Summer Breeze

My Kitchen in Kits 2018

I feared falling into depression again. 

It'd been almost a decade since my last episode. 

I avoided everything that might trigger one. 

I stepped around it, turned my back, and disassociated. 

And then it hit. 

It was a beautiful late afternoon in July, around dinner time. 

I was washing dishes in the kitchen of my dilapidated yet perfect Kitsilano rental. 

My outstretched arms were warm from the gentle breeze 

that danced through 

the pink sequined fabric 

I'd hung over the window above the sink. 

It was my favourite time of day. 

It was the time of day my two cats watched me disappear while 

I'd transport myself into the lyrics of Seals and Crofts' Summer Breeze. 

Love is Patient; my kitchen rock. Kitsilano 2018

The sunlight shone perfectly through 

the horizontal window beside the hundred-year-old back door, 

throwing sunbeams on my giant philodendron, 

bouncing off the copper pots that hung on a rack from the ceiling and 

landing on stacks of pottery I'd just retrieved from the kiln – all inspired by him.  

Kitsilano 2018

Seemingly, out of nowhere, my body gave in, and 

I collapsed to my knees on the floor beside the stove. 

The sunlight disappeared. 

The needle dragged heavily across the song playing in my head, 

and everything stopped. 

My reflection grabbed me through the baked-on grease on the oven door. 

I looked myself in the eyes and listened as 

the song's lyrics were thrown in my face. 

Solarium, Kitsilano 2018

He's not going to see the newspaper layin' on the sidewalk 

while a little music plays from the house next door; 

he's not going to walk on up to the doorstep 

through the screen and across the floor. 

He won't come home from a hard day's work - because he doesn't work. 

And his arms definitely won't reach out to hold you when the day's through. 

This is a fantasy. 

Nannie's Guitar, Kitsilano 2018

This is reality. 

You let him in the front door late at night 

on Thursdays and Sundays, 

you share a few puffs in the solarium,

you go for a walk on a star-filled beach,

you talk about things only you two can talk about,

you both do all you can to remain detached,

you come home,

you fuck

and he leaves. 

Stop living in a fantasy. 

Jared, Kitsilano 2018

And with that, I curled into a fetal position amongst 

the crumbs and random sticky stuff on the old pine floor 

and wailed. 

I know my neighbours heard me because their BBQ chatter went quiet. 

I respect that they allowed me my privacy. 

They knew what I was going through. 

Tilley and Flo - my two cats

Not deterred by my sobs and hiccups, 

my cats came over to the sack of me on the floor, and 

stuck their noses in my wet eyes. 

They snapped me out of my mindlessness and 

I conjured up enough strength to crawl to the washroom and puke. 

Exhausted. 

My forehead pressed against the cold base of the toilet. 

My cheek cooled by the tile floor. 

My eyes focused on the dust bunnies under the claw foot tub I loved so much. 

My thoughts twinkled like birthday sparklers, then exploded amongst epiphanies. 

I didn't cry during the depressive episodes of my past because 

my brain was stuck in the sludge of darkness. 

I was too numb to move. 

A broken soul covered with a shell of a human. 

A vase I made and a sandpiper skull, Kits 2018

Although I felt like a shell of myself lying there on the cold floor, 

I found solace in the realization I wasn't depressed. 

I was living a moment in time. 

An experience, 

a situation. 

A moment that one day would be over, and 

far enough in the past that I could 

see it as a distant memory. 

me in the wildfire pollution Summer 2018 Kitsilano

That beautiful late afternoon in July, when I was 

washing dishes in a warm summer breeze is a memory now. 

I can watch it like a movie in my mind, and 

I can write about it. 

Not all shit experiences are lessons. 

They're simply shit experiences. They aren't meant for anything. 

There's no need to be bitter. To get drunk, high or angry. 

But there are a lot of reasons to be strong.  

I crawled through my soul's darkest nights until I had the strength to stand.

Sometimes, I lay collapsed on my stomach 

between the thresholds of darkness and light, 

convinced it was the end. 

But then something inside me would flicker—and I'd get up again - 

and again. 

The realization I'd been living in a fantasy was the start of my healing. 

Little did I know that fully healing meant metaphorically dying.

Know Your Enemy

me and seaweed Hornby, 2019

If you know the enemy and know yourself, 

you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.  

~Sun Tzu

The winter wind on Hornby was as unpredictable as an abusive lover 

and as terrifying as the unending darkness of chronic depression. 

