Pinewood Heart, Rat's Nests and Church

Winding back roads are the only roads home.

Paved serpents partition a path through Yankee Springs Recreation Area, piercing Dead Man's Curve and giving one last bit of traction up Heartbreak Hill before turning into dirt and gravel. I drive slowly enough to prevent the kick-back of whirling dust behind the car and also, to avoid collisions with surprised walkers or leaping deer.

Knotty pine floorboards and ceilings ground and vault the remembrance of the forest which birthed me. We used to be the only family on this part of the lake but the wealthier have built summer homes three times the size of Weather's Wood. I grew up under the moniker of that which I find sacred and profane – a man's name on a plaque along side the woods that gave everything.

Mom would brush through my long, crimson hair in the mornings before school. She would tire of the constant tangles and complain about the “rat's nest” which seemed to build itself over night. Why not a bird's nest or some other more lovable creature? To this day, I am called “Ratsy,” though, less and less does she appear within or before me when visiting the lake.

One time, while my mom was talking on the phone, I decided to play “beauty salon,” with my sister being my first and only customer. She allowed me to cut off her hair with the orange handled sewing scissors and as the story goes, both of us were quite proud to show off the new hairdo. I have no memory of this and yet, the story is told ad nauseam.

Is it a curse or redemption that my hair now remains long while my sister's hair always remains short?

I remember summer Sundays sitting in the tiny catholic church, fanning myself with the bulletin, often succumbing to the rhythm of hymns. The organist sang songs of adoration and forgiveness, loudly and off key. The windows were mottled glass so that there would be no distraction from the solemnity at hand. I never understood how veneration and communion belonged only to this sealed mausoleum.

With the recollection such things, I ask: can one forfeit their history or erase the birthmark on one's heart?