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AutumnRivers
Prof.Scherer
English101
6 October2014
Mushrooms Grow Higher than Grass
915 CountyRoute 46: the farmhouse.Notime needed:toengulf timewithin,solongasI live.
We movedtothe farmhouse whenIwasfive yearsold.Ido not recall the date.I know itwas
whenI wasfive forone reasononly:I wasmade to returnto kindergarten.WhenIhadattended
kindergarteninthe previoustown,Ihadbeenone of the youngest.Mybirthdate hadbeen rightaround
the cutoff for admittance, Ihadjust made that cut. I was now one of the oldestinmyclass. I was never
toldthe fine detailsof beingheldback, onlysomethingaboutsocial abilitiesandnotbeingable to
interactwell.Bullshit.
By the time that I wasseven,give ortake a year,we had transformedthisone hundredand
twentyyearoldhouse intoa masterpiece of freshpaintandnew structures; restoringthe batteredold
and abandonedshelterintoabeautiful and sturdy home.We hadalso acquiredtwentyfive acresof land
to go withit.I still have picturesfromthe firstsummeraftermyfatherandstepmotherhad purchased
the home.My sisterand I hadbeensentto ourmother’scompanyinNiagaraFallsthat summer.You
wouldn’tbelieve the transformationthathouse made inthatamount of time. My fatherand step
motherhad builtaverylarge front porch in the place of a few concrete stepsleadingtothe frontdoor.
The barns were painted, towhatI imagine wastheiroriginal color.They hadbecome adull pink thatwe

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couldsee the brownish-greyof the wood through.Theirrenewed colorwas a bright, vibrantred. The
windowsillsandtrimming aroundthe house wasscrapedof itsworn,white,crumblingdisaster, and
paintedgreen.The house was re paintedanice cleanwhite.The structure thatresembled whatonce
may have been arock wall, separatingthe yardfromthe road, was rebuilttoitsmagnificentpotential.
The previousrockwall wasabout tworocks highand tworocks wide,withrocksmissinginvarious
places.There were some placesthatwere missing all theirrocks,leavinggapswide enoughtowalka
strollerthrough. The newrockwall,builtaroundthe oldone as a base,wasabout five rockshighand
three rocks wide.All the gapswere filled.Thiswas the waya real rock wall shouldlook. Irememberthe
outside atfirstapproach verywell, butthe insideof the house,beforerenovation, escapesmymemory.
Vividpicturesof the insidedonotflashsporadically tomypresentself,likethe vividpicturesof the land
and barnsdo. But I am toldthat itundertook extensivereparations,givingitawhole new look.
My favorite additionof all wasthe mailbox.Itwas a beautiful mock of a barn,whichwas the
perfectrepresentative of ournewhome. Itwasa woodenmailbox,whichadded tothe authenticity.I
neverlikedplasticmailboxes:theyare lifeless,bigandbulky,andproducedonanassemblylineina
factorysomewhere.Ibelievemailboxesshouldbe worksof art,producedandpaintedbyhand,
mimickingthatwhichtheyhold.Iam speakingaboutletters; people pouringouttheirsoulslike an
abstract paintingona white canvas,handwritten,resonatingtheirspirit. The holderof such
monumental archivesof individualhistory shouldbe justasbeautiful asthatwhichitholds. Ourbarn
mailbox wasthe brightredlike ourbarnsthemselves.It hadwhite trimmingaroundthe opening,
depictingbarndoorsand the crisscrossdesignonthe bottomhalf of the doors. The top waswood
shingles,eachlayerunderneaththe nextuntil youreachedthe toppointof the roof. I lovedthat
beautiful mailbox,andlovedfetchingthe mail fromwithinit.OnSaturdaysmysisterandI wouldrace to
the mailbox,eacheagertobe the firsttoretrieve the paintingsfromwithin.Mostof the time,Ihoped
the letters wouldbe fromone of my brothersservingtime. Ihave fourbrothers andtwoof themwere in

