a long, green station wagon

i never rolled down the window when grandma drove us out to the gathering on thursday nights. it's not like i thought about it. i just wanted to rest my face half on the glass so i could stare non-stop at the whirring-by landscapes. never losing the neck strength or become distracted by oncoming cars.
it was ozark mountains big enough to a little boy, but small now to this man's mind.
the white farm houses propped against green, purple, and blue mountains breaking the patterns in nature, mesmerizing me.
off in the distance little brown bumps of cows wandered through trees while others layed next to muddy ponds waiting for the farmer's tractor horn to beep the call home. blurry white fences and then barbed-wire fences next to half rotten wood fences on and on forever. but why? fences seemed so unnecessary out there. the fields and the crops were so vast a cow, or a person, would be worn out trying to cross it to escape, and to what destiny? with wolves and woodpeckers waiting to take your last breath.
roads out there curved so often and so dramatically, i wondered if we really ever went anywhere or we just drove in circles around the same colored hills.
at last we'd turn down the dirt road marked by the grain store sign, now mostly brown where the white paint and red letters have faded or peeled off and made our little, beige, fluffy clouds of dust. rock popcorn popping under the car silencing the radio every few seconds made my mind wander even farther off. the bucolic scene on the other side of the glass moved too quickly out of sight and the radio was mumbling words about news and politics that mean nothing to a country boy like me.
bouncing around inside the wagon as grandma stared straight ahead, i eventually learned to reach my left hand down and hold onto her stack of boxed harmonicas before they'd hit the floor. if i'd let them fall she'd immediately ask me to pick them up, and then the spell being cast over me would break. pavlovian response served me well.
just past the canyon, furry with trees and brush, was our last turn before reaching the old church. as soon as we turned down that road i would take my head off the window and stare straight ahead at the church, almost hidden in the overgrown oak.
dried deer bones sticking out of dark fur is what it always looked like to me. the windows not yet illuminated by lights and music. shadows ever unmoving on our approach.
"grandma, they havin' cookies tonight?"
"yes honey. someone always brings cookies."
"not always."
"shane, you weren't even there the time martha didn't bring cookies. i just told you about it."
"just checkin."
we'd pull right up in front of the church partly off the road; since there never was a parking lot made for this place, it's zenith of attendance passing long before cars would come to this neck of the woods.
old, old dirt choking the bright green grass near the front steps swirled as i kicked rocks behind my grandma, walking in with tinfoil covered banana bread. every piece of wood inside had a dull shine, not from being cleaned or waxed, but by being polish-worn. every door creaked
 and every floorboard groaned, the electric wiring was exposed along with the bent nails holding them to the walls.
the pews had to been made by some carpenter a hundred years ago that believed god wanted you to suffer in as many little ways as possible. sharp angles, bizarre heights and depths in their design proved my case...at least to me. no one else complained, but they were old and grew up with these sorts of things.
no foam seat covers or ergonomic desk sets for these veterans.
old men wandered inside the chapel setting up chairs and instruments while old women jockeyed for display areas on the counter top in the ante-way. hot items stored in the corner to keep prying hands from interrupting the serving cycle while appetizers and cookies were granted top access.
knowing better then to make my presence known while the ladies got the treats and sustenance organized i'd hide in the stairwell at the side of the room leading to a basement so dark i never ventured down for fear ghosts and bones coated the floor.
once the rush had passed and the bulk of the group had joined the men inside to tune instruments and talk about the week past i'd casually stroll up to the cookies and get two good handfuls before someone could remind me that candy would spoil this that or the other thing.
the selection was always so similar scanning for what i wanted to sample had become a lost cause. the cheap vanilla cream cookies and the occasional chips ahoy (if on sale) were my only concern. the cakes and the breads would have to wait until everyone was being served.
out the double doors down the stairs and into the fields behind the church i'd go. first to the graveyard to sit in the tall grass and watch the fireflies come as dusk creeped upon this little orb.
the gravestones were so old and worn with rain that reading them was more imagination then careful diction. dates were about the only thing i could ever be sure about...1865...1802...1911...

1898...
oh so long ago.
another age. muskets and horses. indians and campfires.
out here in the foothills of the Ozarks these were real country folk. born, raised and died without ever crossing paths with Big Brother, social security, or world news. i didn't even know what these things were yet either i just thought it was rad that these people lived in houses without electric lights.
the chiggers would bite at my legs as i sat in the grass causing me to rustle and move around sometimes even getting up and walking over to another patch in hopes no little pest families lived there.
never such luck.
colored skies above. chatter and spots of music behind my back. blinking lazy lights surrounded me at head height. seated head height.
heavenly scents of honeysuckle covered the grasses. there were never any stems to pick as the kids living in the big house down the road a stretch passed down this way nearly every single day. it's alright...i used their tire swing all the time.
with just enough light left to see the dirt track leading to the pond under the dark oak i'd make my way to the tire swing.
pulling on the rope half dangling in the water i'd pull the tire to me and climb in and push off.
with the right tempo i could keep swinging for awhile until my ass was asleep from the tire edge cutting in.

i never cast a reflection on the water when i sat in that tire. the water was practically opaque with rotten leaves in the bottom and i never sat in the tire until sunset.
there i would swing and listen to my grandma and her friends strike up an old gospel tune and swing along into a folk song. sometimes i could hear a tired old voice sing out among the strumming, humming, thumping, and blowing.
it comforted me to be in that place as much as it did to lay across my grandma's lap while she slowly scratched strange designs into my skin.
i never was afraid there.
in the dark. over that pond.
i never thought of school or peer pressure. not one concern about my future or the dire situation in the middle east.
just floated in space. timeless.
young.
alone.
kicking my legs i would disembark from the tire and walk down the roads far enough so i couldn't hear the music anymore then i would turn back. my natural way of adjusting the volume in my life.
kicking rocks into the night and scratching alien letters into the dust with sticks found on the side of the road while investigating some sound or another.
at night the dirt road looked white and the trees seemed to be like giant t.v. sets tuned to static with their constant murmurings and shattered pieces of light shining through the leaves.
sometimes i would stare up into their boughs so long i would trip on my own foot or some variation in the ground and fall chest first on the brackish road. spitting away the taste only to punch myself in the arm for being stupid.
then latter enjoying the dirty little country boy look reflected in the tall glass under the lights in the church when i would return for the intermission and warm food.
there in a tight circle their chairs would be: old wood chairs men sit in to whittle; folding chairs from someone's basement; a piano that looked rusty. guitars of various age and use; in the center a wood-burning stove with several hand-cut pieces cracklin away.
the windows weren't stained glass. they weren't fancy neither, but they were tall and very dirty. the ceiling had the religious vault one always expects but fantastic expanses of exposed timber crossing hither thither and yon. spider webs big enough to catch birds seemed always on the verge of falling down upon me with the sheer amount of dust they held.
it was a church made of the bread of life. simple. strong. necessary. white walls unadorned and strong with hand-hewed lengths of wood still standing strong against the tides of time and nature.
a fort of the spirit.