Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten

by Allison Greer

  {“Clarence will readily allow that he doesn’t have all the answers. You must study diligently for yourself and work through your own salvation. As the old saying goes, ‘Every pot sits on its own bottom.’ That’s, especially, true where God is concerned.”}

  “Sorcery, Tarot cards, divinations do work. They open windows and ways for Satan and his demons to enter into the human spirit and set up housekeeping. Thus, Adolf Hitler . . .”

  {“There is something else that will do similarly; however, we vowed not to mention them in our stories . . . they’re, simply, too serious to be fun.”}

  “. . . That’s my understanding.” Clarence explains. “By delving into the occult, regardless of intent, one is calling upon the source of evil for answers and attempting to usurp God’s power in that process.”

  *

  “Good fairies are too sweet, in the child’s mind, to overcome evil; therefore, a different creature is more appropriate, one that can be both . . . either-or . . . at any given time. Thus, the ‘good witch’ was invented. However, in spite of long-standing PR, being any kind of ‘witch’ means their power, too, is transitory and can fail at a most critical moment. So, the super hero emerged on the scene . . . one who is always and evermore capable, but only for right and justice and can never die.

  “You remember Wonder Woman . . . that beautiful super heroine with a body you gals slave for . . . running here, running there, deflecting bullets off her metal cuffs, entwining perpetrators within her silver rope which compelled evil-doers to speak only the truth . . .” Clarence reminded his wife.

  Maggie, a tad off the mark, interrupted, “Ah, yes . . . running. When I was a child, running was sheer joy . . . feeling those big muscle groups thrusting my body and soul through space, breathing the fresh, summer air.

  “Now, it just hurts.”

  “. . . all fiction, of course,” Clarence proceeded to pull Maggie back on track. “. . . purely fictitious except for the good and evil part. But, children are far too sophisticated to believe in super heroes and their adversaries. They’re a fun novelty whose opponents cannot approach the deep-seated source of fear and evil of a witch. Witches are real.”

  *

  “Nibbee, nibbee, little mouse. Who’s that nibbling on my house?” the hag screeched in sing-song.

  {“The high school senior chemistry students made it their project to bring those dramatic effects to bear without setting fire to the building and later brought demonstrations into the elementary and junior high classrooms as culminating activities. The children got to make their own sparklers under the older students’ tutelage becoming acquainted with the physics behind the fireworks and some chemical equations involved.

  {“The good principal believed in laying strong, academic foundations for his pupils, for the course work they might encounter later on down the road. About the only thing Margaret gleaned from her year in high school chemistry was you never, NEVER ever return chemicals to the stock bottle. And, just about the only time that piece of importance comes to play in her life is when she pours too much olive oil into a hot pot . . . then, has to decide whether to return the excess to the container or toss it.”}

  “I truly dislike wasting good olive oil.”

  {“The children conferred unanimously upon the seniors ‘A+’ for their efforts.”}

  Each tale had its own delightful scenery. And, if the troll were expected to huff and puff, bluster and stomp on the floor when the lovely princess called his name “Rumpelstiltskin”, those ladies aimed to please. Ahhh . . . the sound of leather soles and bare feet hitting the boards of that hollow stage—echoing, resonating throughout the auditorium.

  Most other programs were presented by the students. Teachers put a great amount of time and consideration into them. The principal was truly a prince who fully supported the whimsical enrichment for his students and staff. The children talked and chattered among themselves as the grades poured into the assembly hall and took their seats. Then, movement was perceived behind the heavy, royal-blue, velvet curtains trimmed in sateen. Everyone sat spellbound, quiet and eager to see what would take place next.

  The first program of the fall season fell to Marcella’s second grade . . . Halloween—pumpkins, ghosts, goblins and Marcella was assigned to be one of the nine witches . . . “friendly” witches, of course.

  *

  {“All costumes were friendly back then. If Halloween had a sinister history, the children were sublimely ignorant. Halloween, for them, was a fun and innocent time when they got dressed up and made up and met, greeted and captivated their adult neighbors and received those folks’ kind wishes and generous hospitalities . . . sometimes being invited in to sit and visit for a while . . . a pleasant time when adults and children’s interests coincided. Parents made certain there were treats but tricks were forbidden.

