A Time to Remember
The Path
By Ronnie Powell
It is apparent to me at least, in life’s journey whether it be short or long there is a moment, a place, a mortal being, dog, cat or fellow human that is etched forever in memory. The very young often react positively or negatively to a seemingly unimportant gesture or occurrence that may remain in a dim memory throughout life. They are shadowed reflections, a dusty mirror in the mind and at first glance revealing no specific time or place.
My Grandfather Charley Powell passed away when I was nearing two years of age and I have no memory of the man, except for photographs or so I thought. One day many years later I mentioned to Mother that I occasionally recalled sitting on the lap of a man while holding in his hand a large acorn.
Mother looked at me rather questionably and replied. “Son you couldn’t possibly remember that, for you were only two years old. It was in the autumn of 1936 and you were sitting on Grandpa Charley’s lap. The Chinquapin acorns were abundant that year and you were quite fascinated by them. He sacked up a few and we took them back to Kansas City for you to play with. I was afraid you might swallow one and threw them away. How strange you remember that day to be as young as you were.”
There is another memory I visit now and again that begins with a path leading through a forest and at the time I first set foot on that obscure trace I found it to be a mysterious place fraught with wondrous uncertainties, fears and beauties.
During the first few weeks after our arrival at the farm and while Father was still in Kansas City, there was little money to buy even the essentials, such as fresh milk.
Approximately a half a mile or so east of our place, the Miller Farm lay along the Dousinberry Creek. A day or so after our arrival, Mister Miller stopped by to welcome us and said. “Minnie the boys need milk; send one of the twins or both a couple of times a week with a gallon lard bucket to fetch milk. There’s a path through the woods at the bottom of the hill. They won’t get lost.”
“Thank you Mister Miller,” Mother replied. “I appreciate your offer and expect to pay you for each gallon.”
Mister Miller shook his head. “No Minnie, if you don’t mind I’d rather not take pay for the milk. It is a gift to the boys.”
The next morning, bundled up in about all the clothing we had, Donnie and I set out down the hill, accompanied by Grandmother Carrie to the road ditch where we would begin the short journey to the Miller Farm.
“Stay on the path boys,” Grandmother said. “Do not wander off it.”
I scampered up the bank, holding tight to the bucket, then turned and helped Donnie up. We stood at the edge of a forest deep in winter shade. A pale sun shown between the branches of huge oak trees and birds flittered about on the ground beneath the trees, feeding noisily. Shadows darted to and fro further on in the timber. Frost lingered along a narrow path leading into the woods. The barren trees, swayed in a cold north wind.
Too young I suppose to fear the unknown I turned and yelled. “See you later Grandma.”
“Be careful,” she laughed.
A bend in the trail took us beyond sight of the road. A wisp of cloud covered the sun momentarily and suddenly we were alone in the dark woods. The trees seem to move closer to the path and beneath our feet the crunch of autumn leaves prompted a faster pace along the path.
“Hurry up Donnie,” I shouted, taking long strides, but came to an abrupt halt. A large horse on boney legs stood in the path.
Look at that,” I said to my brother, “a beautiful horse.”
“It ain’t beautiful,” he replied. “It looks old and might be grumpy.”
The horse ambled slowly along the lane and stopped an arms length from me. A very tall animal, a ragged brown, very skinny and I sensed no danger and reached out to stroke the long nose.
“I bet it belongs to Mister Miller,” I said. “Help me up, I’m gonna ride it the rest of the way.”
“No you ain’t.”
“Yes I am and if you don’t help me I’ll find a way to get on.”
Mister Miller appeared surprised upon seeing the three of us coming down the hill. The old gelding carrying me nonchalantly passed a chicken house, an outhouse and came to halt at the back gate.”
“Good morning boys,” he greeted us smiling. “That horse is at least twenty eight years old and nary a tooth in his head. “I don’t mind you riding him, but treat him kindly, he’s like family.”
“I will Mister Miller,” I replied.
From that day on, until the gelding died a couple of years later, it took but a call from me to bring him down the path to the road ditch where upon his arrival I held out a lump of brown sugar.
The forest became a playground especially for me, after discovering Robin Hood and his Merry Men along with a few Indians.
The forest was a quite place of immense beauty with mossy knolls, a Red Tail Hawk that usually sat on a high limb of a sycamore tree. It was a secret place where lived the shrews, field mice and crickets. Squirrels chattered from the big trees in the spring and feasted on acorns in the autumn. It was a place of solitude in the cool shadows near a spring where ferns grew in abundance and old toads sat warming in the sun. It is a place of memories where the bones of an old horse lie beneath the leaves. Adios
The Path
By Ronnie Powell
It is apparent to me at least, in life’s journey whether it be short or long there is a moment, a place, a mortal being, dog, cat or fellow human that is etched forever in memory. The very young often react positively or negatively to a seemingly unimportant gesture or occurrence that may remain in a dim memory throughout life. They are shadowed reflections, a dusty mirror in the mind and at first glance revealing no specific time or place.
