Times Beach
- Liz
- Aug 4
- 3 min read
In the 1970s, the Missouri town of Times Beach was sprayed with a toxic mixture, ultimately causing the deaths of 40 horses and many other animals, as well as the eventual evacuation of the entire town. This story is inspired by that disaster.
Betty dropped a bag of peppermint tea into a steaming mug. She was too unnerved for coffee, and there was something about the water slowly yellowing that always calmed her. She’d been having the same dream every night for weeks. Still, she recorded its details every morning in a dream journal.
It’s cold and dark — I see my breath; I see twinkle lights and Christmas tree windows and haloed street lamps hugged by garland. I’m walking down the street I grew up on. I’m walking, walking, walking, and there’s no sound — I can’t even hear my own footsteps, which is odd because there’s snow on the ground and on the roads. Every single front door is wide open. I see no people, no dogs or cats, no cars on the street or parked in driveways; no cars anywhere at all. I keep walking, walking, walking, and then suddenly I’m face to face with an American Paint Horse. She’s white and copper and all geared up with no rider. I reach for her and see the hand of a child. She takes my cue, drops her head, I’m inches from her spotted nose — I’m awake.
“I had the dream again,” Betty said. She’d graduated to coffee, and called her older sister, Kim.
“Have you ever gone back? You know they turned Times Beach into a state park,” Kim said.
“No. You?”
“No, but my therapist sure wants me to,” Kim laughed. Betty laughed too. “I think the best thing you can do right now is take care of yourself and stay busy doing things you enjoy: tend your plants, cook your favorite meal, visit with your neighbors.”
“You’re probably right.”
“And, of course, call me anytime. I mean that.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Betty took her older sister’s advice. She donned gloves and a big hat, filled her watering can to the brim, and gave her hanging porch ferns a long drink. Then her hydrangea bushes. Then her herb garden. She was heading for her riding lawn mower when she mistook the high-heeled boots of a young woman for hoof steps and decided it was time for lemonade and a shower. Mowing could wait.
Clean, dressed, and armed with her grocery list, Betty drove to the nearest store. Nothing said “comfort” to her more than homemade pizza, spiced with herbs from her own garden, and a chilled glass of pinot grigio. She grabbed fresh mozzarella to pair with her homegrown basil. Then roma tomatoes. Then wine. Then flour, yeast, and olive oil. It was while waiting in the check out line that she mistook the whiff of a fan for an exhale on the back of her neck. Flustered, she left the store without her receipt.
Later, a full and slightly tipsy Betty sat on her porch, accompanied by Patsy Cline and Ella Fitzgerald, drinking decaf coffee with cream and sugar. She smiled at the neighborhood dogs on their evening walks, and she waved at the neighborhood kids walking them. When the bugs and birds grew so loud Ella and Patsy couldn’t compete, she turned the music off and waited for the sun to set. It was while Betty was relaxing on her porch that she mistook the smell of her neighbors’ preferred pain reliever for the smell of hay. Betty waved. When her neighbors waved her over, she decided to join them. Afterwards, it was time for bed.
The next morning, while drinking espresso with her favorite almond creamer, Betty sat on her porch, writing in her dream journal.
It’s cold and dark — I see my breath; I see twinkle lights and Christmas tree windows and haloed street lamps hugged by garland. I’m walking down the street I grew up on. I’m walking, walking, walking. There's snow on the ground and on the roads — every footfall a crunch. Every single front door is wide open. I see people — neighbors and classmates I haven’t thought about in years — standing in their door frames. I see dogs and cats curled up in window seats and window sills. Cars line the street and fill the driveways; taxis drop off cousins for holiday dinners. I keep walking, walking, walking, and then suddenly I’m face to face with an American Paint Horse. She’s white and copper. She’s saddle-free with no harness. She has no rider. I reach for her and see the hand of a child. She takes my cue, drops her head, I’m inches from her spotted nose — it’s smooth as silk, warm as cider — I’m awake.
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