Amanda Layne

 

I remember that it was hot, and unfortunately the feeling of the sun scorching my skin through the rolled-down car window has seemed to fog up my memory of what I am at least certain was not a cloudy day. Sometimes the heat is so overpowering that it obstructs consciousness, painting mirages in your mind; eyes glazing as if two swirling starry nights are attached to each pupil.

We kept climbing higher and higher up the mountain, creeping deeper into the thick of the park. I am innately drawn to ancient things, probably because my soul really is as old as I’ve always been told it is. So, when I found out that there were ruins of a centuries old stone castle left crumbling in a Missouri state park, I quickly convinced my family that our spontaneous trip to the Ozarks wouldn’t be complete without paying Ha Ha Tonka a visit. I will admit that I am a bit relentless when it comes to wanting to go everywhere and see everything, though I’d argue that the power of astrology is stronger than my own free will. I think my fellow Sagittarius’s would agree that we often plan our next trip when we’re already on vacation.

So far, we had explored a cave, laid out at a beach barely big enough to fit us all, and eaten fresh fried fish sandwiches at what was called the best summer break bar in the entire Midwest. Most recently, we had pulled off the road and gotten out of the car to settle our gazes upon the view of the grand Osage River from above, a vast expanse of glittery blue water littered with sunlight, contrasting the green, grassy bank. When we turned around to head back to the car, we noticed that a skinny wooden table with a dark glossy finish and curved legs had appeared nestled between two flowering trees on a small hill just a few yards from the parking lot. Upon approaching the piece of furniture and inspecting it more closely, we saw that not only was it almost comically out of place, but set on top of it was a delicate, lacy white runner, a pair of matching metal candlesticks that had yet to be lit, and a Bible with a brown leather cover that had visible signs of loving wear and tear. Just then, a car door slammed shut and a man appeared from behind a black vehicle and began to make his way towards us. With each step he took forward we in equal measure backed away, both out of respect, apprehension, and embarrassment for our nosiness.

To our relief, he was not wearing a look of irritated disdain, but instead a genuine grin was plastered across face. “Hi there,” he said, his voice gravelly but kind and his hands carrying a handful of more perplexing miscellaneous materials.

We exchanged pleasant greetings, after which he addressed the elephant in the room – or more appropriately the table in the shrubbery – without us needing to ask first. “I know you’re probably wondering what the heck I’m doing out here – I would be too.”

We laughed and nodded, eagerly awaiting what was sure to be an interesting and entertaining explanation.

“Well, you see, I’m actually the pastor of the local church up the road, and you happened to come by right as I was getting ready for a wedding,” he said; this time, I could feel the corners of my own mouth perk up ever so slightly. It had been a long time since that had happened.

We asked him more about his work, to which he told us that he had done this many times before, often for young lovers who have the desire to be wed but not the money or the support of their families for a big day, or couples who have been together for so many years they are married by life but not by law, and decide on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon that they want to officially tie-the-knot and file the paperwork.

I took a good, long look at that table and thought about all of the souls it had seen the pastor tie together, peacefully and harmoniously uniting them under the boughs of those two trees with the Osage quietly trickling by in the distance. There may have been a few guests there, or maybe it was just the two of them, with no one to bear witness to the ceremony but the pastor and God himself.

There’s something about the way that things are done in a small town that makes me desperately crave to become lost and live a simple life, though it’s been made clear to me over the years that it’s not the kind I’m meant to lead.

It was actually the pastor who had suggested that we take a drive up to Ha Ha Tonka, enthralling me with the notion of the toppling fortress. He told us that he and his wife would bring their children there when they were young, and how the two of them went back every weekend even after their kids were grown. Now it was just him and he couldn’t make the hike like he used to. And so, we left with goodbye and parted ways, ending up squared away in the parking space and bracing ourselves with a little A/C courage to face the fiery temperatures we’d be sure to encounter on the path to the palace.

As we got out of the car we noticed that there was a plum purple minivan idling a few spots down. Almost instantly the automatic door slid open, revealing a thin, older woman whose once blonde hair was beginning to gray though she didn’t try to hide it. It didn’t appear like she had worried too much about SPF over the years, as her skin was more sun-smothered than it was sun-kissed. I thought for a moment about how each freckle, each wrinkle or line could tell a story about separate parts of her life. She had a bold, eclectic style and a warm, comforting aura about her, dressed in bright yellow and blue denim, with a multitude of colorful braided bracelets dangling from both of her tiny wrists.

