"Being there"

Yesterday evening we enjoyed a fire in our fire pit. The fuel was dead, broken branches that had come down during Winter's storms. Except for the crackle and snap of the flames, it was quiet and peaceful. We sat at the edge of the drive and could hear the frogs and peepers. The Better Half heard some turkeys going to roost. While enjoying the peaceful evening, it occurred to us how little time we've spent outside on the property without some sort of tractor or other small engine running. And yet...

the atavistic pleasure of a fire

Photo by J. Harrington

And yet we've been delighted this week hearing the calls of sandhill cranes, even a raven or two imitating sandhill cranes. Those sounds rarely, if ever, carry through the rasp of a small engine. One of the reasons we moved to the country was to enjoy the peace and quiet. Some evenings we hear the neighborhood pack of coyotes, but primarily muted because we're inside the house. Even sitting on the screened porch seems to us to be more inside than outside. We're inside highly permeable walls. Sound carries better but it's not the same as "being there," as Gene Hill, one of our long-time favorite writers, put it.

But the truth, to my way of seeing it, is that those who love the bits and pieces of being there—the sweetness of a singing lark, the way one whitetail can suddenly fill up a clearing, the fearsomeness of a sudden storm, and the almost unbelievable sense of relief when we’ve gotten out of a very sticky situation—have to have a sense of the magic of it all, a belief in the intangible and unknown, and no small degree of unquestionable wonder.

Thinking of these truths brings back memories of the dreams and hopes of our younger days. We've been fortunate enough to fulfill many fantasies. We've also been foolish enough to get sucked into a mindset that chores are something to get over and done so we can get on with enjoying life. Efficiency often entails labor augmented by fossil-fueled horsepower. There goes any kind of peace and quiet. This weekend we've been doing more by hand. It's less efficient and less convenient, and we've ended up sore and stiff, but we've been reminded of the satisfaction of accomplishment and the joy of working with our hands and back and mind. We think we remember an old saying to the effect that anything, carried to its logical extreme, becomes absurd. In light of how we spent yesterday, last evening, and today, we've proven that and are starting to back off of absurdity and into a more rewarding reality.

Magic

By Louis Untermeyer

We passed old farmer Boothby in the field.

Rugged and straight he stood; his body steeled

With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes

That never flinched or turned to compromise,

And “Luck,” he cried, “good luck!”—and waved an arm,

Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm

In all of Maine could boast of; and away

He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay...

We walked on leisurely until a bend

Showed him once more, now working toward the end

Of one great path; wearing his eighty years

Like banners lifted in a wind of cheers.

Then we turned off abruptly—took the road

Cutting the village, the one with the commanding

View of the river. And we strode

More briskly now to the long pier that showed

Where the frail boats were kept at Indian Landing.

In the canoe we stepped; our paddles dipped

Leisurely downwards, and the slim bark slipped

More on than in the water. Smoothly then

We shot its nose against the rippling current,

Feeling the rising river’s half-deterrent

Pull on the paddle as we turned the blade

To keep from swerving round; while we delayed

To watch the curious wave-eaten locks;

Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks....

Blue eels flew under us, and fishes darted

A thousand ways; the once broad channel shrunk.

And over us the wise and noble-hearted

Twilight leaned down; the sunset mists were parted,—

And we, with thoughts on tiptoe, slunk

Down the green, twisting alleys of the Kennebunk,

Motionless in the meadows

The trees, the rocks, the cows...

And quiet dripped from the shadows

Like rain from heavy boughs.

The tree-toads started ringing

Their ceaseless silver bells;

A land-locked breeze came swinging

Its censer of earthy smells.

The river’s tiny cañon

Stretched into dusky lands;

Like a dark and silent companion

Evening held out her hands.

Hushed were the dawn’s bravados;

Loud noon was a silenced cry—

And quiet slipped from the shadows

As stars slip out of the sky...

It must have been an hour more, or later,

When, tramping homeward through the piney wood,

We felt the years fly back; the brotherhood

Of forests took us—and we saw the satyr!

There in a pool, up to his neck, he stood

And grinned to see us stare, incredulous—

Too startled to remember fear or flight.

Feeling the menace in the crafty night,

We turned to run—when lo, he called to us!

Using our very names he called. We drew

With creaking courage down the avenue

Of birches till we saw, with clearing sight,

(No longer through a tricky, pale-green light)

Familiar turns and shrubs, the friendly path,—

And Farmer Boothby in his woodland bath!

The woods became his background; every tree

Seemed part of him, and stood erect, and shared

The beauty of that gnarled serenity;

The quiet vigor of age that smiled and squared

Its shoulders against Time ... And even night

Flowed in and out of him, as though content

With such a native element;

Happy to move about a spirit quite

As old, as placid and as confident...

Sideways we turned. Still glistening and unclad

He leaped up on the bank, light as a lad,

His body in the moonlight dripping stars...

We went on homeward, through the pasture-bars.

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