The More You Know, The More You Know Nothing At All.

I am a dirty, dirty kid. I have scrapes on my knees and bruises on my elbows. I’ve been out playing in the mud, climbing rocks and trees, swimming in the "crik", wrestling in the dirt, and then minute I get clean I go find some other way to get dirty, just like a five-year-old but without a mommy to tell me to take a bath and wash my clothes - no, I have to do that myself. I go through three pairs of shorts a day. I had to buy more shorts at the Salvation Army just to keep a clean stock. I am a dirty kid. But I’m having so much fun!

Yesterday I did laundry for the second time in 3 days and then went out to lunch with John, one of the guys who taught me how to fish for seaweed. We went to Aldrich’s, which is that little restaurant with the dairy in the back that my grandparents used to take me to as a little girl. I swear NOT ONE THING has changed in that place, it was spectacular! The booths are still wood paneling, the ketchup and mustard bottles are still the generic-looking squeeze style, and the hand-painted "Flavors Of The Day" signs are still hung low on the back wall. They make their own ice cream there and honestly, Baskin Robbins has nothing on Aldrich’s! It is the best. I got a root beer float for old time’s sake and finished it in 2 minutes flat.

John asked if I’d ever seen the waterfall, which of course I hadn’t, so we went. It’s on private property but John’s aunt owns part of it so we just drove right down. It required climbing down a bit of a hill but it was so worth it. The waterfall was a good 12 feet tall, and emptied into a 6-foot-deep swimming hole. The water was so clear, not like the water in Cassadaga Lake, which is fed by a few streams here and there but lays mainly stagnant. The waterfall is part of Cattaragus Creek, which is separate and looks clean enough to drink. The creek is bordered by huge, craggy layers of limestone, which jut out sharply in the dry spots and are worn smooth by the water in others. Flowering vines I’ve never seen before drape over the steep hillside, dotting the "walls" of the place with lacy white petals. It was magnificent.

I stepped into the creek and let the icy water rush over my feet. John and I were standing on top of the waterfall, but I wanted a picture from the bottom. That required one of two things: 1. Jumping over the waterfall into the swimming hole, or 2. Crossing the creek and edging down the layers of rock, a la mountain goat, until reaching the lowest jetty. I chose 2. Flip-flops aren’t very slip-resistant and I got muddy all over again, but it was fun - and gorgeous. John and I made plans right then to return the next day to go swimming.

We went back to my place so I could change my now-disgusting shorts and I realized what a fool I was for thinking that John wasn’t going to know anyone back at the motel. The minute he stepped out of the car, he looked towards Jojo’s, where David and Scrappy were coming around the corner, and said, "Dave? Hey, man! How’ve you been?" The two of them go "way back", apparently. I should have known this town was little enough that he would know people. Not only that, but Vanessa is John’s cousin! So he definitely knew people, which was great because it let me off the hostess-hook. John actually ended up staying most of the night for the bonfire and partying with the kids, so I was glad.

That night was so.... enlightening. In good and bad ways. I know now that I know nothing of pain. I’m finally starting to realize why these kids are so hyped-up on the suicide-and-black-eyeliner kick. I won’t mention names, such as who matches what drama, but I will say that I know now that I grew up with the Waltons. One of my little goth kids was date-raped at 13, the same month her mother - a heroin addict - skipped town and fled to another country. Another, also a date-rape victim, was shocked to learn that her best friend, at 15, slept with her abusive and alcoholic father, who is HIV+. On top of that, her boyfriend broke up with her to date the same friend a year later. One kid grew up so poor his family didn’t have heat or even running water for four years, and they had to take sponge baths in a dairy barn dump sink 2 miles up the road, or melt snow. The more these kids talked the more I understood, and understood that I have led a charmed life.

Sitting around that bonfire, each of them told their story and started to cry. They had been drinking - I didn’t want them to but I couldn’t stop it either. I just tried to be there to take care of them, hold their hair back and such, but listening to their stories I knew I could never heal those wounds, the deep ones brought on by abuse and dysfunction. At one point in the night I cried too, because I felt so guilty for having two wonderful, non-drug-using parents and two loving siblings, and for failing at first to understand why these kids just want to be angry all the time. As they spoke I just kept picturing flowers trying to grow in a lead box. I mean, how are children supposed to thrive in those kinds of conditions? It breaks my heart.

It made me question whether I could be a good social worker. I don’t know anymore.