He was a roughneck who could live outdoors for weeks. Chaining himself to trees. Camping on logging roads. His musette bags crammed with canned pineapple and pear and corned beef and roast beef hash. For protection (against the occasional bear): a Ruger Blackhawk. His book of comfort was Gary Snyder's "Regarding Wave." Beatnik Zen poems.
They were trying to eat Maxine's homemade jerky. Hank opened the book and said, "Somewhere in here he writes that Nature is Green Shit."
"This jerky is shit," she replied. "Sorry, Dozer."
"Possum food, I'm afraid."
Her eyes twinkled. Her kiss zinged.
Rain caught them in the woods. They made love inside the hollow of a Douglas fir. Their little campsite looked like oatmeal. They laughed like naked Buddhas.
*
They lived together for years. Never married. Wiccans convinced them to bind spiritually one year at a time in a Handfasting. Garlands, robes, cakes and ale.
Bernice was born at home, chaotically.
With a naturopathic midwife named Birch Moon.
A winter storm had churned the sea all the way from Japan and was assaulting the Pacific Northwest. Icy rain and driven snow pelted the stately Douglas firs standing outside the cabin like mute sentries. Birch Moon calmed herself with massive brews of Kava Kava. Hank was worried. A couple he knew down on Puget Sound had tried a home delivery. They suffered a bloody ball of disaster.
He began to doubt the wisdom of this whole holistic enterprise.
Like most things, it had been decided by Maxine. It was her body.
As things developed over the years, she had become more Back To The Land than he. More political than he.
*
Wiccans and Flower Children brought healing crystals, gemstones and blessings. Fellow activists gave quilts, sheets and pillows. A Reiki master assisted Birch Moon in the final hour by channeling healing energy from the cosmos.
The storm had upset him by now. Maxine was bleeding and howling like a gutshot shewolf. She beseeched Hank to sit closer and comfort her during this trial of trials. So he entered the veiled chamber of the birthing tent. Desperately he wanted to flee, to cop out, to get drunk and to gaze into Jack London's fire.
At last the infant was crowning.
On the radio Jefferson Airplane was playing "Embryonic Journey."
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