And I’d survived both in the past. 

It was late in November when I was first pushed. 

I was at Grassy Point, lost in daydreams amongst a palette of the darkest grey. 

This was my safe place on the island, a place I went to escape 

the chaos of grief that swirled in my mind. 

As I felt the familiar presence approach from behind, 

I allowed myself to be 

vulnerable – 

and trusting. 

I'd close my eyes and lean back, 

knowing he'd catch me 

if I fell.

I relaxed 

when 

he wrapped his arms around my waist, 

brushed my hair off my face, 

and ever so softly 

touched just below my ear, 

to lean in 

and whisper words 

I refused to understand. 

But this time was different. 

I felt the familiar presence coming, but it changed rapidly and 

turned forceful. 

An explosion of fury shoved me hard from behind, 

a shove that quickened my step so I wouldn’t fall. 

When I didn't stumble, he tangled himself between my stride, 

trapping me in his grasp, 

winding around my calves and 

weaving up between my legs. 

Like a hook, the wind 

grabbed at my thigh, 

pulling and 

mocking me 

as he tripped me up as 

I stepped on my own feet. 

I sped up, twisting and turning, thinking I could outmaneuver its force. 

I tried to outstrategize the wind 

like I'd tried to 

outstrategize my abuser. 

Narcissistic abuse and chronic depression turned me into a shell of myself, 

but strength and resilience had pulled me out of both. 

When the wind hit me like it did, it brought on that familiar feeling, and 

I refused to let it crack me again. 

After that first hurricane-force wind walloped me, 

I had an arborist come by and check every tree on my property. 

I suspected the soil was parched from drought and wind, 

and the arborist confirmed it. 

The stronger winds, 

heat waves, and 

colder winters 

meant a slow death for the trees. 

Their roots were left exposed, and all but two Douglas Firs 

on the south side of my property suffered from root rot – 

the trees closest to my cabin. 

I had them removed. 

The more severe weather caused more trees to come down, 

which meant more power outages. 

If lucky, the blackouts would’ve been caused by a branch stuck on the wires, and 

BC Hydro could’ve remotely blasted power surges through the lines to zap it loose. 

It worked most of the time. 

But if unlucky, a tree would fall onto the lines and take down the power poles, 

which meant no power until they were replaced. 

Now, because the wind was so intense during the storms, the ferry wouldn’t run.

There was no hydro crew to replace the downed poles, 

and the island was without power for days. 

The first time I experienced a prolonged power outage, 

I learned my lesson. 

I needed supplies, 

water, 

food, 

and 

means of cooking. 

My water came from a cistern in my backyard that ran on electricity. 

When the power was out, I couldn't flush the toilet, 

and toilet paper had to be burnt. 

My drinking water came from a 19-litre bottle

that I filled at a dispenser at the gas station using quarters

(and it was empty, and I had no quarters). 

My fridge was full of condiments, and 

my cupboards were stacked with 

tomato sauce and beans. 

If I'd had kindling split and 

combustibles to start the fire, 

I'd be fine for heat. 

But I had neither. 

All I could do that first winter on Hornby was stand there and take it. 

But I stood defiant, endured the lesson, and again, survived. 

The Wind

Helliwell 2019

The winds show us how close to the edge we are. 

Joan Didion 

The wind was unrelenting during my time on Hornby, 

ramming into my thoughts and morphing into metaphors. 

When the hurricane-force winds started, my entire being was on edge. 

They began in the darkness of November and continued until late March, 

the windy season. 

The maddening roar of the ocean 

the piercing howl of a spectral wind - 

and the prolonged shriek of a tree as it snaps. 

Terrorizing me night and day. 

I covered my ears and sang to make it stop. 

And then my house shook. 

It'd start with a low tremble under the floor and 

proceed to vigorously shake the walls. 

More often than not, 

a violent gust would come out of nowhere 

and blast us. 

No trembling of the floor, no shaking, 

just a direct hit. 

And then my mind raced with images burned into my teenage mind: 

The Day After 

Threads

Dancing with Tears in My Eyes 

When the 96km/h winds hit, I looked to my cat for reassurance and 

found comfort in her presence. 

I set up a bed for us on the floor under the stairs, 

thinking it'd be a safe place if a tree crashed through the house. 

Naively, I thought the winds would stop during the night, 

but they persisted. 

In the morning, they'd drop to around 50km/h, and 

I'd step outside only to have my face stung by 

bits of trees 

sand

dirt 

and who knows what else. 

