Spooky Tree by Miren Chenevert

There is a vast hill that my family always passes on our many journeys

to and from the soccer field each week.

The hill is green and lush in all seasons and sits, composed on the rich Biltmore soil.

This hill was too lovely that something eerie had to be cast upon it.

And this eerie thing is the reason we ever noticed the vast hill.

The spooky tree.

Back through precious passed time I have a memory. I was eight maybe, at the most, and taking the déjà vu drive back from soccer.

My head was resting heavily on my hand, my soccer hair was let loose on my shoulders.

I gazed blankly out of the unclear window at the shadowy landscape.

Then something, something on a hill caught my eye. It wasn’t the way the sun was setting on the hill.

Or the majestic light it cast on the tall green mound, but what sat on top of it.

Making everyone jump by stirring the silence I spoke. “Look at that tree!” I pointed to an old dead tree.

A dark, rotted layer of bark covered the tree.

Its long, twisted arms stretched spookily out of its body and remained still.

An outcast in the Biltmore landscape.

My family stared at the tree until the car swiveled and our eyes remained on the road.

When we were almost home I declared that I had named the tree “Spooky Tree”.

No one asked, “What tree?” or “Why?” They just agreed and the name stuck until today.

Years went by and we’d always wave to the spooky tree.

We’d point it out to family and friends who’d look at us with queer faces.

“Spoooooooky tree” we’d chant each time we drove by, adding more ooos as we repeated it.

The spooky tree was an inspiration not only for our imagination but for soccer and other things.

Little did we know how big a part of our life it was until today.

Today somebody, without the smallest thought, cut the spooky tree down.

Chopped it to pieces and swept away all traces of it except for what remains in our minds. The spooky tree is gone now.

Now it’s just a beautiful hill. Nothing spooky about it. Nothing interesting.

Sometimes I glance over toward the hill, expecting to see it or I start our chant.

But all that’s left is a charming hill basking in the sunlight.

Spooky Tree.

Summer

“In a somer seson when soft was the sonne…” –William Langland

Today, in the middle of July, I sit chilled by the open window behind my chair and think how marvelous this summer, this soft summer of breezy days and long carefree hours. This summer where we watched a pair of doves nest in our trellis amid flourishing jasmine. Each day we passed often under the precarious nest to take our lunch out on the deck or to linger during the cool evenings when dusk meets dark. We watched and waited, not near as patiently as the mother who never left the nest (that we saw) but moved ever so slightly this way or that until at last we spied the downy feathers of two baby birds.

A summer of blue skies and long picnics hastily prepared and slowly consumed before spectacular mountain backdrops. Days filled with long walks in the woods or short jaunts to the park where Rem might fall asleep to the rhythmic rocking of the swing. Afternoons spent lazily beside the pool waiting for the sun’s rays to penetrate deep enough to warrant braving the crisp water where Miren and Lise swim tirelessly with Karlota and Rem runs in the shallow end shouting “I’m swimming! I’m swimming!”

The days that flow endlessly into each other provides such pleasure that patience prevails in long tourist lines for the girls’ first trip down Sliding Rock (and then again for their second) or to traverse that abode of excess that draws people from more modest places to gawk and imagine themselves sleeping here or eating there. The gardens, in full bloom with the brightest of colors and endless varieties of roses, quickly fade the recent maze of rooms and crowds until only nature’s beauty abounds as we marvel at the orchids that line the wall in the greenhouse.

Mornings begin slowly with large cups of coffee and conversations about life in the Basque Country and the Canary Islands that extend beyond the breakfast muffins Miren made and require a second cup of coffee that Lise expertly brewed. Karlota steps easily into our pattern of lazily passing the early parts of the day while Rem whizzes into the room and out as a pirate or a princess. Often precipitated by late nights, Miren’s slow start quickens when asked about the book that forced her eyes open beyond mid-night.

Books lie scattered, temporarily abandoned or too quickly finished with characters still so alive that the readers could not place them back on a shelf among the anonymous titles. Ghost stories and humorous essays are devoured along with classics. I pass books along and read the ones that get passed to me. Karlota easily reads the books the girls pass to her. Rem sits in Grandmama’s rocking chair and pages through his favorite books alone and content in his room for brief spells.

