Since my last post here, a month ago, I spent two weeks in New England, one each in Vermont and New Hampshire, where my husband and I attended Road Scholar programs. Each program included multiple discussions of local history. I was fascinated to learn that the Indians taught early settlers to kill trees in order to create open spaces for growing food. The settlers eagerly seized upon this tool and amplified it to new levels. Eventually they not only killed the trees, but cut them down for lumber and fuel. They defoliated most of the area.

In the overall scheme of things, the flaming fall foliage we see is new, regrown within the last seventy or eighty years. If I look closely, I can see the lack of majestic old trees such as we gaze at beyond the meadow we call a lawn in our backyard. But overall, the slopes look verdant and lush. They look healthy. Had I not heard about the devastation, I would not sense it today.

I’m reminded of the concluding line of Archibald McLeish’s play J.B., a modern adaption of the book of Job: “Blow on the coal of the heart and we’ll know … we’ll know … These tales of devastation and regrowth were dry tinder on the coal of my heart.

They brought focus to a growing sense that  the story of my grieving the Los Alamos devastation is only tenuously connected with daily events of girlhood. Roots were certainly there, but the details of this adult perspective are a distraction from the account of my girlhood and vice-versa.  While the two are related, the connections are so deep and complex that Tolstoy himself would be challenged to cover it all.

The die is cast. My decision is made. These two stories will be separated. Henceforth My Los Alamos Girlhood will revert to a simpler story of growing up in Los Alamos. I’ll develop the story of the mountains as a separate piece, perhaps part of a spiritual memoir that has not yet taken clear form. I may also expand the original essay that sparked the attempt to marry the two stories.

Keep it simple!

Fortunately, nearly all of what I’ve written can be rearranged, allowing me to proceed apace rather than starting over.

 

 

 

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