy grasses, still heavy with moisture, clung to Asa’s dungarees and swished loudly as he passed; his boots squished and were quickly made heavy by the saturated ground. Despite the show in the sky, winter had not yet been bested by his sister, the spring. But harder, drier ground lay ahead.

Asa looked to the west, at the jagged triangles of true mountains that stretched out beyond the horizon like teeth of some massive leviathan. He knew they must be crossed – on the other side rested Kettle Rock, and the coins Asa had been promised. The day would come when Asa’s path would cross that of the mountains, and that day would be a nightmare. It was every year. Thank the man in the moon, they would not cross today, and maybe not even tomorrow, but those mountains were growing taller and steeper with each passing step. Asa knew what he was getting himself into, but the boys, he would let them find out on their own time. Why waste a perfectly good surprise? The clever ones should have seen it coming anyway, but Asa doubted any of them had bothered to think that far ahead – except, maybe the little one. There was something behind his eyes – Something that suggested he might know something. Something cold.

“Keep a pace fellows,” Asa said, “A stroll in the grass and nothing more; your grandmothers could set a better pace.”

Their caravan continued across the dewy meadow, up a spine of granite, and disappeared into the darkness of the tree line.

“Do you think it’s dead, Max?”

I said I didn’t know and to hush up.

The color drained out of Charlie’s cheeks, until he was as ashen as the wind-worn slats on the barn; he pursed his lips tight.

In the trampled hay, placed as delicately as a freshly laid egg, a bird sat, his wings tucked at his side and his eyes black and open. The bird was still.

My boots cracked the dry hay as I slunk towards our find; Charlie stayed put. So did the bird. I held my breath as I forced my hand towards the animal’s tiny head. There was silence.

“Max?” pleaded Charlie.

The bird was soft as I stroked its back with my thumb.

“Yeah,” I said, “It’s dead. Probably has been for days”

I walked over and gave Charlie a hug and I felt the front of my shirt grow damp.

When Charlie was through, we exited Uncle’s barn together and latched the big, wooden door. Neither of us talked. As we reached the grass, Charlie broke out in a run towards the house. I took the dirt walkway.

By the time I entered the farmhouse, Charlie was already on Mother’s knee and she had heard the whole story; she kind of smiled and brushed Charlie’s dirty hair away from his eyes.

“Why did the bird have to die in our barn?” Charlie asked.

“Everybody is looking for a place that’s safe and warm to lie down in,” said Mother, “even a little bird. And the barn is as good a place as any, I suppose.”

“There are spider’s in the barn. It should have died in the house,” Charlie said.

“Spiders don’t bother the birds,” Mother assured, “it knew what it was doing.”

I asked what we should do with the bird – another animal was likely to find it if we left it in the barn.

Charlie’s face soured, and he looked like he would start up again.

“I think a funeral would be best,” Mother said.

Charlie’s eyes grew big and he smiled so that we could see all his teeth.

“But not tonight,” she said, “A funeral at night, just doesn’t seem appropriate.”

Charlie and I agreed.

That night, we scoured Uncle’s heavy encyclopedia by flashlight for a bird that looked like ours – I did most of the looking because Charlie doesn’t read big words yet. The excitement of our search waned and we fell asleep at the foot of the bunk.

After breakfast, under the tall walnut tree, we prepared the bird for his funeral. Charlie dug a hole with the little spade, and I wrapped the bird in tissue paper and placed it in a preserves jar. Mother said some nice words and we buried our friend. Charlie looked real proud to be the one to cover the grave with dirt and pack it tight. I was glad that he didn’t cry.

All that day, I tried not to think about the bird, but that never really works.

When the sun had set for evening, and the stars and fireflies lit the dusk, I walked the pathway to the old barn; Charlie was already inside lying in the hay.

“There aren’t any other birds, Max. I already checked. Six spiders, a mouse, and a couple of June bugs, but no birds.”

“That’s good,” I said.