Time passes and no one can remember the day or the date but the black-eyed susans are blooming and the basil boasts enough leaves to make pesto. Miren climbs in bare feet to the top of the tall hemlock at the corner of the yard that our neighbor struggles to keep alive with the others that line and shade her back yard. Lise decides to plant a flowerbed with unmarked seeds she found in a bag once put aside with purpose. Garden tools appear and she begins breaking up the dirt. Later I see Lise and Miren working the soil together and soon they are watering the small patch of dirt that they lined with rocks found around the yard.

We think nothing of committing an afternoon just to stand atop the summit of the highest mountain peak east of the Mississippi River or to thrust our feet into an icy stream beneath a waterfall. Hours slip away as we leisurely locate the sculptures that mark the urban trail along the streets downtown. We burst into Craig’s office in the middle of our quest to say hello (a reminder of how these carefree summer days come to pass). Our wanderings enable us to rediscover how much we enjoy each other’s company and how lovely life at a slower pace can be.

The pulse of activity beats faintly as our minds shift every now and then to the upcoming school year and the busy schedules that will ensue. But for now, I listen to the leaves rustle in the trees amid the unlikely cool, cool breeze at mid-day and I think how splendidly passes this summer season under the soft sun.

Rem

Rem embodies a vast array of imaginary characters. He enjoys switching personalities, too. He will slip his little Fred Flintstone feet into a pair of my shoes and declare that he is Mommy. A pudgy finger then points my way and he pronounces me Rem. If there is a stick or a hose wand nearby he will become King Max and stomp around mischievously like the boy in the book. A foam sword immediately changes him into a pirate, more specifically Captain Hook. He’s taken a great liking to little Sal from another favorite bedtime story and while he typically prefers her as a companion, sometimes he IS little Sal instead, especially if there are some rocks (blueberries) that he can throw into a pail (anything within a five foot radius). An odd television character, a bald boy of about four who is apparently very naughty is another favorite if there is someone around to narrate his activities. “Caillou is jumping on Mommy’s bed. Mommy doesn’t like Caillou to jump on her bed. Mommy doesn’t like it when Caillou hits his Mommy. Mommy is very sad that Caillou laughs at her when she is fussing him.”

Lately he has been Cinderella. He likes a long cape; his yellow baby blanket suits him if someone ties it in a knot around his neck. And he needs a partner to dance with so that he can flip the cape this way and that and twirl so that it flares out before settling back onto his shoulders. He even dances on his tip toes as if he can feel the glass slippers under his feet. Although they introduced Rem to Cinderella his sisters are disturbed by this latest impersonation. They try to call him Sir Drella but he doesn’t like it and insists on the Cinderella that everyone can plainly see he is.

My focus is to try to move these characters along, often because I am continuously a part of the set for these theatrics. Sometimes I am only required to stand there and be a tree. Other times I can get away with providing background music but having to enact lengthy scenes side by side with my little thespian gets laborious. “Bong, bong,” I start just as Cinderella arrives at the ball and Rem will run to his rocking horse in an effort to get home before the clock strikes twelve. I am Peter Pan when he is Captain Hook or vice versa. Sometimes Lise steps in. He likes to be called a codfish so more times than not he is the pirate. “Hiyah, hiyah,” he shouts as his sword swings my way. He now has a pair of dueling foam swords, weapons I would have previously declared banned from our home but now seem the safest choice since weaponry in the form of sticks and construction debris kept creeping in and putting us all in danger.

When Rem isn’t playing one imaginary role or another he becomes fiercely attached to his name. No endearments are acceptable: no “love” or “sweetheart” or” baby” or” my big boy”. Only Rem. “I’m Rem!” and with a swipe of the hand he shuns the sentimentality that I try to pour out.

(Lately, he’s decided to play peacemaker in our family. Essentially, he tries to keep me from correcting or fussing his sisters. He interrupts with relish my explanations of why beds have to be made or the importance of the completion of chores. He raises his voice above my own raised voice to say: “Stop it Mommy. Look, Lise is happy. Look, Imi is happy. Okay guys?” And in front of their pouting faces he looks up with the goofiest smile so that we all end up laughing. Of course the girls enjoy this hiatus from another lecture but I somehow feel cheated!)

