The Lonesome Valley by Kat Evenson
I am on my way to student teach when I hear about the first plane on NPR. A tower is on fire. In the school library the TV is tuned to ABC and the camera is focused on the smoke billowing from the tower.
Accident? Terrorism? More questions than answers.
Wait…was that an airliner? The second tower is shrouded in smoke and flying debris. Disbelieving murmurs become shocked gasps. Feet running to get teachers still working in their classrooms.
What will we tell the children?
Kids enter the building with smiles of innocent normalcy - a few tearful parents stop in the office to explain why school should be cancelled.
The Pentagon. Oh my god. The Pentagon.
I finally reach for the phone.
His sleepy voice - slightly annoyed at being woken up.
“You have to get to a TV. We are under attack.”
“I am not surprised.” Click.
Wait. How can he not understand? Everything is about to change. I spend the next 48 hours glued to the TV at my parents house. I watch the footage of people leaping from the burning building choosing to fly to their death rather than burn. I watch with tears streaming. Alone.
“I’m moving out.” He waits impassively for me to reply.
Wait. What?
“I am losing track of myself- the wedding, you - you just confuse things.”
Click. This is about her. Wait…
“I still want you to come to Baltimore with me.”
What?
He leaves me shaken and confused - chasing his attraction to her.
But he still wants me to go to Baltimore. Maybe I am wrong?
Everything has changed, but nothing has changed.
Hard time's is here
An ev'rywhere you go
Times are harder
Than th'ever been befo'
Um, hm-hm
Um-hm
Um, hm-hm
Um, hm-hm-hm
You know that people
They are driftin' from do' to do'
But they can't find no heaven
I don't care where they go
Um, hm-hm
Um-uh-hm
Mm-hm-hm
Um, hm-hm-hm
Despite the things unsaid, there is excitement as we head to the airport.
And apprehension.
I have been to the airport dozens of times. This is the first time my car has been searched by bomb sniffing dogs. The National Guard line the sidewalks, the concourses, the terminal.
Automatic weapons. Veiled eyes.
I have to throw away my nail clipper.
BWI is worse. Regular army every ten to twenty feet. Dusky skinned and bearded passengers keep their heads down, but are stopped anyway. With his dark hair and mountain man beard, it is inevitable that he gets stopped. He submits to the pat-down, thanks the servicemen for keeping us safe and holds my hand a little bit tighter as we make our way to the rental car.
“This is so weird.”
What is weird? Is it weird we now live in a police state? Or is it weird we are pretending everything is the same as it once was?
People are afraid to open their mail. It is an irrational fear unless you are a journalist or a politician. Anthrax occurs naturally in nature, but someone has turned it into a bioterrorism weapon. It isn’t weird. It is fear. Uncertainty.
The rental car has a CD player. We stop at Barnes and Nobles to buy some music.
A Chorus Line. U2. The soundtrack to O’Brother, Where Art Thou.
He leaves me browsing books “to check river conditions”. He has her on speed dial.
I move to the magazines and read a story about the search for loved ones at ground zero. So many people missing the ones they love. I miss you, I think.
Some bright morning when this life is over
I'll fly away
To that home on Gods celestial shore
I'll fly away
I'll fly away, oh glory
I'll fly away in the morning
When I die hallelujah by and by
I'll fly away
When the shadows of this life have gone
I'll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I'll fly
I'll fly away
The next day we attend his uncle’s wedding. I am over-dressed for the weather and under dressed for the occasion. His mother makes seemingly polite compliments meant to point out my inadequacy. I am wearing her ring and contemplate if, when, and how to return it to her.
We dance. I laugh. Smile painted on.
I try to melt into the background, escape to the ladies room, when it is time for the family photo. They drag me in anyway. His mother’s mouth is pinched. Disapproving.
I wonder what I look like in that photo. I wonder what he thinks when he looks at it.
That night we snuggle in bed and talk about what we will do for our own wedding. A moment of bliss. Pretend.
The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamt I held you in my arms
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head, and I cried
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away
Morning brings a day of sightseeing. There is no point in going into DC. Everything is closed. The city is locked down. We spend time at the harbor. Window shop. Take silly pictures like a couple in love. Share a basket of fish and chips.
In one store the TV is blasting news about Operation Enduring Freedom. Today we became a nation at war. I feel my patriotism swell as I see American flags adorning buildings, vehicles, monuments.
“God Americans are self-righteous.”
How can he not understand? Everything is different.
