Currently, I am writing to honor my late husband, Roger L. Adams, Jr. As well as being a prior United States Marine and an Army Soldier, he was a firefighter for three departments in North Carolina. The department we fought fire together at was Half Moon V.F.D. in Jacksonville, NC. There, his badge number was 543, and the number has since been retired.
Black bears, lost count. Dense fur, giant square, thick-padded paws on hinges. She sees my face. Her sweet browns, relaxed brows. She saunters away, silent, fur moving in waves, like thick, black gravy. In the Wolcott Woods.
Turkeys for days and then for none. Moms, dads, babies, friends. Polygamy. Intelligent; (except for the time that tom was fighting his reflection in the truck chrome) They fly to the tops of the trees and stay together, walking through the woods and fields like friendly Skeksis, modern velociraptors. In the Wolcott Woods.
Possums, one in the coop. Screaming smiling foxes. A knocked-kneed, young moose! Hundreds of deer who, with their skittish babies, raid my apple trees. Rabbits with nests of holes. Bushy coyotes during the day, call for each other at night, or when a firetruck whirs by. In the Wolcott Woods.
Gurgling ravens float in the sky, chased by four spiteful crows. Red-tailed hawks perch, on the top of the chicken run, smiling down. Owls, barred, barn, and great-horned, ask for them and dive for mice. In the Wolcott Woods.
Bobcats in arm's reach, slight smile, While they lick lick lick, from atop the spilled willow tree. Wetlands with the cat tails, and juicy ticks, a sentry for me from him, or him from me. In the Wolcott Woods.
They don't believe: I looked up at the road and saw a bobcat crossing over I said, "hey!" and it turned to take a peek then I saw, tail dragging, touching the road. Crossing through to find a mate, local myth. In the Wolcott Woods
Shut-down world, need some air. Freshly brittled leaves and babbling brook. Prints in the white crystals, or viscous watery dirt. Slick mountain boulders covered in crystal-tipped moss. Walking with my girl, my girls. In the Wolcott woods.
Nana was in the big-enough, poorly-lit kitchen, wiping down the counter with a brand new yellow sponge minutes after she parked her car after a three-hour drive. We all loaded up our skinny arms with supplies for the week and brought them from the car to the house, flip-flops flipping and flopping along the way.
It’s debilitating and I think I do it to myself. I wish I had that gift of letting my kids figure it all out on their own, but I’m the mom who always says, “Don’t cut yourself” when they’re holding scissors or “Don’t choke” when they’re eating. Mind you, my kids are not babies anymore, and I don’t see an end in sight to my madness.
I’m not a helicopter mom, but a reminder mom who lectures and makes sure they know what they most likely already know.
Max went to his first day of work today after just getting his license, and I worried all morning until I got his text. “I made it. Love you.” I took a deep breath and thanked God.
All day we texted, him initiating more than I did because I was trying to give him space. Well, he forgot his charger, which in this day and age, and since he didn’t know the way yet, means he didn’t know how to get home.
“My phone is at one percent,” he texted me.
“You’ll have to figure it out,” I said, wanting to cry.
Well, he did, and he’s on his way home now. I knew he could do it, but why don’t I want to let him?
About two minutes after I leave my house, I fly down the ramp onto Interstate 40, a flat and long road with no pot holes or traffic, at least not where I drive on it. Third gear steals the show as fourth waits until we’re on the highway, blended with the rest of the waltzing little cars and box trucks. Then fifth, then sixth, cruise control, and go.
First of all, I must address the word “meeno.” It’s a word that was created by the one and only Samuel Adams when he was a tot. I recently mentioned Sam’s obsession with tomatoes when he was small, and the word is still running smoothly through our family chats.
Sammy was four with white-blonde hair and Coppertone-brown skin from hours spent in our backyard pool on Shamrock Drive. He was trying to let go of my hand, and our mingled sweat from the warm July day gave him hopes of an escape. We walked from the van to the sidewalk, Max on my right hip and Sammy screaming as I calmly dragged him behind. It was shot day and he knew it.
There aren’t enough synonyms for the word amazing. A professor I had at Coastal Carolina Community College in Jacksonville, NC, told our class about a cool tool in Microsoft Word, where you can right-click on the word you want to find synonyms for, and it will offer you a list of them.
“Why is there blood all over the bathroom?” I asked all the boys, not connecting the very large gory dots to anyone in particular. There was toilet paper covered in blood in the Red Sox trash can and drying red drops peppered the off-white sink.
Teresa Forester Adams 