On either side of the front door to the inky, smelly, dilapidated mansion were two hedge plants, taller than a very tall man and as wide as our pick-up. Now, hedge smells a certain way. Hedge smells a helk of a lot better than old folk, chewing tobacco and black coffee in oily mugs. I still lean in and smell a hedge whenever I get the chance, whenever I pass one by. I used to walk out of that smelly house and immediately bury my nose in the hedge.
For me hedge smells like freedom. The way a car radio sounds like freedom. The way my own personal set of apartment keys feels like freedom. The way an attractive man looks like freedom, foolishly. The way a cigarette tastes like freedom. I’d edit the illusions but they are my truths. These are the things in which I have identified freedom. Recognizing their traps and tricks, I have let at least one go. But I shall never let go of the rest.
As soon as the bitter note of hedge would meet my little girl nose I knew I was free. Free until dark. When I had to go back inside.
At first, shell-shocked, I would go as far from the mansion as I could. For a while my little bare legs would take me up creek to a bridge where I’d sit and watch the iridescent water saunter on by me. Hunter Creek. My dad was the first to show me Hunter Creek, of course. My dad showed me enough trails enough times that I knew how get to my Grandpa John’s house on Fizer Road, about two miles away–both by street and by trail. I also knew how to get to the elementary school and to the mouth of the Klamath River. I could probably get to the Mini-Mart too. I knew the best blackberry patches and where to find a mud bog so thick it could pass for quicksand. I told a couple boys in my first-grade class about the quicksand but they didn’t believe me. Boys were always challenging me. They thought I lied about things. The boys would stare at me for a good long while before excluding me from their games of kickball and football and other boy sports. I was always stuck between the boys and the girls but more drawn to the boy games and the boy talk. The playground attendant would tell me ‘you can’t play football ’cause you’ll scrape up your bare knees even worse. Come over here and play with the girls.’ Later I would stop wearing dresses and only wear jeans and stir-ups. As means to play with the boys.
Despite all the special places my dad showed me, places he’d gone to “when he was a boy”, I finally found my special place–a rose tree right in front of the mansion. It was a place where me and my best friend and cat, Kitty Rose, could both go. And dummies never saw us there. Hiding in plain sight, she and I, up in The Rose Tree.
The Rose Tree had a trunk about as big a’ round as my dad and branches as thick as necks. The bark was smooth and dusty. Until I met The Rose Tree I thought roses only grew on bushes. I also thought ‘every rose had it’s thorn’ that’s because I heard the song ‘Every Rose Has It’s Thorn’. So when we first started goin’ up there I would be weary, always looking for thorns. But there just weren’t any. Talk about magic.
I’d watch the old folk walk by, Kitty Rose and I perched at the top of The Rose Tree. The villains would mutter to themselves and look out to the fields, the hillside, the barn. They were looking for something, and I always wondered what. I knew it wasn’t me ’cause I didn’t matter til bedtime.
37 thoughts on “Villains Part II–The Rose Tree”
“The way a cigarette tastes like freedom…” Wow. Perfect. Hey, do you want to be a part of the Blog-hop? People are linking other writers together who are working on books or already have one. I’m going to participate and would like to send people your way when the time comes.
That would be rad!
You have been brave from a young age haven’t you!? No fear. Thank you for making me picture my own ideas of freedom. Man I wish I was able to spend half the time roaming mountains as you did. I miss the smell. 541-519-7844 Let me know if you make it to CC.
I miss the smell too. I don’t do the best job of ‘getting out’ there anymore. And its not that I’ve spent A LOT of time in the wilderness, its just that the moments were so precious that they are constantly resurfacing and being written about. Thanks for being in touch, friend.
I love your voice in these pieces, Terah. It’s the type of voice that could lead me through an entire book and one I would gladly follow.
I’m getting a lot of good feedback on this piece and it’s taking me by surprise. I would point at other stories as decent work. But OK! Thank you! Interesting how that plays out…
I really like your blog and would love you to guest post on my, http://www.5thingstodotoday.com site. All you have to do is write five suggestions along with a link back to your site. Please check out the blog and see the sort of things people have written about.
Will definitely check out your site 🙂
Thank you Martin
This was very well written. As a young girl growing up in a rural area, I remember going through wooded areas and I always preferred playing boys games instead of girls.
I could see us playing together. Boy games 🙂
All I can say is that was amazing. I left my living room for a little while.
Bold from an early age… Bravo!
Really a nice post 🙂
Thank you Isha!
Your play on words my friend is freedom in the written form.
Thank you strangerangel.
Sooo can you put me on a list so I receive an advance copy of your next great book?! 😉 Love your stuff, girly! Thanks for inspiring me to sit down and write today.
There is charm and innocence and freedom of a feral kind, but then, gosh, that last line is heartbreaking in its sadness and foreboding.
Thank you for taking notice of my post 🙂 I’m following you!
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Wow, that’s wonderful! Thanks 🙂
Ah, special places. It’s funny how children naturally find places to be alone and think and as adults a lot of people are dead scared of solitude.
interesting post 🙂
Interesting name 🙂
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I find especially lovely your symbols of freedom. While we each develop our own set of images to attach to an idea, it is fascinating how often such associations one has developed out of a personal experience can somehow prove universally valid.
I agree–and I would love to know what you personally associate with freedom..thank you for the thoughtful comment.
Oddly enough, empty space brings out strong feelings of freedom in me. An empty room, a blank sheet of paper or a wide-open field are like invitations to create, to imagine, and to do whatever you like. A very different sort of freedom, perhaps, but still filled with possibilities.
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