the atavistic pleasure of a fire
Photo by J. Harrington
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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
We passed old farmer Boothby in the field.Rugged and straight he stood; his body steeledWith stubbornness and age. We met his eyesThat never flinched or turned to compromise,And “Luck,” he cried, “good luck!”—and waved an arm,Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farmIn all of Maine could boast of; and awayHe turned again to pitch his new-cut hay...We walked on leisurely until a bendShowed him once more, now working toward the endOf one great path; wearing his eighty yearsLike banners lifted in a wind of cheers.Then we turned off abruptly—took the roadCutting the village, the one with the commandingView of the river. And we strodeMore briskly now to the long pier that showedWhere the frail boats were kept at Indian Landing.In the canoe we stepped; our paddles dippedLeisurely downwards, and the slim bark slippedMore on than in the water. Smoothly thenWe shot its nose against the rippling current,Feeling the rising river’s half-deterrentPull on the paddle as we turned the bladeTo keep from swerving round; while we delayedTo watch the curious wave-eaten locks;Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks....Blue eels flew under us, and fishes dartedA thousand ways; the once broad channel shrunk.And over us the wise and noble-heartedTwilight leaned down; the sunset mists were parted,—And we, with thoughts on tiptoe, slunkDown the green, twisting alleys of the Kennebunk,Motionless in the meadowsThe trees, the rocks, the cows...And quiet dripped from the shadowsLike rain from heavy boughs.The tree-toads started ringingTheir ceaseless silver bells;A land-locked breeze came swingingIts censer of earthy smells.The river’s tiny caƱonStretched into dusky lands;Like a dark and silent companionEvening held out her hands.Hushed were the dawn’s bravados;Loud noon was a silenced cry—And quiet slipped from the shadowsAs 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 brotherhoodOf forests took us—and we saw the satyr!There in a pool, up to his neck, he stoodAnd 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 drewWith creaking courage down the avenueOf 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 treeSeemed part of him, and stood erect, and sharedThe beauty of that gnarled serenity;The quiet vigor of age that smiled and squaredIts shoulders against Time ... And even nightFlowed in and out of him, as though contentWith such a native element;Happy to move about a spirit quiteAs old, as placid and as confident...Sideways we turned. Still glistening and uncladHe 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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Please be kind to each other while you can.
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