When my head is too full of today and tomorrow to write about them, my thoughts go back to past places and times. I would like to tell you, dear reader, about a special, quiet place at my grandparents.
My grandparents had a small farm and were great naturalists. They kept journals of bird sightings and daily weather logs. They had ferns transplanted from the woods, in the yard, and coral honeysuckle, and smoke bush. My grandfather had cut rough-hewn benches out of logs and placed them at nice vantage points in the yard. There were so many places at their home that delighted my young self.
But one place was a favorite. It seemed far away from the log house, but in reality I am now sure it was quite close. It was a small pine grove, allowed to grow within mown fields. I used to take myself there when I was in a mood, or when I was on my mission to see deer.
Now we have an overabundance of deer. But when I was little they were rare and I hoped, hoped, hoped, summer after summer visiting my grandparent’s place in Ohio, to see one. I would creep to the pine grove, quiet as an Indian. I would sit and still my body and breathing, willing them to think I was part of the wilderness and wander in unaware.
There were wild roses there, too, climbing the fluffy, long needled evergreens. I learned the difference as a child between old fashioned, adaptable wild viny roses and the tender and difficult hybrids with their perfect petals, layer encircling layer. Wild roses have only a few petals, laying flat. Sweet and pink, yellow dotted stamens inside, filling the summer air with a rosy scent.
After awhile, probably not long, I would head back to the house. Still quietly I would go, turning back to look and see if I was just missing them- the elusive deer. Quicker as I got closer to the porch, then inside splashing my dusty hands with water from the red pump at the kitchen sink.
What a pleasure it is to have this place, to revisit in my memory.