california | whiskey and mud

Someone woke up this morning and said, “It’s a fine day for a fire.”

Perhaps it’s the rain. Or, the drop from 86 to 81 degrees. I suppose this is chilly for Brooklyn in July.

I can’t imagine why anyone would be lighting their wood-burning stove today. But they did. And, it’s magnificent.

Is it wrong that smoke makes me nostalgic for California? Given the current drought situation it seems macabre to be daydreaming about such things. But, I can’t help it.

My sweatshirt is soaking up the the oak’s insides, the sap sizzling and popping, creating a fountain of bright orange ember. We’re sipping Makers and staring into the sun’s reflection in the moon. Stars. So many stars. And darkness. It’s so damn bright in New York.

I’m roasting marshmallows and drinking bloody beers at 9am. Baking potatoes, canned beans, sausages, whose idea was it to bring the instant coffee? I love you. Waking with the sun. The sensation of heat as a being, an entity, trapped inside your tent, pushing against your ears, squeezing your thighs until your eyes are forced open. The sound of the ocean in the morning. Constant, magnetic, totally, totally scary. I mean, the ocean is gorgeous and hypnotizing and totally terrifying, right? I find the warm sand to be a perfect place to enjoy that majestic beast.

All this in one breath.

Thanks for the smoke, Brooklyn.

If we wanted to go to school we had to catch the bus from the end of our dirt road. Half a mile in each direction. Northern California gets hot. Dry and hot. The grasses are brown before easter and the water holes dry up before it’s warm enough to swim. Ranches are sparse. Lots of open land for livestock. There are huge, beautiful, aging oak trees dripping with mistletoe to provide the occasional respite but the earth is parched and the air is dry.

It was the beginning of June and the last week of school. The end of fourth grade for me and the end of third grade for my brother. The bus skittered across the gravel and came to a stop.

“Bye,” I shouted to my friends. My brother was running up the aisle.

“Don’t jump, goddamnit. I am sick of warning you,” The driver yelled after my brother, who had taken all three steps in one fell swoop and was already out of earshot.

“Stop it-uhhhhh!” I said upon catching up to him. Because that’s what you say to your little brother when you’re tired and cranky and older than him and he is creating a cloud of dust all around you.

“You stop,” he countered.

“I’m not even doing anything. Gawwwwwd,” I said.

With one particularly well-aimed kick, he overturned a large stone. Curled underneath was a baby sharp-tailed snake. Not more than six inches. Red, thin, fast but harmless.

“Watch out,” I screamed, pushing my little brother aside. I stomped once. It was quick and well aimed. The snake was sliced in half, both sections writhing helplessly. The red blood oozed slowly out of it’s body, creating two thick, dark muddy patches in the white dust.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Devastated and embarrassed. I loved snakes. We spent every summer hunting gophers, racers and garters.

He was quiet. We stood there, staring at the dying reptile as tears streamed down my face.

When the snake stopped moving, my brother silently retrieved the round, grey stone and placed it over its still body.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

We walked silently the rest of the way home. No more kicking of rocks, or rolling of eyes.

“It’s okay,” he said when we were finally home. “you didn’t mean to. You were just scared.”

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