My latest sun is sinking fast
My race is nearly run
My longest trials now are past
My triumph has begun
Oh come angel band
Come and around me stand
Bear me away on your snow white wings
To my immortal home
Bear me away on you snow white wings
To my immortal home
Since the city is locked down we head into the Smokey Mountains. The leaves are beginning to change here and there and we drive the twisty roads toward the Gauley River. NPR is broadcasting a story about an Indian man who was shot to death my a white man angry at the terrorists. He was killed for no reason other than that he had dark skin and wore a turban. What does this say about us? I am reminded of the internment camps from WWII and wonder if that is where we are heading. Is history really doomed to repeat itself?
He wants to raft the Gauley River. With him moving out, I cannot afford the $100. He goes by himself. I am unusually apprehensive about his adventure. The river is high that year, but he isn’t your average tourist. He is a guide himself. I remember him lunging out of bed to grab a passenger flipped out of the raft in his dreams. The apprehension tightens.
I watched his kayak get flipped once and he didn’t come up. I ran along the bank, mind racing, heart pounding.
Did he hit his head? Are his feet stuck in the tight space? Can he not get his skirt released?
He had come up seconds later - breath exploding with curse words. My heart-stopped and then exploded with relief.
I wonder if that is how people felt on 911. The agony of uncertainty followed by the dam burst of relieved tears? There are still almost five-thousand people missing at the World Trade Center. It has been almost a month and they have only recovered the remains of 343 people. How is that possible? But then I realize.
They were atomized. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. There is a reason they are calling it ground zero.
I kiss him goodbye at the launch site.
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way
O sinners, let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O sinners, let's go down
Down in the river to pray
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the robe and crown?
Good Lord show me the way
Alone now, I drive back toward a small civil war battlefield I had seen on our way to the river. I pull into the small parking area, already coated with thick layer of autumn color, and turn off the engine.
Click. Silence.
The breeze lifts through the trees sending a shower of red and gold down upon my shoulders. I breath slowly, taking measure of the place. Battlefields have their own character. War-torn peace. There is stillness on the surface, but it is punctuated with sudden eddies of intense emotion that toss the unwary traveler, bashing them against the echo of war.
I walk the paths and read the signs. I am utterly alone here. The heartache, the fear, the uncertainty begin to loosen their grip. Ghosts walk beside me as I tread through the leaf padded fields. A fork in the path is marked by a sign describing how Union soldiers crept up on the Confederate troops camped on the farm. I stop, listening to the echo of marching ghosts. Their actions are frozen, transcending time and space.
Is this what the field in Pennsylvania will feel like? Or will the fighting spirits of United 93 hover above the site of their death, living instead in the space where they fought to save others?
Oh, you gotta walk that lonesome valley
Oh, you gotta go there by yourself
Nobody else can walk it for you
You gotta walk, walk it by yourself.
You must go and stand your trials
You have to stand it by yourself
Nobody else can stand it for you
You have to stand it by yourself
The battle fought on this small farm is different than what American soldiers now face in Afghanistan. I had begun following news about the Taliban years before, when I lived overseas. Horrified by the repressive regime, I am proud that we are finally doing something. I am ashamed that it took us being attacked. Visions of the Buddhas of Bamiyan being blown up by the Taliban last March flash through my mind. Wanton destruction. We might win the initial battle, but the war would be endless.
I pull the Newsweek out of my backpack. The cover is adorned with the picture of a young Arab boy holding a toy automatic weapon. The headline splayed across the red and white cover - Why They HATE US.
Hate. That is why this war is different. The image of a small child indoctrinated to hate Americans is haunting.
Hate is destructive. Intoxicating. Poisonous. I think of her. I could learn to hate. My eyes land on a line from the article.
“Yet anger will not be enough to get us through what is sure to be a long struggle.”
I let the anger melt away and instead focus on this moment. It is a beautiful day - crisp, clean, and colorful.
There's a dark & a troubled side of life
There's a bright, there's a sunny side, too
Tho' we meet with the darkness and strife
The sunny side we also may view
Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side,
Keep on the sunny side of life
It will help us ev'ry day, it will brighten all the way
If we'll keep on the sunny side of life
He is euphoric and exhausted when I pick him up. I feel oddly optimistic for the first time in weeks. We drive through the green, gold, and purple hued hills. Twisting roads bring a sudden glimpse of rundown homesteads adorned by Confederate flags.
We have long memories. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.
All music and lyrics are from the O’ Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack.
Music in order of appearance:
Hard Time Killing Floor - Chris Thomas King
I’ll Fly Away - Gillian Welch & Alison Krauss
You Are My Sunshine - Norman Blake
Down to the River To Pray - Alison Krauss
Angel Band - The Stanley Brothers and The Clinch Mountain Boys
Lonesome Valley - Fairfield Four
Keep On the Sunny Side - The Whites
I am on my way to student teach when I hear about the first plane on NPR. A tower is on fire. In the school library the TV is tuned to ABC and the camera is focused on the smoke billowing from the tower.
