Ancestor Grove: Theirs is the Vision

By Peg Elliott Mayo

Entering the Forest
No one knows all the animate and inanimate forms in any forest.
No one knows the whole of the complex effects the seasons create.
No one knows the permutations of organisms' individual. competitive, genetic, symbiotic and random actions. Or the results.
The complexity of a forest approaches chaos in terms of humankind's ability to understand. We know parts of parts That is all. It is the same issue in defining or understanding humankind. Uncountable research papers, social and family memories and incalculable experience offer tempting possibilities for speculation.
The lust to know more, control more, anticipate more absorbs lives and produces an infinity of factual measurements that define humankind. Or, perhaps, it is imagination that defines our species. Science is concerned with facts. Measureable truth, of course, is subject to modification with new data. There are no scientific absolutes. Let's not even go into the eternal question, "What is truth?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peg Elliott Mayo
• Release date: Oct 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301395897

Peg Elliott Mayo

Born March 31st,1929, Easter Sunday on the cusp of April Fools Day in the year the stock market died. So much for karma! Don, is the tall Shy Guy, spouse, creative force & phenomenal companion. Three living middle-aged offspring who are neither children nor “mine,” KT, Stan and Peter. When your “baby” is eligible for AARP you search for new descriptors. Three outstanding grand “children.” Jane and Anna Rose, college students, and Aaron a graphic designer, metal artist, gardener, creative force, all around good sport and friend. Home is a modest place on the banks of Coast Range Oregon river, 28 miles from “town.” I’m part of a mixed neo/retro hippie, artistic & staggeringly diverse forest community. Identity at various times: daughter, wife, widow, mother, grieving parent, Aries, failed factory worker, potter, basket maker, sewin’ fool, adequate organically-committed cook/food preserver, clinical social worker specializing in PTSD, loss, relationships & creative expression, hospice volunteer, tree hugging ecoappreciator, party girl, recluse, foolish risktaker, writer, computer graphics-photography neophyte, established writer & storyteller.

Book preview

ANCESTOR GROVE:

Theirs is the Vision

Peg Elliott Mayo

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2003/2012

Dedicated to all that preserves life on Earth

Special thanks to

Don Pauls

David Feinstein and Donna Eden

Jill Current

Jerry Campbell

Maggie O'Neill

Aaron Willoughby

Ron Neilson, Ph.D.

David Hibbs, Ph.D.

OTHER VOICES

A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and lifr, every fiber thrilling like harp strings while incense is ever flowing from balsam bells and leaves. No wonder the hills and groves were God's first temples, and the more they are cut down and hewn into cathedrals and churches, the further off and dimmer seems the Lord Himself.

God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But He cannot save them from fools.

John Muir, naturalist, explorer and writer. (1838-1914)

Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.

Edward Abbey, writer, agitator, wilderness advocate (1927-1989)

I gave my word to this tree and all the people that my feet would not touch the ground until I had done everything in my power to make the world aware of this problem and to stop the destruction.

Julia Butterfly Hill, activist who lived in Luna, an endangered

Redwood, for two years in order to save it from logging.

What do I think of Western Civilization? I think it would be a very good idea.

Mahatma Gandhi, philosopher and leader in India's

non-violent emancipation from Britain. (1869-1945)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Forward

Introduction

Ages Chart

PART I: 2004

1. Phyllis and H.C.

2. Muir

3. Gerald Marshall Cummings, III

Reflection One

4. Grandmother

5. Ancestor Grove: The Sisters

6. George Duke

Reflection Two

7. Manriver

8. Leo Roman and Sally Smith

9. Clyde Kaiser

Reflection Three

10. Sean Stubby O'Brien

11. Storm cloud Birdwhistle

12. Alexis Borgia

Reflection Four

PART II: HISTORY

13. Phyllis Anne Maguire

14. Heather Cherry Goldstein

15. Muir Isaac Perlson

Reflection Five:

16. Gerald Marshall Cummings, III

17. Sean Stubby O'Brien

18. Leo Roman

Reflection Six

19. Sally Ottile Smith

20. Clyde Kaiser

21. Daisy Elaine Stanton Kaiser

Reflection Seven:

22. George Duke

23. Elizabeth Kerry Carmichael Grandmother

24. Alexis Rodrigo Borgia

25. Ancestor Grove: The Sisters

Reflection Eight

PART III: 2004

26. Man Talk

27. ManRiver

28. The Aerie

29. The Study Group

Reflection Nine

Reflection Ten:

FORWORD

David Feinstein, Ph.D.

