Waiting for the Robins

How do tulips know when it is time to bloom?

What Predictions will the groundhog make?

What of rebirth and renewal?

    A man with a frozen heart went out looking for signs of Spring. Now living in the suburbs, he is surprised by the people who still plant bulbs and gardens. It seems wherever you live there are people with flowerpot hearts. They love the earth between their fingers, the mixture of sweet rain and soft sunshine can keep them talking for days. They desperately order from the seed catalogues anxiously awaiting their packet arrivals. They never seem to outgrow their connection to the soil from whence they were created.

           It had been a mild winter in the land where he lived. So, there wasn't the urgency to see the signs he would soon see. As he walked by the nearby lake he realizes the Canada Geese had never flown further south staying here to make their return trip a few hundred miles closer.

               The snowdrop had begun blooming almost a week earlier; the crocuses were now even showing their headdresses of pale purple, bright yellow, and variations of both. Just today he noticed his fist daffodil blooming with other tighter buds unwilling to expose themselves. They feared perhaps another snow would fall hurting their delicate plumage. The mysterious witch hazel had been blooming for almost a month with their exotic blossoms of captured flames. Their exquisite earthy fragrance made them the true Springtime criers.

               In the newspaper recently, it announced that the Cherry blossoms would reach their peak by mid March if warming trends continued. The man had never been to the festivities although he lived close to our Nations Capitol now. He didn't like crowds much and the tiny buds of magnificent pink always seemed to draw wanders from afar. He grew up four hours north from here and is still amazed by spring's early arrival.

               Shyly he admits he even forced a few bulbs of his own and had paper whites blooming in December. There were also crocuses, miniature irises, amaryllis and his favored and fragrant hyacinth.  He had not yet made any of his famous branch bouquets this year with the frozen forsythias, crab apple, and pussy willows. He watches the buds and blossoms swell but was strangely disappointed when they were in full bloom.

               The man cannot think of this first stage of the year or freshest season without going back to his childhood. He has vivid memories of one place in particular, the place where the daffodils bloomed first. To get there he had to walk the mile to the little white church where he would go for the annual Easter egg hunt and the Sunrise Services seeing everyone dressed up in their finest. The church is always crowded on Easter Sunday. The boy thought it odd that people only turned out for the good news, Christ's birth and his resurrection, but wanted so little to do with the seasons in between. Although now he is much the same.

               A little further up the paved road was a farm road that led to the left. It was heavily posted that trespassers would be prosecuted so he ran the first few yards to get under the cover of the faithful trees that would shelter him from all harm. The boy is aware of the chirping of the birds as they flutter about making preparations for their expected families. The boy always remembers to put out pieces of yarn and cotton because he liked to imagine himself a nest maker or at least a nest provider. Perhaps the jenny Wren, his mother's favorite, would use some of it to brighten her home. He loves how the tiny bird makes his mother's heart sing. Her face brightens with a smile whenever she hears the birds bubbling song as she hangs the clothes out to dry on the spring's gentle breeze.

               He noticed a goldfinch that was becoming more recognizable as a male because he was getting the bright yellow color back into his feathers. The boy hopes his favorite springtime bird will return to one of his parents many birdfeeders. The indigo bunting is an awesome sight to behold because of their brilliant, almost iridescent blue that will always outshine that of the blue jays or eastern bluebirds.

               An observation the boy has made is that bids sing loudest in the springtime. Their songs can seem overpowering. some birds sing with their whole hearts, while others sing with their whole beings making their proclamations of joy.  He is reminded of the mourning dove; whose sorrowful song is strangely silent when they take flight upon their whistling wings. While some birds have beautiful songs, the boy believes that others are no so lovely. In fact, he thinks the blackbirds, the crows, and the starlings, are the troublemakers of the bird kingdom with their robust calls and squeaky cackling.

               Thinking so much of his feathered friends the boy quickly finds himself in the "Lowlands" with their open fields and decaying outbuildings. Not taking the time to explore these temptations he travels on to he is at the river's edge.

               Finding a place, he believes will grant him safe passage he removes his socks and shoes. Praying the water is shallow and calm enough to pass through without needing to remove his pants also. Rolling up his pant legs he carefully places his discarded coverings over his head and steps into the cold waters. With each successful step the boy finds himself closer to the place of intrigue.

               The locals call this place Toushay's presumably because there was a native American man who lived there and owned this property. All the boy knew was at this time each year the place was abandoned, and he could look around without fear of being discovered. Although if truth be told he always felt like someone was watching him as he looked through the locked windows of the house and the less secured barns. This was especially true today, as a thick fog had settled in making everything seem like a spirit of itself. The white pigeons that flew from the barn rafters would be the first to disappear into the lowered sky with the gray and tan ones taking a little longer.

