Robert Gable

Chasing Rabbits

            I wonder what’s going on.  There are people here at my house and they are helping my parents in the water.  It is mostly men.  I’m not sure exactly who they are, but they know me.  It is warm and I want to be outside, part of the action.  I’m not allowed in the water.  They have wood and stuff.  They are putting things into the water.  Some of the guys are in the water and others are on land.  I want to join them but mom says no.  It’s okay, because I’m kinda scared of the pond anyway.  It’s big and there’s fish in it.  There’s a pile of dirt in front of my house.  I’m told that it came from digging the pond.  I don’t care where it came from because it’s fun to play on. 

            It takes the guys a long time to finish it, but they put a brand new bridge up so you can walk from one side of the pond to the other.  It crosses between the large part of the pond and the small part.  My dad seems happy to show my mom and brother and me.  We can walk on it.  I’m scared, but it’s still fun.  If you stand on the bridge you can see fish in the water under it.  They swim back and forth like the bridge isn’t there.  The bridge goes up and down on either side and is flat over the water.  I can see myself if I lean over the edge and look down.  I’m all wavy.  I look up at all the adults surrounding me.  They are happy with what they’ve done.  I want to be happy too, but no one sees me down here.

            In the summer my dad likes to drive me, his oldest son, around on our golf cart.  It is white and has three wheels.  Even though the machine doesn’t go that fast I get scared.  I don’t like to show my dad how scared I am so I squeeze the handle and clench my jaw.  One time we were in Disney World on Space Mountain and my dad was holding my hand because he thought I would be scared.  As we flew through the darkness he started squeezing my hand harder.  It started to hurt so I tried telling him.  But he thought I was screaming because I was really scared.  So the more I screamed the harder he squeezed.  My dad is really strong.

I like it when he lets me ride in the front with him.  He drives around the large property we live on.  In the middle of the property is a pond.  It’s deep, like 20 feet I think.  Since it’s summer the raft is floating in the middle.  The pond has two parts.  The larger part is the one that is 20 feet deep and has the raft.  There is a smaller part that appears like a growth off the larger part.  It is usually overgrown with seaweed.  We don’t rake there because no one swims in that part.  Crossing the water between the two parts is a wooden bridge.  Each end is on the land and looks like a ramp.  Across the water the bridge is flat. 

The wind blows through my hair as we speed around the property.  There are trails through a field behind the pond.  There is also the openness of the apple orchard.  My favorite is zipping through the trails.  Sometime you have to duck so a stray branch doesn’t whack you.  My dad pulls through each turn just like he has a hundred times before.  Both of us have these trails memorized.  Sometimes we see animals in the trees and on the trails.  There are occasionally deer and snakes, but mostly rabbits.  If I see a rabbit when I’m walking the trails I try and catch it.  I sneak up on them at first and when I get real close they take off.  I run after them but never catch any.   

The best part of the trails is flying out of them.  The vegetation has grown so high that we can see nothing besides what is directly in front of us.  I feel like I’m in the Batmobile flying out of the Batcave as we exit the field.  The confinement of the narrow trails adds a certain feeling of freedom to the ride across open grass. 

I wonder as we approach the pond whether this will be one of those times my dad tries to cross the bridge.  The golf cart is about as wide as the bridge is.  This affords little room for error.  It’s not that I don’t trust my dad’s driving, but the tiniest thing can send us into the water.  I can tell by the look on his face that he is planning on crossing the bridge.  My fear must now find a voice.  I plead with him as he races toward the water.  He assures me everything will be okay.  My whining and screaming are to no avail.  I look to the side as we race across.  I see the big, white cart reflected in the water.  The reflection doesn’t seem to be going as fast as we are, like it’s from a different time.  And in the front seat leaning as far back as possible is me.  I watch my young self fly by.  When I look forward again we are safely on the other side.  My dad’s tan face is smiling.  The hair in the back of his head is wild from the ride.  He doesn’t have any hair on top of his head.  I watch him and he seems happy.  I’m happy too, but my heart is still beating as fast as those rabbits I sometimes try to catch.

