Running Barefoot
Page 76
I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t respond at all. I knew the truth of what Samuel said - but sometimes a little guilt was a good distraction from sorrow. The sorrow had faded through the years, but somehow the guilt remained.
We rolled into Nephi, and I wondered if Samuel would pull into Mickelson’s Family Restaurant. It had good food and it sat at the edge of town by the freeway off-ramp, making it accessible to thru-traffic and town’s folk alike. I wondered if I would see anybody I knew inside - someone who would come up and get the scoop and an introduction on the pretense of giving two hoots about how I was doing. I hated making small talk and avoided people in the grocery store and other places just so that I wouldn’t have to think of things to say. I liked people, I cared about them, and I wanted to be a good person, but don’t make me chat idly on the telephone or make pleasant conversation just for the sake of being polite. We neared the restaurant and Samuel kept driving. I breathed a little easier and wondered aloud where he was taking me.
“My grandpa told me an interesting story about a pond in this area. I thought we’d have a picnic. Grandma Nettie packed it - it should be full of good stuff.”
“Burraston’s Pond?”
“That’s the one.”
Thoughts of Kasey filled my head. He and his friends would swing out of a huge tree and into the pond. Some of the branches extended far out over the water. Some kids had built a rickety platform high up in the same tree to jump from. The platform was about two feet by two feet, and it was a wonder nobody had been killed. They had never been able to talk me up into the tree. I was way too sensible. So with my heart in my throat, I had watched them climb high into the uppermost branches, steady themselves on the little platform, and then hurl themselves out and over the water, screaming with terror and delight.
We took the old Mona road and at the turnoff to the pond, veered west on the dirt road pocked with deep grooves and tire tracks. Since school was back in session the campsite was empty, and the little lake was completely void of people and boats. There was no wind, and the setting sun shimmered on the still water, coloring the water a deep amber edged in ebony shadows. I hadn’t been to Burraston’s since before Kasey had died, but felt no overpowering melancholy at returning. This had been a hangout, a place to play, and except for sharing our first kiss here, it was not a spot I was especially nostalgic about.
Looking at it now, I realized how lovely it was. Quiet and abandoned, it seemed to bloom in its solitude. We bounced over the bumpy road and took the fork that took us up and around the pond.
“Where’s the best spot?” Samuel looked to me for guidance.
Burraston’s Pond was actually Burraston’s Ponds, with a few little water holes that broke off the biggest part.
“Keep going around until we’re on the furthest side of the main pond.” Trees were thick in some spots, sparse and others, and I directed him to the famous ‘big tree’ overlooking the water. Samuel pulled off the dusty road and grabbed a coarse blanket and a little cooler from the back of the truck as I climbed out and gingerly climbed my way down to a little clearing at the water’s edge where I thought we could picnic.
The silence was broken only by the crickets warming up for their evening symphony, and an occasional buzz of a mosquito flitting over the water. I had never been to Burraston’s when it was deserted. It was not surprising to me that I liked it much better this way. Samuel spread the blanket out, and we sat watching the water lap up against the rocks and twigs that littered the shore at the base of the big tree.
“So what’s the story your grandpa told you?” I leaned back against the blanket, propping my head in one hand and looking up at him.
“It wasn’t about the pond, I guess. It’s more about the town. I didn’t ever come to Mona when I lived here. I never had reason to - so when I asked my grandpa if there were any good fishing spots around here, and he mentioned this pond, I asked him about the town. He said Burl Ives, the singer, was once thrown in jail here in Mona. It was before his time, but he thought it was a funny story.”
“I’ve never heard about that!”
“It was the 1940’s, and Burl Ives traveled around singing. I guess the authorities didn’t like one of his songs - they thought it was bawdy, so they put him in jail.”
“What was the song?” I snickered.
“It was called Foggy, Foggy Dew. My grandpa sang it for me.”
“Let’s hear it!” I challenged.
“It’s far too lewd.” Samuel pulled his mouth into a serious frown, but his eyes twinkled sardonically. “All right you’ve convinced me,” he said without me begging at all, and we laughed together. He cleared his throat and began to sing, with a touch of an Irish lilt, about a bachelor living all alone whose only sin had been to try to protect a fair young maiden from the foggy, foggy dew.
One night she came to my bedside
When I was fast asleep.
She laid her head upon my bed
And she began to weep
She sighed, she cried, she damn near died
She said what shall I do?
So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head
Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
“Oh my!” I laughed, covering my mouth. “I don’t think I would have stuck Burl Ives in jail for that, but it is pretty funny,”
“Marine’s are the lewdest, crudest, foulest talking bunch you’ll ever find. I’ve heard much, much worse. I’ve sung much, much worse. I tried to remain chaste and virtuous, and I still have the nickname Preacher after all these years - but I have been somewhat corrupted.” He waggled his eyebrows at his ribaldry.
