Albert Beirstadt’s Puget Sound on the Pacific Coast

Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography
September 17th, 2009

Salt water filled his mouth as he was pummeled by the waves. Just when he surfaced, choking and sputtering, a new wave would come and dunk him once again. He somersaulted, thrown about by the currents. Up became down, down was sideways. Every time he thought he had righted himself, he would surface unexpectedly, or brush the ocean floor with his elbow. His friends called from their dinghy, trying to get to him while also navigating the waves. They reached out for him and missed. “Idiots!” yelled the navigator, “grab him!”
Three men reached out a second time, missed, then reached again, finally grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up the side of the boat. Just as he plopped on the bottom, the hard planks pressing into his shoulders, the men around him let out a shout and braced themselves. “Here comes a big one!” The navigator yelled, his deep voice drowning out the crashing waves. Just as the words left his mouth, a large wave swept over the boat, soaking the men and nearly dragging a second victim into the water.
Water sloshed in the bottom of the boat, soaking the passengers’ feet even as waves sprayed them from above. The rescued man coughed, trying to sit up and regain his bearings as the boat jerked. He yelled with the other men as the waves jostled them. The boat bucked and shuddered, throwing him against the side of the boat and nearly sending him overboard once more. The navigator watched his crew with a sharp eye, prepared to perform a second rescue should another man fall prey to the waves.
“C’mon men! All together!” He yelled. He balanced himself and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Almost to shore!”
The men heaved together, planting their oars in unison in an attempt to hoist themselves over the last barrier of waves and onto the shore. They paused, braced themselves for another wave, then regained their positions and planted their oars once more. They heaved as the waves crested, the hull of the boat bursting through the top of the wave and riding it down to the wet sand. The men let out shouts of relief and victory, waving their oars in the air as they climbed out, onto the wet ground of the Washington coast.
Two boatloads of men stood on shore already, unaware of the drama that had taken place on the water. They hoisted their boats up against the wall of stones a safe distance from the tides. From where they stood, the storm had passed. They were in the eye of the storm, with brilliant blue skies and bright rays of sunshine pouring down on them.
The men from the third boat joined them, hoisting up their boat and putting it safely against the wall of stones with the others. As they did so the first few drops fell from the sky, signaling the approaching storm sweeping off of the mainland.
“Is there cover nearby?” One man asked, looking up at the dark clouds above them.
“There’s a shelter on the hill,” said the navigator with a wave of his hand. “Take the supplies up.”
As several men hurried to do his bidding, the navigator stood on the shore, the wet sand hard beneath his booted feet. He propped his fists on his hips, surveying the choppy ocean. It had shown itself a worthy opponent, nearly claiming two of his men. A strong northern wind threw itself against him. He felt somewhat victorious, leading his men safely through the waves, but had an even stronger sense of insignificance. Instead of feeling in control of the ocean, oddly enough, he felt humbled and exposed. The small window of sunshine on the narrow strip of shoreline revealed high, snowcapped mountains. The forest hedging the shoreline was dark, rich with the scent of pine, rotting leaves, and storm water. The navigator breathed deeply, the scent of the forest mingling with the scent of the ocean. The familiar clashed with the unfamiliar, but neither scent communicated comfort. One obstacle fed directly into another. Just as one wave announced the arrival of a second, and a third, so the challenges of the ocean fed into the challenges of the mainland.
He turned away from the ocean slowly, reluctantly. He followed his men across the wet sand and up the muddy little trail, hoisting up a crate of supplies as the sparse warning drops thickened and it began to pour.

~Brittanie V.

Imaginary Cities

Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography

September 8th, 2009

From the perspective of the mountain, the port looked like a dark, squished jellyfish stranded on the beach. Long, wavering docks and boardwalks dangled over the water like tentacles while the top domed out toward the foothills.

A deteriorating stone wall from the late eighteenth century clearly defined the current city limits, as few structures dared to venture outside of the wall. There was one rupture located near the valley where several new buildings had popped up, but it appeared from the mountain to be more like a wound than progress.

The majority of the buildings within the walls looked bloated from constant add-ons. Many of them spilled into the streets, frustrating any attempt city engineers may have made for a simple grid structure. For some peculiar reason few buildings had more than a second story, but a survey of the surrounding landscape explained why.

