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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Backwoods Reflections - 1. Generations

The teenage boy and the old man walk in the sun on a hillside familiar to both. The boy wears jeans and tennis shoes, but the old man has added a cap and wears hiking boots for greater stability. He also carries a walking stick; he knows he will need it on the steep hillside and in the creek bed.

The boy looks for the tree house he tried to build, realizing he had neither the skill nor materials to do it right. The old man tells him it was in one of the trees cut down to protect the power lines, and he will build other things in his lifetime.

They can't locate the well-established deer trails which once were there, and they have difficulty navigating the dense brush on the steep hillside. The old man's walking stick is useful, and the boy helps find the way to a familiar dirt road.

As they walk together enjoying the ripe blackberries growing along the road, the boy finds a small piece of petrified wood. The old man reminds him there was once much more, but he is happy they have found at least this piece of the past.

At a huge rock that once fell off the mountain above, they inspect the shallow cave on the lower side. The boy was convinced the blackened ceiling was the result of prehistoric occupation, but the old man assures him it is simply the natural color of basalt.

In the amphitheater formed by the mountain above, they locate the ancient vision quest site known to both. The piled rocks are unchanged, except for the carpet of moss that now covers the once-barren talus. Neither has an explanation for this change.

At the rock outcropping near the northwest corner of his parents' property, they look down the steep slope at the boy's home, now occupied by strangers. The trees have grown since the old man was last here, and the house and outbuildings are nearly invisible.

A cool breeze flows down the creek bed. The boy bounds from rock to rock, but the old man proceeds with more caution. The boy reaches his swimming hole first. By the time the old man arrives, the boy has been in and as quickly out - the water is frigid even in the middle of summer.

They sit together on a fallen log and consider the past and present. This is the same place, but again it is not. Time and nearly five thousand inches of rainfall have changed it. The forest, once as young as the boy, also shows signs of age.

Both have the same values, but the old man has a different view on how to live those values, and a little cynicism borne of experience. They talk quietly, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of the cottonwood trees, and the music of the creek.

The boy waits patiently as the old man closes his eyes and silently recalls, year by year, the places where nature has blessed his life. But this place is most important, because this is where it all began.

They recall a song, much older than either of them, which the boy sang with his high school choir. It explains the importance of this place:


Wondrous cool, thou woodland quiet, thee a thousand times I greet;
Far away from rush and riot, ah, thy soothing sounds are sweet.
Dreaming on thy mossy carpet, here is rest and peace.
'Tis as if, beneath thy shadows, all my cares and troubles cease. [1]

Copyright © 2023 Backwoods Boy; All Rights Reserved.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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34 minutes ago, ReaderPaul said:

I remember walking around the farm where I grew up several times before my brother and I sold it.  I also remember walking around the farm where Mom was raised.  Both are out of my family now, but I do remember fondly those times.  Memories can be reminded by visiting important places.

An excellent story, @Backwoods Boy.

I agree - I think "place" is very important.  And timing.  And perhaps more important by contrast.  The change from urban to rural that occurred for me just as I became a teenager shaped my life.  I remember going back with my parents to the rural locations where each of them spent their teenage years, and their faraway looks as they remembered too. 

Thanks for reading and commenting.  I appreciate it :) 

Edited by Backwoods Boy
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On 2/28/2023 at 10:33 PM, raven1 said:

I once was the boy, and now the old man.  A beautiful walk that I can easily picture in my mind.  Thanks for writing this and sharing the stanza from Wondrous Cool.  I had to listen to one of the videos of the song on Youtube.  It's beautiful.

I should have included a link to one of those performances.  

Thanks very much for reading and for your observations :) 

Edited by Backwoods Boy
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I have walked the same woods I walked as a boy, and felt the things you speak about. Things change, but recognition runs deeply. A path overgrown now, trees fallen and rotted away, rocks moved from their age-old beds by rain and wind and snow. The furnishings change, but the woods, themselves, the wild rooms we grew up in, they stay the same.

Thanks for the reminder! :)

 

 

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1 hour ago, Geron Kees said:

I have walked the same woods I walked as a boy, and felt the things you speak about. Things change, but recognition runs deeply. A path overgrown now, trees fallen and rotted away, rocks moved from their age-old beds by rain and wind and snow. The furnishings change, but the woods, themselves, the wild rooms we grew up in, they stay the same.

Thanks for the reminder! :)

 

 

Thanks for your well-worded observations, Geron.  I think the most striking thing about my walks (and this essay is the combination of several) is the forest progression and the carpet of moss over the talus slopes. 

"I don't remember growing older, when did they?"

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