Four Orme stories written in spring 2000:

The Apricot Tree
I don't know for certain where some of these memories come, or why they're so clear and others aren't. There are certainly things that happened that I should remember better.

There used to be an apricot tree east of the irrigation ditch, sort of between Flowerpot and the Duplex house. It crashed to the ground in a violent summer storm, where it was allowed to rest for about a day before maintenance trucked it off and amputated the remaining trunk. Its roots are still buried there; its life that it led up to that point recorded in those inches and displaced earth.
I used to think to myself, in the summers preceding its fall, that I would like to take a photo of it. There was a kindergarten classroom chair that was perpetually underneath it, with old, fallen fruit stuck to the seat. It was such a tiny chair! Sometimes I would walk by and smile at the clusters of Intermediate girls, attracted to a before-dinner snack. When no one was around, the summer sun shot through its leaves, glinting on the legs of the chair, casting a kaleidoscope of shade. The fruit hung heavy and ripe dropped with a soft, velvety thud every so often.

I'm uncertain why I remember this tree; its presence, so well. And in the face of so many other things! I still have to think to recall my bank account number, I space out when I need to remember my ticket number, or whether or not I've forgotten to lock the door on my way out. The apricot tree remains. Its roots dug into the ground, reminding me that some things can be shockingly permanent in the face of time. I remember it.



Hat, 1994
Of course, writing about hero worship is difficult. Among other things, it's hard to be that self-effacing when thinking about the other person and somehow putting them in the context of my own life. Especially since so many years have passed, and I'm a different person now.

I'll start with the hat. Imagine an old, cheaply made straw cowboy hat, thoroughly sweat-soaked, dirty, and misshapen. Tear a few of the straws out of the edging and flatten some of the top out. Is it in your mind? Now imagine that you would like to wear that hat... This is harder to envision, I know.

My first summer at Orme, when I was 15 the head of the youngest group— the group that I worked with, was EJ. At the time, I was busy getting myself into trouble, discovering relationships, and having the general sort of bad attitude that affects boys that age. EJ was forgiving, gave me a long leash, and I suspect, stuck up for me once or twice with counselors that wouldn't be nearly so kind. Whether or not this was actually the case, this was and is how I perceived it. He was good with the kids. He somehow knew what to say, how to say it, and remain gentle even when punishing. His attitudes towards so many things I internalized and made my own. Now when I try to enumerate these things, I am lost between those that are mine and those that I learned. This is the hardest part of explaining what this man meant to me, how much he inspired me, and how I am now because of it. I don't fully know, myself. That I feel that a part of me became EJ as I remember him, perhaps, is only an egotistical, backhanded sort of compliment. As myself, it is the only one that I can give and not be making something up, or leaving something out inadvertently— because I have forgotten.

Back to the hat. What is there to say about the hat that doesn't seem metaphorical or mystical? It embodied what I wanted to become. Walking with small children in hand, wearing the hat, I was a bigger person than the boy who I was without it. And he let me wear the hat. The generosity and the affable smile that went with it are still in my head. While I was busy learning the words and actions that went along with being an adult, I was allowed to also feel, sometimes, that I was already there.

Thank you, EJ.



Monsoon
Even as I begin to write this, my mind has already skipped ahead to the exciting part. The part where an enormous, violent summer storm has rolled in, where I am charging through the rain soaked to the bone, leading horses along a dirt road that I can barely see. Cracks of thunder are coming from lightning that is hitting so close that, once, I nearly stumble and fall from the noise. Let's start this over. How did I get here?

One of the ways to approach this story is to mention that there was a nasty 'bout of drinking involved the night before. Swimming into sleep near dawn wasn't all that different from swimming through the storm the following day. Waking up was difficult to do the next morning, but it was crisp with a slate gray sky to keep my eyes from shattering. Breakfast was a chore. A glass of orange juice, a cup of coffee: leave the solid food for later.

Walking with the kids towards the barn, we could see it coming. A long, wide cloud bearing down across the high, desert prairie— gray from sky to earth. The wind picked up. The willow branches tossed about. We gathered in the barn.

Since most of the inclement weather that happens in the area often misses Orme, and since the storm still looked a ways off, we went ahead and saddled the kids up. Advanced riders to the English arena, beginner riders to the regular arena. By the time the advanced riders were on their way and the beginners were almost done saddling, the air was thick with the smell of rain. Wind whipped at the saddle blankets. Horses tossed their heads.
Big drops started thumping against the dirt. And then it was difficult to see 10 feet. We put the kids back in the barn, left other counselors to watch over them, and charged out into the rain to get the kids and counselors from the English ring. Over a hill, the rain falling like a wall. Then: Crying children and spooked horses. Us: "S'ok, s'ok. Go to the barn." And we were leading the soaking animals back, around the hill. Each step against the wind, brought a spate of rain colder and harder than the last. Gasping for breath, pulling the horses close to keep them from bolting, we made the walk back.



I Am Not A Hero
In the dust and late afternoon sunlight, standing in a group of excited counselors waiting to go to town, I didn't do something. Young, uncertain, and still learning— still learning what my body, words and actions meant, still learning that they can change things, still learning paths through my heart— I was watching. Counselors were clustered in groups, talking and laughing. A few were tossing a frisbee. Jami and some foreign counselor who's name I can't recall were wrestling in a balancing game. She lost her balance. The foreign counselor pulled Jami close and said some sort of foreign, inappropriate thing. She wrested herself loose.

I stood, leaning against a post, watching.

Later she said, "I was hoping you'd come over and rescue me." At the time, with visions of desire prickling my skin, I took that to heart. I should have saved her. It gnawed at me for a long time. That I can still remember it, perhaps, is the greatest testament to the impression it left, nearly five years ago.

It is much easier to exonerate myself from blame, now, of course. I won't bore you with the excuses that pop into my head even as I write this. On another level, this still goes on. Part of me is still learning-- still watching people to discover some sort of way to be that is both me and heroic.

I want to come up with a snappy anecdote about some incident I saw that proved that I still am learning about humanity, but I can't. It's a subtle, small thing by this time. I've built up defenses against behaviors that I don't like. Mothers slapping kids in supermarkets, homeless kids asking for marijuana research funding, people who cut me off on the freeway... The list goes on. You can't both be receptive to wisdom, and attempt to shut the experience from your mind. Either I talk to the abusive mother, or I look the other way. I still find myself looking the other way, too often. And I wonder, even now, if I would rescue Jami.