Blog Prompt #2

Clouds surf overhead, allowing the sun to get an occasional glimpse of the land below- wet brown sand, small puddles of salt water, tall russet grasses, waving at their shorter green cousins, and the remains of a concrete bunker.
The March wind shrieks, mimicking the cries of dying men. Salt spray wets my face like tears. Waves buffet the beach, clawing desperately at the sand, trying to erase the memory of the horrors that happened here 60 years ago. This is Omaha beach, where over two thousand men lost their lives in an almost botched offensive that was rife with danger from the very beginning.

This beach has always been beautiful, a destination place. Before the Germans took over France it was a vacation spot. After thousands of men gave their lives for the freedom of a nation they perhaps had never seen before, it became a destination spot once more. But now the people come to reminisce or to find their loved ones in the cemetery. I’m walking the same beach where thousands lay dying or dead. These are the same swells that washed men toward the beach, dumping them unceremoniously on to the sand, their cold fingers wrapped around a weapon they never fired. The same water that expunged their blood chases my feet. The black shells I see half buried in the sand belonged to creatures that didn’t exist when the 1st Infantry Division landed. The same kind of wind that caused destructive swells 60 years ago tangles my hair.

Whatever memories remain on this beach, nature is trying hard to erase, but we refuse to let it. Many have come here to remember. I’ve come here to learn.
What spurred these men on to leap from their landing crafts and swim to shore under heavy fire, even after they realized they were jumping out too far from the beach and that most of their tanks sank.
The grasses offer no answers. Instead, they hide bunkers, remnants of landing craft, Rommel’s dragon’s teeth, and trenches. They only tell me that the Germans were prepared to meet the 34,000 troops we finally landed on the beach. They tickle my legs when I walk up the gray stairs toward the cemetery- their touch rough and fleeting as life itself.
Gray birds wheel in the wind, cresting bluffs that rise from the sand and sailing away homeward.

On top of the bluffs sits the American cemetery. Beneath the vibrant green grass rest thousands of men. Pristine white crosses mark their resting places, gold lettering deonotes officers.

In death, we are all the same, relegated to the ground with a marker over us just in case anyone cares. People do care. There are tourists from all over the world walking through rows of crosses. Four German soldiers, in uniform, somberly examine these memorials. Even though it’s been 60 years, I find myself angry. “What are you doing here?” I want to ask. My eighteen-year-old brain believes they have no business being here. Their people killed all of these men.
But these men weren’t alive in 1944. I’m judging them without knowing them, just like Hitler did to thousands of people.
I press my hand against the cool stone of the Wall of the Missing, tracing one of the 1,500 names that have forever been etched into history. Here, the wind only moans as it slides through stone walls and around white crosses, mourning with the rest of us.

Place Entry #2

Today Jason Cody Rowland is buried. A quilt of snow has erased not only his presence but that of almost anyone else who might have come to the park. Only four other sets of prints converge near my bench, blending together over the footbridge and scattering away homeward. One set of prints is far apart and so large I can almost stand with both shoes in one impression. The rest are small like mine, and spread in quick chops which makes me think they were women wanting to get their exercise.

A new chain link fence has sprung up around the canal banks. It looks terrible and serves only to detract from the beauty that is this park.

My bench has changed. It’s not the old fashioned bench with slats that reminded me of my grandparents. Now its two lackluster boards painted blue sitting on a metal frame. Even the paint can’t hide the fact that this bench is nowhere near as inviting as my old one. It’s not my bench anymore. It’s only a bench. I’ve been betrayed.

More snow seeps into my shoes, darkening my light purple socks. I probably should have changed out of my work clothes for this venture, but I was too eager to see my place covered in snow.

The park is silent save for the slight, dull thump of the rain sinking into the park’s coverlet. Even the sound of my sniffing is deadened.

The rain is jealous of the snow because of its beauty and serenity. It’s working hard to erase the creamy bane of its existence, pummeling it with its tiny fists, willing it to go away. Snow can settle lightly on trees and make over twiggy maples so they look stunning. It coats this bench with a soggy seat cushion. It deadens sound and softly kisses upturned faces. Rain can’t settle gracefully on small branches. It weighs them down and saddens their complexion. Its bulbous drops strike the ground instead of floating lazily on the wind.

The rain has already destroyed the snow that perched on the treetops and now it’s working on my bench. It’s pelting my head, trying to make me understand its plight and sympathize. Instead I tuck my head and run away from its pestering, trying not to skid on the snow-covered slats of the foot bridge as I rush home, eager to be warm.

Blog Prompt #1

Boise: the city of trees.