Fallout.

I could only survey the aftermath from my windows. 

Trees, once proud and strong, now broken pieces of themselves 

scattered across my yard, 

branches six inches thick and seven feet long, 

cedar boughs

pine cones 

seedlings

bits and pieces of 

this 

that

and 

the other thing. 

An abandoned battlefield.

An Abusive Lover

Galleon Beach Winter 2020

He drew me in with

his words 

his song 

his touch. 

His playfulness and laughter. 

When he went dark and quiet 

I sat with him until 

I felt like I wasn’t enough. 

And then I left. 

He drew me back with 

the comfort of words I wanted to hear

his familiar songs 

the soft touch of his hand.

And then he went 

dark, 

violent 

and 

destructive 

and I hid my very being. 

The wind is like an abusive lover.

Suspect

 

The Gas Station, Fall 2019

The French guy who works at the Hornby gas station – 

We were suspicious of each other 

and shot side-eye glances. 

Uncannily familiar. 

I knew him. 

Were we foolish in a field thirty years ago? 

Did he live in Whistler? 

Maybe Nelson? 

Lollapalooza 92? 

Super grunge – can’t tell if he’s stuck in the 90s or bringing it back. 

Probably both. 

Late 40s, maybe. 

Long salt and peppery hair – always in a low pony. 

High cheekbones 

Strong features 

Slim and fit 

Wore white waffle long-john shirts under t-shirts

 - usually some death metal band. 

I know this because I asked him about his shirts

 – and then I ran out the door. 

His garbage dump green ten-speed 

leaned against the brown tile wall  

beside the front door. 

He drove an old blue Volvo wagon – last washed in 1994. 

Coexist noncompliant.

The one time I saw him outside of working hours, 

he got out of his car with bare feet so dirty they were black. 

It was Fall, and he was wearing jeans. 

Had a partner.

He built a little farm. 

Super hot. 

One day, when I bought an ice cream sandwich out of boredom, 

he asked me if I was Danish. 

Our only attempt at prolonged conversation

other than 4.25. 

I told him I was Norwegian and French, 

and asked him why. 

He said I seemed very familiar. 

With a mouth of rocks and cotton

 - You too. 

We threw around some locales where 

we could’ve met, 

but there were none. 

And there we have it. 

I knew that guy from somewhere, and he knew me. 

And that was that.

Maybe we met at a gig? 

Oh well

C 

Ya

Misnomers

 

It was a late July afternoon when I met him. 

Out of boredom, I often poked around in the heaps of crap up at the recycling depot, 

daydreaming of uncovering some acclaimed BC potter's discarded wares

or a fixed-gear bike I could resell to a particular genre if and when I ever made it back to Vancouver. 

On this particular summer day, my foot was meditatively flipping broken plates over when a scruffy orange cat sashayed out from the bushes beside me. 

We greeted each other, and my eyes followed a smear of black grease down its back that ended at 

a gargantuan ball sack swaying between its legs. 

You've got some pretty big balls there, pussycat. 

A raspy voice belonging to someone who drank too much the night before 

piped up from somewhere behind me. 

That guy's responsible for 90% of the feral colony on the island. 

Embarrassed by my uncouth observation of the feline's anatomy and 

taken aback because I was being watched, I turned to see a 

fuzzy-haired, 

shirtless, 

overly tanned, 

leather-skinned dude

in his mid-40s 

leaning against a sheet of corrugated metal. 

This guy absolutely spent his formative years loitering outside a corner store in a

mesh number 83 half-top and nut huggers on his stolen BMX, trying to sell smokes to minors. 

He smiled a plaque-toothed grin and nodded in the cat's direction. 

His name's Göring. You know who Göring is? 

Armed with a useless history degree with a major in Nazi Germany, 

I knew who Göring was - but for the sake of any in-depth conversation, 

I played dumb. 

After a long mansplanation of the Luftwaffe's strategy, he introduced himself as Bishop. 

But I go by Bish. 

Oh fuck. 

My two best dude friends had sternly warned me about this guy. 

My female friends simply stated, 

Stay far away from Bish. 

Don't talk to him. 

Don't even look in his direction. 

He's not a good person. 

Which, of course, explains his cat's unfortunate misnomer. 

While making small talk, I slowly backed away.

It's super to meet you, Bish; enjoy your day with Göring! 

When I was far enough away, I turned my back to him. 