  {“As Clarence used to say, ‘Evil begins in the spirit . . . Satan’s coveted playground.’

  {“And, the children’s spirits were in a good place.” Mr. Bill illuminates. “It wasn’t until the 60’s that evil, hideous and grotesque, rubber masks came into general public access and use when adults took the theme over the top and candy was dangerously contaminated and the innocent play of children was perverted.”}

  “When,” Clarence asks,“does a strawberry dipped in white chocolate become something other than a piece of nutritious fruit covered in sweet confection? When does a sharp, pencil tip and a hole in an erasure represent something other than writing utensils? When did a baseball bat become a private body part, a clapper something other than a bell’s tongue . . . something which must be kept scrupulously unsmirched lest a trip to the nimgimmer be required?”

  *

  Margaret had heard her friend talk a little about her costume for the play, but not much since the difference in their ages, the passing of time, the distance between the two little girls’ classrooms and Maggie’s ever-increasing homework load had a diluting effect on their relationship and time together. Someone had decided the program would be a contemporary rendition of the autumnal theme. The witches would be riding broomsticks well enough, but roller skates . . . Marcella ventured the notion, a fact soon forgotten in the

  planning, and all else agreed . . . were thrown into the mix. Margaret hadn’t really put much thought into the practicality of that event . . .

  {“Ok, she’d put none whatsoever . . . but, clearly, neither had anyone else.”}

  The curtains opened. Black, flowing mantels and gauzy dresses with jagged bottoms billowed in the breeze and fluttered like crows upon a vespertine fume as the eight participants circled round and around a make-believe bond fire. The large, black cauldron with dry-ice vapors rising was being stirred by the ninth witch. The student body was mesmerized as the girls in black tights and black, piked hats, long, pointed noses traversed each round a little faster . . . it was bound to happen in the excitement. And, the circle, unexpectedly, grew smaller and smaller on the stunted stage.

  The girls had brought their own skates from home, concrete skates that had the remarkable tendency not to cooperate when navigating small rounds. Broomsticks became entangled . . . with each other . . . and soon skates came to play. One of Marcella’s skates attempted to roll over another witch’s broom straws but abruptly abandoned the mission in mid process, throwing both little girls off balance and tossing them to the floor . . . buttocks facing the audience, white, cotton underpants flashing and wheels spinning free.

  Initially, the boys and girls in the audience fell silent. But, when they saw the children were not injured, a roar of laughter infectious as witches’ brew quickly struck the hall like a wave. Margaret was not laughing . . . just

  sitting . . . watching and hurting for her longtime chum and uttering to herself,

  “Good grief.”

  Marcella picked herself up and, with the other student following clos
e behind, skated off stage smiling out at the audience as she went. Something about her expression—a bit of defiance, perhaps—reminded Maggie of that day years before when the younger sullied their bath water and thought it great fun.

  “It’s not polite to do that!” was all Maggie could think to say.

  4

  “‘The toad beneath the harrow knows exactly where each tooth point goes. The butterfly upon the road preaches contentment to that toad.’”

  Feeling more than a small bit annoyed with her own limited perception Maggie asks her husband,

  “What’s that mean?

  “The butterfly is dead, is she not? She’s been hit by a car, knocked out, smushed . . . something. So, how’s a dead butterfly going to preach anything to anyone?! And, how does the toad know where each tooth tine goes unless he’s experienced their positions up close and personal and, therefore, not long for this world?”

  “You remember how you felt,” Clarence reasoned, “when you came conscious after fainting from surgery? You felt fresh and calm and peaceful . . . content. You remember that very well . . . one of the nicest feelings you’ve ever known, you said. So, who’s to say a butterfly on the cusp of death and a toad that’s just been impaled can’t feel it, as well?

  “But, honestly, more than likely they don’t, so we’re back to your original question . . . and I don’t know. Maybe, it’s, simply, a whimsical perplexity . . . nonsensical.”