Accident? Terrorism? More questions than answers.
Wait…was that an airliner? The second tower is shrouded in smoke and flying debris. Disbelieving murmurs become shocked gasps. Feet running to get teachers still working in their classrooms.
What will we tell the children?
Kids enter the building with smiles of innocent normalcy - a few tearful parents stop in the office to explain why school should be cancelled.
The Pentagon. Oh my god. The Pentagon.
I finally reach for the phone.
His sleepy voice - slightly annoyed at being woken up.
“You have to get to a TV. We are under attack.”
“I am not surprised.” Click.
Wait. How can he not understand? Everything is about to change. I spend the next 48 hours glued to the TV at my parents house. I watch the footage of people leaping from the burning building choosing to fly to their death rather than burn. I watch with tears streaming. Alone.
“I’m moving out.” He waits impassively for me to reply.
Wait. What?
“I am losing track of myself- the wedding, you - you just confuse things.”
Click. This is about her. Wait…
“I still want you to come to Baltimore with me.”
What?
He leaves me shaken and confused - chasing his attraction to her.
But he still wants me to go to Baltimore. Maybe I am wrong?
Everything has changed, but nothing has changed.
Hard time's is here
An ev'rywhere you go
Times are harder
Than th'ever been befo'
Um, hm-hm
Um-hm
Um, hm-hm
Um, hm-hm-hm
You know that people
They are driftin' from do' to do'
But they can't find no heaven
I don't care where they go
Um, hm-hm
Um-uh-hm
Mm-hm-hm
Um, hm-hm-hm
Despite the things unsaid, there is excitement as we head to the airport.
And apprehension.
I have been to the airport dozens of times. This is the first time my car has been searched by bomb sniffing dogs. The National Guard line the sidewalks, the concourses, the terminal.
Automatic weapons. Veiled eyes.
I have to throw away my nail clipper.
BWI is worse. Regular army every ten to twenty feet. Dusky skinned and bearded passengers keep their heads down, but are stopped anyway. With his dark hair and mountain man beard, it is inevitable that he gets stopped. He submits to the pat-down, thanks the servicemen for keeping us safe and holds my hand a little bit tighter as we make our way to the rental car.
“This is so weird.”
What is weird? Is it weird we now live in a police state? Or is it weird we are pretending everything is the same as it once was?
People are afraid to open their mail. It is an irrational fear unless you are a journalist or a politician. Anthrax occurs naturally in nature, but someone has turned it into a bioterrorism weapon. It isn’t weird. It is fear. Uncertainty.
The rental car has a CD player. We stop at Barnes and Nobles to buy some music.
A Chorus Line. U2. The soundtrack to O’Brother, Where Art Thou.
He leaves me browsing books “to check river conditions”. He has her on speed dial.
I move to the magazines and read a story about the search for loved ones at ground zero. So many people missing the ones they love. I miss you, I think.
Some bright morning when this life is over
I'll fly away
To that home on Gods celestial shore
I'll fly away
I'll fly away, oh glory
I'll fly away in the morning
When I die hallelujah by and by
I'll fly away
When the shadows of this life have gone
I'll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I'll fly
I'll fly away
The next day we attend his uncle’s wedding. I am over-dressed for the weather and under dressed for the occasion. His mother makes seemingly polite compliments meant to point out my inadequacy. I am wearing her ring and contemplate if, when, and how to return it to her.
We dance. I laugh. Smile painted on.
I try to melt into the background, escape to the ladies room, when it is time for the family photo. They drag me in anyway. His mother’s mouth is pinched. Disapproving.
I wonder what I look like in that photo. I wonder what he thinks when he looks at it.
That night we snuggle in bed and talk about what we will do for our own wedding. A moment of bliss. Pretend.
The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamt I held you in my arms
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head, and I cried
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away
Morning brings a day of sightseeing. There is no point in going into DC. Everything is closed. The city is locked down. We spend time at the harbor. Window shop. Take silly pictures like a couple in love. Share a basket of fish and chips.
In one store the TV is blasting news about Operation Enduring Freedom. Today we became a nation at war. I feel my patriotism swell as I see American flags adorning buildings, vehicles, monuments.
“God Americans are self-righteous.”
How can he not understand? Everything is different.
