A faded sign
warns the intruder “Do Not Enter”. The large gray hill looms large and dull below
the mill, where nothing subsists and no animal dares venture.
Winter wind
slaps the mountain over the narrow portal, the mill clangs dryly on the
hillside above us. Children run, screaming after a mangy mongrel. I call my
sons to keep them safe, safe from volatile compounds, from mineral particles,
from cyanide and the unknown. Snakes have long retired to impoverished mines
and abandoned prospects. They will writhe in a spring dance when the world
awakens above them. Ready as we will be to hunt for whatever has survived.
Winter wind
burns the lungs as I stumble down the path to chase chuckars away from the
mining camp, away from hungry dogs and idle youths. Tomorrow the sleek gray
partridges will be dinner for my own children, and I watch them grow, the bird,
the hare, never taking more than we need to live on the arid land. Dogs dig the
ashen hill for whatever died there.
Winter wind,
green and dry, inflames my nostrils with cyanic anger, I scream in the zephyr. The
miner’s children play king of the mountain on the oxides of horror-zinc-lead-or
silver. I scream in the weather, though no one can hear me, nor much less care
in the race to futility. School is too far away, their mother is too drunk, their
father works underground. Their future looms large and rich as the dreams of
the poor. I am but a stranger in a sterile land. Winter wind stirs caustic
ripples about the ochre mound. Its peak is round like an old bald head covered
with dripping crevasses of dried pus, caked for a half life. Miners die young
above the ground.
Curious teens
approach with blasting caps in hand, ready for the holidays of fire and
crackers. I warn everyone to stay clear of the dangerous explosives, the
tallest turns around and pulls his full frame as large as he can stretch. “There’s
no danger, I light those all the time” he fights the blustery gusts and draws
nearer to my sons, I tilt my head to the right in a quick motion, all three run
in the direction of my gesture. The two kids that tail their big hero erupt in
spontaneous bursts of laughter that echo in the canyon across us. As the wind
dies down, sheets of vapors and ethereal dust drop like drapes of gossamer
cloth fainting upon the hillside.
The eldest of
the juveniles finds a pack of matches and a lighter in the depth of his brown
pants. He shows the goodies to his accomplices. “Now we can have fun” he
declares at the top of his lungs. I shake my head and walk to him. His eyes
recede in his flat face, no smile moves his dry lips, the youth recoils
sideways to avoid my gaze. Shaking a firm “no” with my entire torso, I tell
each of these miner’s children that their fathers will be punished or fired if
the bosses find out they are in possession of mine property.
“Who’d tell’em?”
they simultaneously ask, I reply “the ambulance driver”, “uh?” “oh, yes after
your face is peppered by sulfur and metal” they turn to each other like
chipmunks checking for the eagle’s shadow on the ground. “My dad is a
powderman, he giv’em to me all the time, I never blowed mysef’ up, I know what
I’m doin’”.his jaw juts out a good inch forward and his mouth closes under
certainty of power.
“Have you seen
any old metal stoves around?” I inquire. All of a sudden faces come alive and
they stumble upon each other to show me where the best of treasures can be
unearthed. We follow them, they erupt in a myriad questions about my accent, my
kids, my clothes, what do I know, what they know, a veritable fireworks of
curiosity and giggles takes place in this new sand circus. “Have you ever had
jackrabbit? It’s good. And I know where you can get a hundred of them birds you
were chasing up there—I can find some real good stuff for you in the old dumps,
wanna come with us?” “I’ll show you!”.
The afternoon
spent running on burro trails down the canyon mouth, we are all loaded with
ancient artifacts, old tools in various states of disrepair, dolls with missing
heads, chipped glasses, glassless spectacles, twisted wire and unreadable signs
that invite hilarious guessing. We part newfound friends at the crossroad to
our shacks. Making dates for further explorations on week-ends or summer
vacation, job allowing, metal prices willing, never knowing when the ore runs
out or when the miners call it quits.
I am in the
yard, sorting our collected prizes by immediate use, expected re-use or flat
out creative purposes. Suddenly a sharp sound splits the still air above the
valley. The boys and I stare at each other, we all stand stiff and frozen. We
recognize the agony behind the scream. More yelling follows, I find myself
running down the steep gravel road, I slip and glide not remembering that I am
barefooted. The younger teens run toward me “don’t tell nobody! Don’t tell on
him, please” they beg, scared little boys that they are, they still don’t
believe powder is dangerous. I must promise before I approach the fallen oldest
one. A few spots mar
his face with driplets of blood, but his right arm is quite chewed up. I don’t
believe he is a candidate for infection, the very heat of the burn must have
cauterized his wounds. “as long as you keep the area clean, you’ll be fine, but
you may hurt for a long time. The stuffing has left his ego, he whines and
stares at his arm, someone’s little boy has played with fire and his daddy
won’t feel sorry for him, his daddy will know he has taken these from his work jacket.
There will not be any pocketfuls of presents anymore. Fait accompli!
I run back to
our house for bandages and sterilizer. My sons have waited with trepidation. I regale
them with descriptions of flesh and blood, the hanging
skins and smell of scorched meat, making appropriate grimaces to emphasize the
gruesome accident. To send a warning of caution in all things that burn or go
boom! A chill courses through my veins when I think I have spotted more than
mere curiosity in the youngest, I believe I have seen genuine attraction to
risk taking in the bluest of his eye.
Mill gossip soon
carried from shack to house kept me informed on the health of the teen. His
father was later given his last check with a promise of not mentioning that he
had committed the dreaded powder theft, code of honor among diggers. Never
leave a job with a price or a crime on your head. He was a good man with a
regular son. City or country, boys-will-be-boys is an expectation in the
harsher places where men make a hard living up or down below. And mothers are
often absent for all obvious and not so obvious reasons. Boys will be men. Maybe.
Winter wind
blows upon the hill where all children breathe. A lone buzzard circles in the
fading day.