Peg Elliott Mayo was my first clinical supervisor in 1969, and at the time of this writing forty-plus years later, she remains one of the most adept therapists I have had the good fortune to witness. I have, in my continued training, had opportunity to observe the best — Carl Rogers, Virginia Satir, and Alexander Lowen to name, three.

Her ability to help people grapple effectively with the challenges of dreadful circumstances, difficult passages and unfortunate biochemistry is often remarkable.

I'm not saying her work is magical — she is actually enormously practical and down to earth. What I am suggesting is her work is profoundly empowering. Her clients often walk away with a new assessment of their circumstances, a clearer window on their own motivations and possibilities and a deeply clarifying vision of how to move forward.

She has, in the past few years retired to almost fulltime writing. She and her co-author/husband, Don Pauls, live a simple country life in Oregon's rural, rugged Coast Range, chosen for its raw intimacy with nature. The Land, seventy-seven wooded acres with three-quarts of a mile of salmon-bearing river, is the real nursery of Ancestor Grove.

Don's creative and practical knowledge of country living, particular sensitivity to landforms and plant life, have decidedly enriched this engrossing book.

The book challenges its readers to participate in an unfolding archetypal story of the fate of an ancient forest and the complex personalities engaged in the decisions that determine its future. Ancestor Grove is not only an educational read whose instruction ranges from the genius of nature to the intricacies of politics. It is a parable for a world whose survival is in humanity's unsure hands.

David Feinstein, PhD, is a clinical psychologist who has served on the faculties of The Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, Antioch College, and the California School of Professional Psychology. Author of eight books and more than 80 professional articles, he has been a pioneer in the areas of energy psychology and energy medicine. His books have been translated into 15 languages and have won nine national awards, including the U.S. Book News Best Psychology/Mental Health Book in 2007 (for Personal Mythology) and an Indies Best Books Award (for The Promise of Energy Psychology). He and his wife, Donna Eden, are the founding directors of Innersource, in Ashland, Oregon. He and Peg Elliott Mayo co-authored Rituals for living and Dying. His website is www.EnergyPsychEd.com.

INTRODUCTION:

Entering the Forest

No one knows all the animate and inanimate forms in any forest.

No one knows the whole of the complex effects the seasons create.

No one knows the permutations of organisms' individual. competitive, genetic, symbiotic and random actions. Or the results.

The complexity of a forest approaches chaos in terms of humankind's ability to understand. We know parts of parts That is all. It is the same issue in defining or understanding humankind. Uncountable research papers, social and family memories and incalculable experience offer tempting possibilities for speculation.

The lust to know more, control more, anticipate more absorbs lives and produces an infinity of factual measurements that define humankind. Or, perhaps, it is imagination that defines our species. Science is concerned with facts. Measureable truth, of course, is subject to modification with new data. There are no scientific absolutes. Let's not even go into the eternal question, What is truth?

How, then, can humankind predict or control our impact on natural systems that existed before we crawled from the primordial sea or, much later, stood erect and which have no need of us?

The wild card is our individuality. How are values, variations in cognitive ability, emotional responses, gender, personal experience, philosophic considerations organized? An answer lies in our personal myths: the beliefs we accept. And, on our actions.

A myth is not just a story nor is it a lie. Cultural myths are explanation of shared phenomena: climate, geography, cycles. The scientist's myths are how s/he understands current data. The Aborigines’ myths are more likely to be directly experience based. The cultural myths of Eskimo's are radically different from those of English Victorians. Myth defines a culture. Who believes what.