               The boy came here because the boy knew the steep banks surrounding the property would be bountiful with the harvest of bright daffodils that his mother loved so. He was always assured he could find an old newspaper to wrap them in like they did in the fancy flower shops he noticed in the nearby towns. The boy also liked to include brown grasses as dead seed heads with his bouquet because they made the bright yellow seem even brighter and it was very complimentary to the aging newsprint.

               With his new-found treasure safely secured in the brown wrapping paper the boy is ready to make his way home. he quickly gets started as he now a few miles far from home. It is his turn to feed the chickens and gather the eggs. There is an old hen that has taken to roosting, so he will need to be extra careful in her presence. Last Spring, she hatched out eleven yellow, brown and black bundles of joy.

               He has other reasons to be careful as there was a mean rooster who guarded the hen house. The boy had been chased around the side yard many times with the flapping and clucking of this crazy conquistador.

               Imagining the trail through the woods as it was when Indians walked upon them, the boy pulls a tree branch behind him pretending to cover up his trail avoiding capture. All the mosses almost glow with their intense greenery. It is too early for the mysterious India Pipes to appear with their milky translucent stems and solitary nodding flower.  Soon the forest floor will be carpeted with the dainty purple violets, the strange jack-in-the-pulpits, the brown-mottled tiger lilies, the elusive pink lady slippers, the comical Dutchman breeches, the attractive dainty white and pink striped spring beauties, called "piss in the beds" by he normally regal mother. There will be odd red and white trilliums, named "Nose Bleeds" by his inquisitive mother. Spring is truly the time when the world wakes up with an ever-changing landscape. 

               Clearing the woods, the boy is now on a dirt road, that will take him by the sisters who make their own salty creamy butter the old-fashioned way. maybe he will stop by and visit as they usually have buttermilk sugar cookies and fudge too, an always welcome treat. He also loves to stare at the collage they made by cutting fruit from the seed catalogues then pasting them into a permanent fruit still life framed by a magnificent wooden frame, none finer hung is the art museums in the city.

               Passing by his chance for a sweet treat he hurries on ass he is still almost a mile from home. The road now paved goes past two farms and one of the local favorite swimming holes. At the top of the next hill the boy turns left onto a gravel road that will take him by the ancient cemetery that has been recently restored. The boy like it better when it was overgrown, although it made it more difficult for him to take this shortcut to his friend’s house because it seemed scarier then. 

               Reaching the main road, the boy has only one more bridge to cross then his neighbors’ farmhouse. He hopes the dogs will not notice him so that he doesn't have to run the rest the way home. Passing by undetected he sets off to finishing his chores. He wonders how his mom will make the eggs today. She is famous for her sunny side up eggs, but we just call them dip eggs. He loves using the old one-sided toaster that makes it necessary to flip it to complete the process.

               So, the man with a frozen heart began to feel the melting of his spirit that is found in the memories of a forgotten childhood and the warmth of a bright sunny day. He feels restored and ready to go on. Perhaps today he will paint a picture of a bright red breasted robin to remind him that not all is lost and there is much to be celebrated. Spring is the season of renewed hope and eternal wonderment. 

Walks In the Woods

Do snow angels go to heaven?

Is it true no two snowflakes are the same?

Have you ever stopped by a woods on a snowy evening 

There was a curious county boy who went out on a snowy Christmas morning. He went out looking for Christmas. He was dressed in many layers making his steps staggered and burdened. As he crossed the wet slushy road that would lead to the deer trail that recently had been widened by the loggers he pauses to look back to see the smoke rising from the chimney. It comforted him to know although now cold, he would return to a cozy cookstove. There was a gentle snow falling adding to that which now reached his ankles. When they measured it last evening it was the height of a tall pinecone that had fallen from one of the overburdened branches that now bowed low in homage.

          As he made his way across the small wooden bridge be pauses to see the crystals races to reach the center of the gently flowing stream. It would need to get much colder if he hoped to ride his bike on the creek this year looking for the ice castles and crystal caves along the cliffs that meet the water's edge. Just past the bride he turns and begins his assent  up the steep logging road. The trees fold in making a tunnel and he passes as if driving in a blizzard on its slick surface. It's three steps forward and two steps back. The village below is imprisoned by the tree trunk bars and the boy imagines he can smell the bacon cooking from today's breakfast. A  little further on a farmstead is framed by pine boughs. The red of the barn reminds him of the swamp berries his mother loves to gather to use in her woodland wreathes.

