28/07/2024
The stump was in a quiet clearing that was free from the 6 o’clock news, surrounded by air that smelled like honeysuckles signaling bees exactly where to find them. My mind could taste the honey.
Or at least I thought it was a quiet place...
Between the oak and the neighbor’s old horse pasture, there was a narrow footpath that connected our place to this spot.
I would sometimes weave through the briars, occasionally leaving a little blood behind, and go to this place. That was back when I thought I needed a quiet place to write, long before my newspaper job where I found out different.
This was a shady spot where I could think while I picked the prickly brambles out of my arms and legs. It seems we always have to endure a little pain to get to the good places.
Nature even provided me with a stump to sit on.
But it quickly went from idyllic to idiotic.
A hollowed-out gourd hung from a low limb on the oak, serving as a one-room inheritance passed down from season to season, from family to family.
That year, a mockingbird had staked a claim to it. That would not have been a concern, except that my quiet spot and this gourd shared the same space at the same time.
I had not picked the first thorn from my knee before the mockingbird started making calculated swoops at my hat.
I tried to work out a compromise. I even went as far as leaving my hat at the house on my next trip, but my gestures of peace went in one of her ears, got lost and was never heard from again.
There was a chip on her shoulder as she swooped and dared me to knock it off.
She even followed me partway to the house as I retreated through the briars.
It was a controversial, noisy encounter. But I stood my ground, figuring that if I hem-hawed and let her get away with it, next season she might lay claim to my hayloft, and I didn’t relish the thought of having to burn down my own barn for the sake of principle, but I would.
Despite this clattering, swearing racket-maker, I enjoyed my time spent sitting on that stump. I’d sometimes try to get there just as the western sky was set in a rage of fiery color, like some faraway battle field with the sound turned down.
It was a good place to stop, gaze, and take a breather from the world. As you know, this world has always got something going on, especially now.
On that stump, I could sit and listen as the sounds of the day shift knocked off and night shift came on duty.
Owls were always the first to show up for work—one from this side of the lake would proclaim the approach of darkness, then another from across the water would agree.
I’d sit and feel surrounded as the rhetoric continued until my legs started going to sleep and I had to take action by standing up, causing the nearest ho**er to scoot, swoop, and hush back into the approaching darkness.
After the owls had hushed, a contingent of up-til-then-quiet-but-now-had-enough bystanders would chime in: frogs, whippoorwills, an occasional bobwhite with his days and nights mixed up—all backed up by the haunting howl of the train blowing at a Midway crossing two miles away.
This was a time of transition in the country, when creatures were moving toward the darkness—a time when every sound weaved itself into a coherent web of growing uneasiness that darkness always brings. I could feel it in the air then. I can feel it in the air now! Only now it’s closer.
I can’t because a house is sitting on it now, but if I could walk to that clearing using that blood-stained footpath connecting past to present, if I could sit on that stump, I’d still see a western sky set in a rage of fiery color, like a faraway battle field... only now someone is threatening to turn up the sound!