“She sang about the dragon mother, launched onto Cameron’s path, in the filtered sunlight of summer. How the smallest among us are able to stay so far out in front of us, is a captivating mystery. Perhaps not so much for the parents, who are used to following her, and reining her in, as needed. The plight of being so advanced in such a pedestrian world, is daunting. But this new breed doesn’t care a whit to be understood or supported. They need no coddling, no safe houses, no desalination or GPS to ensure arrival at said destination. No, they just conquer terrain, with a boldness that’s ready to be washed asunder. No fear, no covert demonology, just firm footsteps placed confidently upon the arc of the earth. How I love my grand-daughter. This further extension of myself solves most of my problems, by merely flinging aside what’s no longer useful. Her programming is higher level organic, and that is the cat’s meow. For who was Cameron? I’ve talked about Cameron before, not knowing, but deeply caring. “Laugh with me; hold my hand; say goodbye; we meet at the source every moment” the forest plaque reads, amidst moss and mushrooms, at the side of a shallow stretch of pristine alpine river. The granite memorial is carved and set amidst the roots of a tree, amidst other rocks carved by glaciers and crunched & crumbled into stream bed, and sand, which our soft feet regard as oasis, given the otherwise hostile global situation. Dear god, and great nature spirit, let this whole thing revolve. We had it right, we lost the ball. Which is why I drive, to review. Take the less traveled routes, where a man may have died, drunk and unlucky. Or where a scout camp once thrived. Or I knew some guy, who became gossip. Not far from where I’d stopped my car to sing a song to my infant strapped in a seat, about apples, and planting trees. Here where fields and farms are still possible. Where haying, predictable, between rainy days, is something to marvel at. Where Chinese takeout tonight will soothe me as I struggle with the turning ratio of my 4WD Chevy, coming up the makeshift, wood chip drive. Yes I aim to be singing by next winter. Not just griping & grasping: a blustering core, a provocateur. No, I aspire to be Odessa. The child in my life who shows the least bit of concern, about how things might be progressing. Who approaches life, like a run-away roll of toilet paper. Something funny, something fun, something worth chasing if you’re in the mood. But alternately, you might be hunting dragons. And be deeply, passionately, otherwise, engaged.”
