The image I've posted here is the place I will always think of as "home." It's a man-made lake in a highland cove in the eastern part of Kentucky. The day I shot this photo, it was bitter cold, the wind moving the water in tight riffles all that kept it from solidifying. Nonetheless, it was a shot I couldn't bear to miss. I set up a tripod and a vintage manual Asahi Pentax K-1000, my fingers feeling like icicles in moments, despite gloves worn up until the last seconds. The result, as you can see, was very near unreal.
This is a fair illustration of my life in macro.
It was among those surrounding hillsides that I spent most of my young life. I hunted, fished, rode horses, helped my Dad with his hunting Beagles, and generally escaped from the usual girly-duties of my birth era. It was my freedom.
Mom hated the place. It gave everyone somewhere to be that she wasn't central focus in, a location where badly suited rules, like ill-fitting black patent leather shoes, could be ignored.
I didn't mind if Dad wanted me to drain puddles in the roads, or cut brush to clear space for fishing and camping. When people showed up with money in hand, wanting to fish, I was okay with that, too. There was plenty room.
Dad's friends (Mom called them "those old yellow-toothed men") showed up to run their rabbit hounds, I was usually there with him, some snuffly Beagle or other attached to me as if glued. The guys thought it was funny--like father, like daughter. They would build a small fire and find things to sit on around it. When I was small, I perched on Dad's knee where it was warmer, tucked into one side of his dog-smelly denim jacket. If my stomach rumbled, those men immediate dug in their trucks for cans of Vienna sausages, crackers, soda pop or water, maybe even marshmallows. To them, I was near-royalty. They told stories, swapped pocketknives or guns, spat chewing tobacco ambeer into the weeds, and would let no harm come to Hershell's little girl.
At Dad's funeral, I was wrapped up in memories, operating on autopilot. By then, I was adult, a long-term married woman with a husband who thought of my Dad as he might have his own. Dad often said Ronnie was his son by choice, a comforting thought. Mom was, as usual, late to the funeral. I was beyond exhausted, so I found a place on a comfortable couch in the funeral home lobby to rest.
I spoke to everyone, made family-responsible decisions, whatever was necessary, from where I sat. The lobby area is a soothing space there, several sofas and chairs arranged in conversational groupings. It wasn't long until the area around me was occupied, a rambling conversation in memory of Dad having everyone laughing. After a while, I noticed various "old biddy" types giving me a dirty look as they passed through to do their social "duty". At first, I couldn't figure out why. Then it hit me.
Sitting there, I was surrounded by "those old yellow-toothed men." Dad's friends. They had put on their Sunday best, whatever it was, and showed up to remember him, most of them still faintly reeking of the dogs they'd tended before leaving home. I had been in the thick of it, automatically. It wasn't surprising, since I literally spoke their language.
I knew some of them couldn't write their own names, but almost all of them carried guitars and banjos, able to belt out Bluegrass, folk, or other songs on a moment's notice... including my father. The deep resonance of his old hummingbird Gibson is still with me. I can recall the sound clearly, many years after his passing.
We talked of Dad's best dogs. Old Crook, Susie, Merry Mary, Jughead, and so many more. Some of those dogs, I'd helped bring into the world. Some, I'd played midwife to, over the years. Others, I raised on a bottle or helped tame down from their initial terror of strangers, so they could be handled.
We spoke of a night the dogs went off after a deer track when everyone had just broken up for the night, and Dad went after them accordingly--with me, a small child, in tow.
He led or carried me, part of the time piggy-back, and when I shivered hard from the night's chill, he pulled me around under his jacket. One-handed, he dug out a ridge hollow filled with leaves and crawled in it. Dad buttoned the denim coat over me against his chest, then raked the leaves in around us. Snug and warm in no time, were soon asleep. At the faintest light of dawn, Dad awakened me, saying we'd best go, or he'd never hear the end of it from Mom.
When he moved the pile of leaves off his legs, a roughly five foot long rat snake lazily slithered from between his legs, disappearing down the hill while we both laughed like fools. (Those snakes are harmless.)
At home, Mom was, fortunately, still asleep. Dad cleaned us both up and cooked our breakfast. She never knew about it; I wasn't stupid enough to tell, and neither was he.
I stayed where I sat at the funeral--for some hours, I was among friends. Unconventional, but honest beyond reproach. I'm glad I did. Dad would have approved. Most of those men are gone too, now, passed on to whatever hunting ground there might be. Nothing is forever.
Today, I read an article on the Pipeline Artists website that made me remember. (Click here to read it.) It involves how writers often try to answer "Who the Hell Do You Think You Are?" without understanding that it's the process getting us to the label that's most important.
That's right. It's not what you are, or who you think you are in terms of function that matters. It's how you got there.
I realize a lot of people think I've been guilty of "humble bragging" for years. Maybe I've been functionally guilty of it. Perspective matters, so I'll give y'all that. From my own perspective, well... I'm now that person who feeds a random hungry child, tends the dogs, builds a fire, and fears no lonesome, chilly rat snake. I sometimes whistle a tune or pull out an old harmonica, maybe do a hambone or other random percussion (not permissible in true Bluegrass, mind you).
Over the long years, I've been a lot of things. Daughter, near-son, professional level horse person, animal trainer as-needed, first aid station, veterinarian's helper, visual artist, writer, photographer, even "shade tree" computer tech. Sure, I've been published--photos, art, and the written word. I had one book traditionally published many years ago, which is out of print. A friend dragged me virtually kicking and screaming (not really... more like grumbling) into self-publishing. (I have two series on the 'Zon, under separate pen names, one narrative nonfiction and the other magical realism.)
In the coming weeks, I hope to release a new novel, one blending a variety of genre facets into something different: de Oro is soft science fiction of the speculative type. It combines romance with adventure of a sort. There's a dog. Oh, and a mule.
Labels don't usually fit me. I can doze off right beside them, dreamless as a child safe in her father's highly capable arms.
If you want to put a tag on me, I suggest keeping it at least PG in nature, or there's going to be a virtual flustercluck. As for myself, I'm just me. It's all I've ever been, for all my struggle to be "normal." Which is, either way, boring.
Mom always said I'd end up being an educated fool. I missed the education, but foolish... that's arguable, for sure. I've never been quite sure how she would have known, though. (Cough.)
In life, we can all collect hats. The hats don't make us who we are. Hats are just lids on what you make of yourself, I think. Social pressure won't change that at all.
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