Burn Down the Ground (39 page)

D
uring a trip to Texas, I find myself compelled to revisit Boars Head some ten years after we left it behind. The two-lane country route that takes me to Honea Egypt Road is now a four-lane thoroughfare. I see that Webb’s Grocery is gone, replaced by a bank; and the old horse auction where I first met Charlie Brown is now a Wal-Mart. I had perfectly preserved a memory of the place I called home and the expansion has wiped away all things quaint and unique and replaced them with homogenized
conglomerates. I am nervous. I don’t know if I should go farther and see our old land.
What if it’s a Wal-Mart, too?

I am comforted to see that Honea Egypt Road isn’t much different, though all the real estate signs with looming threats of “Coming Soon” don’t bode well for its continued preservation. The road seems wider, the blacktop is smoother, and the signs for roads and subdivisions that never existed throw me off, but I am close. I feel it. A turn down Circle Drive brings more familiarity as the road narrows and the trees outnumber the trailers by a few thousand to one.

As I round the hairpin turn onto Boars Head, my heart quickens. I feel like a dozen butterflies have hatched in my belly. The road is now paved, though there are still no traffic signs, curbs, or lane dividers painted on the asphalt. Passing over a dry creek bed, I realize this must be the bridge Dad constructed. At least I think it is. It seems dwarfed in size, and with the layers of asphalt covering it, there’s no way for me to check for his inscription carved into the concrete. With the authentication paved over, I wonder if there is anyone left in these parts who knew how my father salvaged this stretch of back road with his design and changed the lives of the schoolkids who rode Bus #9.

I approach what used to be the driveway we cleared and notice the gate is gone. But that’s okay. Nothing much left to keep in, is there? Some posts have rotted and collapsed and the barbed wire is caked with rust, but to my surprise the fence Dad and David built for my horse, Charlie Brown, remains mostly intact.

I park the car off to the side of the road, open the door, and take a deep breath of thick, humid air before I step out onto the pavement.
Pavement?
This patch of earth is familiar and foreign all at once. Our mailbox is gone and the land is overgrown with
trees and brush. If it weren’t for the empty space where the gate used to be, there would be no way of telling where the driveway once was. Since leaving Boars Head I haven’t spent time in the wilderness and my nerves are on edge looking for snakes. Dusk is fast approaching and the deeper into the woods I get, the less the sun lights the way.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I realize I am surrounded by nothing but dense forest. My heart sinks. This trek was in hopes of seeing something, anything that reminds me of the home my family and I once made with our love, sweat, and tears. Time has taken it all back. I sigh in resignation and breathe in the pine-scented evening air. I turn in place, looking up at the trees and whispers of darkening sky in awe.
How on earth did we ever manage to turn this place into a home?

Then the shed comes into focus. The rusted tin and dim light serve as camouflage, but there it is just as we left it. The woods seem to swirl around me and disappear, revealing the bones of our past lives.

With the shed serving as a point on my compass of memories, I get my bearings.

If that’s the shed, then I’m standing near where our basketball hoop was
.

I look around on the ground, kicking back layers of growth to see if I can find the basket. I don’t find it, so I look up and see the red ring still nailed to the tree that has now grown several feet. Bits and pieces of net dangle and chunks of the backboard’s edges have rotted away. Seeing the formerly slight tree as thick and sturdy as one of the logs from the old cabin makes me laugh out loud in amazement. My basketball tree is all grown-up.

One of the two trees that held our swing hasn’t fared as well.
It is bent in half and when it fell, however many months or years before, it took the metal pole and swing down with it. The two-by-fours of the swing are soggy splinters eaten away by termites and carpenter ants. I think about Mom’s beautiful landscaping and how disappointed she would have been when the tree gave way. Dad would have had to rebuild the swing for her somewhere else.

The outhouse has succumbed to Mother Nature. Not a speck of it is visible. The rusted-out Bug sits nearby in shambles, stripped of anything worth taking; the red paint is faded, revealing a metal skeleton. The roof, still dented from the time David flipped it three times, is covered in leaves and dried pinecones and needles. Weeds, bushes, and tree branches sprout through the holey floorboard and busted back windshield. The Bug is so lushly covered that it almost seems intentional, like a quirky piece of lawn decoration.