Cataloochee

Cataloochee Valley in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park calls to me from time to time. And because I continue to return to this unique niche of the park with its remnants of community life, abundance of wildlife and picturesque stream-lined trails I bear witness to the valley’s continued evolution of place. My shared history began much later than the Woodys’ and Caldwells’, the Hannahs’ and Palmers’, leaving their family cabins and homes to make way for the national park although I have encountered some of these families gathered for a reunion outside of the small white clapboard church in the small, green cut field that spreads from the road to the church. Once, starting out on a hike I met a man whose family had lived in the valley and his earliest memories, though scant and vague, recalled life in Cataloochee.

My introduction to hiking began in the valley. Intrigued by trails named Boogerman Loop and Pretty Hollow Gap and inspired by the spectacle of golds, yellows and reds that in autumn burst from the valley I repeatedly returned. Few people traveled the road then that wound its way past abandoned cars and farm equipment, packs of barking dogs and modest homes along its dusty one-lane and peaked at the gates to the national park. The small, intimate campground always had sites waiting for us and we would hike all day and only cross paths with one or two other groups.
The elk returned and changed the face of Cataloochee. People came and formed spontaneous parades that crept along the valley road hoping to catch a glimpse of the animals and then finding the whole herd grazing and people watching. We learned the tag numbers of the elk and tracked the antler growth of the male who bore the number one. We watched as calves, protected by a group of cows joined the herd and lamented the deaths of some of the original pioneers. Impatient tourists, anxious to cross elk sightings off of their vacation to do lists drive the valley road quickly, missing the deer at the edge of the woods or the turkeys feeding in the long grass. Others enjoy the valley at a more leisurely pace and wander through the settlement’s abandoned structures and dip their feet into the icy waters.

Craig and I brought our own children to gawk at the elk and carried them on our backs through the woods and into coves. We taught them to rock hop across narrow forks and encouraged them to test their skills in deeper, fast-moving waters. The heavy scent of galax mingled with the sweet, damp smell of the forest permeated the air where we walked sometimes at the snail’s pace of a tired toddler. The children, coaxed with m&m-laden trail mix and the possibility of a bear sighting managed longer and more difficult hikes. Once, misjudging the daylight hours and the time it would take us to hike the Boogerman loop, we finished the last two miles in darkness under a moon-lit sky. Lucky for us that the last leg of the trail followed Cadlwell Fork and that a full moon shone down on us. Craig carried Lise on his back over log bridges with missing handrails and our friend Tom carried Miren on his shoulders and together they looked for bears. The evening ended magically when we finally emerged from the trail to the open field of the valley. All of the cars and people had gone and we enjoyed in awed silence the silhouettes of the elk grazing under the white light of the moon.

Craig once proclaimed a beautiful, straight, short-leaf pine, an elder of his clan, who stands along the road into the valley his favorite tree. Each time we drive back down into the valley the children race to be the first to see it. We are known to risk our lives after a heavy snow while Craig navigates the icy road to the park gates. Relieved, we park in front of the closed gates and carry our sleds into the untouched snow. Craig’s tree is more amazing in person and we stop to admire it on our way down the road and use it as a resting point on our walk back up (now cold and wet and walking uphill pulling tired kids behind). The dog circles it before darting energetically after scents.

A recent clear, crisp summer day called us back and we hiked into Little Cataloochee and down to Big Cataloochee with the family, a friend of Miren’s and Karlota, a Spanish college student who is spending the summer with us. The cabins along the trail served as elaborate sets for young girls imagining themselves as mountain homesteaders. Karlota marveled at the differences between the Basque Country of Spain that she calls home and the Smoky Mountains, both beautiful but so foreign to each other. Karlota is not so foreign to us. Her easy going nature and general loveliness has already found a place in all of our hearts and she feels like family. Rem enjoys his ride in the backpack for the first three or four miles or so and then leaves it for the freedom of walking. I remind Craig that at least we did our climbing before Rem decided to set our pace.

