My Places in the Woods Chris Emery Im with our dog, Tallulah; she sits in the yard, stern and

erect as the guardian of our lawn, yet silly and out-of-place with her fluffy chocolate, poodle pup fur. She stares off at something across the driveway, but pays no attention to the deer families eating peacefully a few hundred feet away on the edge of the property and in the woods above. Sometimes shell notice the deer, turkeys, and squirrels and chase them, but not the way Tessie didI forget how different Tallulahs flamboyant, attention-seeking personality is from the humble, unpretentious temperament that Tessie had. Tessie would spend her days resting her head on the window ledges, vigilant all night and all day, always looking out for the family: she was our guardian. Her golden-brown, white and black collie colors in an elegant coat were accented by the neutral tones of the undisturbed forests we lived around. These woods were her territoryher place and mine. Maybe Tallulah will learn that this is her place, tooher place and mine. Here, back once more to the edge of the woods I once knew; at the gateway to the world that sits knowingly at our backdoor. What do I call this place? What does it mean to me? questions I cant answer on my own; its been too long. I dont remember what first brought me to think of exploring the woods. Maybe it was seeing the deer and turkeys migrate up and down these hills, wondering where they were heading. Maybe I followed Tessie there to see why she was wandering through the woods, too. Maybe my best friend, Graham, and I had wanted to see if we could cut through the woods instead of using the -mile of road to get to our houses. And, maybe, I wanted to see what there was at the crest of the hillthe one that looked over our house. However my exploring started in the woods, it expanded my world as a nine and ten yearold. In these years, I journeyed; my life had been in these woods, but is it still there now?

Mr. Landenberger rakes the leaves off his driveway into the back of his pickup truck and we each exchange greetings as Tallulah and I pass by to make the assent. I tell him about the bald eagle I saw the other day in the cottonwood by the canalhe was poised, like Tallulah, without concern for the squealing crows in the encompassing branches. She beats me to the starting place, detecting the puffs of fresh activity left by the deer up the way, and stopping to question the smell. Beneath the spotty canopy, I too breathe in the presence of something in the air, but Lula seems to neither share nor notice this scent. Its not the deer or the leaves scraped and piled along the gravel by Mr. Landenbergers rake, but a familiar smell: rain and moisture, earth and decay, foliage fermenting, bristle and thorn, bark and shrubher place and mine. To the left, the deer again; the mother stares down with black marble eyes. I ran by the creek once with my friend, Joey, and as I skipped ahead through the brush, there in front of me was a deer: a body of rotting bones with all but the head remaining intact. Stopping instantly as I saw it; staring, screaming for some moments. With head twisted back and gazing in my direction, its eyes were endless, unchanging, and seemingly senseless like something neither dead nor alive. Those are the eyes of a deer: portals of speculation as to the life or the death of the animal, a fear and beauty that man must acknowledge. We peer into another persons eyes and search for the meaning of her or his life, but it is not so in the woods, not with the deer. Their eyes are mysteries to us, and maybe ours to them. I can never assume whether the body on the ground no longer lives; I cannot tell of the life the animal had, but my eyes stare at the body hoping that, just maybe, we too may know what it knows. The mother stamps her foot, guarding her children, and after exchanging our stares, she turns and leaves with her fawns at her side. There, down below, Mr. Landenbergers pond is darkblack as teabut reflective enough to see the loom of trees in the sky on its leaf-dotted surface. The wind up top hardly

ripples its waters; only tempting it, teasing to change the flatness of its canvas. Lula walks in triangular patterns around me, never straying too far for her to feel alone. I ask her, Where are you going, Lula?She continues without noticing, perusing the ground and bushes for their aromas. I look at the ground below my feet, at the light pinks, browns, and reds that envelop the soles of my shoes; the basswood, oak, elm, ash, and maple. These leaves and their trees change for the seasons; becoming part of the floor, making up the surface of the woods. The hills and soils do, too, but theyre much slower. They take in only what changes the leaves and trees bring to them; the seasons have little effect on their composition. I think Ive changed like the leaves and trees; every season of every year affecting me in a new way with each appended experience of the world. Maybe I change like the hills and the soils, preserving the composition of my innerbeing, slowly uncovering what it is as I experience the changes to the leaves and trees of my surface. I stare again at the surface of the pond: richly dark and intensely ominousthe eyes of the deerwhere the mysteries of life are held in their grasp. I think theyre held in mine and hers, too, whether we are aware or notthese are ours and theirs: our places and theirs.

Where are we going, Lula?