I grew up among the rolling hills of central Oklahoma, where scrubby post and blackjack oak can grow in thickets, or thin out to form savannas with wild grasses. This is the western edge of the Cross Timbers: a knotty, meandering shoreline which runs along the expanse of the Great Plains.
The topography here is largely shaped by the movement of water. Runoff from heavy spring rains easily cut gullies in the sandy loam. It passes over and through the land, drains into rivers, accumulates in reservoirs or sinks deep into aquifers, but generally flows to the southeast, toward the Mississippi. Erosion exposes clay and outcrops of soft Garber sandstone, providing hints of a deep geologic past. Barite roses bloom from the deposits, having crystallized during the retreat of an ancient sea, and are sometimes found scattered in the leaves and thin humus. The stone and clay are red with hematite, a striking characteristic of these famous Permian beds.
We were about a ten mile drive out from main street, a trek made along a stretch of two-lane blacktop. This was once part of a state highway, but that was re-routed to the south decades ago to avoid building bridges over the planned flooding. There are a few businesses, a fire station and a couple of churches on the way, but mostly one encounters grass, trees, ranches, little red ledges and long driveways leading to secluded homes. Eventually, you cross a bridge over a shallow arm of the lake, then turn off before you run into the marina. There aren’t any strip malls out here — while it may not be the middle of nowhere, it’s probably somewhere on the outskirts.
A car is a necessity in a place like this. All of the grocery stores were in town. We attended the rural elementary school just a mile down the road, but we never walked there. There were no sidewalks and it was too dangerous. Most of our friends were even further away. Trick-or-treating in our sparsely populated neighborhood was an exercise in futility; instead, we would go to my grandmother’s neighborhood in the city.
But we had space. As kids, we would take advantage of the warmer months to explore the surrounding acres of wood and glade. Our boundaries were country roads and barbed wire fences. There was a little pond to canoe and fish on, stocked with bluegill, bass and catfish. Deer, opossum, armadillos, foxes, raccoons, bobcats and coyotes all roamed the property. Fallen trees and sticks provided us with raw material for huts and bonfires. If we were lucky, a snow or two each winter would cover the ground — just enough to race sleds down the steep side of our little dam. Even rarer, the pond might freeze over thick enough to skate on. We spent a lot of time outside.
The nights were something, too. The diffuse band of the Milky Way arched across the skies of my youth. Granted, this was not the darkest place on the planet — a sodium glow could be seen to the west, a feature which continues to brighten — but it was ours, and it was brilliant. My dad would sometimes bring out the telescope when the weather permitted. My favorite targets were globular clusters; these densely-packed systems, composed of hundreds of thousands of old, anonymous stars, shine brightly together against the galactic backdrop.
We didn’t need a telescope to enjoy the sky, though. My siblings and I would sometimes stretch out on the hood of our station wagon, trying to catch a shooting star or two. It was easy to get lost in that sparkling field. Save for the few celebrities which astronomers use to organize the celestial sphere, it was nearly impossible to focus on individuals. Faced with such vast numbers, I was left trying to take in the swirling effect of the whole. I’m not sure that I understood the significance of it back then. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel that this unmediated exposure to the depth and breadth of the cosmos deeply affected me.
With warm evenings came the clamor of crickets, cicadas, frogs and all of the other creatures that felt inclined to join in. The resultant wall of sound crashed in through our window screens. While not entirely unpleasant, it was a blaring reminder of our isolation. I would sometimes lie awake, listening, the dark forest intruding on my thoughts.
I currently reside in a more urban environment, far away from home.
Living here has its advantages, of course. Everything is closer; I’ve driven only once or twice in the last three years. My young son and I walk a few dozen steps to a playground where he can usually find a friend or two. Our apartment complex is adjacent to a light rail platform, granting us convenient access to points all across the metropolitan area. Shared natural spaces are nearby, containing trails through wet, mixed forests of oak, maple and towering Douglas firs.
And there are lots of people. Cities are vibrant and complex and strange — I’m still not sure that I fully grasp their significance. There are so many minds, all filled with stories of love and anger, joy and despair. I can only do my best to take in the whole of the thing.
The sky suffers, though. Only a few stars can be seen from the darker corners of my complex. If you know where to look in winter, you might see a little fuzzy patch — the Pleiades cluster. The light of civilization washes out much of the rest of it. Some of the darkest areas in the US are a couple of hours east of us, but I haven’t yet had a chance to make it out there. Someday, maybe.
So the seasons pass by, pushing my childhood deeper into memory. As I watch my son grow in this very different time and place, I wonder how it will shape the experiences he carries with him through his life. Whatever they become, I hope he keeps them well.