The Swamp

Deep in the woods there was a stream. When the stream bent to the right, you would go left to visit The Swamp. The Cliffs hugged the hill to the right and were great for climbing and peering under the overhang for critters, namely porcupines or the imagined bear. The Swamp however lay in the valley, spotted with moss covered stumps convenient for leaping across the black murk that bubbled below. Skunk cabbage grew on top of the stumps, low bearing plants that actually flowered. A cruel deception, for when you stepped on them a fetid stench was released, a veritable stink bomb. These mild perils of course only added to the excitement, for every adventure needs at least a flare of danger, be it black muck that swallows your Nike or rancorous cabbage. On the patches of firmer ground between the marshes there grew smoke mushrooms, delightful fungi that when you stomped on them gray smoke-like powder puffed up in miniature clouds. The Swamp had a variety of fun things to do. As a whole Braaten Woods felt magical, and met our unquenchable search for a story to tell, or a mystery to solve. I had always hoped I would find a clue or an old map that would lead to treasure. I never found treasure, well except an old pot or two housing angry bees and one dog skeleton.

Karen and I up top, Julie and Christen
on the bottom floor

Christen and I were down by The Cliffs one afternoon when we found it. The skeleton of a former pet that had taken a last long walk with our Uncle. Could it be Shotzi? The poodle? No, too small of a skull. Or perhaps it was the Samoyed, the dog that growled its last time at my mother when she was pregnant. We knew it had to be one of the Braaten Hill dogs because of the tell-tale bullet hole through the skull. We were not a family that believed in vets after a certain point. When our dogs would become sick, or lame, or had gone wild, well let's just say their days were numbered.

It's a mystery how a dog "goes wild". My assumption was that they would begin to spend too much time in the woods. Slowly, lured by a new taste of freedom they continue to forge deeper and deeper, dusting off their primal instinct to kill and eat, and leaving behind once and for all the Leash of Civility. So, impressionable and dumb to the ways of the wild, our domesticated pets would eventually mingle with the wrong crowd, the Hooligans of the Forest just waiting to woo them to the dark side. I pictured our poodle in a darkened cave smoking Lucky Strikes and playing cards with thieving Raccoons and Coyotes of ill repute. Weeks would go by, and our once innocent poodle would return from the Cave of Debauchery, jaded and hardened with a chip on her shoulder and a snarl in her lip. It was the late seventies, early eighties, when pets were actually considered animals and not "the furry children" that pooped in the yard. If you had a dog that went wild or was too old to walk, or was in a lot of pain, it was that time. Time to dial the Uncle of Mercy on the rotary phone. To quote George in Of Mice and Men, "tell me about the rabbits Lenny, tell me about the rabbits..."

The Evidence, photo taken by
Uncle John

 Christen and I investigated the skull and bones, trying to piece them together. We could hear a low rumble of thunder from a distance, our time was limited, and it was then an idea came to us. A brilliant idea. How cool would this skull look on a stick in the middle of the Swamp?  We found the perfect stick and poked it through the eye socket, then firmly stuck it in the mud in the middle of the marsh. It was starting to get dark, the storm was getting closer. We stepped back and looked at our garish display. It was gloriously cool. Karen, Christen's little sister was beginning to cry and get scared that the storm was getting closer and we were still outside. We began to run back up the Hill, excited, adrenaline fueling our race against the storm.

Later Uncle John found our pole of horror and was of course deeply concerned. At that time Witch Covens were the talk of the town, rumored to have stolen pets for satanic sacrifices. It was also the day of Dungeons and Dragons, and Back-masking, the belief that hidden messages from hell could be heard when you played a record backwards. So when you find a stick with a skull on it in the middle of a swamp, naturally your parent mind would question, "of what witchery is this?" A parent meeting was to be held on Braaten Hill, that is until Christen and I finally confessed to the deed. There was not much more to be said about it. Uncle John was naturally relieved a Coven had not taken up residence in our woods, but I wonder if a new concern was born about his daughter and niece and their definition of fun.

Christen and I at the Crime Scene, most likely it was all Christen's idea...