There were some.

     It had already been that night.  That night when we'd passed around the keepers.  Everyone participating had signed up for no sex "and no kissing," a woman with asthma made worse by low key fireworks and campfires of "wish sticks" and her eyes on one man since childhood said and blamed her watery browns on the air pollutants. 

     Someone handed back a copy of Animal Dreams.  "This was new.". The copy looked like the Lonely Bear's jeans that hadn't come off, not even once, to be laundered.  "Is he just into not bathing?" More than one girl had asked.  "The PR says, 'He didn't want to take a single quarter from the Forest Worker Fund.'"  A tech-know-how but not wanting to become a machine part of Le Machine grinding us up, he'd ridden a motorbike on the thinning and widening lines between fact and fiction since he'd come to the mountains and held the line of neutrality.  "New word for us hoss," other men had held the lines of sides.  There hadn't been a topic that hadn't come up.

  "THERE'S A WAR ON!!!!" The youngest of potential new bi-plane operators cupped his mouth and shouted like a newsie.  "Yah, on my sobriety."  A couple sat upright in the backseat of a convertible antique car.  The young man rubbing his temples and the young woman rubbing her neck.  "We've got to get back to Etowah."  

     "WHOSE DRIVING?  I'LL DO IT!" More still-a-boy pulled his goggle glasses down and adjusted his ascot.  "You're such a whore," a tall, tall guy in a sweater and shirt, tight pants, and black leather gloves looked down at the young woman and said.  "Because I picked up a sack of airmail?"  She waved him away like he was a burning piece of toast smell.  He put his hands on his hips and told a barely awake campsite, "It's been real and it's been fun, but it ain't been real fun."  

     A tent door was violently kicked then shaken open from inside.  "FUCK OFF MATE." 

     "Why's that?" 

     "Because I fucking said so."  There was a quiet like in a group dinner conversation.  Then, "All right, ALL RIGHT, I will.  Don't you dare call me mate, jerk."  He took off one glove and smacked it against the open palm of the other.  "Knock it off guys.  Not us too." 

     For three or four days some of us had been arguing whether or not cold instant coffee even has caffeine.  The arguing would reach an impasse authorative.  None of us knew for sure.  Like so much of what was going on.  We were discovering the truth as it unfolded.

     "Saved me from a deep dark," the subtle, almost normally non-verbal, young woman holding his hand rubbed the back of his hand with her other hand.  He'd practically dragged her through the woods, holding hands, but him hurrying.  He was a little out of breath.  "All the equipment's gone!!!!" 

     "So are the owners of that equipment," the girl with the broken nose said.  It took about twenty seconds for that to set in.  Then someone asked, "So, that's it?!  They just leave like that?" 

  "The way they came." 

  Someone slammed the frying pan on the grate over smoldering coals.  

  "Not all of us left," people turned to the voice.  The quiet girl dropped the hand and went to the woman whose hair was bent like she'd slept leaning against a bookshelf.  "Babies???" The quiet girl signed in her way and asked.  "Though my husband went with them this time."  She held up a skeleton key and told, "One came last night." The guy walked forward and took quiet girl's hand again, and the key.  "Is the mother with the baby?"  The woman nodded sleepily.  "We'll go check on them!" 

  "Where's the coffee?" 

  "We're working on that.  Here," someone cleared textbooks and stories off a picnic bench, "Sit."  She sat.  The girl with the broken nose made cup after cup of coffee but didn't give her one.  She put some of the textbooks onto the table and made a pillow.  Fell asleep.  "She's gonna wake up with the other side of her hair bent." Someone noted.  Someone else went into a tent and found a pillow for her. 

  Camp was quiet all through late morning.  Then came a man with a necktie as a belt on suit pants several sizes too big for him.  His lips stuck out plump of his beard.  And he had knots and knots of garlic on a one-by-three.  "Sort of a strange flag," someone said to him.  "Stranger flags have been seen in these parts," he said.  "Let's start over," someone else said.  "Whacha doin' wich yer garlic?" 

  Each knot had been knotted on a night spent frozen in fear that an army of neo-nazi-types was going to break out of their barracks and hunt him.  "Are you serious?" 

  "How dare you talk about our army that way!" A woman with dirty-faced children on her legs raised a fist more gnarly than the knots of garlic.  The man had beard hair on the tops of his bare feet.  And he put the stick of garlic down against a tree.  "They're not you."  He sighed.  "Not any nation's." 

  "We'll find out if you're lying Mister.  You don't look very legitimate to me." 

