The best place in the world
January 29, 2002 @ 1:32 p.m.
This is a paper that I wrote for English Composition. I'm thinking about turning it in for a literary magazine here on campus. What do you think?
Even before your eyes open you smell it. The aroma of dying leaves engulfs your nose. Opening your eyes, you look about. You can tell by the way the sun barely grazes the sapphire walls of your room that it�s before seven o�clock in the morning. A thin breeze filters through the open window, signaling paradise just outside, and you can�t take it anymore. It�s time for a walk.
You pull on sweats and a jacket and head for the door. Outside, you glance back at the place where so many memories were made. This run-down cabin has housed three generations of family, four dogs, and too many memories to count. The ugly brown siding was put on by your hands�the walnut-stained concrete porch was poured once, several years ago, by you and your dad. The penny that says 1995 is half-buried in that concrete, reminding you of when it was poured. Its copper is no longer legible, but you know what it says. Everything is at peace here, as it always is. As it should be.
You step into the grass and notice with a smile the morning dew that soon coats your shoes. Automatically your feet take you down the crunchy gravel path to the river, a path you�ve walked countless times before. There it is. Soft and brown and silence, it is the Wapsipinicon. Everyone calls it the Wapsi, and here you find that it winds its way around civilization, determined to stay quiet. You mosey down to your haphazard dock, feet clapping quietly against the soft wood of the bridge.
Looking upriver around the bend, you see the yellow-sanded Willow Beach, lonely and forgotten in the early morning mists. Directly across from the dock is Booichie Beach, fondly named by you and your cousin Ashley after some neighborhood dogs. Sight of downstream is lost after a fourth of a mile, where the river veers a sharp left. Green-necked mallards float nearby, breaking the silence abruptly with cackles of delight. Everything is at peace here, as it always is. As it should be.
Meandering back up the trail, you notice a friendly face has joined the scene. It�s Marcia, a woman who loves kids and lies when she says she hates them. She grins at you, but remains quiet. She knows that it�s too early to be loud; she�ll take care of that later with her jukebox and a case of beer. You watch her work-worn hands caress the delicate petals of the flower she�s watering and remember the first time you realized that Marcia was gay. You were ten and innocent�no clue of what homosexuality was until then. Your mother told you and you were incredulous. Old news, now.
You pass Marcia with a wave and a smile and continue up the path. Coming at you is Bob, coffee cup in hand. By now you know that coffee cup does not hold coffee but vodka and Bob is already drunk. You smile politely and avoid his gentle weaving; he�s harmless enough, and he�s known you since birth. He tips a greasy baseball cap in your direction, scratches his pockmarked face absentmindedly, and moves on. Everything is at peace here, as it always is. As it should be.
You veer to the right up another side path and look to your left. There�s the other Roedema cabin, where your aunt Marisue and cousins Nathan and Ashley are still sleeping. It�s smaller than yours, quaint, but it is in better shape. The siding�s off-white; the roof is charcoal shingles. The windows are double paned and there�s nothing special about them at first glance. However, you focus on one in particular: the one that had to be replaced after Ashley put an angry fist through it. She�s your best friend, your family, your fun, your twin, and you love her to death. You laugh more with her than anyone on this earth and she�s a main reason why this place is your favorite.
You return to the main road and continue your slow gait down it. To your left is Bob�s cabin, in all its faded crimson glory. Walking a bit further, you smile as a familiar group comes to greet you. It�s Boomer, Richie, and Brutus, Marcia�s dogs. They�re out on their early morning patrol. Boomer and Richie are the Booichie Beach�s namesakes, and you know they�ve been around for a while. Boomer is a tired old girl whose amber eyes still tell good stories. She has salt-and-pepper fur but moves like a puppy.
Richie is the biggest dog of the pack; her nose can reach your waist. She has the coloring of a Golden Lab but isn�t one. You�ve known her since she and you were both young; many a time have you blown air in her face and giggled without abandon when her two-foot-tongue somehow reached your cheek. The smallest one, Brutus, is a purebred Golden Lab puppy, a bounding bursting bubble of energy whose paws are too big for his body. They saunter up to say hello and you grin, petting them each in turn and cooing to them gently.
They meander on and so do you, further and further up the gravel road until you hit pavement. There is a soft green golf course in front of you, but you don�t belong to it. No, you and Ashley come here at night to steal golf balls off the driving range and hide in the cornstalks when security drives by. You recall countless summer nights of running through the course sprinklers, screeching in ecstatic shock at the cold furiousness of each blast.
Smiling, you turn away. It�s time to head back � your mom will be making breakfast soon, and crackling bacon�s a smell you�ll not soon forget. Everything is at peace here, as it always is. As it should be.
It's about my favorite place in the world, my cabin, and all the special people and feelings there. I love it so much.
(By the way, if you're looking for a paper, don't even think about revising this one for your own use. That's just not cool.)
Oh, and I made up the coolest quote ever: "Fuck being the rock/I'd rather be sandpaper/And scratch away like a cat's tongue/at your heart that doesn't feel." I think I'm gonna make it into something. We'll see.
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- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006