We linger along a creek, rhododendron blossoms floating in the water and watch the children brave the cold. Craig skips rocks and Rem does, too by throwing handfuls of rocks in the same direction. Miren and her friend continue a conversation that started hours ago with few breaks during the five mile hike. Lise moves from Craig, to Karlota, to Rem to me. So much of her experiences are in the sharing. Cataloochee is perfect for that. Each visit brings something new but also calls forward our shared history, even if it is only a speck in the timeline of these mountains.

The mountains are like my children, breathtakingly beautiful, ever changing. They are familiar yet surprising and I always want to be with them, studying their uniqueness, enveloping myself in their unpredictability, seeing them and loving them in the moment and knowing I will always want to be in their midst.

Miren's Guide to Snowballs

Miren’s Guide to the Perfect Snowball

The first step to getting the right snowball is to be in Louisiana on a hot day in the summer. Fortunately, hot days are almost always available. Now comes the snowball stand. I recommend scouting out the area you are in. Take a quick drive around your location and slyly spot all of the snowball stands. This may seem unusual but go for the most shabby looking one. Though it doesn’t make a good impression, they are the ones that have been in business the longest and know what they are doing. If you happen to walk in and are immediately greeted by a smiling blonde, then say something like: “Whoops! I forgot the money in the car” and leave. Those people are just scammers out to make money on their appearance and not on snowballs. Go to the next shabby one and you’ll know you are at the one if these two things apply. One, when you walk in the snowball makers greet you by merely looking up. And two, the ice crusher is big, old makes a lot of noise, shakes and the ice comes out like dust. (Hint: the snow part of the snowball.) If you are crunching on ice then you know you’ve screwed up on of the steps. Now you’ve found the right snowball stand. Oh, and wear an old white or yellow t-shirt. It’s important.

Starters
If this is your first snowball I’d recommend a sweet but somewhat mild flavor. Nectar is a sweetand flowery flavor. It is sweet but definitely not too sweet. Spearmint is less sweet and is minty with a stronger flavor. Dreamsicle blends nicely with the ice and tastes sweet and misty. Coconut is a refreshing, light flavor that has a burst of the tropics. These flavors are the best for starters.

Sweet Tooth
If you have a sweet tooth the following snowball flavors will fill it for sure! Wedding cake is a big overdose of sweetness and to make it even better add condensed milk for a topping! Chocolate is sweet and chocolaty. It has a very sweet aftertaste and should also be topped with condensed milk. Coke and root beer flavor the ice with their sweet soda flavor. Condensed milk is optional of those two. Cherry is a very cherry flavor bursting with fruity sweetness. These flavors are friends of your sweet tooth.

Gone Wacko!
If you like wacko flavors, these next suggestions ought to blow you away. Peanut butter can only be described by its name. Sour apple will have your tongue twisted, its combination of sweet and sour makes you suck your cheeks. Sour grape first comes at you very sweetly and then it turns sour, leaving you confused and pinch-faced. Tiger’s blood will have you wondering what sour flavors were mixed together to make this odd and sour treat! Banana is a weird flavor that is sweet and tangy and crazier with condensed milk.

Krazy Kids
If you are a kid and are looking for a kiddy flavor here they are. Pink and blue bubble gum flavors taste just like you are chewing gum. They are sweet and have a gummy taste. Cotton candy is just as soft and sweet as the real thing! It tastes like a fair and fills you p. Strawberry is juicy and sweet. It tastes like an icy strawberry soaked in sugar. Grape is the favorite of many. The color, flavor, smell and of course the taste, makes it a winner for the taste buds! Krave these Krazy Kids flavors!

Betweeny
Nothing seems to be your flavor? You’re a betweeny! Almond is a nutty and sweet flavor that is between wacko and sweet. Cherry cola is a sweet and fizzy flavor that is between sweet and kids. Blue eagle is a strange flavor that is between starters and sweet. Raspberry is a nice fruity flavor that is between sweet and kid. Licorice is a candy flavor that fills your mouth and is between sour and kids. Polar punch is an icy sweet flavor that is between sweet and kids. Peppermint is an icy smooth mint flavor that is out on its own. These flavors are different but delicious!

