February 13, 2005

The Branch

(ending 2)

By George K. George

The afternoon sun is suddenly shaded by overhanging bushes when I turn off the highway. Shapes of light stream over the Datsun’s dusty windshield as rays flitter between gaps in the overgrown canopy. Leafy twigs scrape the side panels with an awful wood on metal squeal, and the truck’s suspension does little to prevent the frame from rattling like a box of tacks over the gauntlet of potholes. After a quarter mile of this abuse on the already crumbling truck, I pull up and park by the other vehicles in the dirt culdesac. Opening the door, the scent of eighty-one Datsun interior is replaced by that of sea salt carried by the cool western breezes.

The lawns are in no better shape than the driveway, grown over with pest tree sprouts and tall dead grass. The birdbath is covered in brown-black mildew, and its crookedly positioned dish contains rainwater flourishing with algae. Thick emerald green moss covers the brick walkway leading to the front door. Squishing my way down the walk, I get a closer look at the house. More of the siding is the silver-gray color of weathered cedar than it is white latex. Fallen paint chips line the flower gardens at the perimeter of the house, where a few colorful perennials peek from behind thistles and broadleaf weeds.

I can hear the surf. The house sits on five acres of oceanfront property. Five football fields bordering on the rocky coast of an inlet was mine to command for eighteen years of my young life. Before going inside to face the family I must revisit my playground.

The entrance to the trail is densely grown with young trees and I have trouble finding it. Untrimmed branches bite my naked arms and neck while I step down the rotted wood planks to the shore. Like most of the property now, this trail hasn’t been tended for years. The scent of salt grows strong as I fight my way out of the arbor to the ocean-side clearing. I observe that it is high tide. Stepping on the pebbles and bleached shell fragments to get closer to the water, I see the rocks are well barnacled and that a colony of starfish still occupies the small bay.

I walk to the rock on which many of the descendants of these barnacles and starfish met their fate of dissection by my hand. Adjacent to this rock is the Shrine, an array of rocks where my collection of unusual shells and perfect sand dollars were displayed. I would position them superstitiously, convinced the world was never safe until they were in perfect arrangement. Only pieces of broken shells are currently on exhibition.

I stare out over the inlet’s waters. I hear the lapping of the tide at my feet. I feel gentle gusts of cool ocean air. It seems as though time is passing in a repetitive loop and this moment is the only moment. Much of my time was spent sitting and forming childish hypotheses while walking the pebble beaches, sprawled out on a large rock, or hanging from a tree branch. The branch! I reel in the direction of my old hangout, half expecting it to be gone. But, the branch comes into view and is as familiar as a photograph of an old friend.

The only trail to the tree was made by me many years ago. No trace of it remains so I battle through the vegetation and stumble over exposed rocks in order to make progress toward the tree, which lies at the farthest point of a small peninsula beside the bay.

I brush the leaves and twigs from my clothes and then squint up at the tree. I stand in its shadow, the sun glinting through its broad mosaic of leaves. The tree has dried out some but is probably still climbable. Let’s do it, I say to myself. I’m not as agile and light as I was when I was young, so the climb is much more strenuous and painstaking than I remember.

About twelve feet up is the branch. I stand on it, ankles trembling, and grip a higher limb for balance. Sliding my palms down the trunk for stability, I manage to take a seated position on the branch. In order to take my usual position I scoot farther out, still seated. Now comes the trickier part. All at once I move back so that the back of my knees are wrapped around the branch. This causes my body to swing downward. I have returned to my contemplation chamber, hanging upside down twenty feet above the rippling ocean.

The battered and stained roof of my mother’s house is visible, upside down, from where I gently sway. Family members who have arrived are probably picking over her belongings, gracefully arguing over which item has more sentimental value to whom and why. The fate of these five acres of oceanfront property is already decided. Her property is to be sold. A scholar in the family has devised a formula that divides the money made from its sale evenly according to amount of relation to my mother. With only three children in the immediate family, I imagine I’ll get a fairly handsome cut. But it matters not to me.

I look down to see the gray-green stones beneath the waves. Sunlight is scattered and alive on surface of the water. The tree creaks and moans familiarly, and I feel I am at the kind of home no building could ever provide.

This property, this tree, will probably go to a housing developer. I sigh. My mother was adamant about not selling any part of her land. She didn’t want neighbors even if it meant reeling in a great deal of money on each lot sold. Her wish for privacy was to see no signs of civilization when stepping out of her front door. The five acres had been passed down from grandparents of grandparents for nearly two centuries. It had been kept whole by these relatives and, finally, my mother until the day she died and no will was discovered.

