Secret Mountain Meadow
(excerpt from a short story by Carl Schuler)
Awake
with the hint of dawn, the old man lay quiet in “Thankful” morning prayer
listening to the warble of his mountain meadow feathered-friends greeting
another precious gift of one more chance. A soft stir of the wooden latch on
the cabin door betrayed his granddaughter’s whisper-exit from the one room
structure he had built himself, some five-plus decades ago.
It
would be in keeping with her saintly manner to wish not to interrupt his
slumber; her grandfather correctly surmised that the girl knew he was awake;
just her angelic-ways’ perpetual penchant to give consideration to the other
person, never encroaching on their time or space. She was saintly by nature;
for her living show of respect and honor, he loved her even more.
With
a quick eye, through the slight gap in the old sheet that hung on a frayed rope
which served to separate his bed and sleeping quarters from the rest of the
single room interior, he caught sight of a yellow blur going through the door
opening; that bright sunshine flash, he knew, would be her favorite summer
dress. Though the high meadow would be cool at sunrise, she enjoyed the chill.
Grandfather also spied her guitar, the girl’s perpetual companion, next to the puppy
dog, the instrument being carried by the girl in his split-second glimpsed-viewing.
Outside,
Snowball barked “Good morning” to the horses as the gelding, Shadrack,
youthful-whinnied an excited reply as he rustled thick mane with a shaking of
his head while ole Mose deep-grunted a throaty nicker in happy greeting to the
pair. Gramps knew that the girl would free them from the dry lot where the pair
spent each night under a protective lean-to. Also, no doubt, she would pull a
few carrots from the vegetable garden to the delight of the steeds.
Moments
later, he heard the chickens clucking as she hand cast scratch grains to the
flock.
“Good
therapy,” Grandpa laughed, silently offering a prayer for his precious
granddaughter.
She
had suffered near total devastation when her beau had suddenly died only a
month earlier; with that unfathomable loss, she had saddened, and, aged, beyond
her tender years. No anger or self-pitying “feel-sorry-for-me” faux grief
production came forward; this child was too reverent, too mature, too full of Love for life for such worthless
foolery. Simply, she was broken-hearted.
Family
and friends had gathered round her to “help” survive the tragedy and that good
effort had aided in her handling of the immediate necessities; with time, they
had evaporated, returned to whatever “important” features of their lives
demanded immediate attention, sorrowful for the girl, for her gigantic loss,
for their own unsolicited acceptance of the mortality of man as to each shall
surely come “the end” of time to space in the eternal evolution of mortal life.
Such is a hard lesson to all, believer and non-believer, alike. Out of deep
love, Grandfather had taken her in.
Usually,
the girl would prepare breakfast for the pair; today, he knew that she would
not.
(Part 2---Tomorrow's post)
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