Hey, what's your name? Who are you with? 

I played deaf. 

He organized a beach party to celebrate Derek's death a year later.

Ask Around

morning coffee on my deck - one of the best things in life

 
Ask around. 

That's the answer you'd get on the Island when asking a question, discussing a challenge in your yard, where to find a particular tool and the like.

When you live in a remote small community, a Google search for near me is futile. 

You have to ask around. 

Asking around means:  

knocking on your neighbours’ doors, 

chit-chatting, 

presenting situations and 

problem-solving. 

If the problem can’t be solved with a tete-a-tete with your neighbour, ask around branches out.

The neighbour asks their contacts, and you ask around some more. 

You ask around at:  

the hardware store 

the gas station

the corner store and 

the coffee wagon. 

It's a process that requires patience and persistence, 

standing around and asking around until a solution is found. 

Nine times out of ten, you’re given a name and a vague description of someone’s house. 

Lyel might know. Go ask him. He lives off Solans in the school bus with the house built on top. 

Now you have to go knock on a strange man’s door. Who's also probably drunk.

Word starts to get around that you're asking around. 

In a few weeks, there’s a ten-out-of-ten chance someone will knock on your door and help you solve the problem 

—no strings attached. 

That’s what community is all about

—helping your neighbour and, in turn, being helped by them. 

I remember a time I was working in my yard, and I heard the brass bird bell on my gate clang. 

It was an awkward and embarrassed dude I’d never seen before, 

Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I'm looking for Jean's house. I was given a brief description of what it looked like and was told it was over this way. I couldn't find it, and they told me to ask around, but no one was home anywhere. 

I empathized completely with the poor soul. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t know Jean. 

I pointed him toward my neighbours Scott and Bailey’s place and told him to ask around there.

After I sold my house on Hornby, I moved to another unfamiliar city. 

I tried to have conversations with folks and get to know people. 

I asked around about amenities, restaurants, and where to get plants for my garden

 – that kind of thing. 

 Nine out of ten times, the reply was, 

Just do a search. 

I flipped them off and walked away. 

No, I didn't. But I wanted to.

Doused in Mud Soaked in Bleach

My first home and the first Christmas lights I ever hung.

Mica and Caspian, the little guys next door, loved them. They'd never seen Christmas lights before.

Christmas 2020 Hornby Island

Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach 

As I want you to be 

As a trend, as a friend 

As an old memoria 

 - Kurt Cobain, Come as You Are

It was Christmas Eve on the Island, and I wanted to dress up. 

I’d only packed a few things in my duffel bag for my two-week stay, 

yet here I was on week thirty-two. 

I’d been wearing the same thing every day for months because it was all I had packed: 

men’s vintage jeans - six sizes too big 

wool sweater – heavily repaired 

burgundy toque – stretched out 

men’s fifty-year-old down coat – shedding feathers 

hiking boots - muddy 

I felt as dumpy and worn out as my clothes. 

I can’t remember if I was wearing my fake fur coat when I took off from Vancouver nine months prior or if I’d shoved it into my bag on my rush out the door. Nevertheless, the fake fur hung on a hook-shaped piece of driftwood nailed to the wall beside my front door—now, more of a dusty boho decoration than a wearable garment. I knew it would be my cat's, and possibly my dad's last Christmas, but something in me wanted to get dressed up, and that fake fur coat was the dressiest thing I had.

My fuck this, I don’t give a shit anymore attitude wasn’t fully developed yet at nine months in, but it was strong enough to construct a whatever; I’m going to find some people to stand around with. I polished up my boots and grabbed my dusty fake fur coat on the way out the door. I was headed to Ringside to see if I could find some humans. 

Ringside is Hornby’s version of downtown and is located at the Island’s only four-way stop. It consists of six vibrantly painted hand-built caravans organized in a circle - hence Ringside - a conglomerate of local artisan wares, tie-dyed tourist crap, seasonal tacos, and city-priced coffee. It’s also a dependable spot where locals gather for rumours and news. You go to the gas station parking lot to find out where to get an iron clawfoot tub, but if you want to know whose nephew is sleeping with Colleen’s daughter, you go to Ringside. 

The past nine months were hard for everyone on the Island because of the pandemic. The Co-op was constantly running out of food and supplies, people were divided by medical beliefs, and the winter hurricane winds had started early. I wasn’t sure what I’d encounter at Ringside, but I’d hoped it was humans. 