It was given this name by the Frenchmen who accompanied Captain Bonneville on his expedition out west in 1833. After weeks of trudging through high desert, the Boise River and the trees growing from its banks were a welcome site. The only reason Boise remains a city of trees today is thanks to irrigation. Take away the water and Boise succumbs to the Owyhee desert’s dusty sagebrush fingers. Travel too far west of Boise and the landscape turns to twisting volcanic rock and low shrubs populated by ticks, jackrabbits, snakes, grouse, and ground squirrels. I never liked this desert. It’s always seemed too barren, too monochromatic, too harsh.
Until Lincoln declared it a territory in 1863, Idaho was of minimal interest to anyone because of this. It was merely a pit stop for settlers or prospectors on their way to Oregon or California. Even though we struck gold, and later silver, in the north, most people remained uninterested.
Boise wasn’t much of anything until Major Pinkney Lugenbeel built Fort Boise, his military outpost, in the foothills. Shortly thereafter, settlers began building houses. They intended to stay a while. Their houses lasted only a few generations. Most of them are gone now, destroyed by harsh desert conditions and lack of care.
Eventually, sprawling farms and a bustling town emerged from the dust and sagebrush. In early July, 1890, Boise became the 43rd state to enter the union. But we were still a farming state, a thoroughfare for people on their way to somewhere else, and we were glad to let them keep going.

Because of the adversity of farming in desert and thanks to years of being ignored, Boiseans are a tenacious and self reliant breed. But we are also a kindly people. I am no different- stubborn, hard-headed, competitive, and yet compassionate.
We take pride in the small-town feel of our city while still offering as many amenities as we can. We work hard to treat the land well and we resist the influences of the larger capital cities. We plant trees and maintain parks and roadside landscaping in town.

Like the French explorers, I too am glad for trees. I grew up playing in arbavidas, which are conifers used as natural fences because of their penchant for growing taller rather than rounder, and climbing in Japanese maples that had grown unnaturally large for their species. The maples in our backyard proved hardy enough to withstand the onslaught of a determined gymnast practicing her bar routine in its branches. These trees are my home. I used to spend hours each day climbing them and sitting in the crook of their arms reading. I examined their leaves in all seasons, whether from the top branch or by leaping into piles of them on the ground. The gardens too were my habitat. I sat among the rhododendrons growing used to their bitingly woody smell and watched goldfish dart about in the pond we dug that sat in the shade of a towering pine. I examined pond scum under my microscope and sat for hours with a dried corn husk in my hands, trying to lure in squirrels. This was the backyard where many adventures were concocted, cuts and scrapes were earned, and persistence proved to be a good thing- I finally got a squirrel.

http://www.cityofboise.org/CityGovernment/VisitingBoise/

Place #1- Tully Park

This used to be farmland. Cows and horses once meandered near this canal, crops previously grew here. Farmer’s hopes and dreams lived and died on this land.

Hopes and dreams still exist here, but they are different from the ones of 1893. The initial settlers of Meridian may have never guessed that one hundred years later this nineteen acre park would spring up instead of crops. Tully Park boasts two softball fields, a skate park, basketball courts, and a playground. A walking path follows a canal, wandering lazily behind neighborhoods and through Tully Park.

Despite the fact that it’s January and 41 degrees, people are out in force, taking advantage of the sunshine and lack of precipitation. It hasn’t snowed here yet, which is unusual. Our local ski resort doesn’t have enough snow to open its doors for the season. The latest opening date prior to this year was January 6th. The lack of freezing temperatures has tricked the local plants. Trees and roses are starting to bud, which will be dangerous when the snow and ice bluster in later this winter. It also means that bugs will be bad this summer.

Dozens of birds fly away together in the distance, their tight knit circle ebbing and flowing like the tide. A winter wind zips between the slats in my coffee colored bench, causing me to shiver. A small trickle of water slogs its way through the canal behind me. Dry, brown cattails rub together, rustling anxiously. A dad takes pictures of his kids hiding among the reeds. Older couples walk slowly along the path before me, either leading languid old dogs or being led by bouncy puppies. We all smile at each other and say a polite “Good afternoon.” We are all thankful to be outside and goodwill abounds.

Tully Park, like many parks in the area, has a long line of memorial trees. A plaque buried crookedly in the ground in front of a diminutive tree beside my bench reads “Jason Cody Rowland- eat, sleep, ski- Sept 1. 2007.” I wonder how old he was when he died and if he died skiing. Does his family come back to this tree to read his name, to remember? How many hopes and dreams were sucked into the vacuum of his absence?