Shed Full of Memories

 

 NOTE: This is one of my most popular short stories. Thought I'd share it again. KLD

At first, only the light filtering through the hole in the roof could be seen. He opened the door by lifting and pushing, because it dragged the dirt floor in its sagging condition. The ancient rusty hinges complained in unison until he had moved the door as far as he could. He stood in the doorway a minute, as fresh air flooded the inside. Little rays of light sneaked passed the chinking between the logs, and beamed upon the dust raised from the opening of the door.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and his nose took in the smell of aged wood, soil and leather. Sturdy oak logs stood resolute above him after nearly a century of supporting boards and wooden shakes in gabled fashion above the walls. Dust covered wall logs lay squarely in place, right where the hands of his family had placed them nearly 100 years ago. The clay chinking was nearly all intact, and the creek rock foundation was solid.

Old wooden barrels with rotted bottoms, and rusty tin cans lay on the dirt floor. Leather straps and harness hung beside hames and guides, in the last place they were hung decades ago. Old rusted saw blades and wooden poles stood in one corner. The workbench ran along the wall under the small six pane window that was missing some glass. A warm wind whistled through the vacant pane, across the wooden bench, and into the earthy building.

At first he couldn’t see it, this thing that he had come for. The bench was covered so, in a collection of dust covered paraphernalia. Old wooden boxes filled with nails, cotter pins, horse shoes, and hickory nuts brought in by mice and ground squirrels, were spread along the length of the yellow poplar planked bench. Old oil cans, Mason jars and other containers held a curious collection of items inside them. An old canvas, that had been carefully folded and left for the ages, was lying on the corner of the work table. He moved the canvas, and under it found what he was looking for.

The old vise was still mounted by sturdy bolts. It’s jaws opened to the last size needed to secure whatever had required the added grip. He placed his hands on the metal handle and turned it clock wise. The vise, still greased after all these years, floated smoothly forward in response. Before he thought, he cranked the handle back to the position where he found it. He chuckled a little to himself, as if someone would expect him to leave things as he found them now. Old habits, he thought, and he smiled as his mind carried him back.

His great-grandpa seemed to be using this vise nearly every time he came to visit.Whenever he had come to this place, his great-grandpa was most often in the shed working on something. Some piece of tool or fashioned object would be in this old vise to be molded or mended for use somewhere on the farm.   He could picture the lean and gentle old man in blue denim overalls and big straw hat or cap on his head, telling stories to him while pulling, bending, or stretching whatever the vise held in its grasp. He would sit as a boy on an old oak stump and watch and listen. Sometimes he would tell a few stories of his own, as his great-grandpa continued to work. He would chat away as little boys do, while the old man just smiled and nodded like old folks do, when there’s not much to do but listen, in a one sided conversation. Lots of good times here in this old shed, playing with this old vice.

The last time he had seen his great-grandpa standing at this workbench was when he was sixteen years old. Shortly after that the old man had died. He came to the shop at different times after his passing but, without his great-grandpa present, it just was'nt the same. Still he would crank on that old vise when he came.

He looked down and saw a hickory nut lying on the dirt floor. He picked it up and placed it in the vise and cranked the vise tighter until it cracked, then he released it. A thousand hickory nuts and walnuts had been cracked by him just this way, year after year, until the time came when he had grown up, and gone off to a life of his own. It was just an old vise, but it was treasure trove full of pleasant rememberings. Funny how one inanimate object can set the movie of your past in play. This old shed item caused a flood of memories.That was why he had brought the tools to remove it and take it with him.

It didn’t take long to free the old hex nuts from the bolts, and then lift the vise from its ancient home on the old workbench. He carried it out the door and into the bright sunlight, and placed it in the bed of his truck. He took a long look around the farm and turned back to take a final look at the building. His eyes rimmed a little with tears. As he closed the door to the old log shed, he heard a musical sounding voice over a loudspeaker a little distance away. The auction had begun.

It would belong to someone else now, this family farm and his boyhood haven. But not the old vise. No, this good part of his early life, he would take away with him. After all, he had a woodshop of his own now, and grandsons who would sit upon a stump, and watch while he worked. And he had a few stories of his own to tell… and a few nuts yet to crack.

A Thanks for All

There’s more to our Thanksgiving than turkey, dressing, and pumpkin pie. Oh, we celebrate the holiday in the traditional sense here at the Chicken Ranch. Besides the standard fare, there is always an over-abundance of vegetables, snacks, finger foods and sugary delights to serve the 30 or so guests that dine with us on this holiday. Garden veggies and herbs from each years bounty are always part of the turkey day table fare. There is every kind of drink imaginable to quench the thirsts of all. And we all eat and drink too much. But, this is only partly why we come together.

On cold Thanksgiving days the fire place adds comfort as the flames do a spirit dance around the logs. Folks take turns  keeping the fire stoked with the oak and hickory wood from the hearth. The young folks play football out south of the house. Some of us older ones sit on the back porch, if the weather permits, while in the house, a game of Scrabble, dominoes, or cards is engaged by others . At times, someone is at the piano, or I play my guitar to furnish a bit background music. A few folks just sit and visit, and the conversation is always lively and laughter-filled. But, this is only partly why we come together.

We are as diverse a group as one could imagine. We are not all conservative thinkers that gather here, and we are not all liberal leaning. We are not all wealthy, nor are we all poor. We are not all union members or all business owners. We are not all of the same faith or religious ideology. We are not all Irish, Scottish, Mexican, or Italian descended. We are not all white, nor are we all black. Our commonality is not what we have, what our opinions are, what we do, or what we look like...  for we are a mixture of all the aforementioned things. We are as different in some ways as wind and water. No, being all the same is not why we come together.

We come together at Thanksgiving because we are family. We gather here at the Chicken Ranch to celebrate our gratitude for life, and for one another. We are each one of us different. We are each one accepted. We are bound by blood, and  bound by choice. And we are together... a family.


We come together in thanksgiving because we live in freedom, because we are healthy, because we live in a land of plenty. We come together on this holiday, as I am certain many other folks do... to celebrate our thankfulness for life. We gather here because we are one, bound together in love.

So as we prepare for the onslaught of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandkids, in-laws and more, we are happy in our anticipation of food, fun, and most of all... family.

From all of us at the Chicken Ranch, we hope you have as happy a Thanksgiving as we plan to, and may God bless you and yours.

Days End

Year after year, decade after decade, we are given new inventions to make our lives "easier". Cars that do everything but totally drive themselves, and that will happen soon enough. Phones that fit in your ear or work through your car radio. Information on anything, anywhere, at anytime. Comforts that were a futuristic dream, even 25 years ago, are now common place in our society. Still, our lives are NOT more relaxed. If anything, we are busier and more stressed than ever.