  The man wrung his hands.  "I was more so before I got robbed." 

  "You got robbed?!"

  "Yer kind just went back over seas." 

  "My kind doesn't war." 

  "You're a Christian?" 

  "Not exactly but I believe that Jesus was the Messiah." 

  "You lying."  One of the kids knocked over the garlic when his mama said that.  "LIARS GO TO HELL."  The boy set his mouth hard.  "Yayes they do," the man put a hand on the kid's shoulder and bent to pick up his garlic.  "Dangerous times," he said.  "Please.  I need garlic," the girl with the broken nose dug into her sleeve and fished out some bills.  "And," she looked at the ground and tears welled in her eyes, "Would you like a cup of coffee?" 

  "Real coffee in the middle of nowhere?!  Now that's a miracle." 

     While the Forest had turned icey cold in terms of welcoming visitors over "lumber", and the Service had been slashed in terms of manpower, a certain group of "haters" and "militia" had managed to secretly overwhelm a couple workers and briefly occupy a government building.  Like the swarm of "fans" that had run some of us up a train power station where one of us got electrocuted, it was off-shoots to a "mainstream" holding the nation together that kept getting the better of us and this tipping the scales on all of us having a foothold in general sanity.  

     "THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS!" A militant-looking young man jumped out of a 4x4 and threw a fit about his colleagues.  The driver stayed in the vehicle watching the monitors--scopes and go-pro's which everyone was calling kamkams.  "WHAT'D THEY DO THIS TIME?!?" He yelled at the older more stately-uniformeds.  "I'd be careful son," one of them calmly said.  "It's pretty serious to say you know these types of criminals." 

  "Criminals huh?" The younger man wiped sweaty hands on his thighs.  "Guess you would know."  One of the authorities rapped a thickly ringed hand on the blueprints and maps on top of one of their vehicles.  The older men looked at the hand as the man explained, "We've got a plan." The younger man looked at the barracks and blinked sweat away from stinging his eyes.  He looked back at the older men.  "Anyone hurt anyone?"  The man who'd said plan sighed deeply.  "It's pretty routine here.  Why don't you get along?" 

  "Because I care."  Only one official in a hat stiff enough to still a tornado raised his eyebrows.  "That's a new one." The rings made a tapping sound on the blueprint.  A finger pointed out a shade-side window opening big enough for a small man to get through.  "I'm a small man," the younger man said.  He bellied up to the vehicle-desk.  The plan was to get in and somehow lock them into a part of the building.  "That would be good," the younger man said, "But look where they are."  The younger man went to the driver who handed him a laptop with the monitor views like playing card size.  "Really?" The man with the plan asked.  The laptop was placed on top of the blueprint by the older man.  And they all looked at it together.

     It was a sliver of a moon dark where just shapes conjoined make up reality beyond lumens.  Nobody was sleeping.  The young man had gone over things with a different group of authorities.  The dark vehicle pulled forward almost silently.  Some people pulled out their guns and pointed in the direction of it.  From near it came a voice, "Honey, what are you doing here?" 

     "Me?!?"  The young man motioned for people to put their weapons away.  "You think you can just walk away from our campsite and nobody's gonna give a shit??!" Her headlamp put his somewhat pale face in a spotlight. 

     "Oh yeah, we were camping," the young man explained from the stage.  He suddenly looked like a child who'd eaten all the cookies in a cookie jar and a transformer, the way the headlamp was putting shadows above his features in the light.  "They might need my help since 

     "Since you can't keep yourself out of the most dangerous situations in the world????" She looked him up and down with the headlamp.  He just looked like a small man.  Then the headlamp turned and bounced slightly as she told service Overseas, holding riots from spreading, going between groups with missiles and serving sandwiches, that's what he told me he did, just happening to, the headlamp fired back at him, KEEP THE PEACE AT LEAVENWORTH.  Someone made a low Oooooooo noise.  "And now this." She ripped the headlamp off and pointed it at the vehicle door.  "Have you eaten anything? I brought your cooler.  I think your cheese sandwiches are in there." 

     We were sort of on our own then.  Our generation.  Starkly.  Astoundingly.

  "You DID IT!!!!!"  WE were clapping wildly for a person who'd fully raised a leg to beat shuffle-foot.  Some of us busted into tears.  Some part of each of us on the same journey.  Working our whole lives, working for our lives, some of the rollercoaster ride knocking the wind out of us, but choosing TO LIVE.  While a local Mom not remembering everything anymore using the "coping tools".  "Not my bestest day," she smiled and told.  "But you didn't burn the house down," the Helper patted her shoulder.  "It was great, you called us!" 

