1979: Summer horse camp in the northeastern corner of Arizona. I liked this camp. Two biological drives were awakened within me during the couple of years I attended it: 1)the urge to play piano and 2)sex. But more on those another day, my randy little droogies.

In the mornings we would all go out to the stables and saddle up our horses. (Mine was named “Honeymilk” or “Gingerhoney” or something. She done gone birthed a colt while I was there and I got to name it. And so it was yclept “Strawberry”. I’d like to make a formal apology to the colt now 20 years later for such a hideous moniker.) Parenthetical tangent notwithstanding, we’d go riding around the gorgeous mountains of that region all morning and it was very pleasant, come back early afternoon, have lunch, then siesta until the evening activites began.

Late afternoons in Northeast AZ are prone to dramatic summer thunderstorms where the sky gets rumbly for a couple of hours, the winds build up, and sometimes it may rain. It’s all very exciting for a 10 year old boy from California who wasn’t used to actual weather patterns because “planned communities” tend to use their complicated zoning laws to eradicate weather that might disturb someone’s afternoon tennis lessons. Oh, am I bitterly tangenting again? Soz. Such an ugly habit.

Anyway. So during siesta I would usually sit on my bed in my cabin writing beautiful prose to the ‘rents (“Having a gud time. Please send candeee ”) and maybe stare out of the window at the mountains and countryside and fantasize about … stuff. Whatever.

There was an old abandoned house that I could see from the window. It was creepy in the bright morning light, but during rumbly-bumbly, darkened, stormy afternoons, it was downright ominous.

So of course one siesta I decided to go exploring. Grabbed my camera, walked down the little dirt road, opened the complicated wire latch of the camp’s gates and skittled across the field to the spookhaus.

I liked scaring myself (does this come as a shock to anybody?) and had a great time poking around this Blair Witchy old rundown place, imagining any number of psychotic axe murderers or poltergeists lying in wait for me. Had myself all shook up, if you must know. Delicious, venemous adrenaline.

I recall vividly moving a bunch of rusty old crap out of the way of a closet door, messing with the latch, yanking really hard and the door springing open. Just at that moment, the summer storm kicked in. A cloud instantly passed in front of the sun and I lost about 40 “watts” of light in the house as a clap of thunder married with its lightening and illuminated the coat hanging in the closet which resembled a hanged man to perfection when you’re a whacked-out 10 year old boy I.S.O. disturbing hallucinations.

“AIEEE!” screamed the little Marquis as another flash of lightening illuminated the nearly-dark house which had suddenly been filled beyond fire marshall capacity with ghosts and axe murderers. I grabbed my shoes and camera and whatever else I was carrying and tore from the house as fast as my little legs and bowl haircut and striped Izod shirt would take me.

It started to rain. The storm was right upon me. I saw huge forks of lightening in the fields and heard the horses freaking out down the pasture. The spooky house, the hanged man, and the electricity in the air was fucking with me BIGTIME, mm’kay? Scurry scurry scurry across the field back to the complicated gate. Rain pouring down now. Thunder and lightening is strobe-like and deafening. Try to open gate.

Arms full of shoes and camera and something else bulky. Wire loop of gate latch not cooperating. I continue to mess with it as panic mounts. Panic is not generally conducive to effective dexterity, so I’m just making the wire loop more fucked up and impossible.

I see lightening strike the trees just behind the old house and go fucking nuts. Throw down the parcels to free up my hands and just as I am about to grab onto the fence again, another fork of lightening strikes the fence about 50 feet away and, for the briefest, most eternal moment, the entire fence glows brilliant cobalt. I can almost feel the electricty wanting to shoot from the fence into my outstretched hand.

Kinda blank after that. Kinda dazed. I guess I got the damn gate open and ran through it. Seem to recall I left the camera and shoes out in the field. I had barely perceived that throughout this whole ordeal, most of the campers and Emer (yikes!), the frighteningly huge and bellowing redneck camp owner were on the porch of the cabin screaming at me, “Hurry up! Hurry up! Get away from there!” and waving like mad.

I got in trouble of course. I always seemed to be in trouble there, but then it was probably what I deserved. One ought not “play doctor” with the children of a man named “Emer”.

I chalked the whole event up as a Near Death Experience™ and was altered from that moment on into at least a recognition of my own mortality.

What I regret today of course is losing the camera which I am certain had perfectly frightening and inept spooky-old-house shots.