These Are The Memories I Hold Dear….

Bart Colucci

Open Space Restoration combines nature with fiction, so to get the most out of each writing here is a brief trackline for this post:  This is fiction.  The road is based on Hwy. 92 in Northern California specifically a stretch of road from the coastal town of Half Moon Bay to San Mateo.   The inspiration for the lake is the iconic Crystal Springs Reservoir.

In 1913, the Rake Act was passed,  granting San Francisco the right to dam the Tuolumne River in Hetch Hetchy Valley (Yosemite National Park)   resulting in 150 miles of water pipes and tunnels which brought water to the Bay Area and to Crystal Springs.

The poem, “Memories I hold Dear” was penned by Trish W. of Idaho who spent her early years along the beaches and woods surrounding the California Coast.

Darkness met her at the old wooden door as  Addie walks out of the Bailey’s Bar.   Her riding boots felt heavier after the vodka cranberry drinks and the tequila shot.  Autumn leaves move across the wet asphalt as the thunderheads shift and fall above her.  The unemployed construction worker flicks his cigarette out the front door of the bar and walks towards her as she sits in the truck.

He  leans against her window with his hand on top of her cold roof,   the feel of Jack Daniels burning in his stomach  felt good against the metal of her pick-up.  One more chance to ask her out.

She cranked the ignition and yells  her best lie through the window that her switch did not work and she could not talk to him with the window down.   He  bangs  the top of the roof  mouthing “roll the glass down”,  she backs the truck out.  His arm falling against the wet window shield and then lifting his fingers out of the way of the metal arms of the wipers.

He stands alone in the parking lot, the smell of stale beer masked by the wind and the wet leaves.   He walks  back into the warmth of the bar and orders another Jack straight up to drink  faded missed love down.

She drove along the mountainous road as tires, pine needles, and wind  work in unison to cover the yellow dividing line.  Dusk was falling and the rain pelting even heavier  drops on her roof, white lights in long rows approached her from the front.  The single lane highway curves awkwardly with straddled rocky walled sides and deep forested plunges.

The rain now coming  sides ways,  she reaches for the wiper knob struggling to find the right speed,  with her other hand she holds the  orange glow of  her cigarette and the wheel.  The amber ash suddenly fell and glanced her thigh, looking down,  swears,  and brushes the lost amber onto the ground falling against her boot.

Looking up she viewed the surreal outline of  a huge  buck  as it stood horizontal to her F250 pick up.  Both frozen they met and the  280 lb. buck was flipped forward  into the windshield and slugged over the passenger side of the truck.  Breaking and out of control sliding towards the rock faced wall,  pushing her nails into the rubber of the steering wheel,  an 18 wheeler  swerves to miss Addie but clips her rear bumper and she is spun into two large circles.   The last spun circle slid her back tires over the edge and the F250 drops  backwards down the forested gulch.

Falling through the tree canopy, branches hitting against the truck,  jousting, snapping, cracking, and peeling.  The truck bounced off  limbs and rests against the wet clay soil.  The passenger side window shattered in as she still holds on to the steering wheel and now with one hand the door handle.

With the truck’s front end smashed and pushed sideways against the base of the pines,  her heart  still races and as she tries to catch her breath.  She reaches down to the glass filled clay through the passenger door  and grabs  the fallen rear view mirror and looks  at her face.  Aged from years unremembered but miraculously unscathed.

She worked her way out of the damaged truck and pulled  some horse blankets and her purse from behind the seats and flopped breathlessly on the damp rocks  tilting her head to the north and watched  the moon dance off  the lake.   It was a good 300 feet up to the road and 4 miles down to the dirt road along the lake.

She lights a cigarette and laughs as she watches the clouds begin to clear and the dark sky show off its glory that is so often drowned out by city lights.

Now sitting on the blanket she rejoices alone in her safety and good fortune, and welcomes this unplanned respite.    She brought her knees up to her chest and reflected on her life, her kids, and by the light of her cigarette she penned this poem:

The smell of your children’s necks….
rolling around on the floor
listening to them giggle
deep from their bellies

Azure medallions gleaming
as seagulls buzz the waves
rough, wave-hewn driftwood
lost upon the shore

the smell of a meadow
as the sun kisses the dewy,
stretching grasses
steam rises off the plains

free-falling thru space
as you tossle your head
to see things upside down
watching the cloud pictures float by

warm salty sidewalks
sprawling bodies as they dry
fresh from the pool
full of life, mischief

These are the memories I hold dear….

Awakening to the warmth of the sun she walks her way down to the lake,   a strong gust pushes through the pines as squirrels scurry  up their trunks and  sea gulls fly  inland from another approaching storm.    She reaches the lake and waves down a highway patrolmen.   He gave her his warm coffee and calls  in for a wrecker.    They both looked out towards the lake  and watched a great heron stand stoically at the waters edge.   Watching silently, her reflecting on her last 15 hours,  him wondering if he could feel at ease with her like this another time again away from work.

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