*
Maggie took in a long, deep breath, smiling contentedly, exhaled. Except for the occasional nurse, the occasional orderly, she was quite alone.
14
10...“Who can find a virtuous
wife?
For her worth is far above
rubies.
11...The heart of her husband
safely trusts her.
So he will have no lack of
gain.
12...She does him good and not
evil
All the days of her life.
13...She seeks wool and flax,
And willingly works with her
hands.
14...She is like the merchant ships,
She brings her food from afar.
15...She also rises while it is yet
night,
And provides food for her
household,
And a portion for her
maidservants.” NKJV ™
Proverbs 31:10-15
“Over the river and through the woods to old Camp Matigua we go.” Everybody joined into the sing-a-long as Meggie heaved her entourage down the highway at 55 miles an hour. The boys would have had her going faster, but Meg was most conscientious about the law.
“I do not want to be pulled off the road on the 4th of July by a deputy or the highway patrol. What a way would that be for Virgie and me to spend the holiday?! You boys seeing your mom in trouble and me regretting the fine I’d have to pay. I’d much rather buy you some new shoes or your dad some new underwear.
*
{“Meggie’s bad about running the man thin on his underwear. I’m surprised he hasn’t rebelled by now. And, she’s not all that gifted at getting them white. I bet that’s the reason the poor boy stopped swimming at the ‘Y’ . . . but, too, they go sans suit. You know . . . the old skinnies? After he married, he got modest—a peculiar side-effect. Or, maybe, self-conscious . . . who knows, ’cause he ain’t talkin’.” That’s one of the things Mr. Bill admired about Clarence . . .}
*
“I’ll stick to the speed limit, thank you.”
*
{“. . . He keeps his own counsel. Or maybe he’s saving his mighty engine for the one he loves . . . her eyes only.”}
Mr. Bill thought that was kind of a neat idea.
{“Kind of sweet, really. Or, he could change over to colored boxers instead of those white BVDs. That would help the problem a bit.”}
Mr. Bill had no way of knowing that some 30 or so years later, BVDs would, also, come in colors—deep, dark, vibrant blues, maroons—not the pastels they were putting out for boxers. And, add another 30 years and there’d be Spider Man, The Hulk, The Green Hornet, Bat Man and big red kisses where big red kisses don’t ordinarily go and eat-’em-up undies, special order.
*
So, Margaret got her entourage out of town aimed in the right direction—north, up to where U.S. Highway 59 cuts off from 86, somehow hip-hopped over making a dog-leg onto Farm Road 1743 . . .
“’Cause it just feels right. . . .”
{“That’s my girl,” Mr. Bill.}
. . . where the soil turns from deep, rich humus-black to sandy iron-oxide red, where the hardwood trees—oak, sycamore, hickory—with a smattering of evergreens
and soft woods give way almost exclusively to sweet gum, dogwoods, redbud, Bull Bay with its foot-wide blossoms and heady fragrance, to tall, majestic, deep-dark green, short-leaf pines. So dense do these cone-bearing wonders grow that few reach a diameter of significant size. These pines major in height . . . and they are beautiful and they are impressive. And, the air smells so sweet of resin and earth and the fragrance of pepper put off by some certain weeds, where the traffic grows scarcer and scarcer until, when the party turned off the paved road onto a narrow red-dirt, it existed not at all. And, the only dust kicked up was the trail Meggie, Virgie and boys blazed as they sang, whistled, breathed in the fresh woodland air . . . careful, going slow enough to dodge the Cardinals—moms and pops—as they flitted across in front of the vehicle.
“They do love to hover on the roads and in the bushes along the way.” Virgie observed. “They’re lovely, but they just can’t possibly be the smartest of God’s feathered creatures.”
Once the boys observed a little female lying along the road, crimson enough to call attention, and made their mother stop. As there had been no traffic for the miles they’d traveled since turning off, Maggie pulled the car as far as possible onto the roadside, which hardly existed, and let her sons out to check the bird. It was dead for certain, not yet invaded by bugs or buzzards with a large, red berry in its beak . . . taking a berry back home to her babies or hubbie. So excited about her berry she paid no heed to oncoming traffic, scarce as it was.
