So when we headed up north, we weren't really on the run, but we knew that our neighbors may have been. My problem with Davy seemed to have been completely forgotten but was not. It was simply put onto the back burner like many other problems in our lives only to reappear later. But the distractions we encountered in the city were somehow worse in the country. For one thing we were older and much more desperate for love than we were in the city as youngsters. And for another, we had fewer friends and places to go - sometimes with many miles of travel between them - so the gravity of our encounters was urgent.
We moved to an area just south of our old Scout campgrounds in Stacy where the Sunrise River took a tortuous path to the southwest to find Elk River and eventually the Mississippi. So we actually did end up going 'up the river'. Not to a facility like real criminals, but to a place 'out of the way', in an area where I was less likely to do damage. My friend Steve, who had two sisters, lived upstream from the pond by Sand Lake on Hay Lake, and a spring fed Sand lake that ran into the creek by our house and west to the pond, and from the pond northwest to Hay Lake.
It was obvious after 5 years of harvesting our sod fields that something would need to be done. The soil had been depleted by at least a foot, and we were picking rock before we were able to plant again.
By the time we graduated from High School, our employer was importing sewage from Hennepin County to replenish the soil depleted by harvesting sod in Washington County.
The pictures depict the location where I shot the snake (in the pond), the spot in the middle of the lake by the island where I stabbed the bullhead, and the Indian Burial Grounds next to the swamp by the pond. The photo is linked to a larger photo that includes Hay Lake, where my friend Steve lived.
Steve's dad started pouring led from his furnace into a crucible about 5 years after we arrived, and I realized that we hadn't really evaded our problems at all. As a matter of fact, they were worse. Admittedly, there was a small milky-white puddle of semen in the crotch of the panties in the basket between the furnace and the laundry machines, but it was the lead that was hot, not Steve or his Dad. Steve's dad was as calm and cool as he ever was, even when tailgating cars in front of us as we traveled to ski slopes in the area.
I realized as I traveled around my old neighborhood upon my return that lots of things aren't forgiven. There seems to be no objection to a business called Asphalt Skis taking up a very nice block Northeast that seems to point to my foolish behavior skiing behind a snowmobile, and there's a coffee shop marketing Nordic Waffles right down the street from Baldwin Motors, seeming to make our cities problem endemic to my own heritage!
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