Spring 2005 High School Edition
Desert Nostalgia
Austin Bull
Essay (11th-12th)
First Place
Parowan High School
Teacher: Gail Harris
Scarlet rays illuminate the already blood-colored rocks, forming grand spires and vast oceans of crimson, sweeping a sudden knowledge of its age into my mind. This land is dead, but before it yielded its life to the torrent of time, it heaved one last great moan and with this grievous surrender was able to shape a land of beauty. The desert. The most gorgeous dead thing; a fossil that exhibits an ancient luster; a scorched graveyard with still and silent figures, placed deep within the ashes of themselves. The sand, ashes of the desert, like the legendary Phoenix, resurrects itself into mighty geometric beasts of grand aesthetic wonder and then, with its own burning breath and flowing sighs, deconstructs itself back into small glinting children of the desert. Dad is gone, and like the desert, he lives within these sore memories of mine, these ashes, and I can only hope that something beautiful comes of his death.
The long drives with all my siblings bundled into a great mass of bodies mean much more now, so much more than they would have. The simple memories that should make me smile bring a twisted knot of pain inside. Seven children manage to fit in the current vehicle of choice--the old Suzuki--and no matter how miniscule it seems, being close is never an issue, as we are accustomed to these cramped drives to Arizona or New Mexico. We pass seas of sage and desert spruce, small ghost towns with their bittersweet inhabitants, while smooth reassuring folk music plays and some of us sleep and some of us speak while the hours fade and the sun sets. Frames of red and orange parade past as we drive through the vast expanse of rock and desert that offers this melancholy land an exuberant vibrancy. It is always sad, this lonely drive populated with small pottery shops and vacant villages, like a ghost land looking for its soul. It is an abandoned palace and no king claims it; an empire of celestial stone taking whatever shape it pleases and pleased with whatever shape it takes. I myself feel like a king as I witness the twisting pillars and craggy mounds, this land belongs to my imagination and mine only; for no one else sees me standing proud on those rocks, waving my crown into the dusty air.
Fruit snacks and Wheat Thins are our road voyager’s fare, and we are drowning in them along with musty bottled-water and granola bars. Nathan loudly munches, the twins softly mingle, and I occasionally find it within myself to antagonize, at which point, a great exchange of harsh and somewhat humorous dialogue occurs; a considerable inconsistent caterwauling; for the hot sun and stuffy circumstances create a near-lethargic atmosphere; and driver--dear Jordan--lays out the negotiations.
A gentle rain of stars pours gently against the sleepy sun as night advances and we dwindle away in our dreams of Dad’s home and the adventures to come. Old favorites, Nanci Griffith and The Dixie Chicks, give a coziness that eases our tingling limbs and aching muscles long cramped in our mobile enclosure. Jord is our navigator, guardian of her snoozing siblings, eyes focused on the road regurgitated from an all encompassing mouth of darkness as the headlights plow through its depths. Music is her late night companion and somehow, out of all of us, it is she who most understands why our trips are tinted in a shade of melancholy. She knows her destination, as do we, but she most of all knows that our dad is lonely.
I always know, with every Sunday night phone call from the Indian Reservation, that he holds a pang of solitary regret inside his heart. I sense it well in these words of his. His open eagerness always welcomes my more than willing wishes to unload all the events of the week; and whether planning the film we will see together on weekend excursions or my frustrations with education or athletics, I talk and he listens, occasionally offering his soothing commentary to my long narratives on life. I feel like the best son because of him, and now... I feel alone. I would give anything for that phone to ring again, but Sundays are empty reminders of Dad’s absence. The phone is silent, and it hurts. He was our hope, and we were his.
Arriving, finally at Crown Point, we happily see our father standing out on his dirt covered yard, with his most recent rez dog, a dog covered in tough and wiry hair that strangely produces an overall fluffy texture. There is dad; happy at our arrival, walking slowly towards us, savoring his beloved children. It as if he is already dreads our departure. He wears his familiar attire: a tank top with some anonymous remake of an ancient hieroglyphic, well-worn running shorts and flip-flops; along with his sleek sunglasses, giving an immediate impression of a man who is both carefree and open. I am afraid I will lose this picture of him; it is one I hold dearer then any other, and I wish there was a certain place in my mind where Dad’s beautiful image could be burned, a place where even the cruel requirements of time could not steal him from me.
