November 1

 Let's Talk

    Most of us have friends who told us tales of voices in cornfields or lanterns at the edges of the woods, our parents tell us not to talk to strangers, and our grandparents tell us the dangers of small indiscretions. As we grow up we adopt the small everyday mannerisms and traditions of our communities, often without understanding why.

    That's what we are going to talk about this month, the small things I've learned to do, the places I've learned to avoid, and maybe we will learn to appreciate the mystery and danger that is often hidden by the veneer of reason.

The Lake

    The Pacific Northwest has been my home for as long as I can remember, every formative moment in my life has taken place within four hours of the Pacific Ocean, under the watchful eyes of snowcapped mountains, in the comfort of shadowy forests, or within earshot of running water. Children of Cascadia learn to trust and respect our wild spaces, it's said that this is one of the only areas in the world where you can be dropped off naked in the woods and walk out three days later 10 pounds heavier, even if you are a little soggy. The places where caution is urged is often where man and civilization have enforced their will on the wilds, the alleyways and storm drains, the logging plots, and our reservoirs. 

    Whiskeytown California is nestled where the Marble mountains meet the coastal foothills, the lake boasts camping, wildlife, and summer temperature as hot as one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. It’s this lake where friends and families spend their summers swimming the gold-flecked waters, resting under the shade of pine and scrub oak, and generally enjoying the wonders of nature. It’s also this lake where we learn that some things are best ignored. 

When the lake was new, the clear crisp waters providing the nearby railhead much-needed power and recreation. People flocked to the rock-strewn beaches, deep cool waters, and fresh mountain breezes, among them a small family of three, Dr. Adam Miller, his wife Caroline, and their young son Thomas. Thomas was a small boy with hair the color sun-baked clay and a crooked smile, and though he’d had friends back home the new town was a challenge his short life had not prepared him for. 

“Class we have a new student,” miss Lopez announced as the bell cut out. Thomas stood at the head of the class in the outfit his mother had put together of grey short pants and blazer with a crimson tie, his round glasses reflecting the morning sun. “Please welcome Thomas Miller. Thomas do you want to tell us a bit about yourself?”

“Hello everyone, my dad just opened up his new practice downtown…”

“Practice at what? Dressing like a square?” a too shrill voice belched, followed by the hollow cruel laughter of children.

“Now Brandon! You know better, I expect you to show Thomas around today. Thomas if you will take your seat Brandon will show you around at recess. Class, we only have a few weeks until summer break so let’s focus... “

Thomas’ last few weeks of school never really improved beyond that first day, during recess, Brandon tricked him into walking through a patch of Poison oak. Over the next week the other children, as they are wont to do, embraced their merciless streak and mocked him for the painful red rash. Thomas became the butt of every joke the elementary children could come up with. 

While the young boy endured the poisonous barbs of his classmates his parents worked at establishing themselves in the town. His mother served on the PTA and attended ladies’ luncheons with the church, his father played poker with the other members of the rotary and together they organized a cookout for the first weekend of the summer break with the other parents of Thomas’ class. 

The preparations for the cookout kept the family busy and poor Thomas didn’t have the courage to tell his parents that the other kids hadn’t accepted him in the few short weeks he had shared their class. The poor kid could only smile and tell his mother that of course, he was looking forward to a whole day on the lake with his friends. Watching his mother and father beam at him with pride as packed the cooler and towels into the family car steeled his tender heart, he would use this opportunity to make friends and finally shed the near-terminal label of “new kid.”

The family headed up into the foothills to the lake with high spirits, the cooler had soda for Thomas and beer for the doctor, noses were sunscreen, and the burgers were pre-pressed and ready to drop over some hot coals. The sun shone through cloudless skies baking the entire world to a golden brown, the heat shimmer off the asphalt adding a surreal element to their drive. Once they had unloaded the car and Dr. and Mrs. Adams had set to the adult tasks of cooking and entertaining the other parents Thomas was off to the water. The cold creek water that poured feeds Whiskeytown is a mix of snowmelt and spring water, it runs through mountain valleys before being trapped in the reservoir, even on days where the sun makes the short walk across the sandy beach and exercise in pain management the water can set your teeth to chattering, but even the nearly freezing water is never enough to cool the playful spirit of youth. 

Thomas hit the water at a full sprint, with a gallant “whoop” he had plunged headfirst into summer. 

