Down the snowy lane, just beyond Grandma Harris’ home, over the creek and the partially washed-out dirt road, beside the bartered barn, you’ll come to a clearing—a most peaceful prairie—yes, that was my meadow. It was my salvation, a savior of sorts; how much freedom I discovered sprinting through the dandelions in summer, the comfort that came with the tickle of the grasshoppers as they hurried up my legs. My hurt and heartbreak found healing here in the fields. I ran from everything at twelve; it’s how I disappeared from the damage and the baggage. I set into my pace, my breath quickened, and my mind fell into a freeing trance, one that I frequented often.
Paul Gabriel, a man endowed with an impressive array of talents, carved his legacy as a builder, a miner, and a cultivator of potatoes in the comfort of the Cascades. His heart found its match in Mary Jane Grooms, a woman whose existence seemed dedicated to the noble cause of helping other people. Amidst financial troubles, they sought assistance from Fred, a sagacious Jew, who lent them the capital to purchase the valley at a modest interest rate of ten percent. In the sanctuary of my meadow, they erected a humble tent home, furnished only with a bed and a stove that promised sustenance and warmth through the polarish Pacific Northwest winters. The next year arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, it was the perfect moment for my grandmother, Anne Mary, to make her debut. Paul was my great-grandfather, he left this land to their only child, Anne, who lent it to me.
Today, I took a walk through my meadow, but this time I glanced to my right and paused. I could almost picture Paul and Mary there by the slope, struggling to survive in their primitive shelter to secure hope and freedom for the generations to come.
“Thank you.”
Twenty years, and I find myself at the edge of the fence line once again. I have the urge to run, but the cold air makes it hard to breathe, and the embarrassing realization comes over my mind that my abilities aren’t what they once were. So I settle into my pace, this time a leisurely meander through the meadow, and I remind myself,
“You don’t have to run anymore; you can set those shoes aside.”
UNSCRIPTED 