The "Good" life

Ridgetop Misty-morn

 

     Dawn had not yet touched the eastern horizon threatening day’s bright assault upon the darkness of receding nighttime soon to be pushed away. Scott stretched long arms extending his lanky frame the length of the lumpy-mattresses bed frame; his fingertips touched the rough planks of the outside wall, the texture painting a picture of the grain of the huge oak logs which had been hand-hewn by his grandfather when first he had built the cabin. Sturdy! Both the men who had come before Scott and the abode which had sheltered four succeeding generations, now; older sister, Abagail, had married and she and husband, Jake Tolliver, had taken over what had previously been Scott’s and kid brother Henry’s room. Scott didn’t mind; he loved baby nephew, Daniel; Abigail was sweet and kind, unselfish; Scott and Jake had become good friends.

     Quiet as a mouse in the food pantry in a purposed effort not to disturb sleeping kid brother, Billy, the teen boy dressed quickly, grabbed his trusty squirrel gun and shinnied down the wooden loft ladder. Baking biscuits aroma assaulted his nose as he descended to the kitchen below. There, in her faded blue dress adorned with her perpetually-in-place white apron, stood Ma at the wood-fired cook stove; the heat comforted a body fresh from restful sleep on a chill mountain morning but the warmth of the stove did not embrace the lad nearly so much as the precious sight of his dear mother; she seemed to always be the first one up.

     Morning pleasantries were exchanged with a loving embrace and a soft peck on her wrinkled cheek; Ma’s smile seemed as perpetual as morning sunshine filled with fragrant roses.

     Scott patiently waited as the biscuits browned under Ma’s watchful eye; within ten minutes, she served up two golden brown delights, each weighing about a quarter pound. These, she slathered with churned butter topping each with a generous dollop of homemade wild strawberry preserves canned in June from her patch in the vegetable garden. Fresh milk washed it down.

     “You be careful, now, Scottie,” Ma cautioned as the boy exited the cabin.

     “Yes! Ma’am.” He promised, holding the screen door so it wouldn’t slam.

     Scottie trekked up the hill as a new sun struggled to top the rise; perfect timing, again. As the glow brightened, a morning wind came up dropping the cool temperature by a good ten degrees as was the way with sunrise each day; during deer season, he shivered at the chill greeting.

     A full ten minutes passed as the sun climbed above the horizon; immediately, the wind calmed. Off to his right at about twenty yards a limb of a dogwood shook as a red fox squirrel began its ascent to the canopy and a tasty nut breakfast on a giant, old hickory tree. It paid no mind to its raucous cousins, the pair of rambunctious grey squirrels clambering in the branches of a red bud tree, frolicking like they had not a single care in the world. Wily Foxy ignored them.

     Scottie slowly made his way to within shooting distance of the hickory lunch room, carefully watching every step so as not to betray his stealthy approach. Within range, the boy paused.

     A rustle slightly downhill from his position caught his attention. Slowly, his eyes focused on tiny white spots as a summer-fawn suddenly appeared; as he observed, the camouflaged doe, only five feet from her ward, came into view. Watching the pair, Scottie forgot ole Foxy.

     Twenty minutes later, the pair disappeared over the ridge.

     By noon, Scottie came home with a bounty of two red fox squirrels and an absolutely poet tale of the doe and wily fawn which had made this hunt ever memorable.

Life is: Good!