Moderns, most of us, believe science provides comprehensive explanations. We enrich that part of our personal myths with issues of the supernatural and of values. We're using our rearview mirrors to navigate the future's heavy traffic having only hindsight to peer into the future.

The writers and readers of Ancestor Grove are confronted from first engagement to conclusion with the complexity of a Northwest forest. We, the authors, alert the reader that this is not a tidy book for reaching resolution. Resolution, Reader, is your part of the process.

Who We Are

The past thirty years of our lives have been spent in the rural Coastal Range of Oregon. Don — known locally as the Shy Guy — and I have homesteaded seventy-seven acres of once-logged, west-facing, steep acres with a long stretch of salmon-bearing river. Miraculously, the riparian zone was spared the brutal logging practice of clear cutting. We call our place The Land. We are instructed and nourished continually by the sky and The Land.

Every life form from invisibles to elk, witches' butter fungi to ancient cedars, salmon to dragonflies and every other inhabitant has particular habits and needs. They fit like fine marquetry, each to its own favored niche. There is competition resulting in the strongest, canniest, luckiest members of a species surviving to have progeny.

Some, particularly rodents, like warm, food-scented cozy environments and want to move in or, at least, share the leftovers. This, we unsentimentally resist as humanely possible. Applying my human reasoning, I feel we don't impinge on their homes and food stashes and must protect them.

We protect our companion animals from cougar, bear, raccoon and raptors. We're careful not to invite the hungry or curious by advertising with pet food or compost. These are kept indoors or buried. Ever respectful, but not speciously sentimental, we are not casual about our impact on The Land. We have a right to be here, to sleep safely and protect what we have built. We are stewards of The Land which as here before us and will exist when we are absorbed into Earth.

Significant portions are forever safe from human exploitation. They are guarded by a Conservation Easement. We are practical, not theoretical, people The reverence we hold for life includes our own. Shy Guy and I, Peg, bring contrasting (and occasionally clashing) personalities, histories. life experience, skills and capabilities to our collaboration. What is not in dispute are shared values. We recognize our capacity to disrupt nature's systems and are mindful to minimize them. Our context is living peaceably and passing on care taking to responsible, like-minded people when we've had our turn.

I was a psychotherapist for forty years. Shy Guy was trained as an organic chemist. My, how things have changed!

Reader's Challenge

Ancestor Grove began as a traditional novel: introduction, complication, resolution. I am in the line of traditional Celtic (Irish) storytellers. Writing is typically an exhilarating, engrossing experience. I thrive on an unfolding a tale. Like an improvisational musician. I write for love of the process, not lofty dreams of fame or riches. It's enough to have a few tuned-in readers — that's real storytelling. If they want to share (and tell me so) I'm fired with enthusiasm.

Ancestor Grove at first flowed. Sleep and tasks became annoyances. Without warning, I was mired. Things felt forced. I fretted about word limits. Would dyslexia sabotage my intentions? My focus went from story to mechanics. I got lost.

Ten years after the initial writing, things have changed. Details distract, but at eighty-one, I had the insight that Shy Guy and I aren't in this process alone. You, Reader, are always present. As a storyteller, I know to leave questions whipping in the wind and trust the listener to create the answer. Of course!

We assume you read as part of your identity. You're curious, imaginative and unique. You are interested in life continuing on Earth, as we are.

So? So, the redesign of Ancestor Grove is from typical novel to a form that involves you, Reader, and, maybe a group of collaborative friends, pondering possibilities. An occasional page of Reflections will help make resolution your own and refresh your relationship with the natural world.

Welcome to our collaboration. We'd be please to hear from you.

Peg Elliott Mayo and Don Pauls

Summit, Oregon. Summer, 2010

[e-mail]

PART I: 2004

1. Phyllis and H.C.

The matronly gray Volvo moves sedately along the fog-wet highway. Salal brush on sand dunes glisten with plastic artificiality and a gray seagull hovers aimlessly over the road. The sun, struggling to rise, pushes ineffectually against the clouds.

