Peter Pan's relative

WONDER WANDERER

 

The Stanford River is not much of a river. It's more like a creek except when the rains come every spring. That's when the ripples over rocks become torrents, tear the sawgrass from their banks. The water swells to within yards of abandoned farm houses.

 

I'm not a meteorologist, didn't have to be, to know what was on the brink of happening. The brilliant orange sun began to look dirty. Night fell faster than usual. Although it is rare, I get a stroke of luck, when a strong wind forces me into an empty, dilapidated barn. The rusty barn lock isn't even closed. A few signs of the previous owner are scattered around the floor, in corners where the wind whistles thru rotting boards.

 

Fortunately, when I trip on a rusty pitchfork, I don't take my eyes out. There is a bent shovel that, if I had a hammer, I might be able to straighten out. But I don't. An empty tin can smells like gasoline. In what was a pile of straw that is now in small piles in corners, beds of spiders have spun their webs, catching insects I have not seen before.
I take possession of my new, hopefully temporary, home.

 

My few clothes and needs are in my army sack. I have a clean,  sharp can opener for my Heinz baked beans, tomato soup, sardines, paper cups, a small thermos that is just about empty. I have a scissors to trim my slow-growing beard now and then, packets of soap, a flashlight, band aids and a long walk to my destination.

 

My biggest concern hits me like a ton of bricks. Is the river water safe to drink? There is no one to ask so I take a cup and walk to it, try one sip and don't die. I fill my canteen and hope for the best, return to the farmhouse. Before darkness knocks me out, scares me, I manage to dig a hole outside and a big one in my palm as I need a toilet someplace. Everything aches, my bones, my head. My stomach growls. The unheated soup is foul but no sense complaining to myself. Through the glassless window, lightning flashes wildly, laterally instead of the normal perpendicular. It must be an omen. I curl up in a ball, praying to anyone who might be listening, 'Turn off the lightning, God, my flashlight is good enough.' He drops a clap of thunder on me. Either the earth is shaking or I am going to pee in my pants.

 

If I am here, and if the sun rises in the east when I wake, I will get the devil out of this place that I thought would be my haven and return to where I belong, with my family, in an air conditioned house, with great meals, clean clothes, a  few birthday dollars in my pocket.

 

I just grew up.