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a prisonsomewhere.Ilovedtheirsouls;Ilovedtheirletterstellingvividstoriesaboutresolutionsthey
wishedhadcome to themsooner.
Onlythe before andafterpicturescouldmake youunderstand whatmyparentssaw in that
house. Irememberthe grassat firstencounter.Itamazedme then,the grass.It grew higherthan the
brokenVictorianwindowheads onthe firstfloor.Ohmy, those windowsandthatgrass!I had never
encounteredajungle before,butIimaginedthiscouldbe the conceptmyelders wantedme tograsp.
It was inthe deepwoodspastthe variousmeadows —overthe ridge andthrough the narrow
pathsthat were mowed aboutonce a year,but mostlykepttempered byourconstanttrudging—that
my sisterandI spentthe bulkof our time running,growing,andlaughing. The restof ourtime,besides
eating,sleepingandschooling,wasspentinthe firstmeadow behindourhouse andthe secondbarn
justbehindthe meadow.
Everyday afterschool and brightandearlyon weekends, assoonas the sunseepedthroughthe
treesgivinglighttothe greensandbrownsandgreysof the woods,mysisterand I wouldrunto our
freedomamongthe colors. There were redsinthe wildstrawberrypatchesthatgrew sporadically,green
inthe flourishinggrass,vines,andmossthatgrew everso elegantlyamongthe greysof the rocks,brown
treesgrowingtowardsthe blue skies,andthe tranquil clearsof the creeks,revealingmore colorsbelow
them. The leavesinautumn’seve hungandfell, paintingthe mightytreesandcarpetingthe pathswe
walkedinawe.Itwas,for us,an escape intoa worldwe had created,a world all our own. Andwe were
imaginative. Indeed,we werethe Di Vinci’sandFranklin’sof the fieldsandwoods.
One worldwe frequented oftenwasthatof mystical elvesandmagical mushrooms. We were in
a constant state of peril,pitted againstthe humankind. Humanswere onaconstant huntfor us,
infuriatedatourdifferencesandjealousof ourpowers.Theycouldnotfathomourpowers, until one
had come incontact withus. The humanhad seen ususingmagic througha clearinginsome brush.We

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were enchantingasmall pebble,andturned the pebble intoagiantfruitbearingtree.The humanran
back to hisclan andreported hisfindingstothe others.Thiswasthe beginningof the human’spursuitof
us.They were outto capture us and exploitourpowersfortheirowngardens.We knew they would
abuse the powers,andupsetthe balance of nature,so we ran fromthem.We were notviolentelves.
We didnotbelieve in harmingotherlivingthings,andonly didsointhe direstsituationsof self-defense.
The trampoline inthe firstmeadow behindourfarmhouse was,toourelf form, ourhome.But
it wasno trampoline.Itwasa giantmushroomwhichwe hadenchanted. Ourmushroomhutwas
virtuallyimpenetrablebythe humankind. Enchantmentsmade itinvisible tothe humaneye.Itwas our
safe haven. Andwhata fortress itwas. We wouldjumponit as if we were fallingfromthe roof into its
soft,roomyinterior.Occasionally,whenwe gota pinchfromthe springs,itmeantthat the mushroom
hut hadmistakenusfor a humanthat had somehow brokenthe invisibleenchantment. Ourlastdefense
was the shocksour guardian’sexteriorwouldadministertoanyhumanable to breakthe enchantment.
Our bedrooms were underneaththe trampoline, Imean,underneaththe mushroomheadinthe stalk. It
was here thatrocks and sticksandbowlsof crushedup leafsbecame potionsandweaponswe crafted
for our defense.Once equipped,the true adventuresbegan.
Abouttenyards fromthe mushroomhutsat our most trustedmeansof transportation.A
strangerwouldcall ita rustyoldand brokendowntractor. It hadbeenone of my father’sbuycheap,fix
laterprojectsthathe had nevergottento. To mysisterand me,itwas the perfect“getaway”
contraption.Of course,we hadmade it usingmagic.Its life hadactually begunasan acorn,until we gave
the acorn the meaningithadbeensearchingfor, it’spurpose.If Ihadn’tmentioned,mysisterandIalso
possessedthe abilitytotalktoALL livingthings.
Someone else wouldhave probablyshoutedoutinworryat a childfor playingonthe rustyold
tractor. It was a verylarge tractor, a verylarge and rust covered tractor. Through the rust coating,we