We have just traded  laborious work for stress, simplicity for complexity, appreciation for entitlement. We move from thing to thing at the speed of sound. Its all hustle and bustle from daylight till dark. We stampede through the day, all day... until we realize that the day is done. Its hard to stop and smell the roses when you're traveling at full gallop.

 I guess that's why I welcome a quiet evening on my western facing porch. I love to watch the setting sun. I sit in my rocking chair and look off to the west. I feel the change in the air ; the drop in temperature, the brief quickening of the breeze. I love the look of the evening sky.

Silently, majestically, the sun bows to the horizon and beckons us to be still. In one last display of its power, the descending light catches the edges of each cloud and accents them in a fiery ring of gold and orange. As I watch it's decent, I am quiet, and I wait for the darkness to  cloak me.

 I take in a deep breath and exhale the weight of that days living. I come to rest. Tomorrow can't be seen yet, and at this moment in time I can prepare for what it may bring. The new days joys, the sorrows, the work or play, are all hidden behind the veil of the coming darkness.

Work is good if it is productive. It's work, after all, that makes us appreciate rest. Its noise that's makes us long for quiet. Noise, scurry, and business are a major part of most of our days on this planet. I just need to devote time to the more peaceable things in this natural life...

Like quietly absorbing the soft and golden, silent setting of the sun.

Viento Solitario

It is autumn at the Chicken Ranch. The colored patchwork of leaves that adorns our trees makes me marvel at the beauty of seasonal change. The trees are heading toward a well earned rest, and the leaves that offered respite from the summer heat will be soon be gone. But, before the trees bare themselves, they present a parting gift of multi-hued splendor.

Today a cool rain falls upon us. The moisture laden leaves loosen and sail the wind, rocking back and forth until they reach the glistening grass below. The ground becomes a colorful carpet of tree offerings of every denomination. The golden yellows, oranges, reds, and maroons all blend together in natural harmony. It looks for all the world as if a giant quilt has been spread upon the lawn outside the rain-pocked window.

The window tap-taps as rain drops are forced against the panes. The wind pushes drops and leaves through the air, and quietly sings in the hedges and brush. It is the Viento Solitario, the Lonely Wind, that whispers its early warning, "Winter has begun its journey, and this way comes. Are you ready?" 

I turn from the window and walk to my favorite chair. I smile as I settle in, and prop my Indian-moccasin-wrapped feet upon the stool. The fire is crackling as orange flames compete to reach the top of the logs. The  steaming coffee cup in my hands and the warmth from the fireplace cover me in a blanket of comfort.

I bask in the fires glow and sip from my cup.  I think to myself,  'all is well this day'.

I hear the wind moan again. I take in all that surrounds me in my country living room. 'Yes,I hear you Lonely Wind, give Old Man Winter a message for me'. 

'Tell him the Chicken Ranch is ready to meet him... just tell him not to hurry.'

Autumn State of Mind

What is it that Autumn does to us? What causes us to accept, even appreciate, weather that would be unacceptable in summer? There is definitely a state of mind that is unique to Fall.

When I walk on to my porch on early summer mornings, for instance, I want to feel a warm breeze and the promise of bright sunshine. I expect a sky of blue that is uninterrupted by clouds. Trees that are lush and green, and grass like an emerald carpet, are anticipated all spring, then realized in summer. A dry breeze wicks the perspiration from my skin in the summer, and I expect shirt sleeve weather to chore in.

When conditions aren’t this way in summer, I’m often disappointed. But when autumn comes… well, my taste in climate seems to change with the season. Peculiarly, what is less than pleasing weather in summer is perfect weather in autumn. Take rain for instance.

There is no frown upon my face when the Autumn rains come. I expect the rain to ride the leaves as they surf the wind to the ground below. I love the wet carpet of copper,red,yellow, and brown covering the once multi-green grass.I just grab another cup of coffee and listen happily to the tapping on the window, as the wind forces the raindrops against the pane. When the autumn rains come, it just takes a log on the fire to dry the air. The pop and crackle of the fireplace along with the pitter-patter of the rain make a comforting symphony of Autumn music.
 
I am content now with skies of peek-a-boo blue, where the gray and lavender clouds dominate from horizon to horizon. The absence of the sun, and the cool air that results, is not a grievous but welcome thing to me. I throw on a jacket, switch from a straw cowboy hat to wool, turn up my collar, and bask in the chilliness. My fingers are warmed by the cup in my hands, as I sip hot coffee and watch the effects of seasonal change on the Chicken Ranch.

Some hold the opposite opinion, I am aware. I have heard some say that they cannot enjoy the Fall because they know winter is right behind it. To me that is like despising life, because it will one day end in death. I prefer to enjoy the moment and soak up the experience of what is the here and now. I'll deal with the other when the times comes, and I’ll not be robbed of this particular day just because someday a less joyful one may come along.

No, Autumn is to be given its due. It brings fruitfulness, then rest to the plants and trees. It brings a greater amount of moisture to a thirsty earth. It brings relief from summer heat, and pesky insects.
Autumn brings peace to the Chicken Ranch, or at least a peaceful and accepting state of mind.

I know winter is coming. It is whispered on the viento solitario, lonely wind. And I say let it come. After all, one thing Autumn does, is break you in gently. It makes the transition from summer to winter a most pleasant thing. At least it does for an old cowboy like me.

Hints of Autumn

It is late summer here at the Chicken Ranch and subtle changes occur in the landscape. As each day inches closer to autumn, nature is quietly initiating the change of the season. September here is often a month of extremes, hot and humid one week, cool and dry the next. It is not unusual to have nearly 100 degree temps at the beginning of the month, and frost just a few  weeks later. The weather changes, and so does the look of things around us.

As the hot humid days of summer melt away, the sky loses its slightly hazy nighttime appearance. The cool dry nights will present a clear dark canopy dusted with uncountable numbers of sparkling planets and stars.  The sky will become a deeper blue in the day, and fair weather clouds will appear as though an artist dipped his brush in white, and placed gentle strokes upon the canvas. The sun is a little lower in the southern horizon each day as it travels toward its winter position. On the ground change is evident also.

In the garden the pumpkins are growing a little more orange each day. They should be ready to offer up delectable pies and Jack-O- lantern faces before too many more weeks pass. Their leaves are yellowing as the vine passes all its energy to the basketball-sized fruit at the end.  The last of the green beans will be separated from their vines by me sometime today, and the purple tear drop egg plants have but a few offerings left. Tomatoes are brilliant reds and yellow, but their leaves too are browning, as the season comes to a close here. Grasshoppers jump like circus acrobats from plant to plant when I amble through these days, and butterflies perform their delicate and colorful ballets in the air.