“Well, how’re ‘ya doin’?” she asked us, her voice sweet with a twang that wasn’t quite Southern; I guess you could call it Missourian. “I’m Marigold, but everyone calls me Mari, and sitting there in the driver’s seat is my good-for-nothin’, sack-a-bones, most dearest husband Terrence.”

 

A smiling, heavy-set man rolled down the front window, a blast of cold air shooting out. “Terry. And sorry I’m not getting out; it’s hotter than Hades out there and I’m not ready to go to Hell just yet.”

 

Mari and Terry beamed at each other, and we all laughed, even me. I quickly felt like I had known these people all my life despite just meeting them, convinced they were my long lost third set of grandparents.

 

Mari asked us where we were travelling from, and then told us how her and Terry were heading home from Chickasaw Country Oklahoma, where they had just spent a lively day at the Rush Springs Watermelon Festival. She then popped open the van’s trunk and reached into one of several coolers stashed in the back.

 

“You may think you have tasted a good piece of watermelon before, but you haven’t really until you’ve tried this kind,” Mari said, opening a plastic baggy and handing us each a small slice of cool, crisp sunshine that cut through the oven-like heat surrounding us.

 

I’d struggle to believe that Mari has ever been wrong about anything in her lifetime, and the orange watermelon was no exception. Ever since I bit into it, the regular kind has always seemed slightly underwhelming and rather disappointing, unable to rise to the same level no matter how hot a summer day became and how desperately you needed refreshing.

 

The pair went on to tell us about their experience at the fest; 151 pounds took first place that year,
“a genuine ruby champion” according to Mari. She still believed it couldn’t compare to what we had just eaten, however, to which I would have to agree.

 

I asked her about her bracelets, and she explained that they were all made by her grandkids, and she wore them every day so that they would always stay close to her heart. I don’t think she needed them as a token to remind her of them, though, for her memory was still what it used to be despite her age and all the time that had gone by.

 

In fact, she remembered countless adventures – and which ones were her favorite – that she and her husband had been on since they retired. She could tell you endless stories of her jobs and her grandchildren and of the two sons she shared with Terry, and then still of nearly forty years of marriage right down to their wedding day. She could even recall her memories as a little girl in a rural Wyoming town, raised half by her father and half by the Cheyenne Tribe at a nearby reservation. Her father had also grown up in that town and was the best of friends with an indigenous man, who eventually had children of his own that became Mari’s comrades. She told us that it was very rare for white people to have a relationship with native folks like that, but that it was even rarer for people to treat others with kindness.

 

Mari learned from an early age how to love the Earth and her neighbors, how to condemn hatred and let go of worry, how to grow from past mistakes but never forget the painful trail taken to get there, and how to turn that pain into strength. She was taught that respect is never bought and always earned, to never expect and you will not know disappointment, how to have such complete faith in the moment that the future doesn’t come to mind and to follow in Mother Nature’s footsteps. She knew how to spot any constellation even if the night sky wasn’t always so clear, and that family means so much more than blood. Mari had gone through many changes in her life, but she always remained that same little girl at heart, and although her body had aged I could still see her without difficulty as she spoke to us.

 

Mari let us in on it all, unknowingly helping to heal a stranger’s struggling heart in the process.

 

Before we went our separate ways, Terry gifted us each a different stone that he had collected during their journeys, explaining in detail what each one was and where he found it throughout the country. I was given a rock that mimics a rose, both in shape and shade. I’ve kept it in my possession so that I will always have a piece of them to hang on to, though stone or no stone I know that their memory will never stray far from my mind even if our paths don’t cross again in this lifetime.

 

We went on to make the short hike to the castle ruins, but when we reached our final destination I saw something unexpected. Sure, there were some remnants of walls and piles of rocks laying in the spots they fell, but instead I saw what wasn’t there: the people who made that house a home, whose voices echoed off those very same walls. I realized then that the individuals and experiences and things we cherish in life make up our outer shells, but you must step inside if you want to find true meaning or joy or love, because it cannot be supplied or bought or found anywhere else. If you’re looking for an answer, it will always lie with you.

 

 

Ever since I met her, I’ve been living more and more of my life through the perspective of Marigold’s lens. I’ve found meaning in music beyond the lyrics, letting the notes rattle through my bones and with the feeling as though even infinite lifetimes is not long enough to sing those melodies. I can see beauty in the in-between where I once saw insurmountable darkness, comfortable with not knowing what’s next other than it’s what’s meant to be. I’ve become comfortable with what I like and who I am, knowing that person is going to change many more times, and it only matters that I will continue to see her for who she is without fail. After all, I wouldn’t have known how delicious orange watermelon was if I’d never tried it for fear of being different.