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couldmake out a fadedred-pinkishcolor.I rememberthe climbtothe seat.It was a strenuous climb, to
say the least.Iam onlyfive foottall at the age of twenty-two,imaginelittle ol’me atsix or seven. The
real kickerwasthe size of the twowheels.Theywere giantsof toughtexture.There were rubber
extrusions, stretchmarks, andachain clingingtothe rubber.Those tireswere roughandrugged,andwe
lovedthem.
My sisterwasalwaysthe driverbecause itwasherprivilegeforbeingthe olderof the twoof us.
(Note,the tractordidn’trun,thiswas imagineddriving,andourelf life consistedof alotof privilege for
the oldand wise.) She insistedthatwe neededalookout,andthat I was bestat thisjob. So naturally,
my place wason the back endlookingout.Ididn’treallymindthough.Ina way,I ratherenjoyedbeing
my sister’sside kickbackthen.
It was deepinthe woodsamongthe creeksandgiant bouldersthatthe real danger was
presented. Oh,butthe thrill of balancingacrosstreesthathad fallen,climbingaslipperyboulder,and
stoppingformuchneededwaterfromthe creeks!Itrulycame alive inthose woods.All the while,the
humanspursuedusrelentlessly,of course.Hoursata time we wouldspendthere,nosoundstodisturb
us butthe chirpof a bird,screamof a squirrel,twigscrackingbeneathourmightysteps,andlaughter
betweenmysisterandI.Onour way back upwe wouldstopat anotherof our favorite places:abarn
that we had helpedbuild.
Up to the secondfloorof that strangelyshapedbarnwe wouldgo.Isay strangelyshaped
because we hadnot builtitto looklike atraditional “haybarn”.It was more rectangularthansquare and
the roof hada slightslantdownfromone highpointto the low point.Itwasnot a triangle at the top like
itspredecessorabitcloserto the house.The “oldbarn”, we calledit, wasthere whenwe movedin.We
wouldclimbtothe secondstory,the stairs were verynarrow andeach stairwas far apart fromthe next,
and we wouldshimmydownarope tiedtoa roof beam.We shimmieddownthroughahole inthe

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middle of the barnthat was meantforhay, or tyingupmy father’sdeer,whicheverwasconvenientfor
the season. Ourstop at the strange barn, withthe climbupthe steepstairsandshimmydownthe rope,
was the cherryon top of our adventure mostdays, andour mostdaring feat!
Eventually,thingsbegantodrasticallychange,like theyusuallydo. Mysisterpickedupvarious
hobbiesatschool;I pickedupa bottle anda joint.My sisterpickedupa boyfriend,andshortlyafter,
movedintoan apartmentwithhim;Ipickedupa nasty habitof takingoff for a weekor twoat a time.
No longerdidwe visitthe woodswe once spentall ourtime admiring.Afterthe divorce,sovanishedthe
farmhouse aswell.
It isonlynowthat I have developedafull appreciationof the time spentat the farmhouse.It
was a place my fatherandstepmotherhad putall their dreamsand ambitionsinto.We builtitupfrom
scratch. The house and the landtransformedintothisbeautiful scene withthe perfectscenery.We had
done all the workourselves,frombuildingontothe house towarmingthe house.Irememberour
wintersthere.Eachfall we were taskedwithfillingthe carvedoutstone anddamp cellarwithlogs.We
were paida pennya logto stack it aftermyfatherand stepmotherhad cut down the treesand
manually splitthem.Eachof us,my sisterandme,were givenapile.(A pile thatseemedenormous tous
back then.) Don’tletthe pennyalog descriptiondeceive you,we hadnochoice inthe matter. I would
usuallyendupstackinghalf of my sister’sforher.She wasa princess,indeed.
Afterthe changes came,I was soeagerto leave thatplace.Now,Iam soeagerto revisitit,if
onlyinmy dreams. Itis at that farmhouse thatso manyof my earliestandmostheartfeltmemories
linger.Iknownow, that despite anybadthathad beenexperienced,the onlypicturethatdepictsitself
inmy mindis that of adventure andlove andthe happiestof pictures;a picture of mysister.Thisisa
picture I will holdforever,above time.

