Way Down Yonder in the Paw Paw Patch
As we went further north, through Kentucky and into Ohio, I watched the scenery change from the passenger side window. Mountains gave way to rolling hills, and I could see paw paw trees on the forest edges, with large yellowing leaves. Those paw paws call me back to the woods every year after the summer. I had a mind to get an armful of fruit to attract butterflies and seed the compost.
Yesterday, being in such a foul mood after work, and having left the office early to run to the bank, I decided to stop by Mason Farm on my way home. I think the last time I was there was in the spring. Benji and I walked downstream, following the wide, sandy creek, buffered on one side by an earthen retaining wall (it must be a spill-over floodplain for the creek and sewer line). When the year is young, I feel a great drive to go to the woods, and again, as the year wanes, I feel the same, but in the long, hot and dry of summer, I tend to focus my attention on the gardens around my house.
So, the paw paws called me out to Mason Farm (my yearly spot) to gather. Ominous clouds were in the distance, and I drove that long gravel path so slowly, thinking about the big sink holes that used to open up in the road. They've all been patched, but they seem to linger somehow (at least in my memory), like an echo, like an inconvenient truth. The river (here, a metaphor for time) runs beneath the road (here, a metaphor for all life), eats it away, breaks it down and washes it downstream. Death comes for all of us. Though, what power do death and time have over us really? I suppose that life (thinking about the truest sense of the word) encompasses not only all space and matter, but also all of time. Further, time doesn't destroy us; death is not the end. We become one, as slowly, you and I mingle in the hearts of stars. We're drawn inexplicably close in a black hole's embrace. And, in a much colder, distant future, you and I will be the low drone of background radiation, the lingering warmth of day after all light has faded.
With an approaching storm, I snuck past a fence surrounding the botanical garden greenhouse, and walked back through the thick floodplain brush. The wingstem towered over me, bees flitted from flower to flower. I heard their loud buzzing. Further on, I tramped through large patches of stinging nettle. The canes were up to my elbows and that lush green smell ... I love nettles. Over the barrow downs ... past the giant ivy vines ... down in the deep shade along the river ... the smell of rotting fruit.
I found a thick tree and gave it a good shake. Several large thuds around me indicated I had struck pay dirt. I gathered an armful of paw paws (some larger than my fist). Across the river I heard the commotion of many voices. It was a troupe of shirtless runners from the high school. As I ducked down by the river's edge, a heron flew out from the stream. Lying near me was a large river tortoise. It's shell measured a foot and a half across. I walked next to it for a closer look: it's tail was long (six inches) and ribbed like a gators. We spent a few tense moments together when a roll of thunder turned my attention. Back out of the thicket I went, chased by the thunder. No sooner had I started up the car then the rain let loose.
Yesterday, being in such a foul mood after work, and having left the office early to run to the bank, I decided to stop by Mason Farm on my way home. I think the last time I was there was in the spring. Benji and I walked downstream, following the wide, sandy creek, buffered on one side by an earthen retaining wall (it must be a spill-over floodplain for the creek and sewer line). When the year is young, I feel a great drive to go to the woods, and again, as the year wanes, I feel the same, but in the long, hot and dry of summer, I tend to focus my attention on the gardens around my house.
So, the paw paws called me out to Mason Farm (my yearly spot) to gather. Ominous clouds were in the distance, and I drove that long gravel path so slowly, thinking about the big sink holes that used to open up in the road. They've all been patched, but they seem to linger somehow (at least in my memory), like an echo, like an inconvenient truth. The river (here, a metaphor for time) runs beneath the road (here, a metaphor for all life), eats it away, breaks it down and washes it downstream. Death comes for all of us. Though, what power do death and time have over us really? I suppose that life (thinking about the truest sense of the word) encompasses not only all space and matter, but also all of time. Further, time doesn't destroy us; death is not the end. We become one, as slowly, you and I mingle in the hearts of stars. We're drawn inexplicably close in a black hole's embrace. And, in a much colder, distant future, you and I will be the low drone of background radiation, the lingering warmth of day after all light has faded.
With an approaching storm, I snuck past a fence surrounding the botanical garden greenhouse, and walked back through the thick floodplain brush. The wingstem towered over me, bees flitted from flower to flower. I heard their loud buzzing. Further on, I tramped through large patches of stinging nettle. The canes were up to my elbows and that lush green smell ... I love nettles. Over the barrow downs ... past the giant ivy vines ... down in the deep shade along the river ... the smell of rotting fruit.
I found a thick tree and gave it a good shake. Several large thuds around me indicated I had struck pay dirt. I gathered an armful of paw paws (some larger than my fist). Across the river I heard the commotion of many voices. It was a troupe of shirtless runners from the high school. As I ducked down by the river's edge, a heron flew out from the stream. Lying near me was a large river tortoise. It's shell measured a foot and a half across. I walked next to it for a closer look: it's tail was long (six inches) and ribbed like a gators. We spent a few tense moments together when a roll of thunder turned my attention. Back out of the thicket I went, chased by the thunder. No sooner had I started up the car then the rain let loose.
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