My Grandfather Charley Powell passed away when I was nearing two years of age and I have no memory of the man, except for photographs or so I thought. One day many years later I mentioned to Mother that I occasionally recalled sitting on the lap of a man while holding in his hand a large acorn.
Mother looked at me rather questionably and replied. “Son you couldn’t possibly remember that, for you were only two years old. It was in the autumn of 1936 and you were sitting on Grandpa Charley’s lap. The Chinquapin acorns were abundant that year and you were quite fascinated by them. He sacked up a few and we took them back to Kansas City for you to play with. I was afraid you might swallow one and threw them away. How strange you remember that day to be as young as you were.”
There is another memory I visit now and again that begins with a path leading through a forest and at the time I first set foot on that obscure trace I found it to be a mysterious place fraught with wondrous uncertainties, fears and beauties.
During the first few weeks after our arrival at the farm and while Father was still in Kansas City, there was little money to buy even the essentials, such as fresh milk.
Approximately a half a mile or so east of our place, the Miller Farm lay along the Dousinberry Creek. A day or so after our arrival, Mister Miller stopped by to welcome us and said. “Minnie the boys need milk; send one of the twins or both a couple of times a week with a gallon lard bucket to fetch milk. There’s a path through the woods at the bottom of the hill. They won’t get lost.”
“Thank you Mister Miller,” Mother replied. “I appreciate your offer and expect to pay you for each gallon.”
Mister Miller shook his head. “No Minnie, if you don’t mind I’d rather not take pay for the milk. It is a gift to the boys.”
The next morning, bundled up in about all the clothing we had, Donnie and I set out down the hill, accompanied by Grandmother Carrie to the road ditch where we would begin the short journey to the Miller Farm.
“Stay on the path boys,” Grandmother said. “Do not wander off it.”
I scampered up the bank, holding tight to the bucket, then turned and helped Donnie up. We stood at the edge of a forest deep in winter shade. A pale sun shown between the branches of huge oak trees and birds flittered about on the ground beneath the trees, feeding noisily. Shadows darted to and fro further on in the timber. Frost lingered along a narrow path leading into the woods. The barren trees, swayed in a cold north wind.
Too young I suppose to fear the unknown I turned and yelled. “See you later Grandma.”
“Be careful,” she laughed.
A bend in the trail took us beyond sight of the road. A wisp of cloud covered the sun momentarily and suddenly we were alone in the dark woods. The trees seem to move closer to the path and beneath our feet the crunch of autumn leaves prompted a faster pace along the path.
“Hurry up Donnie,” I shouted, taking long strides, but came to an abrupt halt. A large horse on boney legs stood in the path.
Look at that,” I said to my brother, “a beautiful horse.”
“It ain’t beautiful,” he replied. “It looks old and might be grumpy.”
The horse ambled slowly along the lane and stopped an arms length from me. A very tall animal, a ragged brown, very skinny and I sensed no danger and reached out to stroke the long nose.
“I bet it belongs to Mister Miller,” I said. “Help me up, I’m gonna ride it the rest of the way.”
“No you ain’t.”
“Yes I am and if you don’t help me I’ll find a way to get on.”
Mister Miller appeared surprised upon seeing the three of us coming down the hill. The old gelding carrying me nonchalantly passed a chicken house, an outhouse and came to halt at the back gate.”
“Good morning boys,” he greeted us smiling. “That horse is at least twenty eight years old and nary a tooth in his head. “I don’t mind you riding him, but treat him kindly, he’s like family.”
“I will Mister Miller,” I replied.
From that day on, until the gelding died a couple of years later, it took but a call from me to bring him down the path to the road ditch where upon his arrival I held out a lump of brown sugar.
The forest became a playground especially for me, after discovering Robin Hood and his Merry Men along with a few Indians.
The forest was a quite place of immense beauty with mossy knolls, a Red Tail Hawk that usually sat on a high limb of a sycamore tree. It was a secret place where lived the shrews, field mice and crickets. Squirrels chattered from the big trees in the spring and feasted on acorns in the autumn. It was a place of solitude in the cool shadows near a spring where ferns grew in abundance and old toads sat warming in the sun. It is a place of memories where the bones of an old horse lie beneath the leaves. Adios
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