How to Order
If you’ve picked your flavor look at the sizes. Snowball stands will usually have five sizes: kiddie, small, medium, large and x-large. The best size to start with is a cone-shaped small or a cup-sized medium. The cone shapes are traditional but the cups won’t spill as easily. Make sure, when you order, that you know exactly what you want, how much and what you are adding (like condensed milk or extra syrup). Tell your order fast but clearly and your snowball will come out perfect.

Eating
Everybody has a different wat of eating snowballs but here is the best way. Take a huge bite at the top and freeze your mouth. Then eat slowly toward the middle. Then use your straw and suck until about one fourth of the snowball is left. Use a spoon until there’s one spoonful left. Remember that old white or yellow t-shirt that I told you to wear? Well, take the last spoonful and rub it into your shirt for a snowball souvenir!

My daughters recently returned from a month long stay in their Utopia, a veritable Shangri La whose center sits as lovely to their eyes as the lamasery in the form of my parents’ home. Louisiana holds all that is dear to them: adoring grandparents, cousins eager to play, spicy seafood dishes and a host of sultry, colorful establishments that their small mountain city could not conjure if it tried. Each live oak or green oak (their namesake) beckons them with sweeping arms, its temptress branches bow, sometimes as deep as to touch the sandy ground beneath the tree’s shade allowing the children to simply walk up its outstretched arms and into its lap amid hanging Spanish moss. These long lost relatives pop of everywhere, as close as in their Granny and Pepere’s yard and nearly everywhere they visit. They sit in the shade of the trees to eat snowballs on the north side of the lake while the water laps nearby and eye with awe the various alleys that mark earlier times of wealth and slavery along the wide, murky river, where their Pepere , aged five, fished alone. They pose in front of the city’s oldest trees in the park that leads to the precious carousel that celebrated their great-grandparents’, grandparents’ parents’ and now their own youths.

The girls eat with relish an order of beignets and café au lait oblivious to the collection of sweat beads on their noses and foreheads or the dampness that settled into shirts and shorts gluing them to their skin. Across the street they are greeted by the rush of air-conditioning and art in the gallery on the square where they find their aunt anticipating their arrival. They want to visit and revisit the cathedral where their parents were married, follow the paved path along the river to look back at their favorite city or to watch foreign barges and ships. Miren knows many of the shops and is known in a particular doll shop. Lise delves into easy conversations on the streetcar, the tourists behind her, the locals next to her, the car filling and emptying as she rides from end to end of the line.

Together with an eager Granny they devour all of the charm the city and its environs offers and see nothing else save for an empty building or an eerily abandoned block that draws a retelling of Katrina. They accept the slow meandering recovery as befitting to the place and celebrate the return of city favorites with exuberance: “Let’s eat gelato at Brocato’s and take the canolis home!”
Other days find them in a local marsh marveling at the abundant life looming in the water below. Lise counts the crabs that she spots within two board lengths of the boardwalk they are traversing and Miren points to lanky birds that tiptoe elegantly through the shallows on the grassy edges of the water. Pepere knows the names of the birds in the marshes and swamps as well as the ones that fill the back yard to visit the variety of feeders and trees around where the children like to swing. He draws their eyes to a colored breast or a brilliant wing and explains the differences in blue birds with visual aids.

The undulation of rooms in their Granny and Pepere’s house seems duly appropriated to the family activities that are housed in each one. The small room behind the kitchen whose cabinet doors and bench drawers conceal an array of toys whose timeline of origin spans some forty something years caters to the younger grandchildren. Private spaces and open spaces for lively and lengthy plays put on by whatever grandchildren are present abound and such spaces for the mounding of and surrounding for the consumption of boiled seafood punctuates the haven that is Granny and Pepere’s home.

My visit, disrupting my daughters’, forces me to see the place where I grew up through new eyes. Painful parts of my youth that once fogged its simple joys are erased in the unobstructed pleasures of my children. Though I am taken aback each time I arrive at my parents’ and open the car door to the thick, moist heat that almost sucks the breath out of me, I now, even in summer, marvel at the place that I once called home that holds so large a place in my children’s hearts. Because of this I can enjoy a day, even in record-breaking heat, as Rem, with a two year-old’s supply of inexhaustible energy, runs from one shade seeking animal to another to point out the wonders housed amid the old deep red-bricked buildings of the Audubon Zoo as my mother and I trail behind.