Archive for The Gathering Place "The Gathering Place" is a web community where people can gather and make new friends, share ideas, enjoy a few laughs and learn about many interesting things together. It is a safe place where friends can correspond with each other about what they love.
When I was little I developed strange attachments to unusual things. The first time I saw another child tie a string around the leg of a June bug, just to watch it try to get away, or to watch it fly in circles only as big as the string was long, I became very attached to June bugs.
I had long conversations with them, told them I would never tie a string around their legs, and would protect them always. I have kept that promise.
There was a huge old chestnut oak clinging to a rock cliff in the mountains behind my house. One spring we had so much rain, and my parents were worried about mudslides. The old chestnut oak was my favorite tree, and so one Saturday morning, I grabbed my rain coat, rain hat, and slipped on my bright red rubber boots. It took all I had to climb that wet slick mountain in those rubber boots, but I was determined to get to my tree. I had to check to make sure it was still clinging to the rock on which it grew; if there was a mudslide, I was afraid it might slide off.
I got to the tree, and it was still standing. I promised it I would help it stay upright so it didn't slide down off its rock. I had slipped a ball of cotton twine in my pocket before I left the house, so I took it out and started wrapping it around the trunk of the tree. After several wraps I took a few more slick steps up to the thin sapling above it, and wrapped the twine around its trunk, too. I did the wrapping thing several times on different smaller tree trunks, until I had woven what I thought would be a strong enough net to hold the chestnut tree secure on its rock. When I was satisfied, I took the ball of twine and tied it to its end that still dangled wet and dripping from the first wrap around the old chestnut oak.
You see, not only was that old tree a beautiful part of the mountain, but it was my favorite place to be alone. There I did all my reading in the summer afternoons when all my chores were done. There I picnicked while watching the squirrels that nested in the tree well above my head. If the tree were taken from me in a mudslide, I would have lost my secret spot. So I saved the tree from an early demise in a possible mudslide with a ball of cotton twine.
Years have passed and I have not changed much. I no longer live in the mountains, but I still form strange attachments. There is a gnarled old cedar tree that stands near a neglected cemetery in the Land Between the Lakes not far from my home. There are no residences and no commerce in that long trek of land, but most of the cemeteries were left alone when the people were moved at the time Kentucky and Barkley Dams were built, and the lakes were created from the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers. I suspect the old cedar tree has been standing much longer than the graves in the old cemetery have been inhabited. I am so attached to that old tree, who knows all it has seen, and if it could talk, ahhhhh, the stories it could tell. So every spring when I know the wildflowers will be blooming and the roses are running rampant where homesteads used to be, I visit my old cedar tree. And every year, it greets me like a long lost friend. Every winter, I always hope it makes it through the rough weather Kentucky is known to have sometimes.
When I visited Alaska last summer, I was sitting in the early morning hours on the front porch steps sipping my coffee and enjoying the view. I had never been to Alaska before, and the view was breathtaking. Suddenly, there was a rustle in the leaves of the bushes that were to my right, and then with a whirring of feathers a little bird flew right across in front of me, and landed on the other bush that grew to my left. I was not startled, after all I didn't want to spill my first cup of morning coffee. I didn't move a muscle. Without warning, out popped the little bird and landed on my shoulder. I did not dare breathe, but could feel him and slightly see him as he sat there. "Hmmmmm," I thought, "birds sure are friendly in Alaska."
I don't know how long we sat like that, him checking me out, and me, from the corner of my eye, checking on him. Then he flew away, and watched me from the limb of a tree, just as I watched him. A little grosbeak, he was, with a strange little unusual white mark on his forehead.
During the 10 days I was there, every morning when I sat on the front porch and drank coffee, there was the little grosbeak. He never again sat upon my shoulder, but if I walked around the house, he would follow in the branches just above my head. Not a word did we speak, but we became very attached that week, and there was not a day when I didn't see him.
Attachments with people, with pets, and often with our homes are not unusual at all. Most of us form those attachments early on.
But rarely do we take the time in this busy world to take a long look at what is around us, and to form attachments to things that don't always respond. I suspect the June bugs are still afraid of me, even though I won't ever hurt them, and told them so. And the old chestnut oak up in the Appalachians is still standing, though I am not there to help hold him up in the possible mudslides. The cedar tree remains where he has held on for more years than I have been around, in spite of the wrath of Kentucky winters, and he'll probably be there long after I am gone.
And the grosbeak, well, my friend in Alaska still sends me pictures of him.
It seems he has formed an attachment to the house where I was staying last summer. Maybe he is waiting for me to return for a visit.
I love reading your posts. You paint pictures with your words.
I like the lonely, out of the way places that others seem to have forgotten. I sit and wonder what has transpired there through the years. What promises were made, what dreams were fulfilled or shattered. What advice given, heeded or wisely put aside. I see jets in flight miles above the earth and wonder who the passengers are, where they are going and why. Questions that will never be answered but always food for the mind and the imagination. And in leu of answers I can always make up my own stories. I am so easily entertained.
Sharran
Hi Cajun,
I do the very same thing, and yes, am easily entertained, too. Beautiful picture, btw. Stories to tell there, too I would think.
I sure hope you are taking care of all my mountains for me...
Thank you for your words. They make me smile.
CajuninKy
That is one of my favorite pics. We had been at the farm working with the horses. It was getting dark and we were about to leave. The sun was making it's final appearance of the day and it had such a drawing affect, I just had to get a pic.
Sharran
Thanks for sharing such beauty!
CajuninKy
Do you ever look at pictures of paths and want to follow them to see where they go? I love it when a picture makes me feel that way. I consider that to be a good picture. Not all pictures of paths make me feel that way. I wonder what makes the difference.
Sharran
I love paths, dappled sunlight, the fun of seeing what's next. That was one of my favorite things to do in the mountains. I think it has to do with how secure we are feeling when we see the paths, or the pictures of paths. Those feelings might determine whether we want to go on or to turn back.
I love your picture. I really would want to follow that path.
CajuninKy
When I look at that pic it makes me smile with contentment. It was a really nice day for Galloway and me. I like remembering it.
