One of my favorite hiking places is the beautiful Lower Lake Cemetery in Lake County. The grounds are stunningly beautiful and the staff is always friendly and helpful. We say hello to each other in respectful ways as they go about the sacred duty of keeping the graves clean and neat while I attend to my own walking meditations.
Sometimes I stop and pause at a new grave, flowers piled on top of a small hill of dirt, but mostly I just walk, head bowed, on the paved roads keeping my heart rate up, my thoughts and my eyes to myself. I usually go in the mornings, but I have been there at each and every hour of the day trying to fit my small trek in whenever I can. Usually at least one person is also there, but sometimes not. Nevertheless, I have never, ever felt alone or afraid. Except for one summer evening.
It was late August when I stopped after driving all day doing errands, and at last, at twilight, I finally gave my dogs and me a break. I drove though the gates, down the dusty road, turned left and parked under the first tree.
We took off at a brisk clip as the dogs ran ahead, sniffing and peeing, rolling in the damp grass trying hard to get the most out of their only bit of freedom. Wandering up and down the gentle slopes, the car was quickly behind us. Returning, a half-hour later, I saw a beat-up low-rider kind of car, parked right behind mine. Several young men were standing in a clump in front of a headstone.
“Oh, God,” I thought to myself, “Now what?”
These young men looked like trouble to me. They were all about 20 or so, with giant shirts and low crotched pants hanging almost to their knees. Most had backward baseball caps on and I could see even from the distance of a hundred feet of so, many of them had tattoos on the side of their necks. One of them, the leader I guessed, was holding a square red box in his hands rummaging around in it.
“Definitely gang members,” I summarized, “I am in big trouble.”
This realization did nothing to calm my fears but instead only served to raise them as I remembered I had left my keys, my cell phone, indeed my whole purse open on the seat of my unlocked vehicle.
My mind raced with different plans but none seemed plausible. Running away was out of the question. I took a furtive look around and saw that except for them and me, dead people were the only souls in the whole cemetery.
Quickly deciding the best thing to do is pretend I hadn”t a care in the world; I plastered a big smile on my middle-aged face. With my best “mom” voice, I loudly said, “Hey, you guys! What cha doin”? Nice evening, huh?”
I thought I heard some snickers, but was too terrified to make any sort of eye contact. I kept my head low, my arms at my side. It had been a long time since I was scrutinized by a group of young males. I felt my face get red, and my pulse race as I moved steadily toward the back door of my small SUV.
“Come on dogs, get in, up you go,” I babbled, trying to stuff the dogs into the back area, close the door and move to the driver”s side as fast as I could. “Well, see ya, ha, ha. Have a great time! Bye!”
“Hey!” the one I had pegged as the leader said, “Hold on a sec. Come”er. I wanna show you sum”m.”
“Oh, that”s okay,” I said quickly, lying though my teeth as I continued, “No time today to see anything. Nope, must get home. My husband and three grown policeman sons will come looking for me if I”m not home in a few minutes. My, will you look at the time. Sorry, gotta go!”
My words faded as I saw him come around the front of the car, the rest of the gang moving toward the back and sides.
“It”ll just take a second, really,” He said holding out the metal box to me. “Look. It”s cool.”
What could I do? I knew I had absolutely no choice. I peered inside and there beneath a layer of waxed paper were a bunch of cookies.
“Wow!” I said, stating the obvious, “Cookies.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Cookies. Chocolate Chip. Want one?”
My hand went toward the offered goodies as I asked,
“Well ? okay ? what”s up with the cookies?”
“Yeah, well, me and my boys drive up from the Bay Area about once a month to visit our homie here. Know”m I”m sayin”?”
He turned to the grave and motioned to a large grey headstone with a bench in front of it. “His grandma leaves us cookies.”
“You guys come up here to visit this grave?” I said as I took a few steps and looked closely at the picture imbedded into the granite. “This young man here?” I questioned, “And someone leaves you cookies for your trip?”
“Yep,” he answered, “his Gram. So, we just hang, tell him what”s been up with us lately, smoke some, eat cookies, kick back for a little while, then we head out. We remember him, so we want him to know that. So ? you know ? that”s what we do, you know.”
I came around and sat down on the bench, once again looking at
the photo.
“Yeah,” I said, my eyes tearing up, “That”s so great. Wanna tell me about him?”
They did want to. I listened as they told me about a teenaged boy, who played baseball like a champ, who was really, really funny and only a couple years before had been suddenly struck down in his prime. He was their buddy, “their brother from another mother” whom they all missed with a longing not often talked about between males, especially young males. It was sweet, touching and life affirming. We sat there for a while, eating cookies and talking. Then, as the shadows got longer and deeper, I made a move to leave.
I said goodbye and walked over to my car. Getting in, one of the boys called out to me, “Hey, lady. You shouldn”t leave all your stuff just lying out on your seat like that. You never know who might be hanging around. I mean, we”re nice, but you didn”t know that.”
“No, I certainly didn”t,” I remarked. “I was wrong about a lot of things today.”
Driving away I shook my head just how wrong I had been to judge those men by their covers of baggy shirts, droopy pants, inked skin and ill fitting hats when what was hidden, and not too well after all, were young hearts and souls, true and pure.
Laurelee Roark, MA, is the co-founder of Beyond Hunger, Inc. (wwwbeyondhunger. org) and is the co-author of “It”s Not About Food” (Putnam, 1999) and “Over It” )New World Library, 2000). She is a member of the Lakeside Writers Group, which earlier this year self-published its first anthology, Reads/Reeds (Iuniverse, 2006). Her new book, “Your Name Is Edith, A Mother and Daughters Love Story,” will be out in 2007. She lives in Lake County and works in San Rafael.