Milepost sixty-eight, odometer 163,491 miles. I set the trip counter on zero-zero-zero. It was seven-twenty at the Texaco. Dawn’s early light, huh? Close enough. We should be seeing Witch’s Cauldron by — oh, I dunno — 9:15, 9:20. Your bladder’ll hold out that long, H.C.? The restrooms stink, but the other side of the road’s got a good ditch. The driver glances solicitously at her companion, who is vacantly staring at the streamers of mist parting before them.

Huh? What did you say? I was spaced out. The ample brunette shakes her head.

Nothing much. I asked you if your bladder will hold out for another couple of hours, until we get to Witch’s Cauldron. It’s just beyond milepost 195 or 6, I think.

I guess so. Why?

Speaking simply, as if to a child, the blond replies, Because if it won’t, then the best place to stop is probably Durrel Canyon. There’s a road leading out of sight — you could pee there. Trip counter would be — oh, maybe seventy-five or six. What do you think?

I don’t care. How’m I going to know when I’ll have to pee again? I just peed when you got gas. H.C. shifts in her seat, regarding the driver with wide brown eyes and tilted head.

You’re drinking coffee.

So are you.

Phyllis looks from her black-faced watch to the dashboard, calculating. I can almost always make it in two hours. Bobby, he could go three, four, sometimes five hours drinking coffee all the way. Camel bladder. Not with beer, though. Runs right through him. Once he only got nine miles. I had to laugh. Nine miles. The Volvo rides in the dead center of its lane, its speed constant, a good gray ghost.

H.C. shifts her hip and reaches behind the seat, pulling a picnic hamper onto her lap. Want some apple and peanut butter on your rice cake? She smiles and the light catches the tiny emerald stud in her left nostril. Good roughage.

Sure. Okay. But don’t forget, Durrel Canyon in an hour, then there’s nothing but open road to Witch’s Cauldron. If you have to pee, you better speak up. Phyllis’s tone is crisp.

Okay. I didn’t know you were so into pee stops. Is the whole trip going to be like this? She carefully lathers peanut butter on a rice cake, covering it to the edges then laying on a paper-thin slice of Rome Beauty, and hands it to the driver.

I’m just trying to look out for the details. Leave the details to me — I’m good at them.

I’m not, already? There is an edge to the question.

Don’t get testy. Of course you are. In your way. Just as I’m trusting that you’ve got the food trip together. I’m just detail minded. Makes things go smoother. You write down the mileage and gallons at the Texaco?

Me? No. Why? The gull drifts off, apathetic, into the mist.

Why? I can’t believe you asked that. How are we going to tell what mileage Arlene’s getting? Why’d you think I gave you the trip book? I told you we got twelve-point-six gallons. At the Texaco. Arlene’s odometer was at 163,456, as I recall. Just write it down as ‘3,456.’ No need to put in the first part. Got it? Phyllis speaks clearly, patiently.

Why ‘Arlene?

For Arlene Fitzsimmons. She was that old woman — I think she was eighty-three — in Carlotta Springs who wouldn’t sell her place to the State for a highway bypass even though the judge said she had to. Took a shotgun and just sat on her porch with it on her lap. She was trying to protect her river frontage because she’d seen some marbled murrelets nesting in the firs on the bank where it went into BLM land. She ended up shooting the tires out of the deputies’ cars. They put her away, of course, but you’ve got to admire spirit like that. Arlene, here, is just as determined. This car never breaks down and she still gets twenty-eight miles per gallon in town. Probably thirty-two or three on the road. That’s why I need the figures for the gas and mileage. I like to be on top of that stuff.

Phyllis, honestly, I’ve never traveled with anyone like you before.

But will you write it down? Phyllis persists

Oh sure I will, if it matters so much. Are you like this all the time? I never noticed before —

Like what? I just take navigating seriously. You can be awfully uncomfortable if you gotta pee or run out of gas. I mean, can’t you? And there’s no need for it. Let’s go — on with the adventure! Hit the road! Wind in our hair, far horizons ahead, nobody knows where we are. Hey, Hippie Chick — we’re outta here. 7:28 in the mornin’, milepost seventy-three. We’re right on track!

