211 Secatogue Lane

I've been trying to work on a book and have been busy remembering pieces of my life and fitting them together to tell the tale of who I've been, who I am now and who I am becoming on this journey we call life. What follows is another excerpt from childhood memories. I'd love some feedback, especially from new readers! Is this boring or a necessary intro? What could be added, taken away?

The lane I lived on overarched with trees that almost met in the middle. The whole area had once been a forest and large, lovely trees lined both sides of the wide street. Houses had expansive front lawns and big backyards where plenty of the mature forest trees remained, interspersed with recent landscaping of new trees, hedges and shrubs. My house was at the end of the long lane.

Beyond my home lay Willet’s Point, where the road branched into east and west, leading eventually down to the bay on both sides. That was prime waterfront property, much of it on the bay itself. The houses were mostly smaller and more cookie cutter than those on my lane, but they had bay access and docking space for boats. The Great South Bay, with its tiny private beach and rusted lone swing became my go to place to think and be alone as I entered adolescence. I have always craved and carved out a fairly large dose of solitude in my life.

For much of my childhood I played outside, with my brother Andrew, my dog, Tiny, a runty St Bernard, and a variety of neighbors. The neighborhood grew up with us. When we first came there, a large woods abutted our property. It must have been the size of three large lots.

Of course, the woods was forbidden territory. Older kids told stories about finding broken beer bottles in there. If there were broken bottles, they reasoned, there must be drunken men, bad men who would kidnap and kill children. Mommy made sure we knew the woods were absolutely off limits.

Sometimes I played by myself in our backyard. I remember it as a huge expanse with beautiful old trees, some flowering lilacs and rhododendron bushes and wonderful green grass that took lots of mowing, first from dad and later from a yard service. That backyard was the perfect place for me to wander, from tree to bush to flower, absorbed totally in my own games and my own thoughts.

Once I could read and climb, the tree by the garage became a favorite perch. I climbed up into the lowest fork where the trunk split off into two thick branches and there I would sit with a book and read, pretty well hidden from the world in my leafy kingdom.

One day, when I was about 5 years old and out in my yard, I noticed the older neighbor boy up in a tree. He was hammering some nails into the tree and building something. I had been fascinated by this older boy, Davey Cross, and wanted to know everything about him, so I tipped my head back to look up at him, way up in the tree and asked,

Davey, what are you doing?
Building a tree house, he replied..

I was very intrigued by this so I stood there with my neck craned, watching. After a few moments I felt a little ping on the top of my head. It didn’t hurt, exactly, it was just unusual, so I reached up to touch my crown with a tentative hand. When I drew it back, my hand was full of blood! A nail head pierced the top of my head. Soon bright red blood was trickling down the sides of my face. The crown of my head began to throb dully as I ran screaming toward the house.

But only our new, Costa Rican housekeeper was there, looking after my brother and doing the laundry. She took one look at this bloody crying five year old and blanched white. Ay Dios!, she cried out and then began muttering to herself in Spanish. Her olive skin turned pale and looked so white in contrast to her dark curls. She was trying to decide what to do and decided to get a comb, of all things, to loosen my waist length pigtails and comb through my hair, perhaps to identify the source of the blood. That made it flow all the more and faster, too, so I screamed a bit more. Then she called dad’s office. Although she did not speak English at the point, she must have asked for Mr, Flowers. Between his pidgeon Spanish and her lack of English, an emergency was declared and he came rushing home.

I’ll never forget the sight of his face, white as a ghost. He scooped me up, blood and all and threw me in the car. We were in Good Sam’s emergency room in 5 minutes flat. I don’t remember much of that but I know I got one or two stitches on the top of my head and was sent home.

Another, much more minor incident in the yard included getting stung by a bee for the first time. One minute a friend and I were playing, crawling around on the grassy lawn and the next, my hand seemed to come down on something that produced a very sharp pain. I screamed and then began to cry as I once more ran toward the house for comfort. This time I think there were guests. The bee’s stinger was still visible in my hand, so mom pulled to out and told me I had been stung by a bee.

When we got Tiny, our St. Bernard puppy, we fenced in the yard. Tiny was often my best friend in those days. I would tell her my troubles and my secrets, especially when I though nobody else understood them. I would bury my hands in her thick fur, smell her comforting doggy smell and think of her as my best friend in a world where people didn’t always understand just what I was crying for or why I felt so alone.

We played less in the front yard, with its high hedges fronting the street and the shrubs lining both sides of the driveway. For years the landscapers complained because dad couldn’t back out in a straight line without veering into the shrubs on one side or the other of the driveway and damaging the foliage. There was a nice island of mature trees, large bushes and stones on the left side of the lawn. My grandmother’s wrought iron bench eventually found a home there.

new work

Greetings and salams to all. Happy New Year! I haven't posted in a while but I'm still writing, both poetry and prose. here's a sample:



Sleep,
Sleep as deeply as you must.
I will keep watch
And try to keep the demons at bay
for both of us.


There is nothing else for me to do right now but breathe
And write this poetry.

Outward breath: La ilaha
Inward: Il Allah
This will keep me sane
Or rather,
Crazily in love.

One of two choices
Are you capable of choosing?
I am not.
Your body must go about the busyness of the world
But are you able to separate it from the whole?
If so, you are stronger than i.

All i can do,

In this fearful moment

Is try to make sense

Through these words

Of what cannot really be said.

S. Flower, 1/4/10