In the fields, the yellow and brown colors, that indicate mature corn, are working up from the bottom of the stalks. The upright ears are drying, and slumping from their upright position. Soon they will all point straight downward on a stalk of khaki brown and the harvest will be at hand. The rich dark green soybean fields are tinting more each day in paler shades, and yellow is beginning to accent the fields. The hay fields are dryer and dustier now, and producing the final yields. The square hay bales are wagon bound to the barns, while the round bales look like giant caterpillars, as they are wrapped in white plastic and placed in long rows.

All around us the robust colors of summer are softening toward the paler shades of autumn. It is only the trees and bushes that still wait patiently for their chance to begin splashing one last flamboyant blast across the landscape before the duller colors of resting plants and  barren soil present the canvas of winter. And while the summer heat is currently still with us, the periodic nighttime dips of temperatures into the 40’s and 50’s offer a promise of the coming fall.

Let autumn with its finest qualities come. We’re ready for the change her at the Chicken Ranch, and glad for the bounty that the summer has provided. There is only a strong hint of the coming autumn now, but we look forward to its coming.  And sometimes the anticipation of a thing is half the joy.

Dawns Early Light

Another dawn, another day of life; it is the peaceful birth of an August summer day here at the Chicken Ranch. The sun rises, and hope rises with it. Hope of another day of health, of productivity, and growth in my spirit.
I stand leaning against the porch post with my hands around my coffee mug, and take in a deep chest expanding breath.  And, I say as I always say at the breaking of day, "Thank you kindly Lord, for another day of life and health for me and my family. I don't look on it lightly."

  I push my hat down on my head, step off the porch, and walk along the path between the flower gardens.The morning is quiet and moist. The dew dampens the toe of my boots as I amble slowly from the flower beds and out to where the critters live.

Like a smoky blanket, a layer of fog hovers just over the meadows around us. Floating gently, it is as if the misty apparition is tethered there by the heads of the tallest fox grasses. Above the morning mist, the sun slowly peeks over the horizon and spreads orange fans of soft light across the brightening sky.

A black shadow appears high in a tree that is back-lit by the rising sun, and a limb dips down and then up again. "Good morning Mr. Squirrel, " I say as I sip from the mug, "stay out of my pear tree today." Hershey, our Chocolate Lab, creeps from his house, opens his mouth wide, and stretches his dark brown body and legs. "Sleeping in I see," I say to him, "I'm gonna have to cut your wages." He wags his tail and woofs sleepily in response.

Small patches of sparkling dew-laden grass appear along the yard as the sun filters through the mist. In the garden, the pole beans glisten with the nighttime moisture, and water slips slowly and silently down the giant pumpkin leaves to golden straw mulch below. An early rising grasshopper drinks from a water droplet that is clinging to the rusty wire tomato cage. The vegetables look colorful, shiny, and fresh. Reds, greens, and yellows hang from the pepper and tomato plants. Orange pumpkin blossoms peek from under elephant ear sized leaves, as the shadows lift gradually from the garden.

The air is cool and fresh, and steam rises from my coffee cup. The chickens gather the morning air under their wings as they flap them; entering the yard and looking for an insect breakfast. There is only a slight breeze that gently raises and lowers the blanket of mist, like a sheet being fluffed before floating gently  to the bed.

The forecast calls for 86 degree temps today, and it seems that all things living are soaking up this pleasant atmosphere in anticipation of the warm day ahead. I work my way to the wood shed,take a peek inside (for what reason I do not know), and head back up to the porch. It's time to refill my coffee cup and see about some breakfast. I take one more look around.' Sun-nah-lay-i ohs-tuh' the Cherokee call it, the morning that is good.

It is good to be alive and well. It is good to see the night slip away and the day come alive. It is good to see the earth in the beauty of dawns early light.

The Old Swing

It seems forlorn, just hanging there

 

 With only the breeze to cause it’s sway

 

Oh how it rocketed  thru the air

 

Back in my children’s day
 

 

The earth beneath once was trodden bare

 

By their happy dancing feet

 

Now the twisted rope needs repair

 

And moss grows on the seat
 

 

Time does move us ever on,

 And leaves behind a thing

 

A joy that was has come and gone

 

And now grass grows under the swing



K.L. Dennie            July 2006

The Midnight Watch

Clouds cover the moon so that only
A soft glow indicates its presence.
Snow flies down the hillsides, and
Across the neckerchief faces
Of the saddle weary cowboys.

The snow builds on the outer brim of their hats
 And then falls like tiny avalanches,
As they turn their heads,
Looking for any dangers to the herd.

The cattle are calm and contented
In the quiet of the night.
Snow muffles the sounds of the milling herd,
And the occasional call of "get back there now."


Harold Grady's fine baritone can be gently heard
As he sings over the wind to the mass of steers.
All is well this winters eve,
As the cowboys on their steady mounts,
Keep the drovers  midnight watch.

KL Dennie  July 2012

Forgotten Images

Patty and I were recently in a Cracker Barrel restaurant and, as always when I frequent one of their stores, I was observing all the paraphernalia on the walls. I love the antique signs, tools, and other items from long ago that are displayed. I am a collector, in a small way, of old things. I love old metal advertising signs. I have lots of old tools from my great-grandfathers displayed in my office, shop and den.  Patty and I love farm auctions that are held on the farm where we get a sense of the history of the items we may buy, and of the owners of those items.

This particular day at Cracker Barrel however, it was the old photographs I paid special attention to. I gaze at these old black and white or sepia photos, often wrapped in ornate wooden frames, and I wonder, “Who were they?” There are faces of men, women, and children in studios, in fancy dress, on front porches in work clothes, beside farm implements and animals. What were their lives like? Were they happy? Did they live long and prosper? Were their lives cut short? These photos are not depictions. They are lives, people who lived and breathed and walked this earth as I am, captured for only an instant in the frame of a camera. Where are their families, did they have heirs? Why are their photos hanging here among so many strangers; and not hanging on a relative’s wall?

Several years ago my daughter and her husband bought a house in a town not far from the Chicken Ranch. The old folks that had owned the place had passed and the house had been emptied of their material possessions. The basement and attic, however, contained box after box of photographs. The man who had last lived there was an amateur photographer. The basement even contained a dark room.

In the dark room were a number of photos showing the couple on trips to Paris and other European countries at different stages of their lives. There were photos of them over many decades; in new cars, at Christmastime, parties, picnics and just daily activities at the house. In the attic were more boxes. In one box were their wedding photos. There they were, young and smiling brightly.
On perhaps the most important day of their lives, someone pushed the button and captured their joy forever. There were pictures of them as aged folks, up in years. A whole lifetime of this couple was captured on film, and now it was a dust covered, mice ridden, forgotten past. It made me sad to sort through them.