When the car resumed its journey, Virgie surmised out loud, “Whoever it was that hit that bird had
to be going fairly fast. Birds will try to gauge their flight according to traffic. Of course, she was laden down but, still, it shouldn’t have happened, wouldn’t have, ordinarily.”
And, then Margaret stopped, again, without warning or fanfare.
“It’s here,” she pronounced with absolute certainty and finality.
{“How’d she know? Beats me, but it’s happened before. I’ve been there to witness.”}
She was right on, pulled the car as far off as she could and, then, since more than half the vehicle was still on the throughway, commenced to slowly nose a path into the tall weeds and wild flowers onto the thick carpet of pine needles until it was completely out of the way should anyone need by. The whole crew was ready for a good stretch, some deep breaths in the cool breeze out of the summer sun which was all but entirely blocked by the pines and shorter trees.
“Did you know it’s a good 20 degrees and more cooler in the woods than driving down an open highway?”
Virgie was the walking encyclopedia of the bunch. Maggie could, especially, appreciate that news since she was so sensitive to the heat. One can only wonder how she pulled herself out of the house to make such trips. Mr. Bill thinks she does it out of a great love and appreciation for the men in her life. Her little pudgy, pink
body starts sweating till it’s rolling down her forehead, collecting briefly in her brows, then charging, determinedly, down the lids and into her eyes causing them to sting and burn. She’s forever wiping her hairline, blotting her arms, every nook and cranny, behind her knees.
“A swim in the creek is going to be such a relief.” Meggie pronounced.
She and Virgie brought their suits—both one-
piece with long skirts—long for swim suits, at any rate.
The boys took out through the woods in search of Camp Matigua the lost and all but forgotten Boy Scout camp located near the mouths of Beech Creek and Village Creek where, for more than 2 decades, youths came to learn their crafts; hone skills of canoeing, beading, fire-making, cooking, Morse code, knot-tying; to develop physically: swimming, rope climbing, trekking; learn how to make their own back-packs, how to prepare a bed of hot rocks to keep oneself warm in his bedroll on cold nights—without setting oneself on fire, how to recognize edible flora, how to prepare a clean and serviceable latrine and what to do with it when it’s full, how to govern in a democratic society, how to be mentally awake and morally straight, how to escort old ladies across the street—without making them feel old.
{“Now, there’s a trick!” That’s Mr. Bill thinking.}
It was the rope that first caught the boys’ attention . . . hanging down, it was, from the limb of a huge, old oak tree.
{“Ok, ok . . . I never said there were no hardwoods.” Mr. Bill did err from time to time in spite of his best efforts. And, this specimen was ancient.}
The limb hanging out over the creek was itse
lf massive with a wonderfully thick rope wrapped around, tied down securely, hanging to about 3 feet above the surface of the pool and a great knot a foot up from the end. It took the boys no time at all to locate a long tree branch and retrieve the rope, attach it to a small tree on the bank’s edge.
{“They’re like their father . . . that old ‘Can Do’ spirit.” They made Mr. Bill proud.}
Some of the roots of the magnificent, old tree had long since been laid bare by the rise and fall of a working, active creek, but that was years and years ago when the Scouts still used the camp. The creeks no longer rose high enough to contribute to and absorb the Camp’s pool. It had been left high and dry, so to speak, and the Scouts had been left with no place to paddle their canoes. And, the pool grew, so to speak, smaller and smaller . . .
{“How does something grow smaller and smaller?” Color Mr. Bill exasperated.}
. . . until it was rendered no more than a lovely swimming hole for neighboring children and their parents. Folks came in, cleared the land, planted their San Augustine turf, their vegetable gardens and flower beds. The whole topography changed. It was beautiful with gently rolling, thickly green expanses nesting amongst the pines, but not the same.
They first began using Camp Matigua in 1923. Twenty-five years . . . not long to enjoy a well-established creek which once flowed freely to the rivers and out to sea. The Scouts moved on, 1948. Maggie was a mere four years old at the time. Even back when she and Clarence visited, the pool was just a pool.
