Eventually he turns left onto a dirt path that winds back and back and back through the blackness. Not so much as a firefly glow pierces the dark. Dense walls formed by fields of corn rise up on either side of the path. We all laugh. The leaves are slapping against the car doors and coming in through the open windows as we pass.
I'm directed to a flannel sleeping bag already rolled out on the wide plank floor.
In the morning I step outdoors onto the front porch of this ancient farm house.
I see lush open meadows, gently rolling fields surrounded by forest in all directions. I'm standing in the middle of a huge natural bowl. A large flock of sheep wanders close enough that I can hear the sound of the grass being ripped away from the earth as they graze. Listen.
A new sound. A new world....
...to be continued.
This memoir began with the June 8 post and chronicles early influences in this 'Art Life'...that is loved so dearly.
This closes the chapter on a particular rite of passage. Thank you for your kind emails and inquiries. The three 'Angels from Hell' (as I came to think of them) were killed in the coming year. Two of them by police during a raid the other in a gang fight.