Rockin’ Chair
A tiny dog-trot
cabin, yet the porch was wide
Pappy built it
like the one that Mammy’d spied
In alabaster
pale full moon light the old swing rusty chains did squeak
The homemade
oaken rocker swayed, the old man’s interest piqued
“Pap,” allowed
the boy, “her gold hair shines like noon-time halo sun”
His father
nodded, knowing that this lad’s tale of love had now begun
A young man’s
star-struck words spoken in religious reverence
His brown eyes
aglow so soft to personify eternal pleasur-ence
“She speaks a
language sugar-coated through sweet honey lips
To caress soft
hand akin to flower nectar which a wild bee sips”
That rocker
groaned as Pappy reached to tap his corncob pipe
A work-hard hand
did a tear-stained cheek ever-gently wipe
The youth went
on without notice of the prideful sign
“Pap, I’ll ask
her hand, for love is purely my design”
Quiet still, the
old man rose but found no words to speak
A
shoulder-firm-approval pat gave all the boy did seek
With love they’d
reared this child as parents should
That gentle
touch said, “Son, you have done good”
The rainbow
flower bed before the porch wafted fragrant summer roses
At dawn, the old
man takes a fresh bouquet to where his wife reposes
The boy dreamed
glory-fame in that midnight star-filled diamond sky
Pappy smiled
tears of future coming tempered in bright days gone by
In seeming end
each new beginning lies some patient wait
Where ’ere thee
be in time is right, never is our future late
From here to
pointed there, enjoy full well this wondrous journey so
Thank God for
life, celebrate by shouting, “Yes! Lord! I will go!”
Amen! Amen!
Nostalgia Stirs a Hope Comfort…
Mid-January’s
winter sun, a cold yellow blurred stain in a frigid grey-white bone-chilling
sky vacant of even the slightest hint of cerulean warmth, faux-promised errant
dream-hope of relief from the cold storage of a season’s icy snow sculptures as
the old man, now only several years shy of the seven-decade marker, absently
stirred his steaming cup of tea and held a half-eaten piece of buttered whole
wheat toast while staring empty-eyed through the dingy double-hung window
overlooking the barn lot where cattle moseyed toward the comfortable protection
from coming night air under the loafing overhang as they anticipated the
evening feeding time. No need for a fancy timepiece for one a-tuned to nature:
January, 3p.m.
In
the time-space of just over an hour, the days already noticeably lengthening,
dark would challenge, overtake, and swallow up the spent daylight short hours.
He would finish the half cup of tea, munch the last taste of the toasted
bread, then, don his worn old corduroy
dark brown winter work coat, put on his earmuff cap of matching material, guard
his fingers in rabbit-fur lined leather gloves and brave the ten-degree
temperature on his daily trek to feed the stock.
By
the time he finished visiting the animals while talking to each by name,
forking loose alfalfa hay into the cattle manger and tossing two flakes each
into the horse stall trays, then adding pelleted sweet grain for the steeds and
placing ear corn in with the cattle fodder and giving the sheep some straw,
dusk had quickly come and gone leaving a slight pinkish blush on the western
horizon. Removing snow-flecked boots, coat and hat after entering the
glassed-in porch, he gathered several hickory logs and one cedar offering for
the wood-burning cast iron stove in the living room to which the old man
retired for a long winter night’s respite.
Lighting
his old kerosene lantern, the house sported electricity, had for decades, still
he preferred the warmth of old-time ambiance, and, secretly, he enjoyed the
pungent odor of the burning fuel, the old man settled into his rocking chair by
the glowing stove, fished reading glasses from a tattered flannel shirt pocket
from which the cover flap hung by one, or, two, remaining stitches, settled in
pulling the American flag afghan across his legs and picking up the Cabela’s
sportsman’s catalog old Cassidy had delivered to the box at the county road on
his daily noon-time mail run. “Winter-white” sales adorned the cover
illustrated with a whitetail buck, antlers glinting, bounding over deadfall in
a snow covered forest with a lean coyote on his heels.
The
old man smiled as the imagined scene of some city-slicker artist’s rendition of
“how” things ought to be brought flashes of pleasant memories of by-gone hunts
to a lively mind.
A
reloading press caught his attention. Once, long years ago, the old man had
done a good bit of hunting; target shooting had caused him to take up the hobby
of loading centerfire cartridges to save money, and for the sake of accuracy,
and he had added shot shell reloading to his repertoire. But, that had been a
very long time ago; some distant space from his “now” reality.
He
turned a few more pages trying to focus on the grand items offered in the
colored ads but, slowly, as always, he lost interest focusing instead on the
flames behind the glass of the wood stove, hypnotized by the mock fireworks
orange sparks shooting like 4th of July celebration-rockets up the
chimney from the cedar log while purposely lost in the hickory aroma of the
shellbark logs. Ah! Life is good! Perception slipped to introspection.