Walking across the gravel parking lot, I saw that I wasn’t the only one who had made the Christmas Eve pilgrimage. Ringside was bustling. Folks dressed up in moth-eaten fur coats, Halloween top hats, silver garland boas and a vast array of Christmas accoutrements. Some stood alone, some in pairs, but most looked awkward and uncomfortable. 

It was a gathering of misfits, bound not only by our haphazard Christmas finery but also by faith and resilience. We’d pulled ourselves together in whatever way we could and left the isolation of our homes to acknowledge a tradition that not many of us usually followed. We were drawn together with the same hope—a welcoming face and a friendly smile. As much as our situations were ripe for despair, our faith and resilience won. 

I didn’t talk to anyone on Christmas Eve, but being surrounded and connected to those raw souls was more than enough.

Stand Again

 

Me, Flo, and snap peas from my garden Hornby July 1, 2021

All I had left to love, to live for, was myself - and I’d never done that before. 

My life, as I had known it, was over. 

I’d lost everything.

But it was the loss of a future that I’d envisioned 

that hurt the most. 

You cannot hurry, grief. 

You have to sit with it. 

You sit with it until faith shows you you’re strong enough to stand again.

And you will.

Beach Shrapnel

Go to the beach access by Jane's - it's the beach with the furthest low tide on the island 

Park at the first curve in the road - 

Seawright off Central 

Pullover till your tires are almost in the ditch – 

just under the massive maples and random alders. 

You need to run into the ditch and up the steep embankment on the other side. 

Take the narrow path between the giant sword ferns – 

it'll probably be super muddy. 

Just a five-minute walk. 

If you're lucky, there's a piece of wood slapped over the mud by a previous beachgoer. 

Step slowly. Don't slip. 

You'll need your groin muscles to climb the ladder down the cliff face. 

A pair of bald eagles nest atop 

a giant dead cedar near the beach. 

They've been there for years. 

If you hear them, you'll know you're close. 

Be careful along this section – the terrain changes. 

It's a steep incline, and the rocks are slippery. 

The cliff's coming up. 

There's an old wooden ladder propped up against the cliff face 

Be careful climbing down. 

Sun blinks through them 

strobe-like, 

even in winter 

when their leaves are all gone. 

Pieces of salvaged sunbleached plywood, 

ancient candy-coloured paint 

still visible through the sludge of the Earth 

An eagle's screech 

ushers in a new type of air-- 

less dense and electric. 

The path narrows 

a flash of nuclear light temporarily blinds me, 

and I lose my balance on the slippery edges of jagged rocks 

as I'm hit with the wet shrapnel wind of the crashing waves.

Skin it

The corner store where we shot the shit.

She moved to that island thirty years ago without ever having visited. 

I met her at Fish & Chips - the fish and chips food truck down at Ford Cove.

A super cool woman. 

I'd specifically go down to the Cove to chat with her – 

but mainly off-season. 

Because the tourists were too much for me. 

She also worked stocking shelves and doing cash at the corner store. 

I thought that she was psychic. 

So, I sniffed around when I was with her. 

And she was. 

Folks would come into the Cove and have her choose their 

Lotto tickets. 

They'd line up sometimes six or seven deep. 

I watched them. 

Customer after customer came in with winning tickets. 

Myself included. 

She picked the Set for Life tickets for me. 

I started with winning free plays, then cash. 

Each win increased with each ticket. 

My lucky streak broke when I went against my intuition

that she was psychic 

and got my ticket from another gal. 

I haven't won since - and it's been three years. 

Snacks Gallery Art Supplies

We were both at the Nirvana concert at the PNE Forum in '94. 

She was at the front - against the stage and ended up passing out. 

While she was out, she saw seven white horses. 

That's when I knew I was dead. 

Sam had very cool style. 

We'd talk music, vintage, and jerkoff dudes. 

The eras we'd like to put together, 

the cut of the women's silky nylon 70s blouses, 

vintage Lees 

and why the 90s does 70s worked so well. 

She loves shopping at thrift stores. 

Her Dad owned a clothing boutique in Kerrisdale - similar to Hills. 

No kids. 

We lived in Whistler at the same time. 

1990-92. 

She worked at The Boot pub. 

Our paths most certainly crossed at some point. 

I was probably drunk and told her I liked her outfit or something. 

Shoulder-length blond hair – 

I like to keep it like Kurt's. 

She's edgier than her identical twin sister. 

