“Sit still,” Mom hissed at me. I was 8 years old and Mom said I had to finish my lunch before I could go play. I sat there at the picnic table with my chin on my hand, swinging my legs, picking at the potato salad with my fork. I hated mayonnaise and whoever had made the potatoes put way too much in it. I even told Mom not to put mayonnaise on my hamburger but she did it anyway.
A squirrel flitted down the tree trunk near our table and crept near me. It froze, twitched its tail, and scooted another couple feet nearer. It found a potato chip on the ground and started munching on it.
“Mom, look!” I said, pointing to the squirrel. She had her back to me, talking to the lady next to her and didn’t hear me. I poked her shoulder. “Mom, mom, mom.”
“Stop it Chris,” she said, flicking my hand away without turning around. “I’m talking.”
“But mom, look,” I persisted. “The squirrel likes chips!”
Mom turned around to see. “It’s just a squirrel, Chris. They are everywhere.”
“I know but he’s so cute!” I tore off a piece of my bun and tossed it to the squirrel who scooped it up and started nibbling.
“Don’t do that!” Mom snapped. “You’re teaching the squirrel to depend on humans for their food.”
“But I don’t want it and he does!” I whined.
“Stop whining and eat your food,” she huffed at me and turned back to the lady.
I slumped forward and flopped my arms on the table, accidentally knocking over my soda. It splashed across the table and drowned the camera next to Mom.
“Look what you did!” Mom scolded. “Now you’ve ruined my camera!”
I looked at her flashing eyes and hung my head. She started sopping up the mess with paper towels.
“Just go play,” she seethed, shooing me with her hand. “Just don’t go too far. Stay where I can see you.”
I slid off the bench and slunk away from the table, the squirrel skittering up the tree, shunning me too.
I found a fountain not far away in the middle of a courtyard. In the center of the fountain stood a statue of a man in a robe, one hand holding a scroll and the other pointing at me. Dad used to give me pennies to throw into ponds and fountains to make wishes, but I didn’t have any coins and Dad was gone. I found some sticks and rocks and sat down on the edge, kicked off my shoes, and dangled my feet in the water. I tossed a rock and watched it sink, then threw another.
“Don’t throw rocks in there,” I heard my mom call. I ignored her and threw a stick instead.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. “I told you not to throw rocks,” Mom repeated. “Fountains are for looking at, not playing in.”
“It was a stick,” I moaned.
“Same thing,” she said. “And put your shoes on. It’s time to go home.”
“Can I have a penny to make a wish like Dad used to do,” I asked, as I dried my feet with my socks.
“I don’t have any pennies,” Mom said impatiently. “And a monument to Christopher Columbus is not something to pay tribute to. He was a brutal conqueror who enslaved the natives. Thank God California is progressive enough to decommission him.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means that they are getting rid of this statue. Christopher Columbus has no place in our history.”
“But that’s my name,” I said.
“Don’t worry, your name has nothing to do with him.”
“Then who was I named after?” I asked.
“No one. I just liked the name,” she answered. She held out her hand. “Hurry up.”
I heard her sigh as I fumbled with my laces. I didn’t look up, knowing she would get mad if I asked for her help.
“Come on!” she said, sighing again. Then she dropped her purse and bent down, shoved my hands off my shoe and tied it so tight it hurt.
“I bet I can beat you to the bridge!” I called, taking off. When dad was still here, we used to play “Billy Goat’s Gruff” at the bridge. California was always in drought so there was never any water under the bridge and Dad use to hide in wait under it pretending to be the troll. When I’d start across it, he’d say “Who dares walk across my bridge?” and I’d answer “It is I, Billy Goat Chris.” And he’d say “I own this bridge and I’m going to eat you!” I’d run to the other side where he’d catch me and swing me up onto his shoulders.
“Chris, the bridge is under construction. You can’t go there,” Mom called after me.
Sure enough, there was caution tape stretched across the base. I stomped back to mom, but on the way, I found a really cool feather and picked it up. It was longer than I’d ever seen before.
“Eeew!” Mom cried, wrinkling her nose. “Drop that!”
“But look how big it is! Can’t I keep it?”
“No! It’s a turkey vulture feather. They eat dead animals. It’s filthy and carries disease.”
I dropped it and reached for her hand but she pulled it away. “Your hands are dirty now. I have some wipes in the car.”
I walked in silence, watching my feet the rest of the way to the car. When we reached the car, I spotted a yellow dandelion poking out from a crack in the pavement. I picked it and held it out proudly to Mom.
“Here’s a flower for you” I smiled at her. “This is for your hair.”
“Chris, that’s a weed, not a flower.” She put her hands on her hips and my smile dropped from my lips.
* * *
Thirty years later, I found myself in Texas, having taken a job in IT. But it was 2021 and my company had had us working from home during the entire duration of the pandemic. I still didn’t know a soul.