As I perused their photos I looked for clues of any children or family life. I don’t know if they had any family that they left behind. I do know that they had none who cared enough to keep the albums of their lives together. Here they were, photo after photo, in the hands of a complete stranger. I felt like a Peeping Tom and a detective at the same time. After a while, I had seen nearly all of them and I put them back where I found them. I marveled that no one wanted these photos. Pictures showed them in what seemed to be happy times with others, friends or family. Yet somehow, for some unknown reason, there was no one who had wanted to keep these boxes of memories. The  photos were left at the house when the kids moved out, still sitting in boxes and, except for the few who have seen them, forgotten.

When I was in Desert Storm I heard an old Marine Gunny tell a group of young soldiers to “live your lives in such a way that if something happens to you, there will be someone back home to miss you.” Live well, die well. Make relationships. Garner love and trust.  Was there anyone who missed these folks pictured in the boxes of photos? It didn’t seem so. The man and woman were gone and the pictorial history of their lives forgotten. Like the old photographs on the walls of restaurants and antique shops, the faces looked out into a world that had forgotten them, or never knew they existed at all.

 My Dad Lee, me and little brother Ivan

All of us have photos of our lives. Some have hundreds of pictures on computers these days. I have photos of my family, even great-great-grandparents, on my walls at home. I don’t know every detail of their lives but I know they lived. I know that they built a family, and that family includes me.

I feel with some certainty that, when my boots are turned backwards in the stirrups,  a photograph of me will remain behind. Some moment in my lifetime that has been captured will be displayed on a computer screen or hang on a wall. Not because I have accomplished some great thing, founded a mega corporation, or became famous. It’ll hang on a wall because I had lived, because I had some one who wanted to keep the memory of my life, at least for a while. Perhaps my photo will outlive my lineage as others seem to have done. If so, who knows? Maybe in some mercantile a hundred or so years from now, my mustached old cowboy face will smile down at the crowd, and someone will look up and ask themselves “ I wonder who he was?”



Great-Great Grandma Armstrong-Hendriks

Begining At The End ( March 2014)

Jim placed a stick of wood in the Warm Morning stove, then shut the door with a clank. As he stepped back behind the store counter he asked, “ Refill on coffee anybody?” Bill raised his elbows off his knees and straightened his back, “ Yeah, I will.” As Jim grabbed the blue metal pot, he quipped, “ I need to start charging you fellas real money for this Jo.” Wilson raised his cowboy hat a bit and snorted, “ Be alright…if it tasted like real coffee.” All four of the men chuckled. “Well now, you could stay home with Erma in the mornings and drink good coffee with your wife,” Jim winked at the other men and grinned. Wilson smiled, and looked out the big plate glass window as he nodded, “Yeah, guess there are a few things around here that’d be worse than your coffee.” Everyone laughed a bit and then the room fell silent again.

The bell above the counter clanged as a rusty old pickup truck pulled up to the single gas pump outside. Jim threw on his coat and headed for the door. The driver of the pickup honked his horn once. Jim said (more to the men inside than to the driver)  " I’m comin’, hold your horses… gee whiz!” Ed  sat up straight to get a better view, then chuckled, “That’s Fred Simpson. He’s probably out of corn squeezins. Gotta get to Harry Lee’s place.” Bill nodded affirmatively, “Ole Harry Lee’s  had that old still a cookin’ for many a year now.” Then Wilson said “ He would’ve been shut down long ago if he didn’t live so far back in the woods that he has to pay rent for sunshine.”  “ Well, them fifteen dogs he has hollerin’ up the valley, gives him plenty of warnin’ when the Sheriffs on his way,” added Bill, “ not that the good Sheriff Leonard is beyond an occasional snort of his own.”

 

After a minute, Ed looked out at the pickup and said with a barely audible sigh, “Old Shorty would’ve given that driver ‘the what for’ for being so impatient.” “That’s puttin ' it politely," offered Wilson, then he added “Gonna miss that old cuss.” The room went quiet again.

The tinkling of little bells above the entrance door announced Jims' return to the inside of the old white clap board store. As he took off his worn out denim coat and hung it on the hook, he looked at the three men around the stove… and the empty chair nearest the counter. As if he could read Jim’s thoughts, Ed looked up at the others,“ How long’ve we been coming here in the mornings?” After a few seconds, Bill said “Well, ever since I farmed the Shelby place, so… I dunno, forty some years I reckon?” “Sounds about right,” said Ed. He adjusted the strap on his overalls and leaned his chair back on two legs, “ I’m seventy nine, and I started comin' in right after Shorty put that gas pump in. That was back in ‘24 or ‘25 I think.”

Jim put money in the cash register and rang up the sale, “Used to be a lean-to shed where that pump is, remember? Dad kept coal in that shed for a long time.” Jim had moved from Cincinnati back to his hometown after his father had become terminally ill. He hadn’t planned on keeping the store open or staying here at all after his father died. The building, with the 'Armstrong Feeds' sign on the gabled end, was old and drafty, and the inventory was dated mostly to an earlier time. In the last fifteen years or so, his father, Shorty, hadn’t cared much about making money or keeping the store updated. It wasn’t falling down, Shorty had always kept the building in solid shape. It was just that after Jims' mother died,  his father had seemed to lose much of his enthusiasm for life in general.

 

He looked over at the three old men in the corner by the stove. These were his fathers true friends. They had helped carry his mothers casket to the Knob Hill cemetery all those years ago, and just two days ago, they had laid his father to rest beside her. They were family, these three men, and they were part of the reason he had decided to stay. He had hung a “Help Wanted” sign in the window this morning. He needed a hand.

Jim had gone to college in Texas.That was a rare thing in this tiny rural eastern Oklahoma town in the 1920‘s. There, he had met Jane, the woman of his dreams, and they were married one year after graduating. His vocational life had prospered over the years, and his income reflected that. His married life had suffered under the strain of two careers unfortunately, and a little over two years ago he and his wife decided not to grow old together; a fact that he tried to keep to himself during his fathers illness. 

 

His explanation for Janes’ absences was that she was too busy with her job overseas. But, Charles ‘Shorty’ Armstrong was no easy dupe. One day, just before he died, his father had asked “ You gonna let Jane know in plenty of time for her to get here for the funeral? You know that she will want to come, even though you two foolish kids have given up on each other.” Jim smiled at being caught, and the thought of being a middle aged "kid". He had looked at the floor beside the bed and just nodded yes.