Charlie nodded, but without much behind it. He had collected all his foundlings into a neat pile.

“Should we have another funeral tomorrow?” Charlie asked; his eyes round as copper pennies.

“No,” I said, “I figure those kinds don’t really get funerals. Just birds, and dogs, and cats, and those-likes.”

Charlie got squinty for a long while like he was trying to sound out one those long words from the encyclopedia. Finally, he tapped me on the shoulder.

“Max,” he said, “That doesn’t seem quite fair.”

“No, Charlie, it doesn’t, but that’s just the way it is.”

After years of talk, the revolution came in the night, and was over. We had beaten them. The young men cheered and the old men grumbled, only the women remained silent on the matter, waiting for their lots in life to improve (if indeed the rhetoric was to become reality). No one was sure.

We buried Poppa that night in the backyard. We had no coffin, but mother wanted him in the ground before sunrise; so it was so. Poppa had been shot during the large demonstration at the university, by whom I can’t say. Mother was standing beside him when it happened and thankfully he bled out quickly; the hospitals were as chaotic as everywhere else, and a slow, preventable death would have been too much for her. Poppa was a large man, so I enlisted the help of a neighbor to lower him into the ground. I said a few words, mother wept, and it was over; Poppa had been a quiet man.

Our house, along with the others on the block, had been looted quite severely in the jubilation and had sustained modest fire damage from an errant bottle of kerosene. Only the evening rains had saved my mother the pains of losing both her husband and home on the same evening, but Poppa’s study was rendered unrecognizable by the flames. His careful arrangements of papers, neatly categorized and artfully unnoticeable, billowed out onto the lawn like curled, yellow snowflakes forming into rank mounds.

“Momma, I’ll clear them away in the morning,” I offered, “I’m beat.”

“Poppa deserves to have them cleaned now, don’t you think?” she said; so it was so.

I filed fragile documents into empty manila folders careful to account for date and subject and area of study. We had been violated from the inside out; and it made me sorry for Poppa to have his life’s work exposed on the lawn for all the world to see; I had never even seen most of his work papers. Not ever a glance.

Pulling back a blacked and broken slat board, I cleared away soggy handfuls of drywall uncovering a hidden trove of composition notebooks, bound into tiny stacks as if my father had been planning to deliver them door-to-door alongside the morning paper. Carefully drafted on the first book, in inch-high letters, my father had printed the name of my mother, which was a level of sentimentality I thought him incapable. It seemed quite sweet, but private in a cute way so I set it aside for Mother. Underneath, written on the next book with the same level of care and craft was my name in full view of the world; I opened it.

Information about me was overcrowding each line and margin, as if my father had been attempting to cram ten pounds of text in a six pound sack: my interests, snippets of my conversations, where I was likely to be found. I closed the book and turned it over like I was unfamiliar with the invention of bound literature; it was, to be fair, an unfamiliar discovery. I pushed over the knee-high stack of books; totaling at least twenty. It clapped and fluttered to the charred earth while dozens more remained upright.

I found, hidden amongst my father’s academic papers, hundreds of scribbled notebooks chronicling the daily conversations of his peers, his students, and his friends, but no discovery hurt like those first two. Each dozen pages or so, a red initial not belonging to my father, smiled back at me.

At the foot of my father’s grave I collected everything in a heap. The books were wet, they burned slowly; plumes of white vapor twisted in the soft morning breeze; the books gradually blew away. I cried a little.

My mother slapped me across the face for burning the books, and cursed me in my father’s name, but she would get over it. It had been a long two days.

Our neighbor saw the smoke and went outside – he had seen me all day.

“Finishing what the vandals started I see,” he said from the safety of his yard.

I stared at him a good long while and nodded.

“Clearing away the junk,” I said, “there’s a lot of debris in the neighborhood.”

“There’s a lot of debris everywhere,” he agreed.

He was a friendly sort of chap, but he was not one of us.