Wings of Rebellion

The hollow, deep within the woods, held an old tin can and grill. Shafts of light filtered through the ancient trees, their branches intertwining like children at play, as ferns sprouted among the damp moss. After gathering both objects, Melanie moved towards the gurgling stream, intending to collect some of the crystal-clear water to boil. That done, she set about making a fire.

She added coffee to the water before lodging the can on the grill pan, feeling the warmth radiating from the grill as the water began its slow boil. The fine, feathery ferns formed an intricate, lacy carpet as the sun’s soft rays brought a gentle warmth to her exposed arms. From her rucksack she took her well-loved enamel cup, a gift from her grandfather. Happy days she had spent in his company, as he taught her how to fish and hunt. She thrived in the open air, away from the strict eyes of her parents and teachers. Academic life wasn’t for her, but her parents insisted she needed stability, which meant college.

Mule deer echoed nearby as overhead the ‘kleek-kik’ of eagles could be heard. Compared to the thrumming energy of San Francisco, a city she had found so invigorating, the woods were the complete opposite. The woods served as a place for solitude and reflection, allowing her thoughts to drift back to two months earlier, when she had first set foot in San Francisco.

News of an open-air festival that offered free music and drugs had circulated around college. Although the flyer advertised it as a music festival, it also served as a protest against the war in Vietnam. Bored with college and wanting some excitement, she persuaded her roommate Carol to join her in hitching a ride.

Beneath the warm sky, the music’s thumping beat drew her into the crowd, where she joined others waving signs against the Vietnam War. The music from the artists drifted across the field, mingling with the swirling mist of smoke.

Here they met Drew, a college dropout. As the sun dipped, the sky turned a blush pink, signalling the end of the festival. Not wanting the day to end, they accepted his invitation to return to an old Victorian building nestled in the Haight-Ashbury district, which housed several squatters. Paint was peeling off the front door, while inside, walls decorated in colourful spirals lent it a cheerful ambience. A haze of incense filled the air, its sweet sandalwood fragrance mixing with the piney whiff of marijuana. In contrast to the decorated walls and gleaming furnishings of her parents’ dwelling, this house seemed more like a home. She felt at ease as she sank into a tie-dye-covered seat as someone turned the volume up on a battered transistor radio.

Drew, his hair loose and bright against the California sun, his guitar hanging from his left shoulder, told them they were free to hang out with him the next day. Why not? Their return to college would only be delayed by a single day. Shopfronts were decorated in an array of colours, while every telegraph pole, posters curling at the edges, advertised various concerts which caught Melanie’s eye. The park welcomed them with the sound of drifting guitar melodies and the earthy smell of hash as Drew introduced them to some more of his mates.

Two days later, as Melanie returned to college, a summons to her tutor’s office awaited her. Continued poor marks, repeated offences for smoking marijuana, and a significant number of missed lectures meant she was one strike away from expulsion. For the umpteenth time, she wondered why no one seemed concerned enough to ask about her reasons for skipping lectures and her clear unhappiness.

The next few weeks drifted by until a telegram came informing her that her grandfather had passed away. Hard to believe he had gone, her grandfather, who, unlike her parents, had always been there for her. Her breathing intensified as she placed a call to her parents; the hum of the line before her father’s clipped tones told her there had been nothing to be done. People die of heart attacks every day. His dismissal, treating it unimportant, was typical. Had he no compassion?

The day before Melanie’s return for the funeral, Carol burst into their room, telling her the principal needed a word. Nothing for it; Melanie had an idea what was coming. She took a deep breath upon entering the office, then sat before him in the tidy room. A silence fell as she waited for him to finish scanning through some papers. As he looked up, he sighed.

“I’m sorry, Melanie, it is with regret that I have to inform you we have no choice but to ask you to leave.”

Silence before he continued.

“You’ve let everyone down, but more importantly, you’ve let yourself down.”

Maybe he was right, but she didn’t care anymore; she hated college, the routine, and the rules. All she wanted was to go home and say goodbye to her grandfather.

On arriving home, her mother was fretting over various floral arrangements and muttering about the caterers. Her father, busy with work, had scowled, saying they would talk about this after the funeral. Once the last guest had departed, they finally confronted her. A disdainful sniff from her mum, still dressed in formal mourning attire, glared at Melanie.

“You could have dressed more appropriately. As for college, well! Whatever will our friends think?”

That was just like her mother, more concerned with others’ opinions. Her dad’s anger stemmed more from Melanie’s drug use; any whispers of his daughter indulging in drugs could damage his reputation.

“What the hell are you playing at? Every opportunity you have had, you throw it in our face. I wash my hands of you,” his voice, as cold as ice, sliced through the air before he turned his back and left the room.

Staying was pointless. With her rucksack packed, she wasn’t sure where to go; her path led her here. A sanctuary, her grandad always called it, a place to reflect and gather your thoughts before deciding which path to take next.

Her thoughts, much like the tangled roots of the old trees, twisted and turned in a chaotic pattern. A shift in the leaves as a bald eagle launched from its nest, its broad, dark wings unfurling as it soared, embodying a freedom Melanie yearned for. The image of San Francisco, a dynamic and colourful tapestry of existence, gentle folk songs filling the air. Here, amongst the flower-clad youth, she could belong.

Her parents, like the ancient oaks who stood firm, would never understand; they still followed the idea that kids should follow their parents’ example. As she trailed her fingers along the cup’s edge, she sensed her grandfather would have approved of her decision. Like the ferns that lost their fronds in winter, in spring they sprouted stronger, just as she would.

With the fire extinguished, the can and grill pan returned to their hiding place; she was ready. Rucksack hoisted onto her back, its lightness matching that of her heart, she made her way to the highway.