It really is beautiful down here. No wonder Mom and Dad loved this place
.

The lock on the door to the shed is broken and I walk inside the carcass of where our fantasy home was supposed to be. Inside nothing remains except a musty smell and memories. It is smaller than I remember, and I had remembered it as being small.

We sure didn’t have much, just each other
.

I step back outside into the evening air, which is dripping with humidity. Darkness has taken over almost without warning. It is nearly pitch black and the sounds of the forest spook me. I don’t want to be in these woods without light so I hustle back to Boars Head. Safely back beside the car, I stand on the blacktop and
stare through the wall of trees at the old fence that surrounded my little universe, built by Theodore R. Crews, Jr.

A breeze blows through the leaves, and I swear I hear the spirits of our laughter and our tears in the swaying treetops. The flame of our lost dreams is rekindled inside me.

I could burn down the ground and clear the snakes and try again
.

I could.

W
hen a book is about one’s life, where do the thanks begin? The beginning of the book’s inception, I suppose. So, thank you to Rachel Kramer Bussel for encouraging me to submit my story to Hillary Carlip of
FreshYarn.com
and to Hillary for editing and publishing my piece. Thank you to Kara Welker for reading that essay and introducing me to Peter McGuigan of Foundry Literary & Media without recompense, and to Peter for giving me a chance and his continued friendship. And, of course, thank you to Bruce Tracy for ushering me into the Big Time.

Very special thanks to my agent Chris Park for the patience, understanding, and gentle but firm counsel she showed me, which educated and kept me sane; and to my editor, Ryan Doherty, for answering my innumerable questions and helping me sculpt my pile of words into something readable.

Sincerest thanks for the numerous readings, comments, questions, and edits by Lisa Pulitzer, without which this book would not have been possible. She taught me loads with her expertise.

My appreciation also goes to performing arts programs in schools, local theaters, and comedy communities, without which so many freaks, geeks, and at-risk kids and adults might find themselves in heaps of trouble or, at the very least, lonely and inert. The arts (and, yes, stand-up comedy is an art form) are important, as significant as organized sports. These groups helped
me find my voice to tell my story and gave me peace knowing that my family has nothing to be ashamed of. Without them, I would not have the pleasure of friendships with Scott Ramsey, Liam McEneaney, Sara Benincasa, Jenn Dodd, Sue Funke, Eddie Gutierrez, Rachel Kempster, Carolyn Castiglia, and Chuck Wills, who never fail in their enthusiasm and willingness to listen to my chatter.

To my first husband, Rob, and his family, I express my deepest gratitude. They took me in when no one else did and loved me as one of their own. I’m so happy that our friendships have endured and thankful for their irreverent senses of humor.

Love and thanks to my brother for understanding that the truth really can set you free and that it was time for me to tell my truth. He is rightly proud of conquering the enormous odds that were stacked against him. I admire him for all that he has accomplished. He’s a survivor, too.

I’m eternally grateful to my dynamo mama for her willingness to shed her fear and field my relentless interrogations that opened her long-forgotten wounds. She carried a lot of guilt from some of her choices, but what mother doesn’t? She did right by us. She once cracked, “We may not have put you through college, but we sure did give you an interesting life.” That they did, and I love them for it. I hold her in high esteem for her courage, tenacity, and work ethic and adore her puckish wit. I also appreciate that she passed on to me her passion for reading.

And, finally, there are not enough ways to thank my husband, Christian. The care and patience he bestows on me make me wonder if he isn’t harboring some horrid secret. Why else would someone be so kind and encourage me with such ardent passion? He is my biggest champion and best friend. His undying support, thoughtful advice, compassion, and devotion go unmatched. He is amazing, and I am so lucky he said, “I do.”

K
AMBRI
C
REWS
owns a PR and production company specializing in comedy. A renowned storyteller and public speaker, she has appeared at The Moth, Upright Citizen’s Brigade, and SXSW Interactive. She splits her time between Astoria, Queens, and Cochecton, New York, with her husband, comedian Christian Finnegan.

www.kambricrews.com