Black Drum Speaks
Early one morning I hop on my bike and head for the park at the end of our road. Not an unusual route, and not particularly an unusual time. Just necessary. It hasn’t been a good morning. The stress of a major move, coupled with starting a new business, has caught up with Scott and me, and an early morning spat is the impetus for me to head outdoors.
The sun begins to rise in the horizon. Birds, happy at last over the latest warming trend, are chirping in the tree tops. Arroyo City’s resident Rio Grande turkeys wander through my neighbor’s yards, occasionally pecking the grass. Most are toms, with the hens hidden deep into the brush with their young. I know before long they’ll be at our place. Their appearance is a daily ritual, and brings brings a dash of joy to my day. Soon this handful of turkeys will grow to nearly three dozen, perhaps more as the season progresses. They’ll saunter into the yard, peeking around the corner of the porch to see if I’ve arisen, and then scurry to find their morning ration of chicken scratch scattered beneath the sprawling mesquite which graces the corner of our property and provides a casting obstacle for our right-handed fly fishing guests.
Entering the park, I note the blooming yucca -- a sign of spring in South Texas, like crocus in the Northeast. I’ve witnessed the season in both locales and while I sometimes long for a hint of spring air in the hills of Upstate New York, it is here where my souls feels most at home. And it only took 40 years for me to find it.
I ride past the Winter Texans. They’ve been in residence for almost four months. Some are washing the windows of their RVs. Others are eating breakfast in the warm morning sunshine. A few are deep in conversation, coffee mugs in hand, as they lean against the back of a pick-up truck. A loose-knit community has come together, woven together like a rag rug. A smile, a nod, a slight turn of a head. For a moment, I become part of the unbounded weave.
My pedaling slows. The wildness of the landscape gently embraces me like a mother’s mantle. Its beauty stirred my soul from the very first time I laid eyes on it, during a visit and early in my relationship with Scott. Now married, we live here, and it continues to touch something deep within both of us.
So much has changed for me, about me, since I moved into this little fishing village. It’s an interesting place, nothing more than a row of houses, ramshackle shacks, modest abodes, and grandeur homes sitting side-by-side along a three-mile stretch of the Arroyo Colorado. There is little else to capture one’s attention other than the fishing and the bird watching. We have a market, where you can get the bare necessities at premium prices and rent a movie. And a couple of corner bars which offer about all of the nightlife this place can muster. Three different boat storage facilities take up a few acres of land on the inland side of town. And there is a sidewalk which runs the entire length of the road which leads to the park. It’s “the” only road, with a few stone and gravel offshoots, upon which several houses rest -- the lower 40. The old timers know everyone, and I know but a few by name. Despite my isolation from the rest of the world and even from my neighbors -- all 500 -- of them, I feel like it’s the place I belong.
And yet all of it, this life that I lead, just a few miles from the mystical expanse of the Laguna Madre, one of the largest shallow water estuaries in North America, seems surreal. I feel removed from the pulse of civilization, and yet intimately connected with a part of world that perhaps matters most. Nature.
In my earlier years, I often escaped into the outdoors -- to read, to hike, and to savor the sun, the sand, the trees, and the mountains. Nature has always been my solace, a place that I turned to when I needed comfort and nurturing. But those brief respites, did not allow me to witness Nature in all of her forms. I saw only the joy, but rarely the sadness that came with the changing of the seasons, or her fury as she recoiled from the pressure put upon her resources by men and women seeking their own personal refuge in outdoor activities. I saw her through rose-colored glasses, but no more. They’ve been removed by watching her on a daily basis.
As I near the boat launch, I glance down the banks of the Arroyo. Pelicans, egrets, ducks, and seagulls grace the shoreline in the morning light -- some preen, some hunt for breakfast with their wings outstretched doing their canopy dance, and others rest with their head tucked beneath a layer of feathers.
Suddenly, I am shaken from my observations by the shouts of a man. Instinctively, I turn, knowing somehow that his voice is directed at me. He raises a black drum, the size of a small child, over his head triumphantly. Flashing a broad toothy smile, he conveys pride in his quarry. Then he lays it before me on the dock, like an offering, as I park my bike and cautiously move closer.
I’d seen fish before, I’d caught fish before, and I’d even kept fish, having a direct hand in their death. But from my first glance, I know this is different. I am mesmerized as the creature gasps for breath, unable to depart quickly despite the alarm rising within me. The drum tugs at my heart, begging for my attention, perhaps my intervention. And then I feel a shift -- a new understanding taking form. The panic subsides, like wave receding from the shoreline. I kneel beside the fish as he continues to struggle for air.
Of late I’ve been called upon to midwife animals who are passing from this world. In the last two years alone, I can count three. Too many it seems for some. And just plain odd for others. My daughter now refers to my yard as a pet cemetery.
The memories resurface with intense clarity: the crippled bunny whom I found along the road on a bike ride just days after my arrival at the Arroyo. He lived with us for two weeks, dragging his lifeless legs behind him as he explored his new home. On his last day, I showered him with warm water dripping from a sponge. It had become a daily ritual, a necessity to remove the urine that was eating his skin. As I held him in my arms, he bathed himself, licking the fur on his tiny front paws and rubbing them over his head. He was relaxed in my presence, and seemingly at peace. A short time later, he closed his eyes and was gone.