We rolled into Nephi, and I wondered if Samuel would pull into Mickelson’s Family Restaurant. It had good food and it sat at the edge of town by the freeway off-ramp, making it accessible to thru-traffic and town’s folk alike. I wondered if I would see anybody I knew inside - someone who would come up and get the scoop and an introduction on the pretense of giving two hoots about how I was doing. I hated making small talk and avoided people in the grocery store and other places just so that I wouldn’t have to think of things to say. I liked people, I cared about them, and I wanted to be a good person, but don’t make me chat idly on the telephone or make pleasant conversation just for the sake of being polite. We neared the restaurant and Samuel kept driving. I breathed a little easier and wondered aloud where he was taking me.
“My grandpa told me an interesting story about a pond in this area. I thought we’d have a picnic. Grandma Nettie packed it - it should be full of good stuff.”
“Burraston’s Pond?”
“That’s the one.”
Thoughts of Kasey filled my head. He and his friends would swing out of a huge tree and into the pond. Some of the branches extended far out over the water. Some kids had built a rickety platform high up in the same tree to jump from. The platform was about two feet by two feet, and it was a wonder nobody had been killed. They had never been able to talk me up into the tree. I was way too sensible. So with my heart in my throat, I had watched them climb high into the uppermost branches, steady themselves on the little platform, and then hurl themselves out and over the water, screaming with terror and delight.
We took the old Mona road and at the turnoff to the pond, veered west on the dirt road pocked with deep grooves and tire tracks. Since school was back in session the campsite was empty, and the little lake was completely void of people and boats. There was no wind, and the setting sun shimmered on the still water, coloring the water a deep amber edged in ebony shadows. I hadn’t been to Burraston’s since before Kasey had died, but felt no overpowering melancholy at returning. This had been a hangout, a place to play, and except for sharing our first kiss here, it was not a spot I was especially nostalgic about.
Looking at it now, I realized how lovely it was. Quiet and abandoned, it seemed to bloom in its solitude. We bounced over the bumpy road and took the fork that took us up and around the pond.
“Where’s the best spot?” Samuel looked to me for guidance.
Burraston’s Pond was actually Burraston’s Ponds, with a few little water holes that broke off the biggest part.
“Keep going around until we’re on the furthest side of the main pond.” Trees were thick in some spots, sparse and others, and I directed him to the famous ‘big tree’ overlooking the water. Samuel pulled off the dusty road and grabbed a coarse blanket and a little cooler from the back of the truck as I climbed out and gingerly climbed my way down to a little clearing at the water’s edge where I thought we could picnic.
The silence was broken only by the crickets warming up for their evening symphony, and an occasional buzz of a mosquito flitting over the water. I had never been to Burraston’s when it was deserted. It was not surprising to me that I liked it much better this way. Samuel spread the blanket out, and we sat watching the water lap up against the rocks and twigs that littered the shore at the base of the big tree.
“So what’s the story your grandpa told you?” I leaned back against the blanket, propping my head in one hand and looking up at him.
“It wasn’t about the pond, I guess. It’s more about the town. I didn’t ever come to Mona when I lived here. I never had reason to - so when I asked my grandpa if there were any good fishing spots around here, and he mentioned this pond, I asked him about the town. He said Burl Ives, the singer, was once thrown in jail here in Mona. It was before his time, but he thought it was a funny story.”
“I’ve never heard about that!”
“It was the 1940’s, and Burl Ives traveled around singing. I guess the authorities didn’t like one of his songs - they thought it was bawdy, so they put him in jail.”
“What was the song?” I snickered.
“It was called Foggy, Foggy Dew. My grandpa sang it for me.”
“Let’s hear it!” I challenged.
“It’s far too lewd.” Samuel pulled his mouth into a serious frown, but his eyes twinkled sardonically. “All right you’ve convinced me,” he said without me begging at all, and we laughed together. He cleared his throat and began to sing, with a touch of an Irish lilt, about a bachelor living all alone whose only sin had been to try to protect a fair young maiden from the foggy, foggy dew.
One night she came to my bedside
When I was fast asleep.
She laid her head upon my bed
And she began to weep
She sighed, she cried, she damn near died
She said what shall I do?
So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head
Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
“Oh my!” I laughed, covering my mouth. “I don’t think I would have stuck Burl Ives in jail for that, but it is pretty funny,”
“Marine’s are the lewdest, crudest, foulest talking bunch you’ll ever find. I’ve heard much, much worse. I’ve sung much, much worse. I tried to remain chaste and virtuous, and I still have the nickname Preacher after all these years - but I have been somewhat corrupted.” He waggled his eyebrows at his ribaldry.