Tomorrow
promised to be a big day! Son David would bring three year old granddaughter,
Jenny, to visit the old man. They would bring a cake to celebrate the child’s
birthday.
Just
four short years ago, this summer, the boy had come home about ten one evening
to find the old man sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch smoking his
favorite corncob pipe while enjoying a deserved respite of the night time cool.
The
boy leaned against a porch roof support post near his father; he seemed
reflective.
After
a quiet moment, the son spoke to break the tender silence.
“Pap,”
he had begun, “I asked Charlene to marry me.” He paused. Then, “She said
‘Yes!’.”
When
the boy had gone inside a short time later, the old man wiped a “happy” tear
from a craggy cheek as he strolled to the giant silver maple tree surrounded by
a picket fence, near-by.
“Well,
Mamma,” he smiled, “David will marry soon. You’d be so proud.” He swallowed,
hard. Then, “I wish you could be here for this shindig,” he choked, holding
back wet tears.
Jenny
came along the following winter; with her birth, the old man seemed to be
re-born, too.
He
loved this blessing from a time before she took her first breath and that love
grew, daily.
With
a vision of his angel in mind, he smiled, savoring the delectable, delightful
image.
In
the tiny space of a few months, the earth would warm and green, slowly melting
winter’s snow and ice facade; by late April those “secret” culinary delights of
the wild woods would “pop” with gourmet Morel mushrooms rife for the taking, if
one knew when and where to look; mid-May, decorated with myriad rainbow hues of
color-displays, would usher in the spawn of Red ear sunfish along with a
promise of summer as the seasons progressed in their time of space evolution;
their future assured in the giant scheme of Mother Nature’s divine plan.
“Nature’s
timing of her elements,” he mused, laying the magazine on a side table. “She
knows.” Taking a deep breath of the hickory scent and watching the cedar
sparks, he smiled.
He
never had much need, or use, for the “modern” conveniences; Oh! True enough, he
had several cars over his space of time and the abode had running water and
electricity, but, these were “necessities” for the family more than for
himself. He could be “self-sufficient”!
The
old man had owned a watch, once, somebody had given it to him as a Christmas,
or birthday, present somewhere along the way; it had been quickly, and
permanently, relegated to his top dresser drawer along with other trinket
commemoratives collected over quite so many years, come and been and gone. The
exact or particular design of the clock with regard to “measured-time” seemed
un-important to him in the scheme of his being in time and space. Just, do what
needs doing when it needs to be done. Seemed quite “simple” on the face of it;
no need getting excited; just let it come, let it be, let it go. Most of the
“big” catastrophes and “important” necessities were simply figments of “bored”
pilgrims’ vacancy impressed with their own over-hyped elite-royal
self-indulgent faux imperative, anyway. Like: Buy ’em for what they’re worth;
sell ’em for what they think they’re worth. Instant wealth! Yeah! Right!
“Simple”
is Truth! Truth is best! Amazing how the obfuscations evaporate with: Truth!
He
had read some books, even knew a lot of the words and understood their
meaning---somewhat! Finished elementary school, too, all eight grades in a one
room building; must have particularly liked third grade, took two years to
accomplish that one. Had a full year and a half of high school under his belt,
also!
And,
Yes! Sir! Once, the old man had actually driven by a university. Or, was it a
prison?
Well!
“Erudite-intent!” If it had ever even mattered. He smiled at his incessant
irreverence.
Getting
up to stoke the fire by poking the carbon-blackened spear to rearrange the
burning logs after opening the glass door caused the old man to absently drop
the afghan to the floor.
Stepping
back to the rocker after giving the fire proper air in which to burn a bit
hotter with enhanced oxygenated flames turning to orange, long, licking
tongues, he reverently picked up the flag replica, gently gave it a soft shake
and smoothed it over his legs once he was re-seated. Sacrilegious to disrespect
“Old Glory”! Perhaps the effort salvaged some modicum of reverence.
Ole
Boze, a tiger-striped feline with a muted hint of mixed-in calico on its two
front paws and the tip of a long tail jumped to the old man’s lap sensing that
he had retired for the night; for its reward, the master gently scratched the
cat’s chin starting its purring motor. Sometime during the long night, Boze
would get hot from the toasty fire warmth and hop down to seek refuge on the
wide sill of the room’s window for a short nap. Then, awakening with a chill in
its tail, he would retreat to his owner’s warm afghan repeating the tag game of
“hot” and “cold” several times through the darkness of the mid-night time.
Wondering
what magnificent tales these old logs burning in his wood stove warming his
body on a cold winter night might tell, if they could talk, his mind slipped
beyond the present concern as he deftly rubbed Ole Boze’s furry chin enjoying
the pleasant purr received in return.