               He hears a chirping nearby and looks up to have a dusting of snow fall upon his already frozen face. He sees the first chickadee of the day. The boy believes them to be the best of the snowbirds because they look like antique graying barns that stood whitewashed once brand new. Following his fluttering friend he makes his way to the tiny waterfall that lives her in this quiet hollow. The falls sing a Christmas carol of their own and the snow laden branches join in on the choruses. The child is amazed at how quickly the singing stops as he passes through the forgotten orchard. Finding one of the last fruits of the season captured perfectly in the frozen grasses looking like rouge on a snowman's cheek. Leaving it behind for the whitetail deer to have a late morning snack.

               Now nearing his thinking place, he sees the first of the dying outbuildings that compose this solitary homestead. Looking in horse stalls for any signs of life he hears the scurrying of the creatures from the traditional story his parents had read to him the night before. As he goes through the gaping  doorway he hears the cooing of a mourning dove and he begins to sing Silent Night as a wind jingles the dusty horse bells long unused.

               He know that he should be hurrying home and hopes that his parent have found the note he left on the kitchen table, but, there is one last place he must visit. He reaches the abandoned house and enters through where the pantry once stood. Stepping ever so carefully, not to fall through the floorboards, disturbing the peace. he comes to the place that long ago must have been filled with cookies baking and a whistling teakettle. Whenever he comes here the boy tries to remember what it was like before the hermit man died leaving it all exposed to the elements. the boy had come here on several occasions with his mother delivering pumpkin pies to the man who lived in the shanty nearby.  

        There is an eerie silence enfolding the dwelling as the timid boy ventures on making his way to the staircase. Opening the squeaky door the boy wonders if maybe he should turn around, but, decides to go upward. Leaving the door ajar to lighten the dark passageway he begins to sing the chorus of the song he was singing earlier. At the top of the stairs there is a room that has a barren bed and box springs along with other containers of debris. Pausing for a moment he shuffles though one and finds a blue mason jar full of discarded buttons which he takes to use as a gift for his frugal grandmother.

        Standing the boy see a door in the corner that he believes may lead to the attic. As if ascending into the sky wondering what golden treasures he will find. There is but a tiny  window that lays broken at  the end on the floor illuminating the many wooden boxes that are piled high to the ceiling, leaving even a narrower  path than the one he just ascended. the boy wonders how many gifts were safely hidden here when the house was alive with a family and decides to make his way back to his own.

               Retracing  his steps as if following a pirates map he arrives back outside to see the snow has stopped, for now at least, so he is off on his way. There is a farm road that leads to the dirt road that will take him to the main road where his parents live.   The snow is deeper now so it will take him almost a half hour to reach home. He likes coming this way because it is all downhill allowing him to see the welcoming smoke from the chimney long before he reaches his final destination. Quickening his step he is warmed thinking about the hot chocolate his mom will make for him while he is opening the surprises that await him under the simply decorated tree.

         The thoughtful boy now realizes that he had found many signs of Christmas along the way. It was in the peaceful swaying of the snow laden trees, it was in the sound of silence that all nature sings, it was in the beautiful blue jay picking bright red holly berries,  it was  in the memories of a time that was and in the hope of a time that will be, it was in the forgotten stable of a decaying barn, and it was in the joy of the season. But, most of all Christmas would stay with him wherever he went because Christmas lived in his heart.

  

The Luddite

Who Can know the heart of a man?

Is truth found in solitude?

If these walls could speak, what would they say?

   A man with a hermit heart lived alone far from the happenings of the local town's folks. If you did not venture down these dusty dirt roads you would not even know of his existence. He was a solitary man who lived by himself and his coon dogs in the holler within miles of the local community, He was unaffected by the marching on of time. Time stood still for him in his mind and in his holler. In the springtime he could be found hitching his workhorses up to their harnesses and furrowing his fields that met the thick forest that surrounded his property. His relatives,  also farmers, somehow allowed him to carry on at his own pace. They would use the modern tractors and various other farming equipment, but this man had no need for these modern conveniences. This was also reflected in his dwelling. One could not really call it a house, although an ancient one stood dying within his view. His shelter was a one room shanty with a woodstove used for sustenance and warmth.

            He had few visitors as few people even knew he existed. There was a young boy who stumbles upon him when he was searching the nearby woods for treasures of his own. The boy already frightened of the dogs looks to his knee where the stitches were from an earlier incident and tries to stay clear of their detection. Although the man did not see the boy this time a strange bond was formed between them.

   The boy returned home and asked his parents about this man who still plowed with horses. The boy's mother filled in the details and provided him with a name. From that day forward the hermit man was known as Luther. The boy's mother, a tenderhearted Christian woman invited her son to go with her the next time she delivered pumpkin pies to him for Thanksgiving.