     "And I put my own diaper on," she winked and covered a giggle.  "We just call those underwear," a competitive Helper said and patted her own padded behind.  They explained their idea of being two competitive Helpers.  "Keeps them all on their toes somehow." 

     "Us too," the other Helper confessed.  "Life around here can get dreary.  Just the slightest tension makes the days more challenging." 

  "Mother!" A son stopped making way to car from grocery store.  "How's your day?" The lady smiled bigger.  "It's really great now.  But who are you?" The man's shoulders visibly slouched.  "Just kidding dear," the mother covered another giggle.  The man asked if he forgot to pay a bill.  "Not that I know of, but, you know..." 

     "How about lunch?!" 

     "We can't afford it," the Helper said.  "And, your mom called us to hang out today.  So that's what we're doing." 

     "Oh, I see."  The parking lot filled with people running errands on lunch.  There was the easy quiet in the conversation that was people past hotblood phase of life.  "Maybe I could go back inside and get us all lunch!" The man stood up straight and almost pointed a finger in the air with idea.  "That would be lovely." The mom said.  

 

The Mystery of The Woolen Sock

     "Alpaca actually," the scientist who'd examined the material with the blood on it corrected.  "Right, alpaca." 

     "Why was it a mystery?"  

     "Did they kill it and eat it?" 

     "The sock, no." The woman was proudly wearing a company logo on her shirt.  "I'd been unable to pick up a pen since finishing my thesis.  But then this happened." She fished out photographs of scuff marks in dirt, looking over the edge of a steep embankment, and what looked like a clump of fur with blood on it.

 

"She's both!!"

    I'd gone with Rorie and her mom to get to my parents at a different campground.  My mom was still suffering from a mysterious illness but a lot of people were helping her at least (i)feel better(i).

     Maybe two miles from where we were we were halted.  "A checkpoint?" 

     "I've heard about those." 

     "This one's got rubber bullets," the strikingly hansome but slimed with cammo makeup man palmed the firearm.  Even pretended to fire it at a "runner" and blew away the smoke.  Then he looked at us very seriously and said, "So much for the smoking gun." 

     "You know, you look a little looney acting that way," Rorie's mom said.  "Maybe so, but," he leaned in close, "I need the work.  Now hand over your passports." 

     "Yeah, we're not doing that," Rorie said. 

     "Are we supposed to?" I asked.  The man swung the gun around on his finger.  "Stop that," Rorie's mom said.  "I dunno.  Let me check the clipboard." He holstered the gun and turned his whole belt around to produce the clipboard.  "Covering my butt," he said. 

     Rorie's mom fished out a neat leather pouch of cigarettes and lighter.  We all lit up.  "Says here," the man stalled to gather his game show character-voice and said again, "Says here, 

     "Yes Andy?" 

     "Do I sound like I'm from Mayberry?" 

     "A little." She blew the cigarette smoke at the back of the clipboard.  Like cloud hitting mountain it only feigned a linger and curled away.  "What's your crystal ball tell you?" Rorie asked. 

     "You're both." Rorie's eyebrows went up and down disguising her reaction which her mom was watching in the rearview mirror.  The man said, "Print and Visual.  We're calling that bi-medial."  He winked a flirt.  "And you're Lara, aren't you?" He'd reached his hand in through the window and made the butthole talk and point.  "Why do you have a butthole on your hand?" He withdrew it.  Put his face inside instead.  "Because I can be a reeeaaallll butthole." 

     He stood up tall and called out, "They're IN." 

     "Did you sign us up for this?" Rorie shoved her mom's shoulder.  "Figured it wouldn't hurt." 

     Rorie and I looked at each other as both our doors were opened from the outside.  "Have fun," Rorie's mom said. 

     The checkpoint-keeper asked, "Would you like to be tortured or experience being in a foxhole first?" 

     "You can't really train for that."  

     "Tell them that!" 

     In a little field a group of people in a sundry of sports equipment were making a racket with pots and pans.  "We gave all the cups to the guys and girl practicing to be gunners." A girl in sweat pants and a tank top reported.  "It looks pretty silly from over here, but with a helmet and vest on, it sounds similar to being shot at!!" 

     

      "She might be trying to doh-mess-tick-ate you," the hairy man hissed the messs part of the word.  He ground the mud more into the bottom of his boot instead of stomping it off.  "I'll take my chances.  She won't be able to," the one with the trimmed beard growled.  "Guess I'll be goin' then." 

