Wildbranch

I applied to Orion's Wildbranch Writing Workshop at Sterling College  and was selected to the wait list-better than an outright "No" but not as good as as an outright "Yes".

Here is the essay I sent for the application process.  I hope you enjoy it.

Legacy

In a few hours it will be my fiftieth birthday.  I’ve made peace-or at least détente with this fact. On the surface, I don’t have anything against aging.  However, the insidious physical effects are hard to deny: the need to coax the synovial fluid into the joints after ever short periods of inactivity; the plot by our electricity supplier to dim the lights at precisely the moment I am to read; the insistence of others on softly murmuring when addressing me… I imagine the shock my body and psyche would experience if I woke up tomorrow morning in my 17 year old body.

On the eve of this milestone birthday, I reminisce about my parents who have been dead nearly 7 years, dying just nine months apart. I imagine what they might say about my life as it has evolved since last we were together.  I have a tendency to reflect and compare my station in life with theirs at any given age.  When they were 50, I was 20 (taking my young, nubile body for granted).

My memory takes me back even further.  I am in junior high and my life revolves around dogsled racing. While my contemporaries are reading Teen Beat and Young Miss, I am pouring through issues of Team and Trail. My weekends are spent loading and unloading excited dogs into the homemade dog boxes atop the old orange GMC pick up my father kept running with creative mechanics.  We drive north, pulling off the main road onto a dirt road that runs along a small river. The excitement of the dogs begins to rise and there erupts a cacophony of howls and yelps from the back of the truck. The snow banks along the edges of the road are taller than the truck.  The depth of the snow in the woods is hard to judge because of the slope of the mountain meeting the road on the left and the ice choked water on the right. This is the 1970’s though and there is not ever a real worry about snow conditions or depth in winter.  We arrive at the end of the plowed road where a massive plow comb blocks vehicular progress, however it is packed down and accessible on the left side by a well-traveled snow mobile trail.

We go about the preparations of getting the dog teams ready: lay out the gang lines; get the sleds off the truck; attach them to the front of the truck with snap lines; get the harnesses out.  We take the dogs out of their boxes, shivering and shaking, they howl with excitement.  Everyone knows the routine.  After the dogs are in their harnesses, we assemble the teams- lead dogs first, ending with the wheel dogs.  The sleds are bouncing up and down, side to side, as the dogs pull against their lines, eager to go. Frost forms on their whiskers and eye lashes. The breath of anticipation is in the air.  Next comes my favorite part. I stand astride the runners on the sled, sensing the barely contained restraint of the team. The vibration of the energy in the lines is telegraphed into the curved bow of the sled and my heartbeat echoes the enthusiastic cadence.  The snap line is removed and for a millisecond there is the sound of the runners on the paved road followed by a moment of weightlessness, as the sled and I are air born, flying over the plow comb. The sled settles onto the trail with a dampened thud.  Then just the sound of the dogs breathing, the soft swoosh of the runners on the snow and the solitude of the woods.

When my folks died, they had only one dog, standing a seven-year-old Keeshond, Abby.  She lives with us now, linking me to my past.  She and I know what living with my parents was like.  This is our bond.  Every night, when we return from our walk, as I release her from her leash and she sometimes successfully, but more frequently not, bounds up the stairs onto the porch, my heartbeat quickens and I relive the rush of disengaging my team from that jerry-rigged GMC and taking flight.

As part of my fiftieth birthday celebration, my partner assembled a photomontage of my life and times.  There is a black and white shot of me at about five years old with my parent’s, and mine, first dog, Mike.  He is old by dog standards in this photo.  He is sitting attentively next to me while I play.  It is obvious we enjoy each other’s company. We have a five-year-old daughter, Maisie.   A few photos later, Abby, my parent’s last dog and Maisie’s first, sits attentively, loyally next to her.