The summer was starting off with all the promise a ten-year-old can expect, the teasing of his classmates had changed from taunting the outsider to the smiling japes of a cohort. They splashed and cajoled each other, racing up the beach to the sheltering treeline for soda and then back to the water. The smiles and laughter echoed off the rocks as though challenging the sun for dominion over this day. Until a familiar voice rang out above the joyous chorus. 

“What are you doing L-7? This is my swimming hole.” Brandon stood knee-deep in the water his ghost pale skin nearly blinding to look upon. The laughter choked off under that glare, the other kids silently moving away from poor Thomas.

“Hey Brandon, I am glad you could make it, there is plenty of room for all of us here so what do you say?” Thomas moved forward and held his hand out, “do you think that we can just be pals, we’ve got Coca-Cola in our cooler, do you want one?” With an effort of will Thomas kept the pleading out of his voice. He stood tall and proud, just like his dad, his crooked smile even got some of the other kids to move back into his small sphere of influence. In that small moment, a glimpse of the man he could be was there for all to see, and maybe that is what sealed his fate.

“Sure new kid, but if you are going to be one of us you’ve got to earn it,” Brandon said with all of the malice his pre-teen form could muster.

“Bran, no you can’t…” some of the other kids interjected.

“Stuff it guys, if he wants to hang out with us he’s got to do it.”

“Bran you didn’t…” one of the braver kids tried to interject.

“You want a bloody nose, Teddy? No? Then shut up.” Brandon shut down all dissent with the ferocity of a tiny little dictator.

Concern painted on his face, but with a heart braver than many full-grown men that I have known Thomas spoke up.

“If you guys did it so can I, just tell me what I have to do.”

And so it was that a cadre of soon to be fifth graders slipped down the mountain trail away from the safety of the swimming pool and towards a perilous destiny.

Now I want to say before we continue the story of Thomas Adams, that I do not know what became of Brandon, Teddy, or Miss Lopez, it isn’t that I don’t want to know how that summer weekend in 1964 affected them, it’s just that no one I know knows their stories. I mention this because it was the question I had after I heard the tale for the first time as I stood in the very spot where Brandon told Thomas what he had to do to be accepted.

“You see that thing there in the water? That’s called the glory hole. If you want to be one of us you have to swim out to the glory hole and tell us what you see in there. You think you can do that pipsqueak?”

“Why do they call it the glory hole?” Thomas asked, stalling to shore up his courage.

“When the dam was first built an Oak tree was washed down into the lake and eventually into that hole there, they say it’s called the glory hole because in the roots of that Oaktree is a gold nugget leftover from the 49’ers that is as big as Brandon’s head” Teddy solemnly intoned, “anyone who could get that gold nugget could buy this entire lake if they wanted.”

“You swim out there you will know if the legend is true, and I won’t pick on you no more, I promise,” Brandon told Thomas, and for all anyone knows he meant it. 

Thomas swallowed his fear, nodded towards Brandon, and stepped down into the water. For the first time all day he felt the icy grip of the water, though he decided it was just because the sun was falling behind the mountains, and though the clay ridden mountain soil sucked at his feet, trying to stop him he mustered all his strength and under the silent gaze of his soon to be friends he struck out for the spillway. The cold water seemed to propel him forward. He covered the one hundred and fifty-foot distance, aided by those unseen currents, faster than he had ever swum before. Soon he was resting his elbows on the concrete edge, and regardless of whether there was really gold just a few feet away, he felt glorious.

Thomas pulled himself up onto the edge and slowly stood on legs weary from a day of play. Looking over his shoulder he could just make out the shadows of his new friends standing at the water’s edge, waiting to hear his cry of triumph. Slowly he leaned out, looking down into the gaping maw of this portal…

Six children watched their new friend disappear into the nothingness that evening, without a shout, he just vanished into glory. The glory hole took six more kids that summer, I don’t know if any were the kids that pushed poor Thomas to make that journey, and maybe it doesn’t matter. Forty years later I met Thomas as I stood on the lakeshore looking out over the glory hole, the sun setting behind me on the first weekend of summer. A small boy stood up, whether out of the lake or the spillway I couldn’t tell, and waved at me. In horror I watched as he waved at me, his voice carrying out over the water like the tolling of a bell.

“There is plenty of room for all of us here, we have cold Coke, what do you say? Pals?”