Jane loved her father-in-law, and she did come; for Shortys' last two days of life, and the funeral. It was the first time she and Jim had been together since the divorce. Neither had ever had any interest in another relationship, it was just that life had vacuumed the joy out of theirs. She had sat with him during the service, and stood next to him as the bagpipes sounded from that chilly and windy knob, and out over the valley below.  As the pipes played Amazing Grace, she had placed her hand under Jims' arm, leaned her head on his shoulder, and sobbed.

 

They talked to one another that night like they hadn't talked in twenty years. She was still in town, staying at his fathers house. She planned to leave for Ohio today.

Bill got up from his chair, and that brought Jim back to the present. “Hand me a can of snuff, will you Jim.” Jim reached under the counter and pulled out the tin, “You know they’re beginning to say this stuff and smoking will kill you.” Bill nodded and said “Yeah, so they say, but at my age ranchin’s gonna kill me first.” Jim just shook his head and smiled. Ed sat his front chair legs on the floor, “Well if that kick to the head from that mule didn’t kill him when we were kids, I reckon a little Kentucky tobacco won’t.” He chuckled, then he added “Does explain a lot though don’t it?” Bill grinned at the good natured ribbing. He slapped the tin in his palm a few times and went back to his chair. “You never smoked or dipped did you, Jim” Wilson asked? Before Jim could answer, Ed spoke up and said “No Jane wouldn’t put up with that.” There was a nervous silence for a second, so Jim forced a laugh and said “ Jane wouldn’t put up with a lot of things.” Nothing was spoken after that for several minutes. Finally, Wilson pushed his big hat up on his head and changed the subject. “ You figurin' on stayin' and keepin' the store open now, Jim?”

Jim looked around the old dimly lit store. He knew that there would be little income from this place. He’d pay the bills that operating it would accrue, and make a little profit, but that was about all. He was already set financially though, and coming back home, working the store, well, it had satisfied a need in him that he hadn’t really been conscious he had. These shelves full of canned goods, old lanterns, tack and ranching gear, the smell of leather mingled with the sweet smell of livestock feed, and the feel of warmth from wood burning in the stove on cold days, they all appealed to him now as they never had before.

 

 Is it possible to start over by going back to the past? He often said he couldn’t wait to leave this little “hole in the road town” when he was a young man. Now, middle aged and discontented in life, the place was comforting to him somehow. The three old fellows that came for coffee every morning, just as they had since he was a boy, reminded him that a simple life could be a hard life at times; but it could also bring more peace.

 These men had survived the Dust Bowl, the Great Depression, and world wars. They had lost sons to war and other children to Pneumonia and Measles. They survived it all because they had deep roots.They had roots that went deep enough to find the  nourishment needed to feed and heal a wounded soul. Roots. Jim now felt like it was time to re-establish his.

“ Yep, I might be crazy” he answered, “but its time to come home.” With a wink and a look at Wilson he kidded, “Besides I feel responsible to have a place for Wilson to get a break from Erma every day.” That drew a laugh from everyone. “Thank God for that” Wilson joked, and with that he got up and hung his tin cup on a four pegged board on the wall, then zipped up his coat. He looked at Jim,“ Better head back to the ranch. I’ll be in next week, after I sell some steers, to settle my bill.” Jim held up his hand and replied “ No hurry, Wilson. All kidding aside, give my best regards to Erma, and thank her for all the food after the funeral.” “I will, Jim,” said Wilson, and as he headed out the door, he stopped for a second, ”Good to have you home, son.”

Ed and Bill also got up. “ I best be hittin’ the road too, I reckon,” said Ed. “Yeah, me too,” Bill added as he brought a bag of cattle mineral to the counter. “So long Ed ,“ Jim said as the old rancher went through the door. Jim looked past Bill to see Jane pulling into the drive. She got out and spoke to Ed, who gave her a hug and a pat on the back. Bill saw her too, and then turned back to the counter. After Jim wrote the purchase on a ticket and placed it in the drawer, he looked up to see Bill staring at him.

 

 “Something else you need, Bill?” he asked. “ Nah, that’ll do for today,” he replied.“Let me carry that out for you” Jim said, as he rounded the corner of the counter and started to grab the bag. Bill shook his head and said “ Nope, I can get ‘er,” and he tucked the bag under his arm. After he placed his hand on the door knob, he turned slightly, hesitated, then said “ Jane still loves you, boy. That’s as plain as the sun in the sky at noon.” He paused a few seconds then added, “Your Pa spent his last few years mighty lonely. I know old Wilson kids about Erma, but he don’t wanna be without her, you know that. My point is, you’re young yet and they’s a chance o’ fixin’ whats broke if you’re of a mind to. After all, no better place to start a thing over than going back to where it began. I reckon sometimes a mans future is in the past." Jim just nodded and said "Thanks, Bill."  "Yup" and Bill went out the door.

 

 Jim watched through the glass as Bill talked for a minute with Jane. She gave him a hug before he got in his truck. Jane paused outside for a minute or or more, and stood looking at the storefront.Then she grabbed her coat tight to her and headed inside.

Jane entered the store with a jingle of the door. As the latch clicked behind her, she looked around and said “ You’re going to need help to run this place.” She walked over to the counter and looked up at Jim with a sweet sentimental smile. Jim nodded and walked across the creaking old wooden floor and took the help wanted sign from the window. He walked back behind the counter and slid the sign toward her. He looked into her eyes and noticed tears in the corners of them. He looked back down at the sign and said quietly, “The job is yours if you want it.” Then he glanced over at the four now empty chairs around the wood stove and said, “You come highly recommended.”

Jane  stood there and looked into his eyes for several seconds, then took off her coat and walked over and hung it next to his. She pulled a white apron from under the counter. While she put her hands behind her back and tied it,  she nodded her head sideways towards the chairs, smiled through her tears, and said “ They asked me to fix the coffee from now on.”



　

Summer Awakening

It is a glorious summer morn at the Chicken Ranch. The breeze is cool as it pushes the leaves in a swaying summer dance to celebrate a new day. The sun is beaming in a sea of blue. Only  a few clouds are present, and they are long and ribbon-like, not unlike banners that are advertising the coming of a grand summer Saturday. Summer, although not yet officially here, is in full swing.

The garden is full of green plants in various stages of growth. Rows and hills, trellises and patches, and the occasional out of place ( yet just as welcome) volunteer plants, all fill the garden with a bright future of summer produce.

The flower gardens are a kaleidoscope of colors. Annuals and perennials of every denomination are cloaked in their very best array. From the shade gardens to the sun lit beds, every flower is bursting with  their hues of yellows, reds, purples, blues, and everything in between. The competition is fierce, as each plant tries to out-do the other, and all of us here are the winners. So are the bees.