Aromatic smoke fills the car as H.C. jams an incense stick into the defroster slot. Patchouli. She accepts a hand-rolled joint from the driver. Mind if I turn on some music? I got some tapes. You in the mood for — what? She spills a plastic bag of cassettes into her batiked lap.

Anything you like, I like. Hey, this is great. Like the old days. Phyllis glances at her companion, receptivity written across her face.

Clattering through the rubble on her lap, H.C. says, You like Jimi Hendrix?

I guess. You got any Beatles?

Beatles? Not with me. Let’s just try some Jimi; he turns me on. ‘nother hit? The glowing joint changes hands.

I haven’t seen a rolled reefer since before Star Wars. Everyone I know smokes out of little bitty one-hit pipes.

Well, this trip is special and, you know, I’ve got connections. So in the spirit of our well-spent youth, I got enough to indulge in the occasional reefer.

Both women smile, contemplating riches. Inspired guitar riffs resonate in Arlene’s otherwise staid interior.

Gawd but that’s loud.

Gotta be loud.

Why? It’s blasting.

It’s supposed to carry you away. You want the roach or what?

Eat it. H.C., that is loud. You really like it like that?

Sure. Lets you get the nuance — into that — whwow whwow whwow. Yeah, you got it — but hey, try to stay on the road, okay?

Sorry. Phyllis returns the right tires to the roadway.

It’s okay. I remember the time ten or eleven of us got in Charlie’s old blue VW van — probably about 1967 or ‘8 — for three days none of us knew who was driving. That was good chit.

You miss it? The old days? Phyllis squints, watching the yellow line, driving into infinity.

Sure, sometimes. Not now. Whwow whow — man, he could rip on those strings — listen to that!

I’ve got a choice? What else can I do? I feel like I’m being microwaved. Look, could you turn it down a little? Just take the edge off?

Just wait till the end of this song, okay? Whwowoooow! You know what he’s playing, Phyllis? The Star Spangled Banner! Makes you want to stand up and salute. Or puke. Something. Her be-ringed hands slap enthusiastically against generous thighs, keeping time.

That was pretty good chit — I’m sort of into it. You got any Credence? Seals and Croft? The incense and marijuana haze swirl as Phyllis insouciantly takes a curve with stylish aplomb, missing a hitchhiker by a scant three feet.

Hey, look there! Want to pick him up? Looks kinda cute —? H.C. strains to see, waving.

Hitchhiker? Wow, I dunno, H.C. It isn’t the sixties anymore, you know. Naw, I don’t think so.

He’s cute.

He’s too old to be cute. We’re too old to be cute. Distinguished, maybe, but not cute —

Extinguished is more like it. How come we’re too old to be cute? I don’t buy it. Actually, I’m kind of adorable —

For heaven’s sake, Hippie Chick, cute is dumb. Cute is falling down and going boom. Cute is Barbie —

I don’t get why you call me that, Phyllis.

Cute?

‘Hippie Chick.’ I call you by your right name; you could return the favor.

A querulous tone creeps in. Did you finish that joint?

You told me to eat it. Whwow whwow. Okay, I’ll roooooll another one.

The cassettes are dumped into a capacious African carry-all and a Prince Albert tobacco tin is extracted. Quick, expert fingers fashion a plump cylinder with twisted ends. Tradition, ya know. Pipe saves chit, not so wasteful, but man, I love a joint.

The national anthem’s over. You got any Steve Winwood? James Galway?

Is the whole trip going to be like this? Here — I’ll hold it for you.

Careful — ahhh. Yeah. Ry Cooder?

Yeah! Chicken Skin Music. Perfect drivin’ music for disappearing into the Northwest fog! The women smile, harmony restored.

This is good. Little different than my usual morning dry toast and quart of coffee. You like trivia?

Trivia? Like how many angels can stand on the head of a pin? Or how many ways there are to sell out and go straight?

No, of course not. Trivia with real answers — not theology. No facts there. Like, say, how many baby possums can fit in a teaspoon? Science.

I can’t believe you asked that. How many?