A tough cookie. 

I never used to be like this. 

Old drunk dudes hit on her, and she's had enough. 

I'm tired of being nice. 

 - I can relate - 

The Cove

She found a dead sea lion with a perfect hide 

down at Sandpiper Beach. 

I wanted the hide for a rug. 

So she decided to skin it. 

When she was scoping out the situation, 

an old dude came over and told her he'd found it first. 

You're a woman. You don't have the means to skin it. 

They argued. 

He laughed in her face. 

Go ahead and skin it then. 

She got her knives and started. 

The old dude sat on a log, watched and mocked. 

It took hours. 

She said around the third or fourth hour, 

she'd become so angry at the old dude disrupting 

what was supposed to be a cathartic ritual that 

she lost focus, sliced too hard, and tore through the hide. 

She kept skinning, and the old dude kept mocking. 

You're doing it wrong. 

By the end of the day, she had the hide. 

I didn't think you had it in you. 

She told me that every time she looks at that 

tear in the sea lion's hide, 

hatred boils up inside her, and she takes it out on all men. 

Talking with her down at the Cove 

and with her twin at the pottery shop 

were the high points of my time on that island. 

It's a joy to speak with like-minded women my age. They're hard to find.  

Fireballs

I did that

It's far enough in the past that I can see myself there, at my cabin out in the yard, wrapping myself up in the experience of the changing seasons. 

The wind's cold on my face, but I won't go inside until I can feel the chill deep within my cheeks. 

Stoke the fire, make hot chocolate, snuggle with my cat, and 

watch the birds from the bed beside the window. 

Dark-eyed Juncos snacking on Salal berries, 

Spotted Towhees kicking up dry leaves and

Rufous Hummingbirds fighting over a flower on the Oregon grape. 

My yard's my sanctuary. 

The cedars and firs protect me, 

hold me, 

and help me heal. 

Because 

there are no

arms 

to fall 

into. 

My first autumn on the island was spent clearing my land by hand – the Back 40. I planned to build some raised vegetable beds and live off the land as much as possible. I wasn't sure exactly how to make those beds or where I'd get the soil, but that's what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, the only yard tools I had were a rotting pick axe I found in the bushes and a metal lawn rake left by the previous owners. 

The Back 40 – was about half an acre filled with: 

rocks 

sandy soil 

4 ft tall Bracken ferns 

Salal 

Huckleberry 

Blackberry 

Dandelion and 

Garter snakes 

There were a lot of rocks on my property: giant slabs of conglomerate, perfectly round stones, and large boulders. 

I'd choose the spot I'd work on that day by the rock I tripped over. 

Trip 

Curse 

Kick 

Dig 

I'd spend the day digging the rocks out. 

First, I'd kick them to see what I was dealing with, 

and then I'd kick them some more because it felt good. 

The work - physically draining but emotionally satisfying. 

Once I could see more of the rock, I'd try to pull it out with my stinky work glove-clad hands. If that didn't work, I'd use the head of the pick axe – whose handle broke off the first time I used it. 

Sometimes, the rocks were hidden by thick Salal bushes. In which case, once the snakes vacated, I'd start cutting the Salal back to grab hold of its roots and pull it out while briefly considering business opportunities in Salal distribution. 

My buddy Dave warned me not to pull the Salal out. 

Stace, you can't win against Salal. 

I didn't listen. No matter how many times I failed. 

Salal has a deep and wide root system. 

And most of the time, I'd end up in a tug of war and on my ass. 

Root system still intact. 

Clearing the rocks became an obsessive challenge. 

When the day's battle with the Salal and the rocks came to an end, I'd throw the rocks under the tallest tree on my property—the Douglas fir, which stood over 100 feet tall and whose top twinkled like a star on a Christmas tree when the setting sun caught it just right. 

Sometimes, I'd pretend I was a shot putter; other times, I was back on the softball field, and even more times, I was hurling balls of fire. 

Overhand 

Underhand 

Hurl 

I threw the rocks with my eyes closed. 

Occasionally, over my shoulder for luck. 

With each rock I threw, I released a stuck memory. 

The flat clap of the rock hitting another signified success. 

I never saw where they'd land, and the thick Salal surrounding the tree hid the pile. I'd consider future inhabitants of the land pondering the meaning of all the rocks piled under the tree. 

Is something buried there? 

Yes.

The Back 40 after I cleared it and put in the beds and firepit

The rocks are under the fir tree to the right.