Bumble bees and honey bees waltz from flower to flower in a gentle buzz of activity. They poke their heads in to say hello, and then travel on. Their methodical, almost choreographed dance from flower to flower is in complete contrast to the humming birds that dart in out of nowhere, and are gone before you blink an eye. All the birds and bees are feeding themselves, and the flowers as well. What a grand plan nature has for its inhabitants. It is a win-win for all.

The fields around us are greening with corn and beans, in perfect rows as far as the eye can see.Most of the field work is done and now its just a matter of watching it grow. " Knee high by the 4th of July" and you've got a good corn yield potential. Much of the corn this year will be way past that height by the time we celebrate our American independence. The livestock are happy about these summer days as well.

I see some pastures every morning with this years calves standing, or rough-housing, along side their mommas. Cows standing and grazing in the lush green grass, their tails rhythmically swishing at the flies, calves butting heads in playful exercise; this is a picture of peacefulness that I never grow tired of watching."The cattle on a thousand hillsides are mine", said our Lord. I wonder if sometimes He has to take a break from the chaos and mans inhumanity to each other that he witnesses daily, and just goes countryside to watch the sheep, horses and cattle graze in quiet contentment. What a wonderful view he must have of those thousand hillsides.

It is a season of business here, with all the usual summertime activities, but in the early mornings, while the earth is just starting to awaken, summer is a season of comfort and peace. And now,just like the other inhabitants of the Chicken Ranch, its time for me to begin my day. There's work to be done this morn, and perhaps a little fun in the evening to come.

Whichever one I'm engaged in, I'll be happy. After all, it's a beautiful day to be alive. It's summertime.

End of Old Ben

Jack rode his horse down to the creek
To get himself and his mount a drink.
While sipping from his hand
And scanning the land,
He noticed a cowboy on the opposite bank.

On bended knee with his hat on his arm
The old cowboy stared at fresh dirt.
Jack decided to ride
To the other side
And see if the old man was hurt.

“You ok friend?” Jack quietly asked,
The old cowboy just sadly smiled.
‘We’ve come to trails end,
Me and my old friend.
We’ve been together awhile.’

The old mans mustache was gray,
And his skin was leathery brown.
There were a whole lot of years
Bound in the couple of tears
That from his eyes had trickled down.

‘Old Ben was one heck of dog.
Faithful as any mans friend.
He’d run along side
While I would ride
To the cows and back again.’

‘He was smart and strong in every way,
And he loved me and my wife.
He took on a bear
In that canyon over there,
And it’s sure he saved my life.’

‘He was old like me and feelin' poor,
But he stayed with me all the way.
He growled and he chewed
In that fur-flyin’ feud
Until the big bear loped away.’

'But one blow had opened him wide
And he fell down when that bear run.
Red colored the ground,
He never made a sound.
My old Ben was done.

'I’ve buried him near this creek you see.
Where he loved to drink and swim.
Now, I must go tell this tale
To my good wife as well.
Yeah.... we’re gonna miss him.'

As the old man mounted his horse,
"I''m sorry" was all Jack could say.
He shook the gloved hand,
Dotted with blood and sand.
Then, alone, the old man rode away.

Kevin L. Dennie 8/2012

reposted 6/5/2015

Memorial Day Thoughts

 Note: Decided to re-post this during this Memorial Day week.

 

 My thoughts over the Memorial Day weekend were on freedom. I know that this is hardly a bolt from the blue, given that Memorial Day is all about remembering those who have paid the supreme sacrifice for the preservation of our country and its ideals. But, as I traveled across the Midwest this past Saturday and Sunday, enjoying the view from the car, I was struck again by the beauty of our country. As the miles rolled by, I felt again a clear understanding of the enormous breadth of our nation. And, as my son-in-law Mike expressed, "we must be thankful that we live in a country where we are free to just get in a vehicle and go." Anywhere.

As my oldest grandson Kirkland, my son-in-law, and I were driving to near the West Virginia line, my wife, daughter and two other grandsons were driving to Missouri. My car load was bound for a wild hog hunt in southeast Ohio, my wife’s vehicle was heading for St. Louis to the Zoo and Science museum. It struck me that, here was my family going in two different directions, traveling hundreds of miles across our great nation, never hindered by armed guards at check points, travel documents, or visas. We just put the keys in the ignition, pointed the car in right direction, and drove. We crossed one state line after another with ease and freedom. And we enjoyed the scenic view along the way.

The scene changed constantly as the ribbon of blacktop passed quickly under us. We witnessed the growing green fields of corn and beans. The amber fields of ripening wheat.The rivers and creeks were blue and green, and fishermen and boaters alike were out in force. The flat plains  eventually rose to become rolling hills. Set against a clear blue sky, the varying green peaks of southeastern hills put a crick in our necks as we stretched to see the tops.

Horses and cattle grazed in pastures that were wrapped in white or black wooden fences. We passed through quaint villages of old brick buildings and painted clapboard houses, with folks sitting on their porches. We saw cityscapes with high rises pointed skyward, looking for all the world like a steel and glass Stonehenge. From major metropolitan areas to tiny towns lost in another age and time, we rode through the heartland and admired the great diversity of our country.

Both carloads of us kept abreast of the others travel by an exchange of texts, pictures and phone calls that reached out over three states. I received pictures of my wife Patty, daughter Melissa, and grandsons Kameron and Karter as they explored the zoo, took in the museum, and ate at various restaurants through their two day travel. I sent pictures of rolling livestock-grazed hillsides, a covered bridge, the hunting lodge, and of course the 450 pound wild hog that Kirkland harvested with his bow. My daughter, Jennifer, and her family crossed their home state of Kentucky for a little road trip. We were all states apart travelling freely, speaking to each other freely, and loving the family time adventures. All because we were free to enjoy it, as law abiding citizens of the United States of America.

 

We enjoyed our holiday weekend, on separate trips together. As a Desert Storm veteran, I understood that the time we were enjoying had come at a cost, and that brothers and sisters in the military continue to this day to safeguard our liberties. I loved seeing our flag flying at every turn. From cemeteries and village street corners, to grand residences and humble country shacks, many folks displayed the red, white and blue with pride and patriotism.

 

As we made our way back to the Chicken Ranch, lines from our national musical heritage kept playing in my mind, “Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, for purple mountains majesties above the fruited plain..” and from our National Anthem “Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave, o’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.”

 

What a place this America is. What a people we Americans are.

 What a grand and wonderful right we possess. This right that we oft take for granted, enjoy all our days, and will fight to the death to maintain.  How wonderful... this thing we call FREEDOM.

Late Spring Peace

It is hard to say really, just what it is that fosters this peace I feel today.

