J. Curtis - Calexit - The Anthology

As best as she could figure it was Christmas Day. She’d been marking days off on her calendar. She had thought about getting a little tree from the forest and decorating it with her Mom’s old decorations but she couldn’t take a risk of a fall out in the deep snow. The winter still was fairly mild, given the elevation, little in the way of snowpack but there was enough to fall and end up frozen to death. It’s as if the entire area, after previous winters of deep snow was collectively thumbing its nose at Al Gore and his friends in Cali.

Unlike the summer, where the light has a weary quality to it, like a backwater pool of light lying low, winter’s light is crisp, clean, illuminating everything so clearly. Even with sunglasses on as she goes to bring in some firewood after feeding and watering the horse the vivid noise of sunlight’s dance plays on her eyes as she walks, causing her to blink

She can’t honestly imagine living some place where it never snowed. She wouldn’t enjoy living where, at Christmas, you can’t tromp out into the snow at and cut down your tree instead of buying one, limp and smelling of French fries from the McDonalds next to the tree lot.

Tonight, there was just one small branch that she cuts a safe distance from the house, with a couple bulbs on it and a little star. It sort of looks like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree but the subtle scent of it in the air was enough for her today.

She picks up the phone. Nothing, no signal. She hadn’t expected anything new but there is a part of her that always thinks “they’re going to fix the mess, get the infrastructure going, life will be back to normal”.

A silent phone reminds her of what a lie that is.

Cell phone coverage in this area was always bad, but until her landline phone quit, she tried calling all the numbers in her directory. There weren’t many. Her uncle, who was in an assisted living center in Chico, her boyfriend, her best friend from college, her minister who lived down in the Valley. No one picked up. At first, there would be an answering machine or recorded message on a cell phone to which she’d leave a message

“It’s Lisa — I’m at the cabin and I’m OK. Please let me know you are OK too. I love you.”

“This message is for Mr. Anderson in room 211. Please tell him his niece Lisa is safe.”

“It’s Lisa, Julie — please call me, it’s the landline number, I got rid of the cell.”

“It’s Lisa Anderson, Pastor — please let me know everyone is OK.”

There were no return calls.

After a while, there were no answering machine or voicemail messages either.

Today, it would just be herself. She really wishes one of her loved ones or friends were here with her to celebrate this day.

She isn’t seeking company or the distraction of noise. She is seeking something familiar from which she can measure the happiness of the past, even if she could not recapture it. It wouldn’t be gifts, or money or a party, but simply the gathering of promise and hope and faith, that true gift of love without reservation that makes all other things look puny in comparison. But as she put on a cassette of some Christmas hymns in the ancient cassette player she found out in the old shop, it came to her. Whether she is sitting alone or surrounded by others, when she hears the strains of a Christmas hymn, the warmth of that gift came back to her.

To the west, she sees no lights. She’s never been able to really see any of the cities, being on the backside of the mountain, but on clear nights, there would almost be a small glow from the West. Tonight, it is as dark as sin, as she gently holds the tiny Jesus from her mom’s antique nativity scene in her hand, as the tears flow.

The first day of spring and it was 82 degrees. The sun dips towards the water, its glow, burnished breath upon her skin. The sky is so clear, the soft trailing puffs of clouds, spun air gathered around the tops of the trees like cotton candy. Lisa loves this time of day, somewhere between the first cool breeze that blows against the back of her neck like a lover’s kiss, and the first stinging bite of the mosquitoes, marking their territory in blood, driving her in. Outside her home, cicadas will soon strike up the band, off in the distance, replacing the sound of lawnmowers that she only remembers now in her mind with the comfort of familiarity.

She hopes the mild winter and the hot Spring isn’t a portent of another scorching summer, with lots of work to be done outside, hot brutal work, everything you touch, burning, sapping strength faster than she would have thought possible.

She never had air conditioning, being in the shadow of ancient trees with a nice evening breeze, but that’s a moot point as the power’s been out a while. At first, she thought it was just a line down after March’s windstorm but it appears the grid itself has failed. Fortunately, there’s a manual pump from the original settlers of this place for the well so she can still get water from the ground for drinking and the garden and she still has about 100 gallons stored in the barn in large plastic containers each with a few drops of bleach in them. But with little snowpack this last winter there’s no guarantee there will be enough well water by mid-summer. Tending to the garden for food means many hours out in the open air, sun beating down as she catalogs each and every burning piece of earth in which she will pray something takes root. That’s not something that she can do without adequate water. But she is thankful she didn’t knock down the outhouse that was here when she first moved in, used as the last owners fixed the fire damage and made the home at least somewhat livable as a hunting shack.

There’s no escaping that kind of heat. The sun rests atop an inverted tureen of hollow, muted air. Even as she grooms Taxi the horse, talking to him as she performs that little ritual, her words fade slowly and knowingly until they are lost in the murmur of shimmering heat as she puts her tools aside and gives in to windless defeat.

Finishing up, there isn’t enough water; it seems, to cool her down. Both she and her horse drink down what water they have in reach, gulping down the liquid without taste or even cold until they finish it, the drops on her lips already dancing like water on a skillet as she headed back to the house.

There’s a creek a short ride away. Tonight, when it cools down, she will ride down there for a dip, and make a decision. She misses being able to go canoeing on the water, but can’t risk being seen, not knowing who yet lingers on her mountain and what their intentions would be. She does remember the last time she dared it. There had been a few thundershowers; just enough to raise up the water level above the level of her spirits. She grabbed the canoe and stepped into the stream the water yanking at the edge of that last bit of fear and hesitation, pulling her down, water fast and huge and furious. Once she picked up the paddle, there would be no going back, she had to be there, to see if for only a few minutes she was free or die trying, water in a place that’s inside of us, water in a place that’s somehow holy.

As she stepped into the canoe that day she held her breath and in the silence that followed, so did the water, tremendous and patient and waiting for her to make up her mind. And she hit the water with solemn abandon, simply in recognition of the life left in her, the air rushing from her lungs, supple muscles gathered into the forward motion of arms, and head and heart.

When she was done, she hid the canoe in the brush and hiked back home. She wonders if she will ever return to this land and if so, would the canoe still be there?

Tonight would be one last dip in the creek. Her work for the day is almost done and it is time to break free of it, the heat and the solidity of it weighing down even our sleep if we let it.