Twelve! Possums don’t have uteri, being marsupials, which by definition gestate their young in exterior pouches. Now you ask me one.

I don’t know any. I’m not into facts on vacation. Too many in the Institution, anyhow. Too much information causes frigidity. Chit Phyllis, I just wanna coast for a while. How come you’re so hyper?

I’m driving. Have to keep my head in gear. And, like, I like information. Makes me feel good. You know how many greens a hippopotamus can eat on one submersion in a river? Of course not, you’re above factual data. Well, I do. Sixteen pecks. That’s four full bushels. A lot. Read it as a filler in the New Yorker eight, nine years ago. I thought, that’s interesting. Never met anyone who could answer the question and I’ll bet a million — no — five hundred thousand—people read that issue. I can’t even calculate what the odds are that I’ll ask the right person. It doesn’t come up every day.

No kidding? You still hungry?

Nope. Unless you’ve got some graham crackers in your magic bag.

Stone ground wheat, sesame, and rice cakes. We could stop. Maybe pee.

Sure. Tank’s on a quarter. Once it drops below a quarter you start sucking sediment. It can totally clog your fuel filter. You ought to remember that, it’s good information. Next place is Dante’s Leap. Three long bends ahead. You can look straight down the cliff face to the ocean on the second one. Get gas, pee, grab some grahams at the 7-11, stretch. Take maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. Then hit the road, do a couple hundred miles. Yeah.

I honestly didn’t know you were like this Phyllis. Your letters weren’t like this — lots of jokes, neat stuff about university politics —

Like what, H.C.? Look, even back in the old days, before you went off to Kent and I went to Berkeley, I liked to think. Now I think for a living. So, what’s so weird about that? What do you do with your brain, anyway? The ash dropped from the tip of the incense stick.

It keeps my hat from falling over my eyes, Phyllis. I use it to store the TH-C overflow from my liver. What do you think?

Testy. You always did get testy, even back in elementary school. Ask you something you couldn’t answer and you got testy then and you get testy now.

Who’s testy? I’m not the one driving up the shoulder.

Sorry. Look, H.C., what’s wrong here? Four hours into a three-day drive to a three-day reunion, and three days back. Total of 216, less two equals 214 hours left together — and we’ve already been testy twice. A hundred and five miles out of probably 3,200, maybe 3,250. A lot left. Maybe we shouldn’t have tried to drive it together. We could have flown from home. I mean, it was complicated for you to come in from Bozeman and meet me in Fort Clark. We could have both just flown straight to San Diego, but when will we get another chance to catch up? We’ve got to straighten it out. We’ve got a lifetime —

You make it sound like a life sentence with no time off for good behavior, if I should accidentally display some. Silence for .8 miles. I’m sorry. I’ll roll another one.

Wait. What say we do the smoke after we stop? The car won’t smell so obvious at the Texaco. It’s on our side of the road too; no U-ees for Arlene. She’s not a nimble young Volvo anymore.

You’ve changed, Phyllis. The one thing you never used to ask me to do was put off smoke. That reminds me, this car of yours —

Arlene.

Yeah. Arlene needs some help. You okay if I hang this up on the rearview?

Oh, I dunno, H.C. Crystal? Heart-shaped? Kind of a cliché, isn’t it?

Pah-dawn me, Mahdom. I was thinking more of the rainbows swingin’ all over the car as we drive. If the sun ever comes out.

Testy. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Sure, hang it up. I remember that trip to Palm Desert — you had just had your first tattoo — the passion flower on your right boob — it was some trip. We had a melted glass peace sign hanging in the back window. Blue and white. About four inches in diameter, hanging on a piece of monofilament. It clinked all the way and you kept dabbing ice all over your boob and the truck drivers blew their air horns. I remember. A nostalgic smile brightens Phyllis’s face, fondly regarding her passenger.

"Me too. You couldn’t stay in your lane, even then. Maybe I’m too sensitive. I really looked forward to this trip, Phyllis. Thirty-seven years since high school. I can’t believe it. Thirty-seven years! Plenty of crystals then.