  “Resignation.” Maggie probed.

  “Yes, probably. Time’s up . . . no reason to languish over plans, today’s or tomorrow’s. On a human level, if someone understands she’s living in her last few hours, what would she say to one who has but one more hour than she?

  “‘Relax, take it easy, try to enjoy what’s left, pray as though Christ’s own heavenly hosts were listening in.’ That’s what I think I’d be doing.”

  5

  Great-Grandma O’Casey was a breath of fresh air to Clarence’s young bride—she didn’t hoard, not even her tea cakes, a family recipe from way back. It was she who talked her husband into closing off the dog trot, adding on a small bedroom separate and apart from the rest of the house for folks caught sojourning in the night. An oil lamp was kept glowing from dusk to dawn . . . just in case.

  “Jus’ in case,” Great-Grandma always said, “in case the strangers wuz angels in disguise, unawares. Jus’ in case the Lord wuz ta return upon any night . . . He’d see our light wuz shinin’ fer ’im.”

  Sometimes, folks outside family called her Mrs. O’Casey, but, mostly, Miz. Deanie Annie. She and Great-Grandpa O’Casey were well known miles around for their hospitality.

  “If she and Poppa Short had any . . . of almost anything . . . they shared.” Clarence reminisced. “And, they adored inviting friends and neighbors to their reunions each February. They cleaned out all last-season vegetables and fruits from their root cellar, added some pork—wild pigs shot in the river-bottom land and smoked in their small, rickety smoke house—some venison

  stew . . . neighbors who could were welcome to bring their own fare and share . . . sweet sassafras tea. Depended on the Lord Jehovah-God for another abundant harvest in the coming summer and fall. Most days of the week Mama Deanie had a large bowl filled with baked sweet potatoes sitting out on the kitchen table for anyone who drifted in and felt a hunger pang. Poppa Short’s fortune was remarkably significant come harvest time.”

  “Jus’ clean yer feet ’fore ya come in, leave off the cussin’ when ya pass ’tween mah gate posts. An’, remember, yer momma don’ live here; clean up af’er yerself.” That meant, “Toss the tater peels out the door on yer way. You’ll see my leaf mo’ pile . . . ’ppreciate ya leavin’ ’em there.”

  “Mama Deanie Annie didn’t have many rules, but the few she had spoke for all the rest. And, Great-Grandpa . . .” Most people called him ‘Shorty’ or ‘Short’. “. . . made sure the blessing got said at each meal, visitors or no. He kept his shotgun on a rack above the front door just to remind anyone in slightest doubt of whose house they were in.” Ammunition, elsewhere. “And, Mama Deanie’s aim was as sure as Poppa Short’s.”

  Mama Deanie started the tradition: tea cakes in a flour sack hanging by a rope from a hook in the wall at the end of the enclosed dog trot. All who found themselves upon the place—children, grandchildren, husband, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, neighbors, hired hands, transients—were welcome to help themselves to that stash any time, night or day. Oftentimes at daybreak when the family roused and commenced moving about, they found footprints—bare and moccasins, small and large, adult and children in the dirt and grass adorned abundantly with tiny, dew droplets that shimmered and glistened all around—up onto the front porch making a trail to the flour sack. When the supply fell low, she baked more. Thinking back on it over Saturday morning coffee with Margaret it dawned on Clarence that his great-grandparents could not have possibly been poor . . .

  “. . . not with all the property they owned, the hired hands they employed, the herds and flocks they kept, the mule teams, the barns, wagons, a smithy shop and four hungry, growing sons to feed. As well as that, they had cattle roaming free in the bottom land and fish flourishing in the ponds round about the place. A pecan orchard where their neighbors picked as many nuts as they wanted served my great-grandparents as both their goodwill and their barter. Folks especially relished pecans in their cakes and pies around the holidays.

  “Just good, hard-working, Christian people. That’s what they were.” Clarence added. “Never thought of them as rich, but they couldn’t possibly have been poor.”

  “And, they were mightily blessed, as well,” Margaret added, “to have each other for so long.”

  “They were . . . and they did . . . till Poppa died . . .”