 It could be the hypnotic sparkling ripple on the pond as the soft breeze tickles the sunlit surface of the water. It could be the call of  woodland birds, each one seeking to outdo the singing of the other, every note adding to  a melody of springtime song. The warm wind that skips atop the water, and blows across my face, could be another cause of this peaceful, easy feeling within me this day. And  its quite possible that it is the healthy combination of all these things.

It is an understatement to say that the world we live in today is stressful. The hustle and bustle of every day living alone wears on us a bit. To be sure, we have a life of leisure compared to the war-weary countries across the globe.

We wake each day with a reasonable expectation of  community safety. For nearly everyone in America, it is a given that we will not go hungry, thirsty, or severely deprived. While there are terrible events each day in some part of our country, these are "events "to us precisely because they are out of the norm, unusual, and not a daily occurrence that we have to live with personally. No, we have it pretty darn good in the old USA, and yet, our fast pace on-the-go lifestyle will wear anyone down occasionally. That's why I love the healthy stress relief of the natural environment.

I share the belief of all Native American nations and others, that we are connected physiologically to the earth. All plants, animals, water, sky and soil are part of our human make up. We're all from the same Creator, and all made from the same dust.

 There is science to support the healing power of re-connecting to nature ( see my blog post "Forest Healing", Jan 18 2015). The woodland air is fresher and more satisfying to the body and mind. The quietness is powerful in its ability to cause us to honestly listen, and not shut out the sounds around us. The scenery itself is a visual anesthetic. A calm comes over us anytime when we can return to the source of our beginning as humans.

This day is a day of nourishment for my inner self. My eyes are filled with pleasant surroundings. My ears  drink in the sounds; rather than filter through the cacophony of daily living. The smell of life fills my senses as each plant, flower, and tree offer an aromatic indulgence that satisfies like nothing else can.

It is a oneness I enjoy, when I'm alone with nature, that comforts and soothes me. It is a deeply satisfying thing I feel. I cherish every moment of this woodland peace.

Morning Chorus

It  is still and dark this misty morn. The wet damp brushes my cheeks as I head for the wood shed. It is cool, low 40's, but not frigid as in winter days past. As I push my cowboy hat down on my head and turn up my collar, I am encouraged that the day will be brighter eventually. Across the eastern sky there is just the faintest light of a new days dawn. The weather man says it will clear today, but it is the music of the birds carried in the mist that lifts my spirits above the weight of chill and damp.

The call of the night birds wakes the feathery musicians of the day time, and in the length of time it takes me to gather an armload wood and head for the shop, the air becomes filled with the chorus of optmisitic whistling and chirping. The mocking birds' all night vocals are joined now by thrushes and warblers. Even the blackbirds in the pines have been coaxed into singing their beautiful offering. I know soon the redbirds will boast of their "pretty, prety, pretty," appearance as well.

 After I build the woodstove fire, I head back out to find that there is just enough light to encourage the robins to join the choir too. It is a wonderful peaceful blend of feathery instruments that annouces that all is well at The Chicken Ranch on this late winters morn.

I stand for a minute and take in this avian praise for Gods gift of a new day. I say a prayer myself. I  offer thanksgiving for this day, for nature,  and for my hearing that allows me to soak up this daybreak concert from the Creators sky watchers. As the sun lights streaks ribbons of orange across the  horizon, I can make out the tree where some of the singers are roosting, and I begin to see them shudder, shake and  move from branch to branch.

The day is breaking. The sun heralds another day of life. And the birds have done their very best to sing me into the morning, ready for whatever this new day brings.

A Winters Hike

It is a gratifying  kind of day when the sun shines its tempered warmth upon you in a spring like fashion; while the bare limbs, cool air, and tan colored grasses remind you that winter still has not loosed its hold.

This day is warm for February. It is nearly 60 degrees, and the sun is peeking through wispy gray and lavender winter clouds. The breeze is cool as it blows across the silvery gray surface of the frozen pond.

My flannel coat is unbuttoned, and I have stuffed my gloves deep in its pockets for now. My face is warmed as  I remove my cowboy hat, close my eyes and point toward the sun. I want to soak up this warmth. It is refueling my body for my  journey through the remainder of winter.  After so much cold and snow, this respite is welcomed by all of nature. We are not fooled into thinking winter is past though, there is plenty of frigid air and fluffy white left to come our way.

The squirrels nearby chase each other in excited circles on the ground, then make mad dashes up one tree and then another. Their long red furry tails are held high like sails on a boat, and they travel at top speed in a celebration of sunlight and pleasant temperatures.

A murder of crows are cawing occasionally in a desolate cornfield on the other side of the tree line. This cacophony is all that disturbs the peacefulness of the wooded area where I walk. Oh, there are sounds, but they are the sounds of quiet natural spirits.The breeze disturbs the long slender grasses and berry laden bushes at the woods edge. The rhythmic swaying of dancing grass and limbs, and the rustle of the remaining oak leaves, offers proof that the woods, while subdued in winter drowsiness, are alive and awaiting the energizing of spring. There is the flutter of wrens and sparrows as I pass their roosts, and their 'cheep-cheep' call as they flit keeps all aware that there is a stranger in their midst. No, the woods are quiet, but never silent for the ear that is tuned to listen.

Further along the trail I hear the blowing snort of a deer, and see the "ghost dog" amble up the ridge and fade into the browns and greys of the winter landscape. The natural camouflage of Mother Earths creatures never ceases to amaze me.

All along the trail there are signs of life, in tracks and in sight and sound. The woods are alive, and as a part of them today, so am I. I spend the better part of 2 1/2 hours meandering over trails and frozen streams until I notice the lenthening of the shadows. I am reminded that, although the days are longer by three minutes each day now, winter afternoons are short this time of year.

It is getting late, with only a little daylight left now. The temp is dropping . I head to my truck and
and start the engine. Before I go, I take another look around, and roll the window down to take in one final deep breath of the forest air. It has  been a grand day for a human to walk, for the birds to fly, for the forest creatures to  hunt and play. Its been warm and wonderful. A grand day really, for us all.

NOTE: It was two weeks prior to this writing when  I took this hike. Today as I post this, there is 7 1/2  inches of snow on the ground. Welcome to Illinois in the winter.

The Eagle

“Grandad ..are you awake”? The clock read 5:23 am as I was pulling on my long johns, trying to be quiet so Patty could sleep awhile longer. ‘Yeah buddy, your gear is in the den.’

I whisper ‘be right there’. Another Saturday hunt for deer is about to begin. My oldest grandson Kirkland and I are heading to Panther Creek in hopes of filling his last tag.