That
old pocket watch resting in a dresser drawer in the bedroom came to mind,
again.
Wonderful
thing! That the human mind could conceive, design, refine, construct and create
such a magnificent invention. He smiled as his mind explored territory he had
contemplated many times before this excursion; a place he loved to delve into
deeply; an exercise of intellect.
Two
aspects of humankind fascinated the old man: Love! and Intelligence!
He admired smart people; ignored, as best he could, ignorance; tolerated all,
save the compulsive liar. Hypocrisy was the ultimate “lie” insult, negating
even the perpetrator’s credibility for faux-Truth.
With
profound regard to the latter affirmation, man’s unlimited ability to pursue
solutions, Truth, seemed analogous to the very infinite expanse of the
universe, itself. The only barrier, or wall, limiting human ability to
understanding any imaginable contemplation was a self-defeating construction of
parameters. Indeed, the paradigm of the fallacy: Think outside the box! An evil lie on the very face of the atrocity
against man’s infinite intelligent capacity. There ain’t no box!
Such
inclusive remedy to “failure” within the human realm, in the old man’s fertile
mental minutia readily reverted to his old stand-by when investigating the
creative imagination limitless undertakings, namely, Benoit Mandelbrot’s “star
within a star” leading to “fractal geometry”.
No
beginning, no end to the vastness of the universe. Only, an eternal continuum!
The
old man convinced himself that within his mind existed an understanding of that
miracle; such mental gymnastics offered him agility in the creative arena. An
elixir for an insult of “age”!
To
conceive of the “star” phenomena-theory required an excursion akin to
acceptance of the “black hole” concept-theory. If everything, mass, matter, time, even, space, could be pulled
into a concentration of compacted introjection, then that inclusion must, of necessity to existence, be expansive
without limit, thus---Infinity…all-dimensional
into the “concentrated expansion”.
He
shook his head at the outrageous image of such creative imagination; maybe he
really was “Nuts”! But, with Salvation
from such conclusion through Redemption!
That being: Love!
“Love”
knows no limits, no bounds, no “box”. It is purely infinitely expansive by its
very definition; that very emotion through independent individualism prismatic
upon the universe.
He
had surmised, through seven decades of life, that Love expands proportional to
its offer.
That
is to say, in his humble-considered estimation, that there is “no” limit in
either “intent” or “purpose” to the capacity, or pure virtue, of “Love”. The
“Innocence” of the gift: Inviolate!
Such
then, in the old man’s opinion, makes Love equal in value to the virtue of
infinity as in the universe expanse. No tethers. No filter obfuscations. No
impurity. No occlusion. Just: Pure!
Like:
Happiness! Exactly where one finds it! Gifts are for acceptance;
pleasure-treasures!
Somewhere
between the “betwixt” and the “beyond” the old man had succumbed to sleep.
A
low moan of icy wind in the hollow eaves awoke him with a shiver. He realized
quickly that the flames had died out; dawn had snuck in upon him hinting a dull
grey of pale through the window to the east which was adorned with a
lace-crystal frost-filigree along either edge of the panes slipping down to
course across their bottom. Freshness-Personified! Ah! Sweet Winter!
Stirring,
he arose, reverently folded the flag afghan to hang it on the rocker back,
stoked the glowing embers in the wood stove firebox with the blackened poker
while adding kindling pieces to coax an infant flame to life which he then fed
with twigs and small dry branch pieces until it supported a blazing log
conflagration extending warmth through a chilled morning air.
In
the adjacent kitchen space, the original one-room log cabin which had been
added to and remodeled so many times over the years to be morphed into the
“modern” edifice it had finally become, the old man placed a pot fresh-pumped
of well water onto the gas range lighted burner to heat for morning tea and
placed a slice of bread in the electric toaster.. The cattle and other farm
critters would be hungry, anxious for breakfast; the chickens were already up,
scratching the frozen ground within the confines of their wire pen; at
yesterday eve’s feeding of the stock, the feathered flock had previously gone
to roost with the approaching frigid dusk.
Tonight,
he must remember to examine that wonderful Cabela’s catalog, again.
Within
those tempting offerings and combined with a visit from sweet little Jenny?
Well? There-in might lay the smoldering embers necessary to rekindle some
leaping flames of youth- remembered, and---secretly…desired! He shook his head,
smiling at his own romantic-optimism.
Well?
Maybe! After all? What be there without---Hope?
And, Imaginative wishes?
He
laughed. “No!” He concluded, “He was not too old to take up reloading, once
more.”
After
all, life is for living---and…loving! And, there exists no officially
sanctioned: Limit!
Perhaps,
within that decided space-continuum of time-existence lives: Love Infinity!
For the Independent
Individual! Triumph! I so pray---
(Now, then. just
where did I place that new Sportsman’s wish-book catalog?)
…Amen!
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