Skirt Essay#8:Piece a Skirt

Piece a Skirt

I am wondering if I should get fitted for a loin cloth. Although paying a professional tailor for that may be excessive, but I need a skirt for my next hurdle. For the love of zest and nostalgia, I want to go back in the forest. I’ll get in the brush, even if it is only the vegetable garden.

Since living in the new digs, I’ve noticed a lack of trees and fields to explore. Where I lived before was on the back end of a city park. A river did not run through it, but a wide creek sure did. The slopes that cut into the creek eddy made the water whisper and paddle lightly against the rock-pile easements.  The oak and cottonwood tree roots lengthened runners that reached down to the water.  I miss the sway of the bare tree tops on dark windy nights against the Western sun. I learned most of my personal freedom and risk over the past year because of those open spaces. Much of the self-discovery I’ll attribute to wearing a skirt–short, sometimes long; tight, others flowing. The silent confidence that grew in me then, was worth exploring. Besides that, none of my pants fit any longer. Fasting and general weakness took care of that.

When I was in middle school, my family lived back in the thick woods and steep hills of Pennsylvania. With everyone in the neighborhood being upper classmen and mostly male, I did not have many choices in playmates.  Because of that, I remember spending time exploring a tributary to one the Monongahela River. The creeks’ algae, tadpoles, railroad repair stations, rotten wood balancing beams and a hillsides of tiger lilies kept my entranced from high noon till after dusk. Still that was playing like a tom boy, this past year was worthy of Jane in a Tarzan novel.

The River Wench

One morning, this past year, I hiked out to check my fishing traps that I set in murky creek water. I had to cut through prime cattle grazing fields to get there. OK. Correction. In adult language, I trespassed. This particular day, I wore a midweight ankle length grey cotton skirt, eggshell petticoat, two silk tank tops, a photographer-like jacket (lots of pockets), hat, and slouch bag over my shoulder. Sans the sandals, I wore cowboy boots that came up to my knees. After checking the traps, I decided to take what I though would be a short cut through the woods. I did not want to backtrack to get to the next major road; figuring the next major thorofare couldn’t be but twenty minutes away. It was early the main post office would remain open for awhile.

The gist of the journey was that I trekked through deep, unseen parts of the lower creek that most have never seen – not even the local farm extension for the past 20 years. The creek is a major tributary to both big cities I live near. In fact, the river feeds the whole North Texas Region. Although I say no one has been back that far on Buffalo Creek, I found something I could not forget.  <HIKE up my skirt and tuck the bottom into the waistband.>  After I passed a land heave to the left and back around one bend, I found heart shaped balloons that exhaled its last bit of helium. Somebody’s lovers and look out point. <HIKE up the other side of the skirt.>  If someone actually ventured all the way back here past the still waters for a knoodling session, I bet they are still there. Even back that far I stuck to the creek bed and found no other signs of life. Not even insects like loud cicadas. I think I came at a time of day that not much was biting, singing, or mating. Wearing boots through the river deep was a brilliant idea rather than sandals. Anything could have bit me: cotton mouth snakes, black mambos, black widow spiders, and maybe even a recluse homeless man. <WRAP skirt tightly around the waist and hands for defense.>  Luckily nothing happened even when I went for my dare and skinny dipped clean. <REMOVE skirt, etcetera, and etcetera.> The frigid water on my calves and thigh was the best sports therapy I’ve ever had.  Thinking back on that escapade has left me with a little trembling notion. Over the last few nights, in between being awake and asleep, I have heard a small voice telling me to stay out of the forest from now on. Illusions of people that I saw in other forest glens, makes me wonder if robbers, thieves and murderer do live in the forest like Robin Hood braved to tell.

Between asleep and awake, what did I see those days that my subconscious is bringing forward now?

Maybe the call was a result of being nipped by a few drunken skeeters.  Maybe it’s the algae growing the fresh water that I ate. Still, I was not heavily doused by bites for having been so far away from civilization and why now? My real triumph through the whole off trail journey was getting up out of a ravine. I wasn’t scared and had no cell phone, so I had to rely on my on ingenuity. Three choices lay before as I stood on a rock in the middle of the creek. First, trek backwards over an hour to recover ground. That included no trail, tall weeds, and brush that came up to my calves sometimes. <Turn skirt inside out to inspect for lodged pokeweed spurs and other burrs.>  Second, go down stream into waters that were getting deeper and faster. There were no level dry sides to the creek, so I would be swimming for at least a mile in good clothes. < Come up at the highway looking like a drowned earth rat—in a skirt.>  Third, scale the wall that lay before me that was built of slate, earth, and left over cement slabs. The angle of steepness made my head a little dizzy and there was no clear path that I could see. What was I going to do? Basically suck it up and climb–in a long skirt. Suck it up and tuck it in—the skirt that is. I thought about Dora the Explorer and Carmen Sandiego before I got started. What really helped was going into character as if I was exploring the uncharted west from an airplane crash. The key to everything, I learned on television, is not to look down.

I did find a small path. It appeared to be from an animal that went up the sides on a frequent basis. It may have been a snake or a small opossum. I think an armadillo would have had a task with its carriage —much like me and the bag.

 A few trees lined the path so I had something to grab onto to pull me up to the next layers of height. Every now and then my skirt got caught on a tree or the heels of my shoe. I had to slow down, balance myself, and fix it without tumbling over the cliff and into the cement slab filled water. I was tempted and briefly glance down. I saw the distance down and how many rocks there was. Although the scariest part was getting through the spider web trees and holes couched with leaves, anything could have lurched out.

Finally, at the top

Without much traction, I clung to the line of slate slabs that was at the top of the cliff. Holding the Hawthorne tree with my right hand, I cleared dead leaves with my left hand off of what appeared to be slate steps. The defining downward curve in the rock face sheltered my legs as I began inching my weight up the side of the cliff. I dug my booted toes in and guided my hands up, around and over the wet webs and decayed leaves.

One more leg over and I finally stood at the top. Remembering to clear the lip of the “little mountain”, I took a step or two forward. Then I whispered to myself, I said, “I am Laura Croft”. I felt like I earned tomb raider status, or in the least a shot to be an eagle scout. {Me, I’m a Phoenix scout. Always reborn through trekking and scouting for new endeavors after I’ve been burned.} After I whispered, I had a good hearty laugh. I took a good look at where I was. I found the “back entrance” to the Baptist Church where I voted for McCain. Go figure. God was watching and helping me the whole time.

I find I can still do everything I like in skirt as I would in pants. For some reason a lingering doubt in my head dictates that when you are in a skirt, you are weaker. It must be the guise and confusion of being demure and still having authority. No wonder Hilary Clinton is known for establishing the pant suit in government board room. Or is that a matter of pants being more suitable to her personality and method of business. For me it is to assert a sense of femininity I thought I might be losing. Still there are different qualities and behaviors that make a woman. Not all of which are tied to her wardrobe, but in her mind you might be surprised.

Copyright September 4, 2009

N.C. Constantine