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Among the Pine and Berriesby
Deborah Russell
In
the curve of the road I begin to feel, anticipation, the feeling that
sometimes makes me believe in angels or some other guiding presence
which seems to propel me and direct me, to places I have never been.
It is a feeling of deep kinship with this planet earth.
I'm
driving in the outer parts of the suburbs, in the direction of the
mountains in Hunt Valley. It is early spring and like myself, the
earth is partially awake. The trees are a little green and lawns and
flowers rejuvenating daily with small new growth, sprouts and buds.
I
began the day's pursuit with the sole ambition of finding garden rocks
to put around several of the new flowerbeds. I had a vision of what I
wanted, and to insure this would happen, I said a little prayer.
Although
I do not consider myself any specific religion, I often pray for some
guidance even if it is to just guide me through a single difficult or
dull conversation.
It
is natural I suppose, to pray for such things as rocks for your
garden;
for the grocer to have fresh strawberries or for the car ahead of you
to stay in its own lane. At
the least this is the gist of my "religion". It is a casual
relationship with God, and I don't think he minds. I do pray for quite
impossible things as well, and when I do, God is quite good enough to
forgive me.
This
morning's drive was quite settling, the fresh beauty of the day was
reflecting in the trees, the pines and the great rocks near Ashland
School. I love the rocks along the border of the school grounds, the
warm color of iron oxide and coolness of quartz and the flirtatious
way they glint as I drive by.
As
the car rounds the curve, I see the road ahead, just to the right. I
know this is "my road" because I feel it, even to my bones.
I am excited with this new discovery.
I am the explorer, the first to know of this road I know in my
heart I have been brought here, to discover this place. A knoll, made
sacred somehow by this morning's prayer.
I
slowly release the pressure on the accelerator and begin scanning the
scenery. When I see the small half -hidden knoll, on the left, I pull
over. This is my "paradise found".
I came to this paradise place, by the road, that I was meant to
see and know.
I
get out of the car with determination and step to the edge of the
woods and look down the landscape to where the pond used to be clear
and blue. What remains of it now is a shallow bit of overgrowth
dispersed around a slow moving swamp of pollution.
The
thought seems to hurt me, and I feel a small pain near my heart. But,
the air is clear and green and the moist earth begins to soothe the
pain as I begin to notice the wildness of the Creeping Myrtle and the
remains of a long forgotten farm.
I
see where the house once stood in it's Queen Anne glory and know my
feet are planted near where the stables and the horses were once
bridled, even though what I see is invisible to the human eye.
Yes,
I think, this is where she decided to leave her husband and take their
daughter and small son back to New England.
I see more of this "invisible family" as I move about
smelling the earth. I see
the woman was blond, her husband was dark.
Both were thin and in their mid- thirties. The young girl, fair
like her mother and the boy appeared quite pale with brown hair. He
seemed to be sickly, and I feel great concern for this one.
I
feel the mother's tension, her pain and realize her husband was quite
an intolerable man with issues of ill health. He was wealthy, abusive
and a tyrant in his business as well as his home. He was often away
for several weeks at a time for business and virtually ignored his
family while he was home, keeping himself locked in the library.
I
scanned the ground again, still breathing its history as I turned to
retrieve my equipment from the trunk of the car.
I gathered my shovel, gloves and rake, shut the trunk and
return to the knoll. begin to search the ground carefully for juts of
rock and find a small "gold mine" where the ground dips deep
into a culvert. After
prying around for a few moments, I begin to loosen the rocks, testing
for size and weight, so I would not split my shovel handle.
The
afternoon passed quickly and although it was the end of February, I
felt as though it were the middle of August in no time. Sweat gathered
and dripped from my brow, my arms and hands tightened with each lift
of the shovel that resisted the weight of the rocks.
Throughout
the afternoon between the thirty or so rocks, my mind drifted back to
the people that walked this land. I could see various activities of
their times and days, almost as if I was recalling the scenes from
personal experience. I noticed a housekeeper, who also appeared to be
somewhat of a nurse to the young boy. She was a small dark haired
woman, not exactly plain or pretty. I also saw the husband at a desk,
writing in the middle of the afternoon. He seemed intent on the work
at hand, and it appeared to be more of ledgers that he was attending
to, than something of a personal correspondence.