It has become practically a routine now.  The tackleboxes and poles are right inside the garage because we’ve been using them so much.  Me and Renny each grab a pole and tacklebox a piece.  We have to have our own because we’d fight over one.  Then we walk down to the bridge (except for those odd days we venture out to the raft).  Once there, we prepare our bait and tell each other what part of the pond we’re aiming for so we don’t cross the lines.  We never really catch much.  It’s probably because we talk too much and scare all the fish away.  I don’t even know if I like fishing, but Renny does.  I just feel like I have to be the best at everything, so here I am, casting and waiting.  If I catch more fish than him then that’ll prove I’m better.  I can see my reflection in the water.  I’m wearing old clothes and have messy hair.  It doesn’t matter though because it’s summer and I can do what ever I want.  I see Renny looking through his tacklebox for a better lure.  He is careful about his choice and makes sure everything gets back in its place.  He enjoys fishing, and that is why he wins.

My parents are older and far busier than when I was younger.  They live on 19 acres, five of which are maintained.  It takes hours most days of the week to mow the lawn, and as soon as the yard is done it is time to begin again.  No one swims in the pond any more so there is really no need to rake it or put the raft out.  The bridge, which used to be an accent on the glistening water, is now an eyesore.  Its support has collapsed, and it is ready to fall into a watery grave.  I feel like I need to help my parents in some way as pay back for raising me well.  I recently offered to come home for a while and try to remove the monstrosity that our bridge has become.  It has been years since it has been able to safely support people.  I felt uneasy about the whole project because that bridge is part of my childhood.  I remember being young, and fragmented scenes of people putting the bridge together.  The only face that is clear is my father’s.  I find it odd that what he worked so hard to build, I am now planning on taking down. 

It is early in the day and I feel the deconstruction should begin immediately.  I walk through my parent’s huge garage and gather an assortment of tools that I place in a wheelbarrow and roll down to the pond.  Renny is now employed full time, a feat I have yet to accomplish despite the two-year advantage I have on him.  He seems to work all the time now, so I can’t count on him to help.  My sister Rikki has agreed to help me.  As I walk to the middle of the bridge I am still not certain about my decision.  I wedge the curved end of the crowbar between two boards and pause before prying.  The air is bitter and the sky over cast.  I feel the cold metal in my hands when I look down.  There is no reflection in the dark water today.  I pull and the board comes up surprisingly easy.  I toss it to my sister who is on the shore then move to the next one.  The next couple hours are a haze of sweat, prying, and flying boards.  I realize now all of the surface boards, the ones that made the bridge useable and attractive, are gone that I won’t be able to remove the support beams and foundation, at least not alone.  A vague memory of several men working together to put the bridge in comes to mind. 

Before he even said anything I could feel my dad behind me.  He was home on his lunch break and wanted to see how things were going.  I stopped working and walked over to him.  I’m taller than he is and just larger all round.  But despite his age he still surprises me with how strong he is.

“Make sure you remove all the nails from the boards,” he tells me.  “And why don’t you stack them behind the barn when you’re done.”

“No problem.”  I look over to where he means to make sure there’s room.

“How are you going to get those support beams out?” he asks now standing by the water.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”

He is silent for a moment.  My father is a very reserved man, but I know there is something inside there that wants out.

“I’ll have Renny get a few of his friends and we’ll do it next week.”  He says this but I know it won’t happen.  He works full time at one job and two to three days a week at another.  My brother is 20 and works full time.  He spends his free time hanging out with friends like he should.  It would be a miracle if they could coordinate their schedules.  And even if they did, I doubt they’d have the motivation.  The whole family is older and more time is spent inside than out.

My dad goes up to the house to have lunch.  I watch him as he goes.  He doesn’t really have that spring in his step anymore.  He walks more like he’s carrying sandbags on his shoulders.  His face looks strained and his eyes show all fifty years he’s been alive.  But those age marks disappear when he sees one of his children succeed.  Like the justification of life he’s been waiting for.  And his joy in our accomplishment is a mirror that reflects his pride.  During holidays and other family events is when my father is truly happy.  It’s those times when I can look at him and see the child he once was, the child that wasn’t carrying any sandbags.  I sometimes want to tell him that if he needs help with the load that I’m here.  But he’s always wanted to do things himself. 

I still feel weird about destroying something my father made.  Maybe I should have spent more time trying to figure out a way to fix the bridge instead of just removing it.  The three thick beams lay across the water, separate yet connected.  At one end the wood has fallen so far that it is now gently kissing the water.  I can see my reflection now and I look older, more distant.  My dad can be found in my face, mostly in my eyes.  I decide that I can’t completely finish this project until I get my dad’s help.  Throughout my life the most time my dad and I have spent together is when we are working on some project.  I now wonder if removing this bridge is just a way of creating another project.