Deadline

A pit of dread grew in my stomach at the looming deadline. The assignment was to write a short essay on a place or experience that touched your feelings over the holiday break. Feelings? As a seventh grader, I didn't know how to express my feelings. My world was a conundrum of my body and mind transitioning and at war. Some kids were ahead of others on life's timeline, while others, like me, lagged. Tony, a classmate who lived down the street, had zits and was shaving while my friend Randy and I remained smooth-faced. From up the street, Julie had quit the neighborhood gang and acted differently towards boys. Kelly, who lived across the street, thought Julie was acting silly and continued to hang out with us.

Until this point in our lives, we didn't see each other as boys and girls but as kids. We played baseball, football, cowboys and Indians, war, and pirates. We were either conquering the world around us or saving it.

Sunday night had arrived, and the homework assignment I put off was due the following morning. I didn't want to sleep because the Sun would rise quicker. I prayed for a headache, a fever, or a mild virus to attack me so I could stay home sick. I couldn't fake it because, as a third child, my mother was an expert from my older brother's attempts at "playing hooky."

I fell asleep and dreamed about our recent family trip to Tennessee. We had stopped in Chattanooga and visited Look Out Mountain, a Revolutionary and Civil War battlefield that overlooked Horseshoe Bend of the Tennessee River. I thought it was cool.

The historic mountain ridge was located at the northwest corner of Georgia, the northeast corner of Alabama, and the Tennessee state line. Once the land of the Chickamauga, a Cherokee tribe, armies of the North and South dared fight each other on the same hallowed ground that Native Americans died defending decades earlier. The Chickamauga's defeat culminated in the horrific Trail of Tears, a blight on humanity and America.

Gray, overcast skies dampened the air with a fine mist, and I found myself alone observing the battle. Monochrome rock outcrops and grass lay before me. I dreamed cannon shook the ground with their eruptions of mortar and artillery shells. Men in Blue charged up the slopes and into the clouds of fog that often encapsulated the mountain halfway up. Butternut uniforms attacked them with canister shot from cannon pointed down the slopes.

The violent struggle was labeled The Battle above the Clouds. Most of the battle became hand-to-hand combat. Men's enraged yells turned to screams of pain as many fell to mini-balls, shell fragments, and bayonets piercing their bodies. A Chickamauga warrior sat by a blazing fire at Sunset Rock on a ledge, observing the battle. He turned with soulful eyes and an upturned palm and beckoned me to him.

"Come sit with me," he said.

Mist continued to fall, abated by the warmth of the fire as the battle raged below us.

"The rage of men's blood fertilizes the grass to emerald," he said in a low voice, "Greed grows green."

The ashen grass around me sprouted lime-green shoots. The longer the battle raged, and the more blood spilled, the higher and deeper green the grass became. The final explosion ruptured the sky, and the last dying cries whimpered through the mist, sobbing for their mommas, children, or loved ones. Silence fell except for the eerie moaning of a wind that swayed the tall emerald grass.

"Death comes for all. Hate hastens it," said the warrior, "Only you can change it."

I awoke in a panic for air. Tears streamed down my cheeks from the impact of the dream and understanding that Look Out Mountain wasn't "cool" but a monument to the evil of men's hearts.

Slipping from the dark bedroom, I sat at the kitchen table with my black and white essay notebook. I wrote with a passion about what I had witnessed and experienced. A spark had ignited in my chest that I had never known before. A lesson had been given to me by the Chickamauga warrior, and the fire he had built for us on Look Out Mountain burned deep.

***

My teacher returned my paper marked with a bright green A+, my first ever. She put her hand on my shoulder as a tear welled in her eyes and said, "This is a top story, Scott. My husband thought so, too. I want you to read it to the class."

Leaving class, Randy pointed to my chin and said, "Oh my god, you've got a zit! It's a big one."

***

Present day

I wish I still had this essay in my possession. It was lost somewhere in time, with the vast collections of boxes my mother stored in the attic. I would love to hold and read the evidence of my first spark of creativity and abstract thought as a seventh grader.

My perspective has grown from a spark to a fire, from ignorance to knowledge, that each one of us must speak out and stand up for others. One person's voice of rational thought may be the difference in achieving love and respect for all people. The alternative is to keep fertilizing the grass ever greener.

The essence of my essay on Look Out Mountain remains with me to know what I wrote, but not how well. Fifty-three years have passed since my seventh grade. I believe life experiences and years of creating for Vocal have helped me hone tools through poetry, articles, fiction, and non-fiction to express my thoughts and feelings better. My voice today, my spark, though weathered, is the same voice as then.

I returned to Lookout Mountain in 2010 and stood at the ledge where the Chickamauga Warrior spoke to me in my dream. The winds still moan, the green grass still grows and sways, and if you stop to listen carefully, his words of truth still echo across the valleys. I believe the Chickamauga Warrior's spirit still watches over the mountain.

The dread has returned to the pit of my stomach as a different deadline looms.

***

** The photo utilized is the ledge overlooking Horseshoe Bend of the Tennessee River. To the left and behind the photo is the state of Alabama. To the right and behind is the state of Georgia. To the front is the state of Tennessee. Thousands of Chickamauga and Americans died fighting over this rock.