I pulled the car over on the side of the highway and flattened a patch of bluebonnets with my tires. When they told me to go on a drive to see the wildflowers in the Hill Country, I had no idea there would be seas of color. Most of the sprawling landscape was fenced off with barbed wire. It seemed like the entire countryside was somebody’s ranch. Coming from Southern California, I wasn’t used to seeing cattle grazing in fields between small towns.
I grabbed the camera from the back seat of my car, feeling like an idiot with a big bulky piece of equipment. I debated whether or not to put it back and just use my cell phone to take pictures, but I had bought the camera months ago in a fit of high-school-photography-class-nostalgia and promised myself to learn how to use a real manual camera. I put my phone in the glove compartment so I wouldn’t lose my nerve and cheat, and I headed through a gate on foot. I felt like I was trespassing but the guy at the gas station down the road said it was not private land. I picked my way through the flowers, trying not to crush them, but it was impossible and I just gave up. My pant legs were wet to the knees from the morning dew so I figured the flowers and I were even.
Instead of cattle, deer were eating their breakfast and I stopped so I wouldn’t scare them. One lifted its head and stared at me like she was posing, and I picked up my camera to take its picture. Snapping picture after picture, the deer continued to stand and watch me, so I crept slowly closer. Still she didn’t move.
I tripped and my camera flew out of my hands. A girl screamed and the deer fled.
“Oh my God!” a woman’s voice gasped. “Are you okay?”
I scrambled to my knees and took the hand offered me. I looked up to see wide blue eyes looking down at me, framed by curly brown hair adorned with grass and stickers.
“Where did you come from?” I said, letting her pull me to my feet.
“You tripped over me,” she answered.
“I did? But I didn’t see you.”
“Obviously,” she rolled her eyes and tossed her head, a smile playing on her lips. “I was lying in the flowers.”
I looked down and saw the imprint of her body on the ground, a small blanket tamping down the flowers to keep her dry from the dew. A navy green backpack stood at the end of the blanket like a camouflaged boulder for a pillow.
“Do you…sleep here?”
“Why yes,” she said, flourishing her arms. “Welcome to my home. The forest animals are my friends, and the flowers speak to me. I like to come here at sunrise and watch the clouds.”
She nudged me with her shoulder and smiled so big her eyes squinted and her nose crinkled. I knew she was teasing me but something about her made me wonder if she was serious. I just stood there, staring at her, half thinking she was a nymph, and when she tucked her wild hair behind her ear, I swear I saw her ears were pointy.
“Come on, I’ll show you the neighborhood,” she cocked her head, beckoning me. She rolled up her blanket and strapped it to her pack which she slung over her shoulders, and started off wading through the sea of bluebonnets, scattering butterflies into the sky like disturbing dandelion tufts.
“My name is Bonnie, by the way.”
“Chris,” I grunted sheepishly. I realized I was still planted in place and jerked into action to follow her. I tripped again, and discovered my forgotten camera at my feet. I put the strap over my neck and jogged to catch up.
I noticed from behind how she walked like a deer, gliding across the field. She was tall for standing only about five feet high, her little arms swinging from level shoulders, head never looking down. How could she do that? I kept tripping over rocks under the wildflowers, but she never stumbled.
“Oh my God!” she shrieked, stopping abruptly in front of a tangle of budding shrubs.
Startled, I thought maybe she’d spotted a snake. As I stopped next to her, she pointed at the base of a shrub where a family of critters were rooting around in the dirt.
“Are those armadillos?” I asked, stunned. I started snapping pictures of them. “I have only ever seen them as road kill. I’ve never seen a live one!”
“Yeah, isn’t that cool?” she replied. “They are usually nocturnal but they come out in the mornings to forage sometimes under brush. Did you know their body temperature is only 91 degrees? That’s why they only come out when it’s cooler. Aren’t they cute?”
“I’m not sure I’d call them cute. Their faces remind me of anteaters. But they are fun to watch,” I said. “They are fast little guys. Like rabbits.”
“They look like anteaters because they are related to them. They have long tongues and eat ants and beetles.”
Her voice was enthralling, like she was telling me a deep dark secret. I looked at her curiously, wondering about her fascination with this creature.
“What?” she look up at me, shrugging her shoulders. “I did a report on armadillos when I was in 4th grade. You can’t forget something that has a nick name of “hillbilly speed bump.” Besides, it’s the state small mammal.”
“Oh, like everyone knows what the state mammal is,” I rolled my eyes.
“Um, yeah!” She rolled her eyes back at me. “Every Texan knows that.”
“I’m not a Texan. I'm from California,” I puffed indignantly, folding my arms. “But I thought the state animal was a Texas long-horn.”
“Figures,” she said, sounding like a teenager. “The long-horn is the state large mammal. Tell me you at least know what the state flower is.”
“How should I know that?”
She gaped at me, wide eyed.
“Take a look,” she said, sweeping her arms and bowing to the flower field.
I slapped my face with my palm and shook my head. I should have known.
“Aww,” she groaned. “While you were arguing with me, the little guys scampered off!”
I bent down and picked up a fossil. It was an old dried out armadillo tail.