The next to go was my 16-year-old cat who told me in a dream that it was time for her to go by euthanasia. In my dream, the receptionist at the vet’s office told me that her number had been called, as if she were standing in line at the deli counter, and that she could be seen on Wednesday. Then I saw her sitting under a trellis in a bountifully lush garden, and watched as her form took on that of an owl which flew toward me and soared above my head. The message was clear and needed no interpretation. This was Monday. Tuesday evening, her cancerous ear, which had been cauterized numerous times before, began bleeding profusely. By Wednesday morning, she was so weak that the vet said it was unlikely she’d ever regain her strength. I stroked her back as the needle went into her skin. Soon after she drew her last breath. I sobbed for days, missing her so. She’d been the only constant in my life, outside of my children. And she was gone. I’d lost a dear friend, as if she were an older woman I could confide in and receive a wealth of wisdom. I felt amazingly alone.
Then just a few months later my 15-year-old yellow labrador decided to leave as well. In the last year of her life, she returned to her childlike ways, waking me at all hours of the night only to wander about the yard aimlessly. I’d begun wishing for her departure, as my nerves wore thin because of the sleep deprivation I suffered. Luckily I realized the error of my ways and showered her with attention and affection in the last two weeks of her stay with us. And then one day, without warning, I found her under the mesquite, panting rapidly and staring off into space. I’d been gone for hours, as was my husband, and she seemed to be disoriented and confused. I hoisted her into my arms, no small feat given her weight neared 80 pounds, and carried her into my office. I lay her on her blanket and assured her of my love in the last two hours of her existence as her heart gave way. Another tie to my past moved on.
Now a 40-pound drum, his black stripes now fading to gray, calls me to be its escort into the otherworld. I’m paralyzed as I watch its mouth open and close, its gills in unison. Time stands still while I fight to contain my emotions, which have threatened to overpower me. I wonder briefly if there is anyway I can save him. I know it would take a struggle to pry the fish from the man’s possession. And even if I’m successful, the drum’s revival is questionable.
Feeling vulnerable and confused about why I’m here, watching this scene unfold, and also where life is taking me, I long to be invisible and alone -- not here with a stranger bearing witness to my inner process while an innocent creature dies by a man’s hand. I know that the fisherman wouldn’t understand the feelings rising with me. I barely do. I feel a stranger to myself as well.
I sense there is more occurring than this creature’s living or dying. It seems to be asking me to listen to some primordial message. I bolt abruptly, while it draws its last breath. I fear what the fisherman would think if I stay to caress a dying fish, likely shedding more than a tear or two as I do. The thought of him seeing me in my state -- confused and open, trusting and yet vulnerable -- terrifies me. It is a danger zone that I avoid even with my husband, the most loving, understanding man I have ever met. As I near my bike, I turn my head and look one last time at the drum. The image of the crab leg hanging from its mouth burns into my mind. There’s a message here that I have to decipher. I can feel it seeping deep into my being, and I know it will never leave me.
Puzzled, I mount my bike and quickly pedal away. I want to cry. I began the ride with tears streaming down my face, and now it seems the ride will come full circle. Truthfully, I am frightened of what this encounter is awakening in me. I am also intrigued.
The drum, I heard him say: “Who are you? What is your place in my world? What brought you here at this time and in this moment?”
I do not know. I’m wound too tight. My body’s messages are ominous. The pounding in my head evokes images of an erupting volcano. My thumping heart reminds me of a runaway thoroughbred. I am unable to meditate. In the stillness I think of all the commitments that I’ve made to everyone but myself. Poor choices perhaps, but I am bound to see them through, until new decisions can be made; new responses put into place.
I return home and sit down in the kitchen, quietly eating a grapefruit. It is fresh, from the late harvest, but I can barely relish its juiciness and heavenly aroma. The tingling of my taste buds as I put one spoonful after another into my mouth only subtly registers in my consciousness. My mind is elsewhere.
There is no noise coming from the bedroom. Scott is apparently meditating. Just as I wonder what mood will greet me, the door opens. We dance around each other for a time. As he puts a slice of bread sprinkled with shredded cheese into the toaster oven, I quietly finish my grapefruit. Then I break the silence and tell him of the drum, at least the part about his size. I skirt my feelings. I refuse to be vulnerable and trusting, especially to myself. An abyss is following me, threatening to swallow me in one large gulp. Look where I’d gotten myself -- again. Maxed out to the nth degree. The drum’s words echo in my mind. I do indeed wonder who I am and what force brought me to this time and place.
Twelve hours later I am again at the kitchen table, racing against the clock to finish correcting galleys for a client’s project. My old profession followed me into my new one, mostly by necessity. It’s hard to put all your eggs into one basket when the market has yet to open, and the hens continue to need feed to keep up production. That’s what operating a fly fishing lodge has been like. It’s taken a lot of energy, and thus the returns have been minimal. Oddly, it wasn’t what we envisioned. It’s just what happened. Doors opened, and we walked through them. Sometimes I feel like I made a wrong turn. In hindsight, I feel like I should have kept one foot firmly planted in my old world in my role as a wordsmith, while exploring this new one. It likely would have provided me with a more balanced outlook on my life. Our choices might have been different, and at times less desperate to make ends meet.