My latest sun is sinking fast
My race is nearly run
My longest trials now are past
My triumph has begun
Oh come angel band
Come and around me stand
Bear me away on your snow white wings
To my immortal home
Bear me away on you snow white wings
To my immortal home
Since the city is locked down we head into the Smokey Mountains. The leaves are beginning to change here and there and we drive the twisty roads toward the Gauley River. NPR is broadcasting a story about an Indian man who was shot to death my a white man angry at the terrorists. He was killed for no reason other than that he had dark skin and wore a turban. What does this say about us? I am reminded of the internment camps from WWII and wonder if that is where we are heading. Is history really doomed to repeat itself?
He wants to raft the Gauley River. With him moving out, I cannot afford the $100. He goes by himself. I am unusually apprehensive about his adventure. The river is high that year, but he isn’t your average tourist. He is a guide himself. I remember him lunging out of bed to grab a passenger flipped out of the raft in his dreams. The apprehension tightens.
I watched his kayak get flipped once and he didn’t come up. I ran along the bank, mind racing, heart pounding.
Did he hit his head? Are his feet stuck in the tight space? Can he not get his skirt released?
He had come up seconds later - breath exploding with curse words. My heart-stopped and then exploded with relief.
I wonder if that is how people felt on 911. The agony of uncertainty followed by the dam burst of relieved tears? There are still almost five-thousand people missing at the World Trade Center. It has been almost a month and they have only recovered the remains of 343 people. How is that possible? But then I realize.
They were atomized. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. There is a reason they are calling it ground zero.
I kiss him goodbye at the launch site.
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way
O sinners, let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O sinners, let's go down
Down in the river to pray
As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the robe and crown?
Good Lord show me the way
Alone now, I drive back toward a small civil war battlefield I had seen on our way to the river. I pull into the small parking area, already coated with thick layer of autumn color, and turn off the engine.
Click. Silence.
The breeze lifts through the trees sending a shower of red and gold down upon my shoulders. I breath slowly, taking measure of the place. Battlefields have their own character. War-torn peace. There is stillness on the surface, but it is punctuated with sudden eddies of intense emotion that toss the unwary traveler, bashing them against the echo of war.
I walk the paths and read the signs. I am utterly alone here. The heartache, the fear, the uncertainty begin to loosen their grip. Ghosts walk beside me as I tread through the leaf padded fields. A fork in the path is marked by a sign describing how Union soldiers crept up on the Confederate troops camped on the farm. I stop, listening to the echo of marching ghosts. Their actions are frozen, transcending time and space.
Is this what the field in Pennsylvania will feel like? Or will the fighting spirits of United 93 hover above the site of their death, living instead in the space where they fought to save others?
Oh, you gotta walk that lonesome valley
Oh, you gotta go there by yourself
Nobody else can walk it for you
You gotta walk, walk it by yourself.
You must go and stand your trials
You have to stand it by yourself
Nobody else can stand it for you
You have to stand it by yourself
The battle fought on this small farm is different than what American soldiers now face in Afghanistan. I had begun following news about the Taliban years before, when I lived overseas. Horrified by the repressive regime, I am proud that we are finally doing something. I am ashamed that it took us being attacked. Visions of the Buddhas of Bamiyan being blown up by the Taliban last March flash through my mind. Wanton destruction. We might win the initial battle, but the war would be endless.
I pull the Newsweek out of my backpack. The cover is adorned with the picture of a young Arab boy holding a toy automatic weapon. The headline splayed across the red and white cover - Why They HATE US.
Hate. That is why this war is different. The image of a small child indoctrinated to hate Americans is haunting.
Hate is destructive. Intoxicating. Poisonous. I think of her. I could learn to hate. My eyes land on a line from the article.
“Yet anger will not be enough to get us through what is sure to be a long struggle.”
I let the anger melt away and instead focus on this moment. It is a beautiful day - crisp, clean, and colorful.
There's a dark & a troubled side of life
There's a bright, there's a sunny side, too
Tho' we meet with the darkness and strife
The sunny side we also may view
Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side,
Keep on the sunny side of life
It will help us ev'ry day, it will brighten all the way
If we'll keep on the sunny side of life
He is euphoric and exhausted when I pick him up. I feel oddly optimistic for the first time in weeks. We drive through the green, gold, and purple hued hills. Twisting roads bring a sudden glimpse of rundown homesteads adorned by Confederate flags.
We have long memories. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.
All music and lyrics are from the O’ Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack.
Music in order of appearance:
Hard Time Killing Floor - Chris Thomas King
I’ll Fly Away - Gillian Welch & Alison Krauss
You Are My Sunshine - Norman Blake
Down to the River To Pray - Alison Krauss
Angel Band - The Stanley Brothers and The Clinch Mountain Boys
Lonesome Valley - Fairfield Four
Keep On the Sunny Side - The Whites