The Ropes

By H.J. Cruz

   There are times in each of our lives that has left an indelible impression; pressed flowers in a book of time unmentioned by a cover of worn leather.

Upon reflecting back to the earlier periods the pages echo deep undulating tones, the fragrant strength diminished and only misty memories linger of precious and potent memorabilia etched in emotional episodes as the general activities of day to day life evaporate like the air we breathe.

   The period of years from thirteen to sixteen is often one of internal and external discoveries for most and I was no different. It was a time when puberty caused the mind and body to race as a bullet train without a track.

   We called it the ropes, our refuge from the toils of life. Just a river bank in the woods where two towering oak trees competed for sunlight as they stretched over the north fork of the Chicago river with large intertwined roots that provided an ample shelf and launching pad for a thick rope with a large knot on the bottom that allowed one to swing far out across the river, capturing the breeze on a muggy summer afternoon. A simple solution for distilling the boredoms of minors, a focal point for expressive youths and a bridge for social expansion.
   I can’t say for sure why such a happenstance place engraved itself upon my soul, perhaps it was the loss of my innocence or the gain of something intangible. In my minds eye I see a semi precocious boy, cocky and charismatic with long hair and a boyish cuteness that seemed popular with the many budding girls who frequented our woodsy resolve. I was shy in some respects but not when it came to girls, especially the ones eager for adventure. Perhaps it was something primeval that stirred the girls who watched sinuous vine swinging Neanderthals It was there, on the dirt trodden trail in the moon light where I lost my virginity to an older girl who decided after a few beers that she was going to teach me a thing or two about love. Unfortunately this green-horn made no lasting impression, but it had become the start of a new adventure.

   It was also the place where I was exposed to mind altering substances that the older kids always seemed to have, mostly pot but occasionally a psychedelic drug that gave a whole new meaning to swinging. If the heat of the day got to much we would sometimes make the splash into the murky river risking typhoid or just the onslaught of leaches easily burned off with the aid of a cigarette. Each year we tried to break our record of the number of bodies we could pile on the rope at one time. The first year it was nine easily beaten the second with twelve and the following year we actually beat that with fourteen; a number that will stand in infamy. I was that number fourteen, taking a running leap over a sea of hands onto a barely swinging rope amongst a now cheering heap of cringing monkeys. I recall looking up at the groaning twine just before it snapped, sending a ton of bodies eight feet below onto the muddy rivers edge. I came away with temporary amnesia when my head collided with the ground, while most others just got cut and bruised. But my brother Chris who insisted on taking the bottom against my better judgment came up from the carnage screaming. It wasn’t until he was painfully extracted from the now slimy river bank to the shore that we saw the reality of his injury. A projectile protruded from his pant leg, it was a bone shard from what use to be his Tibia.

   Another image that has remained was of a three-hundred and fifty pound, inebriated Murphy, who was convinced by yours truly how easy it was to swing once you got your crotch over the bottom knot. Well, he never made it that far, giving new meaning to the term whiplash. It was the first and only time I actually saw the bottom of the river bed at ground zero where the blubbery missile hit. Yet the funniest moment was yet to come as he struggled to negotiate the steep river bank over and over, sliding back down into the river, looking like a greased pig. We finally conceded to help him out after rolling with laughter for what seemed like an eternity.

   Every year as the rope gained in popularity the forest Rangers would eventually have it cut down and within a few weeks we would scrape together enough for a new one. Sometimes we had to pull together and defend our turf as trouble makers tried to jump our claim, other times the mosquito populations drove us out.

   I revisited the ropes not long ago while returning for a funeral. It was early spring and the area looked un-kept and unused. I guess kids today have found different ways to amuse themselves. The paths were overgrown and the tree that supported our precious rope was long dead, the bark gone, the top gone, the trunk hollowed out from rot. The branch that supported our kindred trapeze was surprisingly still there, but just a stub of its former self, after the Rangers finally had the thing cut back, silencing our playground in the woods for eternity. 

   Around every turn there lies an echo of the past that comes flooding back.

The girls are still there, but their faces now as murky as the water. The clash of wills as early ego’s begin to form and test their resolve. The spot on the river where me and my brothers found a man frozen in red water while out searching for sled hills.  The spot across the river where the bodies of three teenagers were found shot during the Bi-centennial. The old willow tree we called the make-out tree is still living, yet most of its couch like branches are torn away. The spot where a crazy old man grabbed Preston and held him hostage with a knife to his throat as we pleaded endlessly for his life. The spot we were surrounded by a rival gang brandishing baseball bats and pipes after one of their own got beat up by some unknown foe that left him in a coma struggling for his life; they left with solemn promise to return if he died. There’s the spot where the loot was recovered after an armed bank robber stashed it while being cornered after a high speed chase ending in a hail of gunfire that had every trigger happy cop shouting at us and shooting at shadows right before our eyes. The spot where Stanley the glue sniffer burnt down our fort and almost the forest with it. But amidst the violence there is a tenderness that seeps through; apparitions of forgotten love and expired aspirations that refuse to relinquish their energy.

   The old drafty farm house we occupied at the edge of the forest was torn down years ago and now a ten story condo sits there. In fact the only thing here that hasn’t really changed is the river itself. An endless flow of life, supporting what was once decadent and sweeping away decay. As I look down upon the once mighty tree trunk I see the skeleton of a forest creature peeking from its hollow  and now see the irony of it all; a metaphor of how fleeting life can be. So many of our little clan have gone the way of the skeletal creature, Chris was no exception, his ashes floated away with the current years ago along with Jay, Mike, Gus, Eddie and Joey who never escaped the ravages of a big city. We were but a mere season in time, our only testament being faded memories of life’s victories and tragedies; Pressed flowers in a book of time.

H.J.Cruz

6/24/07