  . . . moving cattle up from the river bottom to higher pasture on his favorite quarter horse; simply, slumped forward onto the animal’s neck. Feeling the shift in weight, the mare waited for the man to respond. When it

  took overlong, she turned and headed home. Heart attacks are nothing new.

  “And, Mama Deanie Annie was blessed to have her boys.”

  “Indeed.” answered Clarence.

  “Good men run in that family,” Margaret surmised aloud.

  6

  There was a trace meandering along, following the O’Caseys’ easterly property line. It had been so used by Indian tribes over the centuries—probably, as far back as the Muskhogean Indians whose futures were as stable as the Texas red wolf and trailing phlox, the heath hen and Louisiana vole—that it took on the aspects of a creek more often than a rough and rugged thoroughfare . . . approximately fifty feet wide and a depth of nine feet in some places, give or take a bit. Large foul, cranes and such, also, used the opening through the trees for the easy flight it afforded and the waters that rushed through during heavy rains carrying all kinds of little minnows and crabs and more. The surging flow washed away silt and sand uncovering freshwater mussels, relieving furry, harvesting brigands of that chore. Depending on the season, the trace could be quite dry, amenable to walking or riding. Even then, however, here and there, due to sudden changes in depth and ponding, travelers could expect a steep climb up onto higher ground and a tedious struggle through thickets and brambles, mosquitoes, heat and thick, hovering fog.

  brigand n. [pl. brigands, [LA (Cajun) French] a thief, pirate, bandit, an imp, a mischievous child; a hungry raccoon

  Trekking the trace, poking and probing, scrutinizing its banks, the sojourner located beaver burrows dug for shelter and protection against the coyotes and bob cats, bears that surely came, which with sudden fury plunged their muzzles in and dragged out the soft-bodied mammals . . . then their kits. Farther to the north waterfalls of spectacular beauty plummeted downward casting their spray onto ferns and mosses and violets and salamanders that depended on that constant mist.

  The trac
e was no easy travel, even for those Americans who knew no other way. And, it would be pure speculation to say such travelers were glad when the O’Caseys cleared the land along that avenue, dug wells of fresh water easily retrieved with a bucket and gourd and left flour sacks filled with cookies. The footprints, however, helped tell that tale

  *

  Great-Grandpa Short was a reader. Yearning to look upon his volumes from time to time, he built himself a quite impressive bookshelf that spanned three-fourths the length of a wall, ceiling to floor. In that room, also, were a large, wood stove and a hefty bed built for two but easily accommodating four little boys. And, thus, cleverly he taught his sons in the skill of reading . . . as they lay under the covers, books in hand, sucking on rock candy their father kept in a jar on the bookshelf. In their minds, being in that place rivaled heaven itself.

  *

  “Now, where did that little miss go? Deanie, have you seen that granddaughter of yours anywhere? I tell you, she can find the most clever of places to hide from her ole grandpa.”

  Clarence’s great-grandfather produced impressive theatrics when his toddler decided to hide from him, and her site for deception was always the same. As soon as she heard him coming up the hill whooping like a crane, as fast as her chubby, little legs would carry her, she waddled off into his library to hide behind the floor-length curtain that hung at one end of the shelf. The polished-cotton dress Mama Deanie hand-stitched for the child and painstakingly embellished with small lazy daisies stood out from behind the drapery. Her patience was impressive as she waited for her grandfather to locate her. Sometimes, he thought she must surely nod off briefly, so considerable was her endurance behind the shade.

  He looked under the bed, under the blankets, behind some books on the shelf . . . but, alas, no Elizabeth. He looked behind the stove, left the room to inquire of Mama Deanie, again . . . but, alas, no Elizabeth. He came back into his library huffing and puffing as though his search had taken him to the hinder land, sat down on the floor beside the bed mere feet from the curtain, head-in-hands rehearsing the many places he’d looked for the child in vain . . . even naming a few that were miles away down the road, places he knew she’d recognize, like the mailbox, like the barn where the mules fed on dried corn, like Reidz and Lillie’s little house—the black couple who helped in the fields.