preston falls
New Here
I built a little stream on my land. It’s not like it just happened all of a sudden—it’s evolved over the last five years. It’s where I sit every day, often with my wife, but more often with a couple of our five cats and one or two of my dogs. It’s where I smoke a cigar, relax, drink a shot of whiskey, and think about things. And I listen to the sound of the water.
If you were a grunt in Vietnam or elsewhere, you know why I spend time there. In Nam we’d hump from one stream to another, usually finding at least one every day or two. It wasn’t as hot in I Corps, in Thua Thien and Quang Nam provinces, as it was further south. But it got steaming hot in the valleys—the A Shau Valley, Run-Run Valley, and Elephant Valley. We mass-produced the sweat. And if we didn’t find a stream, our canteens (most of us carried six) wouldn’t last. So we developed a special feeling for streams. Now I’ve got my own.
When I was in grad school after Vietnam, I lived in an attic apartment with my first wife. We overlooked a park with a swimming pool for kids and great big sycamore trees. The pool was surrounded by concrete landings at different heights, so the kids would jump from one landing to another and then into the water. It was pretty cool. I’d be up in the apartment reading or writing and look down from my third-story window. At the end of each day the lifeguards would drain the pool. It closed on Labor Day. So most of the time the pool was empty and I had it to myself. I’d take a break in the morning and another in the afternoon and sit on one of the landings, usually smoking a cigarette butt. And I’d think about what I was writing. In other words, I’d think about Nam. You guys know what I mean when I say it stays with you. The good times and the bad. And the very bad.
I won’t get into the nitty-gritty. You guys have heard it all, lived it all. I just wanted to tell you about my stream and how much it helps.
If you were a grunt in Vietnam or elsewhere, you know why I spend time there. In Nam we’d hump from one stream to another, usually finding at least one every day or two. It wasn’t as hot in I Corps, in Thua Thien and Quang Nam provinces, as it was further south. But it got steaming hot in the valleys—the A Shau Valley, Run-Run Valley, and Elephant Valley. We mass-produced the sweat. And if we didn’t find a stream, our canteens (most of us carried six) wouldn’t last. So we developed a special feeling for streams. Now I’ve got my own.
When I was in grad school after Vietnam, I lived in an attic apartment with my first wife. We overlooked a park with a swimming pool for kids and great big sycamore trees. The pool was surrounded by concrete landings at different heights, so the kids would jump from one landing to another and then into the water. It was pretty cool. I’d be up in the apartment reading or writing and look down from my third-story window. At the end of each day the lifeguards would drain the pool. It closed on Labor Day. So most of the time the pool was empty and I had it to myself. I’d take a break in the morning and another in the afternoon and sit on one of the landings, usually smoking a cigarette butt. And I’d think about what I was writing. In other words, I’d think about Nam. You guys know what I mean when I say it stays with you. The good times and the bad. And the very bad.
I won’t get into the nitty-gritty. You guys have heard it all, lived it all. I just wanted to tell you about my stream and how much it helps.