There were very few trees in the valley. It was narrow, so the winds often picked up, making life for most saplings too hard to bear. The few who dared were gnarled and hunched over, like ancient men and women frozen in time. There were taller trees on the mountain, but a sheer rock face made them unattainable. Up high they stood, the port city’s ideals, a wooden acropolis of the gods.

The wealth that was required to import wood from a neighboring town had left the city long ago. All of the people knew it, and every visitor could sense it. The wind whispered it, taunting the people of the port as they made their clay bricks and poured cement for their crooked streets.

There was once a large river that irrigated the valley. It emptied into a large estuary just outside of the city limits, and steam boats and cargo ferries would haul trade and wealth through the valley to locations all over the country. At the time, the port city thrived. Government considered knocking down parts of the old wall so they could expand into the foothills, while they built more boardwalks and strengthened their docking system so larger vessels could bring in cargo.

The scar of the river could still be seen through the valley, but it was now reduced to a seasonal trickle. A large dam had been built some years ago upriver, and at the time the death of the river was unforeseen. The port city clung onto their steamboats with the possessiveness of a toddler, denying the death of their trade and squandering the city money on pointless civic projects. The only success visible was the half-finished railroad project that crawled up the valley. At the birth of that particular brainchild, the money, like the river, was almost entirely dried up. So the city crawled on its hands and knees, oozing out of the ruptured wall, up the narrow valley, in hopes of rekindling trade and transport. The railroad led the way just barely, the longest finger of the city’s desperate hand.

~Brittanie V.

Perpetual Return

Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography

September 7th, 2009

When I crossed the border into Mexico, the first thing I noticed was the graffiti. Far removed from the graffiti in Duvall, where pubescent vandals scribble out the ‘Free’ on the ‘Drug Free Zone’ signs or smear 'F U’ on the local playground slide, it was common to see ‘José’ or ‘Rafael’ spray painted on building facades and fences. I asked a local about it, surprised to see names in the graffiti instead of the usual profanity or pranks. He explained that often vandals could not spell much, if anything, outside of their own names. Desperate to leave their mark, they would scrawl anything they knew. I nodded, watching the names go by as we headed out to the countryside. It was odd to see graffiti without vulgarity.

When we arrived at Tent City, we all pitched in to set up the six-person tents. It was so different from home. The landscape was barren, a stark contrast to the rich, lush green of Duvall. The air was hot and dry during the day, but the temperature plummeted at night. I only packed one sweatshirt, and I wore it every time the sun set. I ‘roomed’ with five other girls I barely knew, wore the same pair of jeans every day, and braided my hair to keep the insects away.

Here a mini box of Lucky Charms was breakfast and baby wipes were showers. We had the luxury of a port-o-potty, and climbed the steepest hill I have ever seen to get to our meals. One morning, as I was brushing my teeth outside of my tent and watching the colorful sunrise, I spotted a coyote on the hillside. It picked its way through the sagebrush and I felt like I was in my backyard. At home, a family of coyotes had gathered to raise their young underneath our blackberry bushes. I went for a walk one day on one of our trails, and saw a coyote pup picking its way through the grass. It looked at me and I looked at it. Now, here in Mexico, I was having the same experience with an older, skinner coyote. He looked at me and I looked at him, the colorful sunrise and brown, dusty landscape setting the scene. We blinked, the moment passed, and he returned to hunting hares. I spit in the dirt and rinsed my mouth. We both turned away.

~Brittanie V.

Talismans

Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography

August 31st, 2009

It is amazing how my orchid has managed to survive everything that I put it through. When it was given to me, I was informed that the instructions were incredibly simple; water every two weeks, indirect sunlight, keep between sixty and seventy five degrees Fahrenheit. ’Keep on a soft rock bed, water seldom, and simulate a cooling period by setting it outside for a week or so in late March’ was never mentioned. So, I made a few mistakes. The worst to date, I think, was possibly over watering it by making sure that I faithfully watered it every fourteen days, right on the dot. One March the weather did not get above thirty five degrees. I don’t think that did it much good either.

