The Battle of Jake Was Here
Oh Mama.
This is an essay about one day in my life as a mom that took place over a decade ago. It just spilled out of me, as though it had happened yesterday.
All at once, spilling out of the silver mini-van, two brothers and their dog named Kitty run full-tilt toward the end of the road. I don’t even stop to lock the van; I close all the doors and race after them, calling out, “Wait for me!” I take a deep breath in and out and then charge after my boys and our dog. You would think the trio had jetpacks because they’re already entering the redwood forest, a football field’s length ahead of me.
The trailhead begins between two ancient redwood trees. I spy dust clouds puffing up in their wake as they race each other down the steep, narrow trail. Somehow, they all remain upright despite the shocking velocity at which they seem to be traveling and the fact that they have bare feet. They always have bare feet. We are headed to The Battle of Jake Was Here, a rocky “beach” along the Aptos Creek where my kids like to have imaginary battles and where we once saw the words “Jake was here” scratched onto a rock. Our mission here is to run free, climb trees, skip rocks, and hoot ‘n holler so these three can discharge their batteries before dinner and bedtime.
The brothers and dog are already covered in the day’s joyous filth; paint, chicken shit, and blackberries, so when they splash right into the creek, I am not bothered that they will soon be covered in mud and sand, too. I can breathe more deeply in this redwood forest. My boys and dog can, too. No volume too loud, no motion too wild. There are no “Proper Police” in the forest to admonish anyone for not being still or quiet, having bare feet, or not having clean fingernails. I am contemplating this freedom and the beauty of the forest when I suddenly notice I cannot see my children. Moments ago, I had my eyes on them running through the creek and onto the trail in front of me. They’ve vanished.
“Up here! Mum! Up here!”
I look up. Twenty feet up on a young, swaying tree, I see both boys making their way up, up, up. Coleman holding on with one arm and waving excitedly with the other. Kitty, the dog watching from the base of the tree. I’m momentarily confused by the construct of time and the height of that young tree supporting both boys.
“That’s high enough, guys. Come on down, now. We have to walk Kitty.” I say calmly but forcefully.
Rapidly–because that’s how they do things– they make their way down that tree, bare feet and bare hands grabbing onto the young tree’s bark and branches. It’s as though this forest, that tree, is touching them back, minding their descent. Feet on the forest floor now, we all head to the rocky beach called The Battle of Jake Was Here. Coleman, Max, Kitty, and me. We are part of this forest, and it is part of us.