Tan skin, dark from continual association with the sun, deep brown eyes filled with a mixed recipe of sorrow and jubilance, and long brown hair spread like feathery fingers across his back: this is my father. Unbelievable that a man whose every pore quivered with life, and whose life offered so much to others, could meet such an abrupt and premature end. This is the reason I often curse this merciless reality for its harsh rules, and when I watch every other dad and every other son walk together in that union of trust and love, an envious hate creeps over my heart. I want to tear that union apart; place a chasm in-between them, like the chasm in my heart. I am on one side of a wide and incomprehensible canyon; my father is on the other, and all I can do is scream and hope that it reaches him, but all that returns to my thirsting ears are his faint echoes. Echoes offering no substance, and I am left with nothing, only a bitter heart to substitute for a father.
The Reservation communities are always small and kind, with a warm sensation of togetherness. All the homes on the here are modest structures of multicolored pink or yellow plaster. We all crowd into Dad’s home, exchanging hugs, kisses, and how-are-yous. It is a tight sprawl across the couch and a floor sprinkled with dog hair. Everything is fine now, and we relax in the salubrious confines, among photographs, Edward Abbey novels, pieces of Navajo art, CD cases and beautiful handmade rugs. It is my paradise; a retreat for both my bones and my soul.
The days that follow are heaped with adventure and spent in the parched surroundings of Crown Point and the urban streets of the bustling Albuquerque where we nestle in dark theaters awaiting the agreed-upon film. Later we will eat at Red Robin’s, our prolonged hunger gnawing at our empty stomachs. These recollections I hold dear, but there is one I consider most sacred....
It is early, and Dad shakes me from my sleep in the infant hours of the day. Groggy, I am determined to carry out this tradition with Dad. We bundle up in warm clothes and escape into the crisp morning air, careful not to disturb the slumbering solace of others. We run and run: down the small streets of the Reservation, our breaths visually manifest in the chilled air. Dad’s dog and his entourage of fellow ragtag mutts yelp and jump as we dash briskly to our running Mesa. It is just the two of us, running and talking in the ecstasy of this lovely morning. We reach the steady upward slope to the mesa, frozen sage and icy dirt mark our path, but luckily, the sun comes with an early morning greeting, slowly revealing an incandescent blush as it peers over the rim. Panting and breathless, we reach the top of the mesa, running along cold and worn paths that wind all across its flat surface. There is no silence between us, and we talk our favorite talk of current books and mine is Tolkien, and Dad’s is Stephen King. We are both critics of films and books and hardly notice the miles being tread away. We stop to breathe and observe that the world has been cut open, for we can see across the grand sweeping desert of New Mexico, drawn to the large gigantesque tower of crimson: Ship Rock, a monument of Navajo legend. I lean against Dad, overcome with the sudden wish to be petrified, petrified in this moment with him, the sun warming our backs and illuminating the landscape. I breathe deep into his shoulder, the soothing scent of patchouli as we stand at the edge of mesa. I am once again the king of this desert, waving my crown into the dusty air, a kingdom shared with my father. Yet even I, the king of the desert, cannot halt the crushing machine of reality, and I shall never look at this land of dried dreams and peerless wonders with the same joy, and with the same eyes. Now I stand alone on that rock, my crown broken, and I walk this solitary path of grief with the fragments of my crown, hoping I can resurrect myself.
Although the desert is dried and dead, full of nothing but remnants of an age past, it still holds a lavish allure. It is desolate and reclusive, yet still finds place to thrive. It is transformed into something exalted despite the torments of fate and time. Brokenhearted, I walk through lands that hold nothing but estrangement and alienation. I wander and wish, halt and hope, drift and desire. I shall never be what I was. Perhaps I can be something new. I take my fractured crown, and with every aching piece, I form a fresh soul. Anguish shall never be a stranger to my step but shall accompany me as an ally and mentor. I shall never hold the hand or hug the man. I lie in the warm sand, then run across the Mesa and somehow know that my dad is not far behind, whispering in the desert wind and waving in the green sage.
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