"God's Country"

I've recently come to the conclusion that just about everything 'wild' which existed in "once upon a time"-America, has been tamed to the point where it is no longer suitable material for the legends once told of this mighty land. It has become painfully apparent that there is no Bigfoot, the Indians listen to P-Diddy, the cowboys do to, the plains end, the buffalo are roadside attractions, the rivers are in large undrinkable, and the endless mountains have both a beginning and an end.

On my drive into work, I have just a few brief glimpses of what the past may have looked like, although there’s always a power line, beer can, or mobile home which keeps the vision from being truly of ‘wild’ America.

This morning, just before my radio short-circuited 4 minutes into my commute (Mike you’ve got to help me straighten this shit out, it’s driving me crazy!), I was enjoying a report on some eager-eyed marine biology students who are in the process of taking samples of the ocean floor under the ice of the most northern reaches of the Atlantic, convinced still that their work is in some way a feasible livelihood and not just another massive allocation of tuition dollars designed to keep the kids busy and excitable. The dour-toned NPR reported stated with little enthusiasm that just a fraction of a percent of the ocean floor has been documented biologically. How exciting! A vast world of unknown wonders just waiting for foreign eyes to see its magnificence!

Back to my drive through “God’s County”: I was approaching just my second turn of the morning, which unofficially marks the end of the boonies and the beginning of the Town of Freeport. There on the corner! Two perfect examples of wild America!! They were beautiful! A couple of wild turkey women (it’s past 10 PM and I’m struggling to remember the scientific term for female turkeys) right on the side of this vicious and unforgiving traffic flow! They must be lost, obviously far outside their pristine habitat that must have been a little yonder - a little further over them hills.

My instinct was to herd them into the back of my old Dodge and take them back to the safety of a wild place where they could be as wild turkey be – safe from the hazards of this parking lot society of ours! I weighed the logistics of missing an 8 AM meeting in a quest in the name of nature, it wasn’t looking good. I slowed the Dodge to a shy pace, squinting my bad eyes for more visual detail of those beauties and their certain peril on the side of this mean stretch of road... approaching… What the fuck…? What the fuck are they doing??! They’re kicking apart a half-eaten bag of Sun Chips next to a trash can!! Lazy sonsabitches! Go forage for grubs and moss seed – just stay away from that trash!!

8.5 hours later on my drive home, there they were. Like a couple of fat prostitutes on the roadside - crazed on methamphetamines - maybe 40 yards further from their trashcan of heavenly delights. For all I know, these poor excuses for nature could be direct decedents of that big guy who the Indians fed the Pilgrims just prior to the slaughter of their civilization.

The Day My Youth Died.

Well it would appear that I’ve quit smoking cigarettes. It’s been 5 days and now that the physical symptoms of withdrawal have subsided, I consider myself a non-smoker; perhaps a premature affiliation, but one which I don’t plan on losing.

These painful few days have found me at nearly maximum levels of sappy nostalgia. My deep love for the cigarette (which is stronger than it has ever been) blossomed in the early months of 1996 in the most foolish fashion possible. I was trying hard to impress my brother and his friends, who for some reason had taken me; the awkward 16 year-old, on a voyage to Bull Moose Music in Brunswick. My love of music was in full swing, which in my aging opinion is the single most influential time in a person’s life. I plan on keeping an especially close eye on my children in those first couple of years when they start buying albums. It doesn’t take too many pages of linear notes to serious alter the good sense of any ‘child’ (those under 25). Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with how my early youth was spent, and up until Friday night was still partaking in the experience.

Back to that fateful drive to Brunswick: My brother had been smoking for several years by this time, and had made it look cooler than Joe Camel could ever hope to. He blew smoke rings, he spoke the lingo, he smoked in front of my parents, there was something about this habit that was undeniably cool. I was fishing for some laughs by making fun of the smoking style of a girl in my class who had recently started the habit. Without thinking I grabbed Geoff’s cigarette from his hand and put it between my lips, dragging a smoke plume of smoke and puffing it back out in imitation of that loser wannabe. He said something like “What the hell are you doing? Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew that you smoked!”. If they knew that I “smoked”?

I suddenly found myself in that cool jazz lounge with all the hot flappers like you see in the magazine ads, and Joe Camel was staring me in the eye with hope and admiration of my potential patronage. Within a week I was bumming GPC Menthol Lights (Gage Puke Choke) from my late friend Audra. I knew the difference between menthol and non-menthol, I could buy smokes at a certain store from a certain clerk, and I was getting pretty close to producing a true smoke ring. I was a smoker! What a fantastic feeling it was! Before long I had my own lighter, and kept a pack of dry butts under my mattress.

As the years wore on, I became a more refined connoisseur of tobacco, not to mention her exotic cousins. In college I finally settled on an edgy, unique, and distinguished brand; Parliament Lights (in a box, not a soft pack). For 8 years, I breathed the chalky heaven from North Carolina. In good times and great times, in bad times and terrible times, to celebrate and mourn, to relax and awake, I resorted to one of those little white tubes. They were a tangible influencer of my psyche.

A couple of years ago, it struck me that smoking cigarettes was embarrassing. Practically none of my friends smoke, Tia hadn’t smoked in years, the dogs didn’t smoke (that I know of…), and going outside regardless of the elements to get my fix was getting old. It was two weeks ago, that I finally said enough is enough and actually began to wean myself off of nicotine for the first time ever (and last time). I set a date – Tia’s Birthday, and I quit. My last smoke took place on the front porch in a solemn ceremony, followed by an honorable burial in the front yard. I’m not chewing gum, I’m not wearing a patch, I had a terrible weekend, but I’m getting through. My love which I reserve for tobacco will have to be invested elsewhere.

My Prediction

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