About Dreams And Memories On The Old Farm

By that time the chickadees were chirping and scurrying around the second growth trees and underbrush and a couple of redheaded woodpeckers were holding a conversation from two sides of the woods.  A flicker beat out his rata-tat-tat-tat on a vertical skeleton near by in search of a meal.  As I walked through the leaves to exit the woods noise was not an issue.  I had long before given up on bagging any squirrels.  I tossed one leg over the rail fence, grounded it and dragged the other over the top rail while completing a circle, then stepped into the open field. 

A sentinel crow sounded the danger alarm from a distant hilltop snag.  Halfway down the hill its crow buddies took flight from the pasture field near a spring-fed watering trough where they had been scratching out grain residue meals from cow chips.  Overflow from the watering trough painted a green ribbon of grass as it gravitated down the hill.  The ribbon was painted first with a bold brush, then a fine one as it trailed off to the woods.  

The crows cawed to scold their unseen intruder while taking flight, first flapping wings rapidly then sailing towards the woods below.  But the sentinel crow did see me, the threat, and was now closing ranks on the others.  I wondered what kind of pecking order crows use when selecting one to stand guard.

The two hillsides collapsed and overlapped forming a three-acre undulating stage filled with assorted tree characters.  They were partially clothed with greens, browns and yellows and a few were stripped naked.  That immobile cast was constantly decorating the stage below as they released small articles of clothing in the form of leaves.  The final curtain call would soon be taken.  By December the woods would be completely naked and sleeping until spring rains and sunshine aroused sap movement beneath each bark sheath.  The characters would once again take turns starting to redress in various shades of green.  Rehearsal for the next performance would have begun.

The sloping ends of those two hillsides met forming a half circle that created a giant amphitheater of dry, brownish, thirsty pasture.  All of nature was parched and I heard Pop say,    “If it doesn’t rain soon many farmers must start haying their cattle.  That’ll cause them to run out of hay early next spring and have to buy more.” 

The wooded stage melted into a steep ravine covered by continuous woods leading onward and downward about five hundred steps terminating at the Stalls Run road.  Just above the road stood a row of ancient fence posts supporting rusty wire pretending to restrict the movement of livestock.  At the road level stood a weathered gray board gate, never contaminated by lead-based paint, interrupting the fence.  Squirrel claw scratches were present along the boards, some marks perhaps decades old and others as new as today.  Two rusty hinges on one end and a rusty chain on the other held the gate upright.  Small locust trees grew close to the gate on either side.  The gate once provided access to a road rising slowly along one bank.  But now blackberry vines with missing leaves and naked brush reached out consuming half the road’s passage. 

The stage at the head of the woods with its various kinds of trees included a dozen magnificent virgin white oaks that were scattered throughout.  Each one represented and ruled over lesser vegetation.  Those huge and beautiful trees were so striking that each one appeared to possess a fragment of Mother Nature’s soul.  I had often walked along side those regal giants and stroked my fingerprints against their craggy bark.  The trees touched me back.  Little did I know that within three decades they would be harvested with their bodies cut into sections and hauled to a sawmill.  Nor did I know that fifty years later I’d write poetry in memory of those silent neighbors of yesterday.  Yes, the trees returned my touch!

A half hour later I arrived at the house and gave my report to Mom and Pop.  “Nope, I didn’t see a single squirrel.  The leaves are too dry and noisy to sneak up on them today.”  Whenever a family member went hunting, it was customary to give a report to all others upon their return. 

Mom said, “Wasn’t it a beautiful fall day?”

“Yeah, it sure was,” I said.  O boy!  I knew immediately my reply was too quick and emphatic.  Mom looked at me with her knowing smile.  She caught me again!  She knew I didn’t take that hunt seriously.  She also knew how I loved the outdoors and made the woods my second home.