I look out the window at the twinkling darkness and see the icy glaze of frost. Thirty degrees, not a bad temp for a morning traverse through the woods and fields. I turn on the coffee pot then meet Kirkland in the den, barely containing his excitement, as he layers up in camo. It’s never too cold, never too rainy, never a bad day to hunt at his age. I smile at him and remember that I wasn’t always the fair-weather outdoorsman that I am becoming with age.

The deer are MIA this morning. After a while we stalk some usually productive areas and finally call it a day. Kirkland is disappointed but not overly so. Already he has come to appreciate the experience nearly as much as the harvest. I love that in him. The fog of our breath looks like chimney smoke as we talk . ‘How about a drive through the eastern 10,000’, I ask, ‘just to enjoy the scenery?’ “Sure Grandad.” We turn the truck down the gravel road and wonder aloud as we ride where the deer have gone.

As we round a knob Kirkland spots a large shadow in a tree up ahead. Probably a hawk I think, maybe a barn owl . “ Grandad it’s an eagle! I have never seen a bald eagle in the wild!” I stop the truck hand him my binoculars. He focuses the glass and talks in excited tones of admiration for this nations bird. It’s white head and tail, golden beak; all of it is beautiful and inspiring.

“I wish he would fly “ he says. I give the horn a short bump and the massive beauty spreads it wings and glides off his perch. Its large span casts a shadow over grass and limb as he finds an upward breeze and climbs away toward the clouds of the blue and lavender sky.

“This was worth the trip alone!” Kirkland says. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

I take my eyes from the sky and look at my grandson, my daughters child, still gazing with wonder at the beauty of God’s nature. ‘I have’ I think to myself, but I have never appreciated it more than just now.
 
Dec 2011

Forest Healing

Any readers of this blog are aware of my love of the woods. Woodland walks have been the subject matter here on more than one occasion ( see The Woods Call, A Cold Gold Walk, and others). I have oft expressed of the "alive" feeling that comes over me during any hunting trip or hike deep in the woods. Well, as it turns out, there is real scientific evidence to support the physical and mental healing a person feels from being a part of forest surroundings. Nature Magazine  printed article a while back  that sheds light on the honest-to-goodness, feel-it-in-your-bones, therapy of the woods.

Here is an excerpt of the article:

As we all innately know, spending time in nature is good for our body, mind and spirit. It’s why we’re attracted to green places, flowers, lakes, fresh air and sunshine. Taking a nature walk—affording plenty of fresh air and exercise in a quiet setting—has traditionally been prescribed for good health. That raises a question: How much natural healing are we sacrificing when we spend most of our days indoors?
In Japan, a group of medical researchers and government-affiliated forest organizations support the creation of forest therapy centers, where people enjoy the trails and guided walks and also receive free medical checkups under the trees. Since 1984, they have been studying the health benefits of walking in the woods, termed shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing. There are now more than 30 such officially designated sites.
In related studies, scientists from Japan’s Nippon Medical School and Chiba University tracked positive physiological changes in individuals walking in the woods compared with city walkers. Early results were published in the International Journal of Immunopathology and Pharmacology, European Journal of Applied Physiology and Journal of Biological Regulators and Homeostatic Agents. Forest walkers showed:

• Lower concentrations of salivary cortisol, known as the stress hormone
• Lower blood pressure and heart rate
• Reduction of adrenaline and noradrenalin, also stress-related hormones
• Increase in immunity-boosting natural killer (NK) cell activity, and the numbers of NK cells and anti-cancer proteins known to combat cancer

Newest Findings

The researchers theorized that organic compounds called phytoncides, produced by trees and other plants as a protection from disease, insects and fungus, were also producing beneficial natural killer cells in people in the forests. In a study that exposed participants to phytoncides via aromatic oils fed through a humidifier in a hotel room, the researchers found similar increases in NK levels.
A 2011 study by Nippon Medical School’s department of hygiene and public health showed that the resulting increase in NK cells lasted for 30 days. They concluded that a monthly walk in the woods could help people maintain a higher level of protective NK activity and perhaps even have a preventive effect on cancer generation and progression.
Qing Li, Ph.D., the assistant professor leading several of these studies, suggests that dense forest areas are more effective at boosting immunity than city parks and gardens. He also reports that phytoncide concentrations increase during summer growing seasons and decrease during the winter, although they are still present in tree trunks even when the trees are deciduous.

So there is more than fresh oxygen and atrophy-stopping exercise to credit for our renewed spirit during a woodland traverse. Native Americans have long held the believe that  animals, plants and humans all share a true physical connection, since we are all of the dust, and from one Creator.
 So while humans may be the only part of creation that has an eternal soul, it seems we all share a molecular/chemical connection. I know that my body responds to the woods in a very powerful way.

It seems time spent in the woods has real scientific benefits. I know a long hike or primitive camp in the woods frees my mind and makes me feel healthier. Woodland experiences, to me, are good for all of me. Mind, body, and soul.

 Get out there yourself every chance you get. Soak up the PHYTONCIDES.... and feel the difference.
 

 

Wet Winters Eve

It’s cold and wet at the Chicken Ranch. Most of the day has been a merge of rain, mist and fog. The temperature has hovered in the refrigerator range ,but now heads toward freezing. The winter sky, when visible at all, has been gray and disparaging . Snow is coming, but first we have this wet weather.

The wind has blown the misty rain past the windows like a lace curtain. It obscures the view of the barren fields and then disseminates the moisture among the trees and hedge. Tiny birds duck heads deeper into their breasts as each gust pushes past their roosts. I do a check on the animals then head west to the shed. It is a bitter rain that sends a shiver across my shoulders while I gather wood for the fire. In the chilly mist the occasional smell of wood smoke tells me the fireplace burns well, and I look forward to soon experiencing it’s drying comfort. 

It is an inky black night, devoid of stars and moon. The wind has shifted from the west and is hard from the north. My dripping hat sits tight on my head and my collar wraps my neck as I make my way from the woodshed to the house. The house window illuminates the blowing mist and it produces a ghostly, dancing yellow/grey apparition in the darkness of the yard. The fog of my breath is quickly lost in the drizzle.

The roof over the porch drums a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ as water is loosed from the tree limbs and lands upon the metal. The flag on the pole flops and pops a little in the wind. Everywhere else it is quiet. Only an occasional half-hearted honk of the geese who overnighted in the corn field breaks the silence. Even the coyotes are too miserable to sing tonight. They will hunker down and wait to hunt tomorrow.

I stack the wood with a clunk on the stone hearth and then return to the back door to hang my dampened coat and hat. Back at the fireplace, I place a new log on the fire then stand with my back to the dancing flames. I’m going to warm a little here, then a cup of hot chocolate and Buttershots is in order. It's time to warm the inside… while I dry the outside on this soggy winters eve.