A Fresh Start
Back when we were kids my parent’s used to own this secluded parcel of land out in Packwood, Washington. Sitting south of Mount Rainier, just off the Cowlitz river, and nestled in the northern tip of the Gifford Pinchot forest, it was our summer, campground getaway.
The property sat at the very end of a long, winding road that twisted through the trees like a secret pathway leading to an enchanted glade. Tucked between two sections of a golf course, we were just a short walk away from anything we might need. As my Dad always says, location, location, location.
For a while, the plot was just a big gravel lot surrounded by old trees that reached up tall into the sky and made the air smell like Christmas year round. At night we’d set up a giant tent and rough it on floor. Sleeping bags were the only cushion providing padding between sharp corners of the rocks and the delicate skin on our backs.
One day, my Dad backed in an old, towable, rusty camper and it was like we’d won the lottery. It’s white, aluminum siding stained yellow from years of direct sunlight, it was a second-hand RV that had to have been from the seventies. Inside, there were two pull-out couch beds and a bathroom. “You can’t poop in there,” my Dad would say. “And don’t flush the toilet paper.” If you had to go number two you’d have to walk a block to public porto-potties that were crowded with flies. Everything in this RV, from the deep brown cabinets and creme countertops to the burnt-orange couch cushions and semi-sheer, floral embroidered window tiers, it was our own retro version of glamping. At least, for the four of us: my parents, my sister, and me, it was pretty cozy. Except for that it smelled like clothes that had soured in the wash and were left to dry in a crawlspace.
During the days, we’d spend our time biking through the neighborhoods, or over at the nearby clubhouse pool, swimming until our faces were lobster-red. That sour, gnawing of our stomachs that told us we’d swam for too long without eating, that could be cured with a firecracker popsicle or a choco-taco from the snack shack. That was when the hardest parts of our lives were deciding between a drumstick, push-pop or an ice cream sandwich. When the sun would dip down low in the sky we’d drag our exhausted, sun-beaten selves across the golf course back home, leaving a dark, mushy, pool-water footprint trail behind us. We’d stay up late until the stars began to poke out behind the violet sky. Until the fading purples turned an inky black. With the fire, warm on our faces, we’d laugh and tell stories. Melted chocolate and gooey marshmallow became strung between our fingers. Our sticky hands lint-rolling dirt for days. Nobody retired to bed until we were are all so beat we could barely keep our eyes open. When we’d all finally cocooned ourselves in the musty blankets, my Dad would hand crank the jalousie windows open, so it wouldn’t get too hot. The sounds of crickets and owls to lulled us to sleep. The next morning we’d have hair smelling like smoke. We’d have rings under our eyes from listening to my Dad snore all night. And then, we’d wake up and do it all again. That was the life. Camping was one of my favorite things to do and this was my favorite place in the world.
But, soon, our trips became a weekend in June and August, and then once a summer. Suddenly we hadn’t been there in years and no one had any interest to go at all. After a while, my Dad would make a single trip by himself, near the end of summer, to “check on the place”. That usually meant hours trimming back the overgrown blackberry bushes and pulling the rogue weeds poking up through the gravel. Maybe a round of golf if there was enough time. Usually there wasn’t. A luxury slowly became just another hassle to keep up with.
As years went by, biking and swimming and eating popsicles became a distant memory. Now, at least for me, it was all about skateboarding, guitar and girls, even if I was too afraid to talk to any of them.
I must have been thirteen when my Dad asked me to go with him on one of his clean-up trips for the first time. A bonding experienced masked by yard work that I wasn’t getting paid for.
That late summer morning we arrived, it made sense why he asked me to come. Over the years, and lack of maintenance, our property line began sinking. Weeds and invasive foliage crept inward toward our fire pit—Nature slowly taking back it’s land.
With hours of daylight already burned from the two hour drive up, we wasted no time getting to work. My Dad pulled both weed-eaters out of the back of his forest green Ford Explorer. He knelt on the ground and showed me how to string the smaller of the two: He pressed his fingers into the two tabs on the spool head and popped the cover off. He showed me how to twist the inner spool to unlock it and free it from the housing. Setting the plastic pieces down, he grabbed a large spool of thick, heavy-duty nylon wire and stretched the cable between his hands like he was giving a giant bear hug. Then he doubled it. Using his multitool, he snipped the line free so there was twelve feet of cable. He showed me how to feed both ends of the wire through the two holes in the spool and wrap the line over and over until each end is only inches long. He picked up the weed-eater and shoved the spool into the head, dropping the extra inches of cable into the grooves so they stuck out like pigtails on either side. He picked up the tool and yanked on the starter rope until the tiny, gas engine gargled and puttered to life. Yelling over the sound of the engine, he told me that as you use the it the weeds will snap off pieces of the line. To make more line, you can tap it on the ground. “Like this,” he said, and he hit the spool head over and over on the ground until the cable was a couple inches longer on each side and there was a divot in the gravel.
My dad in clear safety goggles and dirty, brown cargo pants. Sweat began to create a Rorschach image in the lower back of his tank top. He was a weed-eating veteran. Me, I was in shorts because my Dad didn’t tell me that as the foliage breaks the cable from the weed-eater shoots them back toward your legs at terminal velocity. Ammunition made from chickweed, dandelion and blackberry stem. Every few minutes my bare legs pelted with live rounds of bull thistle or velvet leaf. Man vs nature.
So, there we were, back to back on opposite sides of the property, our weed-eaters mowing back the plants and our engines droning like chainsaws through the forest. It must have been an hour, or so, before my hands started getting sweaty and tired. The hot sun, high overhead, and heavy machine draining my energy at a staggering rate. In the short time, both of us were covered in chunks of plant fiber that had slapped us in the cheeks and chest and then stuck, our sweat acting as glue. My legs stung from being pelted and my face itched like crazy.
