  t
was a comfortable, sweater-cool afternoon in the middle of winter when I
took advantage of the lull in weather in order to do trail maintenance again
and breathe in some fresh air. As
I walked the trails with my tools, now and then I’d reach out to touch an
evergreen holly leaf or run my fingers down the smooth bark of a poplar. I felt like a miser feeling of his gold.
As the afternoon wore on, I completed my chore and stopped at the foot of
the steps leading up to the tree house. I laid my tools on the picnic table and climbed up to the deck where
I sat for a while watching chickadees argue over a nest box. There was a
sudden loud squeaking and a flash of color as a male hairy woodpecker
mechanically pecked like a jackhammer at a maple limb. Soon he pried open a piece of bark, picked out and ate something
pale, and squeaked again as he dug around some more. I went inside and stood by the window for a while, looking over the
swamp that half a dozen deer had crossed earlier.
My eyes settled on a pencil that
had fallen to the floor. As I
set it back in place, I realized the visitor journal was open, and that I
had not read it for a long time. I
began to turn its pages.
“I
came here with granddaddy today. This
is a real cool place. I hope he
brings me back soon,” one entry read. But it was all the other pages that stirred wings in my soul.
“I
came to this place not expecting much,” she wrote, “but I am so full of
peace and serenity now that I don’t want to budge from this tree house. I know I have to get back home and cook for my family.
I know the boys will need me there before he gets home and starts
yelling again. But I am going
home with a different viewpoint tonight, and I will never again allow
yelling, hitting and discord in my house.”
There were general notes here and
there from other visitors, but then another, harder to read scrawled
handwriting covered a page: “When
I was young, I liked the thrill of a good hunt. I liked the smell of a smoking gun and hard-run dogs.
Now I wish I hadn’t wasted so much of the meat and taken it to
people who needed it instead. Now
I like the smell of the earth and the way the sun dapples the windows of
this tree house and how the squirrels use their fluffy tails for umbrellas. If I could do it all over, I’d probably do it about the
same, except I’d be more conservative, less macho and a lot better
cushioned in my soul. Life’s
about learning. I failed some
courses early on. I wish I
could take them all over again.”
And one entry broke my heart. It simply stated:
“I’m
dying. Only a few more weeks to go now. So much to do, so many things to accomplish.
Today I finally found the peace I’ve searched forty-eight years
for. In the woods. Of all places.”
I
swept and cleaned the room and deck, closed the door and returned to my
office. But I go back to that
place more than ever these days. Like
a lot of other folks. |