I
continued to work, and moved from spot to spot...and found a small
area where the rocks seemed to be placed in a stilted, particular
arrangement. Mostly, they seemed to be covered with a thickness of
dirt that indicated nearly a fifty-year span, probably placed there by
the descendants of the original family.
It was probably a garden area then, I thought, and it seemed
odd somehow to be positioned in a northern direction from the
foundation.
I
saw the young woman, sitting in her son's room, with a sunburst window
above the head of his bed. She was in a cushioned chair and her
daughter was standing near her right side. It appeared that she was
reading from a children's storybook. Quite a peaceful and yet
disparaging scene. The young lad was quite ill and there was a cloud
over this sunny room. I saw the housekeeper come in with a tray, and
the mother and daughter left the room.
I
began to load the stones onto a small wagon to pull them closer to the
car. While I was struggling with the dips and digs of the ground, I
saw the woman pleading with her husband as she stood just inside the
door of his library. He
appeared angry and disheartened slowly removing his glasses and put
down his pen. He started to rise, but sank deeper into the chair. She
returned to the upper rooms and began packing. It was evident that she
was preparing to take the children to some vacation or a spa. I became
aware of her desire to take them away to some healing environment.
Mysteriously,
I noticed, I'd reached the clearing at the shoulder of the road and
began to unload my rocks. Some were quite sizable, about twenty-five
to forty pounds. I picked them from the wagon, one by one, tossing
them onto the ground with a wide swing of my arms. I wanted the
visions to stay in a controlled realm, where I would not cascade into
the why or where of the situation, and just accept these given scenes
and savor the experience as it was meant. I tipped the wagon to remove
the debris, knowing I would be making at least three more trips, back
and forth to the car, collecting my rocks.
On
one of the return trips to the "gold mine" I clearly saw the
woman standing beside a beautiful Arabian horse. It seemed she was
apprehensive about the money that was spent to purchase this horse and
a few others. It was then I realized that they had owned racing horses
and that her husband was also an avid hunter.
I
struggled with a few more rocks concentrating now more on the shape,
size and coloration. I wanted to bring back some treasures for my new
pond. I had built the pond and wanted to landscape the surrounding
area with rocks and Japanese iris. I wanted the rocks to have a great
variation in color and mostly flat for stacking. As I dug the rocks
from the earth, if they were satisfactory, I would toss them a few
feet away into a growing pile.
I
had a sudden thought about the woman, that she loved jonquils and
lilacs. I sensed this very strong, as I bent down to lift a nice flat
rounded rock. I braced my feet against the incline to toss it unto the
pile, and looking around with an expectant gaze, I saw there was now
no evidence of the lilacs that once bloomed. Perhaps someone had dug
them up and moved them, just as I am moving the rocks from the beds. I
also had a vision of her smoothing some blanket that appeared to hold
a dear memory. It was as if she were stroking the arm of a loved one.
For a quick moment I watched as she clutched the fabric to her breast.
I loaded my rocks and repeated my steps three more times. Finally satisfied, I had gathered enough stone for the beginnings of my new beds. I felt a great relief this woman was comforted by small things, like jonquils, soft blankets and lilacs. I felt comfort too, in that she was able to take leave without any great disruption. I also knew a secret that perhaps her husband never knew, that the small boy, in her arms, was not his son. He was the son of her lover and it was to him that she would return. I loaded the car, rock by rock, making sure the weight was evenly distributed. After putting the equipment back into the trunk, I stood for a few moments, reflecting on the afternoon. I was driven to this place for a purpose...or, was it my imagination of these events? Was there a meaning behind these visions and thoughts? I am a romantic by nature... perhaps in my mind and in my heart I needed to contrive this small saga, to invent something desirable for this little paradise. I jotted a few notes, perhaps for a sonnet, another poem or a story. I placed the papers on the dashboard, and knew, as I started the car, that I would soon return to stroll among the pines and berries, if for nothing else but to collect more rocks and gather my thoughts.
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