In the morning we are to leave on a whirlwind trip to the HIll Country to promote our business. At one point Scott asks how I am doing.
I raise my eyes for a moment, and then return my attention to the stack of papers in front of me. “Not good. I’m sick and tired of working so hard and feeling like I’m getting nowhere.” Tears spring forth for the third time that day. I push them back. There is no time to cry. I’m standing on the edge of that abyss, tempted to hurl myself over the edge. I wonder if I would ever land.
Morning arrives and I tuck the galleys in the mailbox. The ride to the Hill Country is pleasant. We choose back roads, avoiding the expressways and four-lane highways. We take turns driving. Slowly, I unwind. Gradually, I notice the blue bonnets.
“On the way back, I want to pick one.”
Scott pulls to the side of the road. “Pick one now.”
I choose just one. It’s delicate petals smell like grape candy. We take turns holding it, relishing its aroma. My first blue bonnet experience. The legality of my actions never crosses my mind; nor did the legality of the fisherman’s rise to the surface as I watched the drum dying on the dock. Something in my flower and his fish serve some deeper purpose that goes beyond the judgment of mere mortals, something that would be difficult to prove in the courtroom but not before a higher witness. I take another whiff of the blue bonnet, and a lightness lifts my soul, setting the stage for a pleasant visit.
Despite a presentation fraught with technical difficulties, we wake the next morning still light of heart. We pass up the chance to fish the Guadeloupe River, something we both regret in the weeks that follow.
“It’s so like us,” says Scott of our turning down the invitation.
But is it right for us, I silently wonder. We sacrificed a lot in the last year, working long days, having little time to visit local family and to make new friends, and leaving old friends and other family members far behind.
That night, home again, with our guests are safely tucked in their rooms and breakfast planned, I fall into bed, all lightness in my soul a faded memory, seemingly of decades ago, not just hours. An exhausted sleep washes over me. Hours later, I wake to Scott’s pacing. “I can’t sleep.” He curls up next to me and whispers, “This stress is killing me.”
We never intended to open a fly fishing lodge. Our plan was simpler, a two-room bed and breakfast to house our fly fishing clients. Scott was to continue counseling and I was to continue my publishing career. The life of leisure we had envisioned -- a life of writing, fly fishing, and guiding a few clients -- is not a reality. The lodge has taken on a life of its own, demanding more of us than we ever expected. A blessing that at times feels like a curse.
The drum returns in the darkness of my bedroom. "Who are you? What is your place in my world? What brought you here at this time and in this moment?”
My quiet home, my writing retreat along the Arroyo, is disappearing. And so, I fear, is my husband.
We are working harder than anyone we know. Startup expenses keep us snug in the harness. The time we need for meditation, prayer, yoga, exercise, and writing is almost nonexistent.
I reflect upon my occasional desire to escape. My fantasy alternates between spending a few weeks at the ashram or moving to a two-room cabin along a creek and living off whatever writing income we can muster. The latter appeals and I know there is a part of me that can do it. Give it all up. Cut bait and run. The other part won’t. Why give up so close to achieving success? But what is the cost of this success? I fear we’ve paid too much, that we’ve lost more than we’ve gained in this process.
The truth is painful. I am the one responsible for bringing me here to this time and this place. I said yes and walked through those doors of “golden” opportunities, without weighing the consequences. Now we need to fine-tune our life to make it right for us. New choices, new responses.
The drum is urging me not to be lured into being everything for everyone. He is saying: Be discerning. Remember who you are. Don’t make foolish decisions. The vision of the crab leg hanging from his mouth returns, a grim reminder of what is likely to happen if I continue to make poor choices.
“Who are you? What is your place in my world? What brought you here at this time and in this moment?”
It seems easier to remember who I cannot be, not yet fully realizing who I am becoming. I am not the tin man. I have a heart, and it demands connection, with everyone and everything that crosses my path -- two-legged or four, finned or furred. Yet those connections remain elusive when my body, mind, and soul are not connected. Most of all I am not connected with me, and I need to be tops on the list.
The realization is freeing. It is the permission I need to be discerning, to make wiser choices. I glance around my home, the oasis that I dreamed of all my life. A place to write, while living next to the water.
A flock of great egrets flies across the Arroyo. They are so close I feel like I can touch them. Their wings beat audibly whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, as they fly overhead. I realize I have what I need to be who I truly am. I just need to clear out the clutter so that I am able to savor these moments -- of egrets passing by, of doves feeding under the mesquite, and even a roadrunner crossing my path in the park.
A deep breath rises from within. I am beginning to remember who I am, beginning to know what is right for me. I am beginning to know Who brought me here in this time and in this moment. And I’m beginning to know what choices and responses are right for me.
An earlier version of this essay won first prize for non-fiction in the 2002 Valley Byliners Excellence in Writing Contest.