My Then Place My Now Place

by NANCY POWERS

      In any bearable weather, I devoured my after-school Momscrummies, changed into slocky shoes and creeky jeans and went zamming down the hill behind my house to the edge of the Playworld. Most days I graceful-glimmered there. We were little girls who played at being men. Kathy, Susie and Me. We were in the same grade at school. I was bigger by inches and pounds; but not toughest, not always surest. We sloshed in sparkleshallow water searching for authentically real, actual-true Indian arrowheads abandoned by Cowagoopa Indians when rich citysettlers pioneered their way West. Mopsy, Panicky, Lad King and Beau sniffsplashed along Their tribe had a heirarchy organized primarily by size of dog and size of teeth.
       We girls were brave treeclimbing creekwalking Tomboys. We were always menplaying. Some days we were soldiers, some days cowboys, some days crooks with scars and rotten teeth hiding form the police. Nearly inseparable from age three, when I moved there, to around twelve, when reality and social consciousness battled imagination and childhood joy for our souls and won, we created our lives in the Playworld.
       Some days were not so easy and I felt leftout sad. They had been born there, shared the same play-pen, starred together in 8mm baby movies we sometimes watched on rainy days. Those days I heard meansnickering, felt the lonely coldness when they ditched me to play games with parts for only two.  But I did the ditching, too. Sometimes. We three usually played alone or sometimes with my sister and Kathy's three older sisters; often we played with the boys. Seven big ones and four our age or littler, fair game for torture. They were all wild. Playworld games were sometimes organized and obvious. If you showed up late, from a piano lesson or some other complete waste of time, you knew what was happening, could join in. We played baseball, hopscotch, hide-and-go-seek, kick the can, statues, red-light-green-light. But the best games, the intricate childgames, were totally random: no rules, no apparent beginning and no actual ending; cowboys and Indians, robbers, explorers, wrestding matches, snowball fights, mud fights, tree climbing. ("O.K, pretend I'm a killer and you're the lady, and she's trying to save you, but you gotta hide in the pretend barn over at Auer's and if you don't get away before we see you, then we'll get you and your mother won't ever even find your body!") We had cap guns. Everyone went terrorscreaming in different directions, evidently understanding the rules.
       Once most of the tribe, even the teen-agers, were playing or lounging in the huge elm tree behind the Smiths' house. Young and small were in the lowest branches, older and tall in the highest. The segregation was Nature's: the top-most limbs were inaccessible unless you were big enough to reach the hand foot holds that unlocked the way to the top. I was never, during all my treeclimbing years, able to reach them. Suddenly, at some clandestine signal, everyone, my brother and sister included, streamed from the branches like brightfalling leaves and, before disappearing meanlaughing from view, spread the bicycles under the lowest branch, barring my only escape. I felt a dark, hollow uncoupling. Someone's dad heard me crying and rescued me. Once I wet my pants behind that tree playing hide-and-go-seek; it seemed better than getting caught and hav ing to be it. 
      Over time all of the vacant fields farmcd by our andent and mysterious neighbor, Mr. Schmittel, lost trees and grass and grew houses; save the deepwoods across the creek that was the sacred Playworld. Until the old man died, nearly transparent, so thin and pale with age was he, there were two mules in his back field. Babe and Abner. They grazed pladdly, oblivious to the raucous children who day by day encroached on their once solitary world. The front field was a changing stage of tall-gold, round-red, brown-dead, new-green. And huge-orange Halloween pum kins: "Take whatevcr you want. Here, gimme a nickel. That's fine. Come by and show the Mrs. yer costumes later." My favorite crop was the endless generations of softwild and beautiful kittens; Herman Gid, Ebony, Leventy-seven. When Mr. Schmittel died the old woman disappeared, too, but they left a haunting legacy a crumbling house rich with possi biliy for rule breaking ("Stay out of that old wreck!") and hardhearted crudty. How gleamy joyful it was to terrorize each other! ("There's a thing in the upstairs! I saw it! I heard it! It's slitherygreen prickly! Come on, I'll show you where it is!") Crawling through the window, swimming through the dust motes, creeping up, slamming the narrow door on the unsuspecting victim and scattering, hoot-shridcing! down the stairs! out the window! into the gathering dinnertime surnmer night. I did that th=o my own brother.
       My littlegirlife proceeded in two distinct realms. One was on the far side the bridge that crossed the creek which marked the entrance to our dirt road. That world contained school, lessons, growngirl dignity. The other world was within the water-boundry; my fun-dangerous, familysafe, runwildlaugh Playworld. And one day I sat, gloomyhelpless, mosquito-bitten and small, watching giant ydlow bulldozers destroy Paradise. Monster' machines ate my trees, ripped my earth, ruining the stage where I acted out my future. Playing in the treasure-trove of houses under construction was a small consolation.
      Here, in my grown-up world, everything suits me exact ly Every color soothes, every chair fits, every keepsake and photogrph evokes a wanted memory. My desk is cluttered, my bed inviting, my books near at hand, my kitchen organized according to my plan. I forget to lock the door. I cut fresh herbs from my otherwise hopeless garden; easily, assuredly I prepare what I know will be a fine supper. I think and laugh and scream and cry here. I watch the grass turn green and the leaves turn yellow and red. I chat with passing neighbors., who ask about my children while I pet their leash-tame dogs. I look through the picture albums, loving best the ones arranged completely at random: here the children are fifteen and seventeen; on the next page, three and five. My welcome home windows glow wisely, my favorite robe is on the back of the bathroom door, my children's and friend's telephone numbers are on the automatic dialer.
       I have had some of my favorite meals here, my most liquid orgasms, my cruelest arguments and my loneliest days. I have given big, messy, hilarious parties here and sparkling, quiet dinners at which we sat late and drowsy into the early morning. In this place I lamented the demise of my favorite pet, a beautiful gray striped cat with soft as a shadow paws and an inquisitive mind. On this sofa my mother told me she had cancer. We shared our last Thanksgiving at this table, out last Christmas breakfast in this kitchen. The solid objects remain, unchanged. Death hurts and real loss lasts and lasts. I am still learning things here, too.
       I belong here . This place is mine; is ours. I face every thing that comes. I'm still a brave Tomboy.