Turning off the perfectly groomed pavement onto our dusty, unkempt road always puts my soul at ease. Without a second thought I tighten my seat belt and plant my feet a tad more firm because I know that the springs rainy season has once again washed away most of the gravel and left our one lane oasis to home looking like the middle of a war zone. Bump after bump my smile grows. Bump after my bump my worries fly out my open window and in comes the reassuring sweet smell of honeysuckle. I breath it in and my body fills of the aroma that brings me back to a time when there were no worries. The sunshine that breaks through the trees lining our way hits my face and instantly warms me to my core. The oak trees that have been here long before us, and will remain long after us, have stories to tell in their broken limbs and nicked bark. A tire swing still remains on the second to the last giant tree beckoning for someone to come and resurrect it. I know I have exactly 2.8 miles from the moment we turn off the perfect pavement to the opening.
And then, at that very moment, when we emerge through the opening of the great white oaks that lead us to our past; I see it. The beaten, double-planked, bridge we have crossed millions of times that brings us to the clearing. How this tiny bridge is still standing is beyond me, considering the wood is nearly dry rotten and the railings are either broken or missing. Underneath is the crick that stands nearly 20 feet wide; however, is only knee deep. As kids we would play in the water morning til night; skipping rocks, fishing, searching for as many salamanders and frogs as we could get our mud-caked hands on.
But right over the bridge is where my heart lies. The place I envision when some utters the phrase, “Go to your happy place.” Black-Eyed Susan’s and Daisy’s grow in an abundance throughout a huge field. In the late summer if you sit perfectly still you can see the flowers become animated. It’s as if they are dancing a waltz along side the worker bees that are gracefully skipping from flower to flower. Everything is in motion. Enormous Pine trees line the exterior but right in the center if you lay on your back you can see nothing but beautiful, open sky. I always pause for a moment and take it all in as if it would be the last time I would ever see it. If I could stay anywhere for the rest of my life it would be right there in the middle of my piece of heaven. Worries don’t exist here. Stress melts away as you step foot onto the plush green grass. Pressures of perfect drain out of you with each step further and further into its welcoming uncut sod. It’s almost a necessity to stop your car here and slip off your shoes and walk through it. Slowly and carefully pressing your toes with each step so to truly take in its comfort with each and every movement.
As peaceful as it is here, it is not where we are headed. With the field at our backs we only have about a hundred yards to go before the path opens wide and it appears. Right here is home.
It maybe small but its ours. Green wooden shutters outline the front windows that flank the old wooden door; it matches almost perfectly to the old, brownish red logs that lay stacked on top of each other to frame the exterior. Above the door is a simple cedar plaque with 701 hand painted in off white, I’m sure it was a bright, crisp white at one time but through the years the weather has beaten it to its current state. An overgrown spider plant still hangs to the right of the door in a wicker basket. Below, the welcome mat lays torn and dirty. Many of shoes have scrapped on its surface, if only it could talk to tell the stories of our past. The front porch runs the length of the house and has nothing but a simple white wooden banister to mark the segregation of the cool concrete pad of the porch and the unkempt overgrown grass of the lawn. I have spent hours sitting in that over-sized white rocker than claims its place in the corner of the porch just looking out onto the beautiful landscapes that surround me.
Except for the birds singing their love songs, the peaceful crackle of the water and the winds rushing through all the leaves on the long arms of the trees, it is silent here.
(Advanced Writing Piece)