Being the youngest of three, I had the most time alone in the wilderness as well as with my mother. She was wise in a typical mothering way and always had a cliché phrase for my inattentiveness or innocence to a situation. The badgering kept me out of the house and in the glorious wild of our estate, which suited her fine. She may have warned of what parenthood entailed and of the responsibilities that go with being older, but never did she have to command me to get outside because it was a beautiful day.

Yes, the untraceable gradient of growing to be an adult. When I was a child I’d hang right here and wonder what it was like to grow older. It seemed I’d never get there. Being here in the same time-freezing surroundings as when I was a youngster, it’s easy to imagine how I’d think my future was an eternity away.

Now I’m an orphan, technically. As a young adult I remember feeling dread when picturing my life without my mother, if she had suddenly died unnaturally. No death is without mourning, but when it comes expectedly a sigh of relief is breathed by those close by. This was true in my mother’s case. Our family has fortunately been without an untimely death in many years. I can’t say the family gathered in the house is unaffected by the non-tragedy, but I’m sure the money will feel good to most.

I wonder how everyone in there is looking these days. Few of them are of my generation. It’s strange to me how peers don’t seem to age. I remember looking at a twenty-five year-old when I was six and seeing one awfully mature adult. Most twenty-five year-olds now look to me like early high school students. On the other hand, seeing an old friend, a peer, is like looking at someone ageless. I could narrow this person’s age down to a two-decade range at best.

Examining the water below, it seems the tide is going out. Many of the stones in the bay are exposed now. In the distance, just over the horizon, I see a jet tracing a long vapor trail. The white streak arcs slightly against the baby blue of the sky. It gets me pondering. Is there a man-made line that is undoubtedly perfect? The circle can be made virtually perfect by rotating an implement around an axis. But, the line seems like more of a challenge to create without flaw. Rotation takes care of the circle. There has to be a mechanism for exact leveling. I feel the blood pressure in my head and it comes to me. Gravity is the answer. An object will always follow a straight line to the earth. I remember contemplating such puzzles as a child in this very place and position.

My family is probably wondering where the member that corresponds with the Datsun parked in the driveway is. I’d better head up to the house and claim a few prizes. I’m unsure of the best way to right myself on the branch. Should I try to swing up and sit on it, or should I remove my legs and dangle back to the trunk? Swinging up would appear the easiest way.

I try grabbing the branch firmly and attempt to rotate myself up onto it. The first attempt leaves me swinging back and forth in the same position. I need momentum. Pulling on the branch with a great deal of might, I swing my body hard in the upward direction. Same results. Okay, do this a few times in a row and I’ll be there.

I hear the sound of cracking from the base of the branch. There is a split second of panic during the freefall, and the next sensations are the chill of seawater enveloping my body and the taste of salt filling my nose. The water is that kind of cold that doesn’t feel cold on one’s hand when testing it from the shore before a swim, but that chills and evokes the taste of blood when one is fully immersed. My legs are stiff from hanging upside down for so long, and my arms aren’t faring much better from the temperature shock. Once the surface is located, I persistently perform the frog stroke until I reach it.

Staying afloat isn’t much of a challenge in these saline waters, and I now have the answer to a question formed years after moving from the coast. I wondered if those diving off from sinking ferries had to remove their footwear in order to keep above water until help arrived. It would seem the ability to tread water isn’t hindered by my shell-toed sneakers, though.

I make my way toward the shore. Among the inner lying rocks, I scrape my forearm against a city of barnacles. I’d forgotten how sharp and unforgiving to swimmers they are in this bay.

I slosh onto the beach like something out of a horror film. I emerge from the depths trudging with my feet apart and kelp stems trailing behind. Turning around, I see the branch. It’s still attached to the tree but is splintered at the base and hanging parallel to the trunk as if by a thread. A landscaper might see it as a hangnail to be clipped. The tree itself may not have much time left with the land developer on his way. A wealthy oceanfront dweller certainly needs a dock for his yacht.

Quite burdened by my drenched clothing, the walk back toward the house is less than reminiscent of my days as a child, when I would bound light footed through the foliage. I stand at the front door wherein my relatives are toiling over the algorithm that will divide the money made on the sale of my playground. We’ll receive stacks of green paper, each note in loving memory.

I step toward the door, then back. Walking toward the Datsun I realize I’ve refreshed my memory. A long drive with all the windows down will surely dry these clothes. They can send me the check.