Swaying back and forth, running the trimmer over some weeds in the front corner of the property, it’s here that I stepped on a rotted, hollowed out tree stump jutting out of the ground. My weight dropping, pushing my sneaker through the caved-in wood. And then short, stabbing pains jolted through my legs like a million tiny needles. And then on my back and hot, welting fire ripped up through my arms. I saw spots and flashes of white. My body involuntarily dropped the trimmer and a helpless scream slipped out my lungs. My arms flailed as I ran. I’m not sure where to, but I ran. From somewhere nearby, my Dad sprinted over to help, swooped me up and ran from the thick cloud of buzzing, angry hornets.
When we were far enough away, my Dad, he sat me down and swatted the few yellow, angry ones that gave chase. Covered in thick, growing welts, my body was one giant heartbeat. It’s then that I looked up at my Dad who rubbed his eyebrow, chunks of grass still in his hair, and said, “damn bastard got me good.”
My Dad has always been pretty emotionally unexpressive (that’s definitely where I get it from). Of course, I’d seen him angry countless times and I’d seen him cackle like a hyena after a fart joke. But, he was never scared. Even after the countless times my sister and I had gotten hurt over the years the most he’d ever done is cursed at himself. So, naturally the thing that scared me most in that moment, above getting stung and throbbing all over, was the slight hint of concern on his face—something I’d never really seen before.
I didn’t know this at the time, but the thing was, my Dad was allergic to bees.
In less than five minutes, our trip went from a bonding experience to an emergency.
Of course, no Dad ever submits to health qualms. Nine times out of ten they tell you wait it out. See if a gnarly stomach cramp or an aching tooth goes away on it’s own. But, instead of suggesting only a break from work, he threw our tools in the back of his SUV and told me get in. I don’t think we spoke a single word the whole two hours home. All of his unspoken fears and my curiously worried thoughts sat like uninvited passengers between us. I didn’t grasp the severity of the situation, but I knew that something was terribly wrong.
It wasn’t until we pulled into the driveway that I saw that the skin above his left eyebrow had swollen so bad that in drooped down and completely covered his one his eye shut. The entire left half of his face was swollen cottage cheese. In that moment he was something between the elephant man and a melted G.I. Joe. Out of every horror movie, I’d never seen anything more scary.
He never did go to the ER. For three days he’d just made jokes about being a monster and taunted my Mom, holding his hands up like Nosferatu and slowly stalking her through the house. I think my Mom was more relieved that she’d be left alone after his swelling subsided.
At the time I didn’t even know if I was allergic to bees, or not. The thought never even crossed my mind. I imagine if I was, I probably wouldn’t be here writing this. Even not being allergic, a multitude of stings at once is a good way to induce an anaphylactic reaction in anybody. Sometimes, thinking about these experience, you wonder how many times you should have died. How often you were inches from kissing death right on the mouth before being pulled away just in the nick of time. It’s stuff like this that makes me a believer of fate. Especially knowing what would come later in my life.
Shortly after that incident, after leaving it unattended for a few more years, my parents sold the property.
Although they were sad to see it go, it was a relief. For them, it was one less thing to have to take care of and money in their pockets. For me, camping never looked the same. Even up to now, hearing the buzz of a bee puts my teeth on edge, shoots a jolt of adrenaline through me. Regardless of all the good memories there, I was happy to see the place go. Above the fact that I had a get-out-of-jail-free card when it came to future yard work, it was because, for the first time in my life, it felt like summer had officially ended.
The better half of last week was spent writing this story before realizing what it was trying to say and what it really meant to me: For the most part we don’t realize a chapter’s beginning or end as we’re living through it. It’s only in hindsight that we can look back and see where the definitive bookends of monumental chapters occur. And, of course, when exactly we stepped on the metaphorical bee’s nest that changed everything.
Often times at the start of a story you choose the themes and the big picture idea of what you want your audience to take away. What you want them to learn or the idea you want them to chew on for a while. Other times, there’s no clear rhyme or reason. A story falls into your lap that doesn’t seem to have any significance to your life in that moment. Five years down the road, however, we finally understand the connection between life and story. Reading between the lines of your own work. At the time of writing I didn’t realize my story Steel Casket was about my fear of dying on tour. Or, that Trial and Error was my way of mentally dealing with a nuisance neighbor and the frustration of a close-knit community. These things seem obvious to me now, but that’s the magic, as well as the catharsis. It’s almost spiritual. You package up your problems and send them out to the world, a story attached and a bow on top, and everyone thinks you only wrote a fun story. Cute.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written in this form. Over the last couple years I’ve completely shifted into scriptwriting and screenplays because, for me, film is the perfect medium of fiction and photo. That, and everyone likes movies. It’s easy to flip on Netflix for two hours, but tough to commit to a book for the same length of time. To be completely frank I didn’t anticipate ever coming back to the world of narrative prose after writing Gloom. But, if you don’t unpack your bags, after a while, they start to weigh you down.
Since the release of Gloom, numerous people have asked me if I’ll ever write another book or where they can read more of my writing. Especially since it’s out of print (please don’t pay hundreds of dollars for a copy). Well, I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions—I know I’m late—but I’m going to do my best to start fresh here. To keep me honest and to keep all of you, dear readers, satisfied. These posts will act as a footnote, side companion, and window-seat view to the ongoings in the past, present, and future of my life. As well as my agonizing and, often times, spiraling existential internalizations of the world around me—hence the name, Glass House. This is me putting up the left side of those ugly, ceramic bookends you received when your great grandma died and you didn’t remember your grandma even owned books. What comes next is anyone’s guess.
Ps. Forgive me, I’m still shaking off the rust here, but it feels incredible to be back. I forgot how much I missed it.