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Nottoo longago, my yearningbroughtme todrive tothe farmhouse.WhatIfoundthere was
nothinglike the picture Iwasholdingonto.Itwasa mix betweenthe house thatIrememberfirst
approachingwhenIwas five,anda hauntedlandturnedintoabarbarousterritoryby war.It has been
foreclosednowforaboutfive years;the postsignsstick upcrookedfromthe ground withthe wooden
stakesunable tokeephold inthe soil.The windowsare brokenagaininvariousplacesandthere is
garbage litteringthe frontporchmy fatherhadbuilt.Ican’t tell if the dustall over,and almostinthe air
itself,isdebrisfromwood,oldage,animals,orjusta sickjoke fromGod.
Andthe grass, the grass isback witha vengeance.If the grassIhad encounteredbefore wasa
jungle,then thisis the post-apocalypticversion. Ithas grown largerand fiercer.Large weedsgrow high
withthe thickestof stalksandmeanest of thorn- like features.Ican see the nettle patchesgrowingup
and aroundany stepsthatusedto be there.Lookingdown towardsthe paths that usedto leadtothe
woods,well,theyare nolongerthere.Onlythe highgrass remains.The grasshadscared me then,now,
it nearlystops me inmy tracks fromwhatI had beendeterminedtodo.Itnearly makesme getback in
my car and drive away.Nearly.
I take a deepbreathandI launch myself intothe grass.Iwalk throughthe jungle intothe first
meadowbehindthe house where Ihear springs creakingwithaction,andthe laughterof twolittle girls.
I walkdownthe path towardsthe barn we had built.Thoughcomingdown,itisstill there.Ican smell
hay,that distinctdriedhaysmell.FurtherIforce mywaythrough the highgrass, towardsthe ridge and
creek.I am far andlostin the jungle now.The bugsjump fromgrass and weedstome to grass and
weedsconsistently.Ihop upon a large bouldertocatch my breath andtake itall in.It is here thatI see
twolittle girls.One isholdingthe other’shandasshe balances acrossa fallentree trunk. Aninvoluntary
tear startsto zig- zag downmy cheek.Ilook the otherway, towardsthe path tothe firstmeadow andas

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I turn myhead,I see my fatherandstepmothercomingdownthe path towardsthe little girls.Theyare
holdinghands,swingingthembackandforthwithabnormallylarge grins.
I can take nomore;I jumpoff the boulderandrun throughthe verynondistinctpathI had
made inthe highgrass onmy waydown.I take little notice of the weedssmackingmyface thistime.
WhenI reach the firstmeadownearthe house,Iam so out of breaththat I collapse tothe ground,
lookingup.
My bodyholds off the grasswell enoughforme to geta full view of a bright,white cloudedsky
above me.I fall intoa trance,yetagain.I start to see the differentanimals andobjects the clouds
resemble,anditimmediatelybrings me backto the trampoline days.Sometimes,mysisterandIwould
spendwhatseemedlikealifetime onourbacksatop the trampoline, juststarringatcloudsintotal
silence,exceptforwhenone of uswouldsee whatwe perceived tobe the coolestcloud,then enthused
shoutinganddebatingwouldfollow.Itisnow that I trulyrealize thatthe beautywe saw,the adventures
that beautyencouragedustoembarkon, the love thatexisteduntainted,couldneverbe outgrown.
Came and come what didand may:mushrooms will always grow higherthangrass.

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