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Among the Pine and Berries

by 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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