 

            This would be the first of many time that this boy would travel down the rugged road better suited for deer and black bears than the family car. The ruts in the road were deep and dangerous. The boy thought they would soon be stuck, but somehow his mother, the angel of mercy, maneuvered the wheels magically and they passed through unscathed. There was a grove of naked tress they passed through before coming to a huge graying barn. They would park up by the corncribs and make the last bit by foot. The boy trusted with carrying one of the pies stepped ever so carefully like on a newly frozen stream or when wearing Sunday shoes in the snow. The dogs were the first to announce their arrival and the boy stepped closer to his mother's used flannel jacket. The boy was comforted by his mother's warm scent imagining himself as a small chick beneath the protective wing of the mother hen.

            The child's eyes were not prepared for what he would see. Luther gave a shout out saying "Who's there?", waiting for a response before he called off his hounds. The woman answered softly but firmly says her name "June". As the hounds are put into the pen they journey onward. the man invites them in with a gruff voice, Then Luther asks "Who's this?" referring to the frightened child. The woman says, "This in my son and he was snooping in the woods when he saw you. He had so many questions that I thought I should introduce him to the legend of these hills." if the man could smile this would have been a golden opportunity, but all that was heard was a low rumbling.

   It was obvious that this man had had a very hard life. The lines in his face were almost as deep as the furrows in his fields. His skin also had the color of fall leaves, a mixture of beech and maple touched by a golden glow of an Autumn's sunset. His teeth were stained brown from his chewing tobacco. Work dungarees stood mysteriously in the corner by an invisible coat hook. There were pottery jugs on a rustic shelf illuminated from the glow of the kerosene lamp on the simple rickety  table. No pictures ordained the bare wooden walls, the wind could easily get inside for a peep through the wide cracks found there.  The cook stove was burning and there was something boiling in a pot. It smelled like his mother's stew or vegetable soup, only wilder.

Although the visit only lasted a short time, it had left a lasting impression on the boy's small heart. The boy would wonder how the man stayed warm in the winter, who would hear the man if he cried, did the man ever get lonely, was it true what he had said about putting dog whiskers under your pillow, or would cats really get stuck in holes if they lost theirs? There would be many other visits, both announced and unexpected. Some of the boys fondest memories were of times spent with Luther. He loved to take off his shoes and socks so he could walk a safe distance behind the hard working horses feeling the rich moist soil between his tiny toes. The boy also loved how a simple wave from Luther meant everything was well in the world today. Although the conversations were few in words they were heavy in meaning.

 The boy grew up and moved away, but not before the man who gauged the winters by the wooly bears striped bodies, or who could tell what kind of day it would be by looking at the morning's sky, and who also knew which direction was North because of the moss on the tree trunks would kiss this sweet earth goodbye. Giving up the ghost and returning to the soil went unnoticed by many. Even the boy himself does not remember when the quiet man slipped away into the sunset. Gone was the man but the spirit remained.

            The grown boy would return whenever he was back to his childhood home. He would photograph the landscapes so he would never forget the man who walked here in silence, who was more comfortable around his animals than men, who loved the land, who stood still while the rest of the world rushed by. For these reasons and many more this man was greatly misunderstood. Perhaps it is for this reason the most that the boy now returns. Although many of the outbuildings have gone under the mossy soil, there is a deep tranquility in this holler. This is the boy's thinking place, a place where it is okay to be silent and still.

 The man's hermit heart was passed on to the boy perhaps because the boy spent so many hours in the nearby woods, or perhaps because he understood the old man. Whatever the reason the grown little boy would often feel out of place in this world. He would move hours away from this holler making his living as a school teacher, but would never forget the mountain man who lived within miles of his parent's house. Nor would he forget the kindhearted woman who delivered Thanksgiving pies to a forgotten man just because she said she always had more than enough. She gave out of her poverty and he received out of his abundance.

The  boy believed he now understood the strange call of the wilderness. He also began to see how important his mother's visits were to a man who stayed to himself. He needed someone to hold his heart tenderly and carefully so that it could melt like the snow on the Spring's first morning. The boy having many married friends never married himself, but longed for the company of one. Living by himself he too waited for someone to remember him, to go out of their way to bring him something and silently say "I know you exist and you are special to me," A hermit's heart still beats within  the grown boy; every time he comes home to find the unblinking light on the answering machine he goes a little deeper in his holler until he is reminded of another lesson he learned long ago. The old man was desolate in many ways but the stories he left behind were rich in practicality and folklore. So the grown man resolves to live his life well and looks around for someone in need of a "Pumpkin Pie" remembering the richest man is not the one with the most but the one who gave the most away!!!