Reporter: Okay, so you spent a lot of time at the town dump. What about the woods itself? Did you play games or go camping or anything like that?
Hawkinson: The woods had been a part of a farmer's property. It consisted of a grid of old sheep paths compacted so hard that nothing grew on them, which made them fairly smooth for bike riding or walking. (In our later years, we'd get away from the cops on our mini-bikes by detouring off the public streets and escaping to the paths and the camouflage of the woods. Cops never caught us, but that's another story.) A central path was the widest one, splitting the woods almost exactly in half, its entrance at the south end and its exit on the northeast side, adjoining a gravel road and a patch of weeds considered the favorite place for dumping dogs. Other paths veered off from the central path and either circled back to it or just came to their own dead ends, sometimes to a drop-off where erosion had left sharp drop-offs of gravel and rocks and exposed Basswood roots. A small stream trickled along the east side, filled with frogs that always went silent whenever we attempted to find them. (Frog legs over a fire was our favorite afternoon snack.)
Reporter: Did you ever run into any sheep?
Hawkinson: No, the farmer had re-fenced his land to keep the sheep out of the woods. I think he was concerned that the BAAAA-AAAAAA-BAAAAAA-ing of the sheep and the lambs would become something of a nuisance to new neighbors that had recently built their homes nearby. When the city grows toward the farm, the farm usually has to make sacrifices. Just ask pig farmers. (Then again, try standing downwind from a pig farm in the middle of a hot, humid summer day. You will not need decongestants. You will need nose plugs and eye protection--perhaps a gas mask in severe cases.)
On a slightly different note, I once found a suitcase resting in the middle of the path. It was unopened, which to me, a rotten little kid, was an invitation to explore its inner secrets. I tried the clasps. They opened freely. This was going to be easy. Slowly I lifted the cover and discovered that it was packed with clothes--as if someone were planning a long trip, but apparently having second thoughts, considering the suitcase had been left on the trail. (Or maybe two star-crossed lovers were going to meet on the trail, and one didn't show up, causing the other to throw up her hands in abject misery and walk home. My mind goes to these places--not sure why.)
The suitcase held nothing too exciting, just a lot of girl clothes and a small package. Constantly looking around to make sure no one was sneaking up on me, I threw the clothes in a heap and directed my attention to the small package. I was tingly with excitement, as if I knew I was doing something naughty and about to get away with it. In a minute, I found a bunch of paper-covered cylinders inside. I removed the paper from one of the cylinders and found what looked like a tube of cotton attached to a string. Whatever it was, it held no value to me. (Maybe I could light it on fire and swing it with the string, but, with such a short string, that didn't seem too practical or fun, and my fingers were likely to get burned, which, by the way, happened a lot whenever I ate frog legs.) I threw the object in the weeds. After checking the side pockets and zippered compartments for the one thing I really was hoping for--cold, hard cash--I got up and kicked the suitcase from the path and decided to walk home. So much for finding un-buried treasure. Maybe that was the problem--left in the open made it too easy a target as potential treasure material.
As I walked home, I thought about the owner of the suitcase. Who was she? Why did she leave a suitcase in the middle of a sheep path? Was she running away from home? Was she really planning to meet someone? Did she have a change of heart and decided to return home, but the suitcase was too heavy after lugging it that far? Did she have to drop it to escape someone? Was she caught, murdered, and left in the weeds next to the slaughtered dogs? Something didn't feel right. It was time for me to go. As my pace picked up, I knew one thing: I'd be glad to get out of the woods and return home. And I'd also never check again on the murdered collie and its comrades. The thought that they may be joined by a poor little girl was more than I wanted to imagine. I also felt bad that I had left her suitcase in such a mess.*
I'm a little tired right now. Mind if we stop for a cup of coffee?
Reporter: No problem. I could probably use another beer.
*The suitcase and its contents were gone the next time I returned to the woods.
Editor’s Note: If you think you know who the suitcase belonged to--or if it's your suitcase--please send Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, an e-mail at Duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (This is a real e-mail address, so be polite, and if you're a dog shooter, don't bother to e-mail. No one wants to hear about it.) If your entry is corroborated, you are automatically eligible to receive a jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. If you'd like to share the story in detail of your abandoned and then recovered suitcase with the readers, it will be included on this site, assuming our lawyers can clear it for plagiarism, libel, or other prevarications, which could take them the better part of a few months; they like to pad their billable hours. Lawyers. Coffee breaks are their middle names.
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