Our dad was a plant doctor, a botanist, and he’d take us on nature hikes through the woods behind our house on Hyde Park Drive. We’d run ahead of him, through the fields of knee-high monkey grass, and hide in waiting behind one of the live oaks dripping in Spanish moss that bordered the forest.
We’d walk along trails, kicking up dust and sending rocks into the shallow stream that bubbled from a source we’d never seen. Our dad would teach us the names of different trees: live oaks, poplars, and southern pines. And we learned the difference between poison ivy and poison oak.
“Leaves of three,” he’d say.
“Let it be,” Jack and I would chime in unison.
At night, after our hikes, our dad would tuck us into twin beds, and he’d tell us stories of the Indians who lived in Alabama hundreds of years before us. He’d dazzle us with tales of hidden treasure buried deep within the woods by DeSoto before he turned west to cross the Mississippi.
“Nobody’s found it to this day,” he’d say, his grin illuminated by the faint yellow of our night light. He’d kiss our foreheads and shut the door as he left, and Johnny and I would dream aloud about what we’d do if we ever found DeSoto’s gold.
“A new Schwinn,” Johnny’d say. “A ten speed.”
“What about a puppy,” I’d say, seeking approval in the dark.
“Don’t be stupid,” he’d say, frowning. “You know Dad’s allergic.”
I’d ignore him, and roll over, pretending to sleep. But our bedroom shared a wall with the living room, and at night I heard the muffled sound of my parents. They sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, only much louder.
Listen to "DeSoto of the Night"
Listen to "DeSoto of the Night"
No comments:
Post a Comment