“Here,” I said, handing it to her. “Have a souvenir.”
Her face lit up and she burst out laughing, taking the tail and putting it into her backpack.
“That’s awesome,” she said. “We are in the middle of a pandemic, and you hand me the source of leprosy.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Remember, I’m an armadillo expert. They are blamed for spreading leprosy. And it’s sort of true.”
“Then why did you take it? Aren’t you afraid of getting infected?”
She tilted her head, looking up at me through veiled eyelids. “If I was scared of getting infected, I’d be wearing a mask.”
I raised my hands in surrender.
“Come on City Boy,” she groaned, tugging my arm. She tossed her hair and I wanted to reach over and remove the pieces of grass still tangled in her curls. It was then that I noticed strands of gray and thought she must have been a lot older than the 20-something I originally suspected.
I followed her down a path to the bank of a stream where she sat down. I’d no idea there had even been water near the armadillos but now I wonder how I could have missed the sound of it trickling over rocks.
As I sat down next to Bonnie, I watched her untie her shoes and dip her feet into the water. She weaved the laces through the strap of her backpack and tied them together, and then she looked over at me.
“You don’t mind getting your shoes wet?” she asked me as she started rolling up her pant legs.
“It’s only March,” I said. “I don’t want to put my feet in the cold water.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, and stood up in the water. “Come on. It’s this way.”
“Oh! I thought you just wanted to soak your feet.”
“Such a Californian…” she shook her head and held out her hand.
I quickly followed her example, rolled up my pant legs and tied my shoe laces through my belt loop. As I took her hand, I stepped into the frigid water, refraining from gasping in shock. My dangling shoes kicked my butt as I walked beside her, my tender soles angry at me for not protecting them. I steeled my face from wincing, amazed my companion seemed unphased by the rocks. This was nothing like walking on the soft sandy shores back home!
We trudged through the water, side by side, and I was keenly aware of her hand in mine.
At least she was not as stable in the water as she was on land, and she slipped on a rock and nearly went down, but I miraculously held her up without falling myself.
“Can you skip rocks?” she asked, stopping to bend down and pick up some from the water. She tossed one and it jumped three times on the surface before disappearing into the brush on the bank. She held out her hand to share.
“Wow, you’re good at that,” I said and took a rock from her outstretched hand. I threw it and it made a satisfying plop. “Nope, I guess I can’t.”
She smiled. “My dad was the best rock skipper in the world but mine just sank like yours. He tried to show me for years the art of skipping rocks. The day he died, I came out here and threw them for hours and hours until I could do it. He always said it was like throwing a Frisbee, but that didn’t help because I couldn’t throw a Frisbee either. That day I figured out how to do both.”
She handed me another rock. Apparently she wasn’t going to let me off the hook.
“How did he die?” I asked.
“Plane crash,” she said, throwing another rock. “I was 16.”
“Wow, that must have been hard,” I said.
“Yeah. It was. This place was our special spot and I spent most of that fall here trying to stay close to him after he died. Today is his birthday.” She tossed another rock and it skipped five times till it disappeared into oblivion.
I didn’t know what to say and just stared at the place the rock had vanished. We started walking through the water again, not saying a word.
“Did you know that Texas rivers have water moccasins?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“What?” I yelped. Then I heard a splash and spun around, nearly yanking Bonnie into the water. But I only saw a little turtle paddling away from a log.
“Don’t worry, I’ve been here a hundred times and have never seen a one here,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I was just asking if you knew about the water snakes here.”
“That isn’t funny. You are just trying to freak me out.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I’m just a trail guide.”
“Is that what you do for a living? Are you really a trail guide?” I asked.
“No,” she laughed. “But that would be fun.”
This girl was driving me crazy! Every time I thought she was going one direction, she turned me around.
“Here we are,” she said after a while. The shallow bank had risen higher the further we’d gone upstream, but the water level still only reached our calves. The water must have gone much higher at one time as the exposed roots of the cypress trees were massive. I looked up to see a railroad bridge. Bonnie let go of my hand and started up the bank, climbing the roots to the top. I followed after.
I pulled myself up the roots behind her, and I was once again surprised to find a hand offered me at the top of the bank. As I stood up and surveyed the bridge, I beheld more wildflowers carpeting both sides of the riverbank: bluebonnets sprinkled with Indian paintbrushes and yellow daisies and purple verbena. And blue morning glories wound their way up the trusses. Across the top of the bridge stretched a metal beam with the date 1903 carved out.
“It’s like a secret garden,” I breathed.
Bonnie smiled, still holding my hand. She led me across the track and stopped in the middle, sitting down with her feet dangling over the edge.
“Texas has a lot of history hidden in plain sight,” she said. “My dad was obsessed with trains. This railroad was decommissioned a long time ago and he took me here when I was a little girl. This was where he first kissed my mom. He said they were from opposite sides of the track so they named me after the bluebonnets blooming on both sides.”
“You are the state flower,” I said and reach over to put a bluebonnet in her hair.
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