“It’s like I told ya . . . that ole entropy’ll getcha every time.”
{“Heh! Butt out! Who’s telling this story, anyway?” Mr. Bill could be a bit competitive . . .}
“. . . and cantankerous.” Margaret’s contribution.
Song of Camp Matigua:
Lost and Forgotten Boy Scout Camp
Well, now’s as good a time as any to tell ya . . . God’s been speakin’ of rollin’ up His universe for quite some time. He says space can be “rolled up like a mantle”, “split apart like a scroll”, “worn out like a garment”, “burnt up”, “stretched” and “shaken”. Whew! I just don’t wanna be around when that happens. ’Course, it’d be awesome to watch, I’m sure, but I don’t wanna be in the mix at the time. I don’t need to be in that moment. It’s just like my man Albert says, only Albert calls it his 2nd Law of Thermodynamics. You and me . . . we’ll just call it that ole entropy. We know what we’re talkin’ about when we say entropy. And since God’s Master of time and space, it prob’bly wouldn’t last very long. He could, realistically, do it in the twinkling of an eye. You know, like ole Santie Claus puts a finger ’side his nose and up the chimney he goes—with a twinkle in his eye. Why, I bet He could even tear it if He wants to . . . like a piece o’ paper.
The big boys pretty much concur.
Those what know particle physics. They’ve pretty much figured it out. Me? I’m thinkin’ God can do just about whatever He puts His mind to. I don’t have to know all the answers.
Hey! Here’s a riddle that’ll niddle yer fiddle . . .
“What is it that breathes fire into equations, then, creates a universe for them to describe?”
GOD.
Gotcha!
Like tha chicken and tha egg, huh? Which came first—equations or the universe? Depends on whether you’re God or people . . . I’m thinkin’ . . .
Like those ole, black holes that capture the light and never, ever let it go. They just absorb it, suck it up like a straw. Now, there are dark places in my pool—darker at some times than others, like when it’s stormin’ up above. There are places that are
so dark, I just go around. I don’t go there ’til the storm passes over. And, of course, in the nighttime. I don’t go there. I, generally, stay in the light. I just like it better there where I can look up and see the stars. And the moon can be as bright as a lantern shining down on my water which is so still unless I splish-splash which I usually don’t do in the nighttime. My moon glows blue neon.
And, too, I don’t like to leave my beached whale too long. I like the way the neon glow brushes over my beautiful mum and the water gently pats her, so I come upon her nice and slow so the water caresses her just so, so I don’t startle her and cause her to cry out in alarm. I yearn to hear her laugh and call me her little pollywog. Splish-splashin’s not as fun as it used to be.
But my pool’s dark places aren’t stingy. Once the storm blows over and the sun comes out, all my dark places release their light and it bounces . . . bounces off the little fishies and plants down under. And you could see some turtles gliding along the bottom, maybe swimming, maybe walkin’ and the light bouncin’ off their backs and their little feets
and they be lookin’ for somethin’ ta eat. Maybe even a little pollywog. They’d eat a pollywog, if they came upon it, for sure. That’s why pollywogs have to be fast and alert and ready to dive deep or swim up quick to the top. Ready-Freddy. Redi Kilowatt.
But everything’s so crystal clear in my pool and the colors are so complete, so vivid bright, mostly ’cuz there’s little that disturbs us. A green leaf, maybe red or orange or yellow, falls, makes a little ripple, so little and floats around. Eventually, it sinks to the silt below. A lovely flower blossom falls, makes a smaller ripple, but not much, floats around and, finally, sinks to the silt below. They turn ugly brown down there on the ground of my pool. And soon—whacko—entropy . . . I can’t tell where the leaf was or where it went to in the silt. And the beautiful little blossom’s turned into a ole woman and, soon, it, too, has disappeared. One day I swim by an’ there it is and the next time I pass, it’s no more an’ I can’t find it anywhere.
But the light’s happy in my water an’ sometimes it dives deep just like me and glances off all the little fishies’ bubbles . . . from one to another till everything down under is glistening, sparkle-twinkley. You can see why I love my pool. And my mom is there and I come up on her slow and swim all around her. And the little fishies nibble at her and they nibble at me with their wee piscus lips.