I envision the health of my orchid to be directly related to the health of the man who gave it to me. He is currently stationed overseas, and while technology has made the world a little smaller, conflicts are never conducive to healthy communication. To overcome the sensations of helplessness and restlessness, I fret over his love-orchid (which, in more cheerful times I would associate with the ‘love-fern’ from How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days). I have even taken to hanging my Native American-made dream catcher over it. Bad dreams and ill-wishes I can handle, but I am fairly sure that they may prove to be too much for my little plant. The soft brown feathers of the dream catcher, the same shade as his eyes, just barely brush the tallest stem. I like to think it’s a comforting gesture.

I would say, for being four years old, the orchid is looking pretty good. A fresh sprout popped up several months ago, and has already passed up of two of its brothers. Hopefully it will bloom next spring, as it has been two years since I have seen it dressed up with its purple blossoms.

In addition to hanging my dream catcher, I have taken to wearing his old Boston College sweatshirt for comfort. Like the orchid, I fret over this too, as its bright white fabric is easily stained. Every time I clean it I worry that his soft scent will fade with the smear of food or dirt, but despite its many washes, I still believe it smells like him. It is truly amazing that the scent of a person I haven’t seen in a year and a half survives better in my care than a little plant. Perhaps he sneaks across the several thousand miles at night and wears it. I often think that maybe if I wear it to bed, he will come and wrap me in his arms while I sleep. It might appear childish, but those little notions are what keep me going day after day.

I have taken to praying more too. I cling to the gold cross around my neck as if it were a rosary and pray to God. I know a little faith token bears no weight in the survival or salvation of either of us, but I hold onto it and pray. I pray for the plant, I pray for the man. I try to ignore the concept that the cross was a brutal execution device. Usually once the thought comes though, it does not tend to leave. At that moment, I pray for me too. Then I go check on my orchid, stroke the soft feathers of my dream catcher, and snuggle up in my white-as-snow Boston College sweatshirt that smells of him and turn on the TV.

~Brittanie V.

Fact and Fancy

Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography

August 29th, 2009

We met at noon and began our walk through the Redmond Watershed. I did my best to stifle my mouth-breathing, and secretly admired my new and first boyfriend as he led the way. He carried a backpack with him, filled with materials for our picnic. I was not in love with chicken soup, but it seemed to both of us to be the only food fitting for our first date. He had neatly packed sourdough bread bowls, water bottles, and the soup packages in his backpack. I found myself wondering the entire time how he managed to avoid spilling the soup, even though they were just in the flimsy containers Panera Bread uses when you order ‘to go’. The weather was perfect for a walk. I was grateful for the beautiful weather, and Will commented that he was too.

I had a nasty cold, but Will assured me that it was okay; he had one too. What a pair we make, I thought, and then repeated aloud for his benefit.

He smiled and handed me a tissue. My congested head pounded and my mind whirled; that smiling boy is my boyfriend now.

My ‘Thank you’ came out as ‘Thang hew’. With that chuckle of his that makes me fall in love all over again, he took my hand and gave it a comforting squeeze; he thought my congested voice was cute, and suddenly I didn‘t mind that my head felt like it was going to explode.

Our walk wound along all of the familiar trails. Secretly, I was impressed with myself that I survived all four and a half miles. We had run those trails almost daily for summer training, but this was our first time walking them together. This time was my favorite; I didn’t normally run these trails while I held a boy’s hand.

There were few people on the trails that day, in spite of the sunny weather. I remember one distinct couple who smiled at us as we ate lunch; I smiled back, then sheepishly wiped my nose. We stopped for lunch just before a hill. The hill didn’t appear so great to me at first, but as I rose and blood rushed up to my congested head, it was nearly worth fainting over. My body was weak. In defiance I forced it up the hill with the promise that I would treat it better later.

Will talked to me nearly the whole way up the hill. I wished he could have shared some of that vivacity with me.

We spent an hour and a half on the walk itself, though we had nearly three hours blocked out. I survived, my pockets stuffed with used tissues and my throat full of phlegm; I wasn’t sure if I was grossed out or proud of myself.

With a smile, Will offered to take me to Starbucks. He always knows the right things to say, I thought, and eagerly joined him for our refreshing rewards.

~Brittanie V.