The New American Digest

Years ago, one of the formerly big three channels aired some kinda drama about a meteor shower or maybe enormous forest fires, I don’t remember for sure, burning up a wide swath of the western United States. Specifically, California, if I recall correctly.

I know, I know, but we can dream, can’t we?

Anyway, the format of the program was as if news agencies were reporting the events. My parents had finally gotten cable TV, and it was my father’s habit to turn on CNN and let it drone away for hours, until Mother would get sick of it and disarm him of the television remote. We shall see the correlation of this annoying habit to the program in question shortly.

Now this was not the sort of program to interest me, but I was vaguely aware of its existence. At that time, I was living out of state and by chance the program aired during the customary time for my weekly call home to check in with the folks. Mother and I were chatting, and she said, isn’t it awful about all those people getting burned up?

What people, Mother?

All those people getting burned up in California. It’s all they’re showing on the news, haven’t you heard? It’s horrible.

I was not sure how to process this, because Mother always took being wrong quite personally. But finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and as innocently as possible asked her if she’d ever heard of Orson Wells, knowing full well that as a young ‘un, she’d heard his famous Martian invasion broadcast on the radio.

Yeah, she said, War of the Worlds, what of it? Then maybe a five-count pause, during which I knew better than to say a word.

No, she said. Then maybe another five-count pause.

Dammit, she said. Then yet another long pause.

Click, the phone said.

I thought it best to not bring up the subject the next time I called home. So, I didn’t.

The morning after …

It may be that I’m “camping” right about here as you read this. Probably not – but maybe …
First time back in these parts in at least a decade.

I grew up in lake country … or maybe it was better described as patches of high ground in a big swamp. Warm ice filled depressions left behind after Global Warming melted all the glaciers hereabouts.

This was one of those lakes. Lots of them around here.
Had a name but who knew it? Who cared? It was the place …
“… out where the road tees off by Grass Lake. Turn right, take the next left – about ½ mile down on the right“

One of the places where the ghosts of my past make themselves known. Parties on the “beach” – beach being where the undergrowth along the shore had been trampled down to sand. Someone may have brought a keg. Or two. Someone’s field got raided again for fresh sweet corn. Hand-rolled somethings by the campfire – bottle being passed around. Maybe a game of poker played on a stump. Skinny-dipping in the midnight waters.

Giggles in the night.

Must have built immunity up from the mosquitoes …

Then it was getting light again …

17 was a good age …