     "Ayup." 

     Winter was coming on harder than summer had ended.  The soft glows of leaves yellowing while basking in sunlight were turning trees into silouhetted things.  Like clouds, trees could be given attributes.  (i)Bent Old Fool(i) a local practiced on the trees.  "I won't ever remember all that other stuff about (i)likes(i) and (i)ases(i)," she said.  "But letting Nature show me.  What it is," her voice dropped into reverence.  "I can do that." 

     "You're a real good storyteller too!  Don't forget." 

     "I will try.  You know I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached." 

     "Don't run yourself down.  We've all turned a corner." 

     "Okay," she gave me a gentle smile and picked up her walking stick and made way back to the little gravel road. 

     We had.  Turned a corner.  And it had not been easy.  But we'd gotten children back in school and caught up with shoes on their feet.  We'd matched social work people with "shut ins" and people so "unkempt" the State "might have to step in and relieve you of the burdens you face." We'd had mini-festivals and crafted ourselves silly to help staple community people pay back taxes.  We'd crossed unbearably difficult chasms to talk to one another about "problems" and "issues".  We'd also gotten a next generation war-ready.  There was no doubt that we'd accomplished some stuff.  "Where do we go from here?" Some child doctors from other countries asked a leader leaving the Forest one afternoon.  The question lingered for many of us hanger-oners too.

     "Mr. M., are you angry?" 

     After a grunt and a sigh the man said, "This implies that you had sex with my daughter." 

     The younger man turned purple-reddish in the face.  "And while I understand that as a man, we are talking about (i)my daughter(i)." The younger man's knees buckled then and he stooped into the nearest log, planted his butt, and stared into the air in front of him.  The older man stomped his foot like a charging bull but really it had fallen asleep.

     While the Bimbleys were reconnecting after weeks of extra-famial (i)breakout a little(i), another car drove up.  "They're not gonna just leave us here!"  The normally calm and cool, serious journalist, young woman slammed the door.  "Whaddaya mean?  I thought everything was all set!" 

     "Shit." 

     It wasn't two minutes of smoking the ashtray butts and slamming coffee before they drove up. 

     "Ready?"  A tall woman in a heavy longcoat rolled down the window and asked. She had a darkness about her, not sinister herself, you could tell, but like she was being pressed down on with something dark. 

     "No.  Mom.  I am not."  

     The woman rolled the window up again. 

     "What are we gonna do?  We can't be without you Rorie." 

     "You'll do fine." 

     "NO.  WE WON'T." I slammed a frying pan heating up cooking oil down on a rock almost in the fire.  The splattering oil snapped in the flames and singed my sweater.  Rorie didn't say anything like (i)look what you did stupid(i).  I used the spatula to smear the rest of the oil in the pan.  (i)Just start over(i) the Pastor's voice was in my head from dozens of times, me calm and cool to pitching a fit in thirty seconds.  "What's the good news?" 

     She took a hand out of her jacket pocket.  "He wants us to work it out!"  The little diamond caught the sun and sparkled like Rorie's sudden smile.  "Maybe almost drowning was the clincher." My mind drifted back to that terrifying day.  "But that was by no means on purpose," she added.  All of us hyper-aware that the rocky roads of war had us in carefully guarded territory, mentally well OR....

     

     The muscled man hit his head on a tree branch, startled, as a woman got out of a half re-done Mexican bad ass style towncar, and hollered "Wiley Piles, where are yoooooou?" 

     "Sis!  How'd ya find me?!" 

     "You left a trail of chopped down trees and genuine heartbreak thirty miles long, so, it weren't hard."  She looked down at her feet.  A mismatched set of boots.  "Dammit!  I hate it when I do that."  

     "Could be worse, you could have one sneaker and one boot.  Or a sneaker and a heel.  You'd be like," he threw down the firewood sticks and started limping around and smoking a cigarette all shik.  "Dammit, I hate it when I do that," he mocked.  

     "Well, hon, I see you haven't changed a bit." 

     "I have.  I have." He huffed and started picking up the pieces of firewood.  "Fact, you wouldn't even know me now.  Except you knew where to find me.  Dad's PI's?" 

     "What the, nooooo, there's nobody working for Dad." 

     "Oh sure.  Clearly his brainwashing has gotten to you Sis." 

     "Can I say something here?"  The girl with the broken nose asked.  No answer.  "The grits are done and you're welcome to join me."  Both people flocked to the firepit.