Little turtles poke their heads up so’s they can breathe, then pull them back, again. They’re like me—kind’a shy. Don’t really want to be seen too much. Or they’ll slide up a log an’ get some sun, then—plunk—back into the water. That makes a bigger ripple. Snakes . . . now, I do get some snakes from time to time since we all have to share my pool and they can make some queer-looking ripples but you know when you see ’em what made ’em ’cuz they’re so queer, gliding along on the top with their heads pokin’ up. And, usually, they’ll bite ya if you get in their way, and, usually, their bite really hurts. And they’ll pick at a pollywog and you can hope you’ve mastered “escape velocity” by that time. But that’s why I like to go below: I can keep a better eye on the buggers ’cuz sometimes they swim under the water so’s you don’t see ’em and come up on you and—whoop!—there they are and you can’t help but be surprised.
Me . . . I try not to disturb much. I just love to swim. I’m a natural. My mum and I giggled and giggled and splish-splashed in the water when she patted me . . .
Hey! If a flower blossom falls into my forest pool and there’s nobody to see it, does it really make a ripple?
16
There was little delay setting up the picnic area—cloth on the ground, United States flags standing erect all around. The boys grabbed the ice chest. Maggie and Virgie shared all the other bags of stuff and set everything out while the children went exploring around the swimming hole. Clarence taught them how to recognize edible berries, wild muscadine grapes being among them. So, when the boys spied a vine burgeoning with fruit, they commenced a battle. The peel, rather thick for a grape . . . and, the sweet fruit when ripe can easily, quickly be squeezed out with considerable force. It makes a very nice projectile against an enemy and quite harmless—if your mother’s willing to cope with the stains on your clothing. A rambunc
tious skirmish occupied their time until they heard their mother call.
“I think Virgie and I can keep the flies and creatures away from the food if you’d like to go for a swim, first.” Meggie said to her sons who were more than excited about getting some swings in on the rope, post haste. “That’s not to say you two can’t come up from time to time for a look-see . . . Virgie and I want to swim, too.”
So, as the boys took their turn in the hole—yelling
and whooping, splishing and splashing, belly-flopping and cannon-balling . . .
{“Why are cannon balls so appealing to young boys?” Color Mr. Bill flustered. Sometimes he could be just like an old woman.}
. . . Maggie and Virgie chose the largest trees they could find, got behind them and changed out their clothes, sat on the picnic cloth, shared the hot coffee Virgie brought and good conversation.
*
“Times up,” called Maggie. “Our turn.”
For another 30 minutes, the ladies had a great time, even taking some swings off the rope. The cool water was most refreshing, so pleasant, so clean and clear—something none of them got much opportunity to experience—and the boys guarded the food and played “Trivial Pursuit”. When the youths called out that their time was up, time to eat, Maggie remembered she’d forgotten the sack with the napkins, forks, spoons, salt and pepper back in the car. She told the other three not to start without her and gingerly picked her way on bare feet back to the car—not an easy task since pine cones lay all about in various stages of decomposition and most all of the parts were prickly and stickery.
“Well, shoot!” She exclaimed to herself when she realized she’d walked out of the woods half a city block
down from where she’d parked the car.
{“That’s my girl.”}
“Now, I’ll have to walk all that way back barefooted!”
Watching every step lest she come down on some glass or anything else uncomfortable, she carefully eyed the dirt road, scanning. Something ahead—not harmful, but interesting—caught her attention. Cautiously so as not to put her full weight on a foot ill-planted, Margaret gradually made her way down the road. The object to which her attention kept returning grew larger and larger as she approached. Standing over it, she recognized the small piece of discolored, white paper with large, red numbers printed on the top lying in the red soil along the road. Bending over, she perused the Social Security card belonging to a man—an older card, as the name and address of its owner had been typewritten and two of the characters struck before the upper-case key was fully engaged. Clearly, evidenced by the remnants of dirt and iron-oxide stain, the wrinkles and creases, separating fibers and faded print, the document had experienced lengthy exposure to the elements.
Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten Page 7
