The Native Iowan

How many of us remember? Remember the magic? Remember the fantasy? Remember the wonder? Remember being joyful because it felt good. Remember being frightened for reasons inexplicable. Remember the warmth of a motherly hug.  Remember the pride of a father’s smile? Remember the joy of life? How many of us remember? Remember as a child?

I remember. As a child. Hiding in the ferns. The North side of a big, clapboard farm house. Surrounded by huge elms and oaks. A world of shadows. Always cool. Always moist. Smelled of nightcrawlers.   Fresh earth. Ferns. Larger than I. Thick. Dense. An adventure. Deep inside.  Frightening. Inviting. I remember. As a child.

I remember. As a child. Flying away from my body. Leaving. Flying out the little window. To the north of the house. Every night. Using an old Oak stump as a landmark. Taking a left. Turn. Into infinity. Travel forever. All night. Find the old stump. Another left. Back inside. My body. As a child.

I remember. As a child. Not needing words. No explanations. For my nightly sojourns. No fear. No thoughts of confusion. A natural occurrence. Flying away. Leaving. Looking back. Unafraid. Visiting places barely remembered. Places yet to be found. Words were new then. I was still learning. My mind did not need words. As a child.

I remember. As a child. This new world. Learning. Learning to comprehend. Words. – No – came first. It may have been appropriate. Such a harsh world. So much pain. Just to enter. So much fear. Arriving here. Lights and sounds. Inarticulate. At first. Then clearer. Harsher. Then– no -. I understood. As a child.

I remember. As a child. Hiding in the ferns. Trying to get away with / from something. Perhaps evading a whooping. Perhaps I’d just received one. I remember tears in my eyes. Rubbing the tears. Dirty hands. The smell of earth. The smell of ferns. Being comforted. Feeling safe. Not needing words. As a child.

I remember. As a child. The smell of ferns. Meaning magic. Meaning safety. Security. Home. My home. In the ferns. Shared by many… Large, yellowback spider. Fat, green caterpillar. Wiley black and yellow salamander. Plump, brown bull snake with pinned back ears. They were my friends. In the ferns. I was safe. As a child.

I remember. As a child. Knowing. Always. Home. The old stump. My landmark. Take a left. I’d watch. Clamoring over the back seat. Trying to get a glimpse. Be the first to see. I’d get excited. Disturb mother’s driving. Make mother angry. Being told – sit down -. Being told – no -. As a child.

I remember. As a child. Wondering why my brother. Jim. Did not fly. He slept. Was bigger. Older. He worked on the farm. Did chores. He’d lie down. Begin snoring. Perhaps he was too tired. I’d look out the window. See the stump. And be gone. He never followed. I wondered why. As a child.

I remember. As a child. The lack of words. Being frustrated. Confused. Trying to explain. Explaining to my brother. Pointing at the window. The Oak. Explaining my flying. My nightly travels. The magic. He laughed at me. Used words I did not know. But felt. Understood. Ridicule. Understood. Negativity. Understood. His fear. As a child.

I remember. As a child. Never trying to explain. Never again. Explaining was too hard. Hurt too much. Was too confusing. I remember. Trying to forget. To conform. It made learning words easier. It made understanding – No – easier. Forgetting made everything easier. But I could not. Forget. Flying. The ferns. The magic. As a child.

I remember. As a child. Still to this day. So very much. I’ve lost the fear. The confusion. Words are still difficult. Hard to explain. What words don’t know. Words own so much. Are so much a part of us. This world. But there are worlds. Not owned by words. We all knew. As a child.