MENU FOR WHEN YOU’RE A KID IN THE SOUTH AND YOU LIVE FOR THE AFTERNOONS THAT YOU PACK A LUNCH AND SOME TEA AND RUN OFF INTO THE WOODS WITH YOUR PACK OF DOGS
Go into the kitchen while everyone is busy watching TV or reading magazines. No one will be paying attention except for maybe your dad, who is usually strategically placed at the kitchen table, thumbing through his favorite hunting or fishing catalogs for products that you always wish you could buy for him, but are usually too expensive because you’re a kid and your family is not exactly loaded.
Get out two pieces of white bread because it’s cheap and you’re too young to understand it’s not good for you yet, although the fact that it could last on the counter for many days (unlike your mother’s homemade bread) should have been a clue.
Open the refrigerator. Get out one of those floppy packages of the cheapest deli meat from the grocery store. Sometimes it makes your hands feel tingly when you touch the large chunk of it, and now and then there’s a green sheen when it catches the light just right. As long as it doesn’t smell off, you’ll eat it.
Haul out the enormous block of Government cheese. Slice off a piece imperfectly -- much thicker on one side than another. This happens every time, and you hate the way the knife squashes it instead of really slicing. Later on Velveeta will remind you of this and you’ll hate it, too.
Make your sandwich with only 2 of the thinnest slices of the cheap meat and the strange hunk of even cheaper cheese. Press the bread slices down, but be careful that the cheese corners don’t break through. Wrap your sandwich in a kitchen towel that is a little frayed around the edges.
Reach high into the refrigerator for the pitcher of iced tea that is always there. Microwave it until it’s super hot. Add some milk from the container that your mother secretly refills with powdered milk when your siblings aren’t looking. You know it by the blue tinge. They don’t even notice.
Pour your hot tea into an old, thick thermos that still works great and doesn’t leak. This is one of your favorite things. You find comfort in trusting it will do what it’s supposed to do, no matter how much it bumps around in your bag.
Pack your things in your favorite bag and throw it over your shoulder. You can wear it tightly against you without having to worry it will snag, catch, or break open over anything.
Head out the door without telling anyone. Hear your dad yell after you. You’re unsure of his exact words, but the tone sounds like, “I see you leaving. Please be careful. I trust you’ll come back fine, like always. Have fun.”
The dogs bolt over as soon as they see you rushing out the door. You’re always so happy to see them, and they know exactly what you’re doing.
Grab your favorite hiking stick that you stash around a corner from the house. It looks like another branch to everyone else, but you love it. Even the dogs won’t chew on it. You like it for the stability, but also as a weapon.
Walk across the gravel street toward the tree line. Once your foot is inside the forest, run. The dogs run with you, just as exhilarated as you are. They’re feeling and smelling things you may not, but you take it all in: the snatches of sunlight between the overhead leaves, the birds chirping and singing, the animals you can’t see scurrying away from you and your pack, and the leaves and small sticks crunching underneath you. Sometimes you slip a little on the wet and rotting things, but you never lose your footing.
You are overwhelmed. There is bark and fungus and flowers and berries and dark, rich dirt under shadier leaf canopies. It is cooler there, and you can smell the darkness.
Run down one side of a deep ravine into a little creek bed. Splash through the chilly water, noticing how it carves beautiful rivulets through the smooth limestone it runs through. Sometimes you find an odd flower down here, where it’s cooler and darker and feels like magic. You never pick those flowers, and you rarely see them again.
Don’t stop at the creek bed this time. Run up the other side of the ravine as fast as you can, using your walking stick to dig deeply into the incline and boost yourself up. Your dogs are still running with you, but have wandered a little farther off. Some track animal scents over barely-seen tracks in the sides of the ravine. You can see them by the smallest wear in the forest floor, or a graze against a tree that leaves snatches of hair.
Reach almost the the top of the other side and stop. Your favorite dog stops with you and wanders over, like always. This one never wanders far, and always seems to have an eye on you.
Find a clear spot to sit on some leaves, that are most likely damp and will seep through your clothes if you sit too long. You’re not planning on it.
Take your sandwich and thermos out of your bag. Pour yourself some tea into the thermos lid, setting it down delicately so it doesn’t tumble down the ravine.
Unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. You don’t taste much of the deli meat other than the salt. The cheese and bread are thick and gummy in your mouth, sticking between your tongue and teeth. This is a nuisance, but not totally unpleasant.
You can hear the other dogs running about, but the one with you sits down directly next to you, not begging or bothering.
You both look out down the ravine into the creek bed, and up the other side. You survey the entire forest as far as you can see.
This is your favorite place. There is no one for at least a mile. It’s not quiet, but there is a hushed feeling. You know every inch of this place, know every broken branch, uprooted tree, and new birds’ nests. You know the difference between the sounds of scurrying about, or the sounds of something you should run from.
Take a sip of your still-hot tea, which helps unstick some of the sandwich in your mouth. You’re warm from running, but the tea warms the places you can’t see.
Eat a little more of your sandwich, quickly tiring of it. Wrap up the rest of it and put it back into your bag.
Focus on drinking more of your tea and listening, smelling. Sometimes, in the undertones of all of it, you can hear and smell the tiny insects working their way through the forest.
Close your eyes and picture yourself blending into the forest floor, into the damp coolness, into the bits of darkness and sunlight, where maybe your limbs are like the strong trunks of the trees. And it would be like this forever, growing and dying, living and rotting.
Feel the cool, wet nose of your dog nudge your face and open your eyes. They always bring you out of it. You can hear the others running toward you in the distance.
It’s time to go. For now.