The Power of Testimony

MARK BOUMAN || 31
unfinished projects. Next to that, a broken generator perched atop its
trailer, the trailer’s tires long since empty of air. Wedged between the
generator and the shed were large piles of rusted steel that had been lying
there long enough that weeds grew up around them.
Next to the house was a level area where we parked Mom’s Ford
Custom and Dad’s Ford pickup. There were two small valleys behind
the house, both of which Dad figured out uses for. The first was our personal
garbage dump, while the second was where he tossed or dragged
his ever-​growing collection of discarded vehicles. One, a rusting VW
minibus, was filled with old tires, as well as what seemed like a million
dead leaves that had blown in through the open windows. Beyond that
rusted a motley collection of other equipment he’d acquired at swap
meets, auctions, and estate sales.
The rest of the eleven acres was mostly rolling hills covered in trees
and scrub, although there was also one noteworthy hill, a short jog past
the edge of our property, that was covered in a thick grove of oak and
maple trees. At the foot of the hill was a pond. Years before, whoever
owned the land had attempted to dig a basement for a home, but it had
filled with water, so he abandoned the whole project. It was deep enough
that we had our own private swimming pool, as long as we didn’t mind
trespassing, swimming in cold, dirty water, and then hoofing it the half
mile or so back home.
Even better, someone had tied a rope to one of the highest branches
of the biggest oak atop the hill. We would grab the rope and walk backward
until we stood on tiptoe with our arms stretched above our heads.
Then we would race forward and leap, white-​knuckled when the rope
took our weight, watching the ground drop away below our windmilling
legs as we swung, laughing, far into the air.
• • •
We couldn’t spend all our time outside, of course, and although we
had officially moved into the house soon after the tornado, Dad never