The Lane
We've gone to two services at church, and today most of us went to the 9 AM service. This meant that, even after Sara's birthday breakfast, we still had about 40 minutes to kill before the others (mostly Nate, Mike, and Jessica) got home from the 11:30 AM service.
So, we decided, a walk was in order.
Danya, Churdee, Burgee and I set off in the other direction, on the path that leads beneath the culvert and across the road. We scrambled up an embankment, idled for several minutes on the rocky top, and then struck off northeast along the flank of the hill. Soon enough, we came upon an old lane, so old that one only knew it was a lane because of the very slight depression in the center, and because no trees grew in the middle of it, though they were all around.
Of course, all of us knew perfectly well what was up the lane. But we went anyway, and came to the old ruined barn, and then, a little further, the remains of a stone house, which has only a few walls and half-window openings left, and where trash is scattered about, deep-tangled in grass.
It was so quiet, all age and other lives lived, except for the spring birdsong.
"We should build the manor-house at the top of the lane," I said, continuing the game we had been playing.
"Yes, but we won't build anything here." Danya poked an old glass bottle. "That is---we'll get rid of the trash, but this should be a garden."
"Oh, yes!" Everybody said. "We couldn't build anything else just here."
How I longed to buy up the land, and make a great estate of it, and clear the trash out of that wonderful, lonely, memory-full place! It was a moment out of my childhood, when many such longings came and went in the course of a spring morning, and many castles were built on the earth-and-moss-covered foundations of old farmhouses.
And then we all stood still for a few moments, feeling solemn.
And then we came home, Davy and I straying in the back, talking of grown-up things, while the girls pranced on ahead and sang in high operatic voices under the culvert, where their voices would echo.
It was like being thirteen again, and those lovely old ruins stirred me as I have not been stirred in years. They called to me, truly, and taught me again the secret of how to play. I said yesterday that I had forgotten how, but now I remember. Today I could be a nymph of the forest, barefoot and serene, and a little wild, and merry as the day is long...
Yet soft, no, wait, it cannot be. As Danya reminded us when it was time to go:
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep
I could be a forest girl, and my dearest dreams of Heaven often include something akin to that life. For now, however, I have promises to keep. And I am not sorry.... only perhaps, sometimes, a little wistful.
So, we decided, a walk was in order.
Danya, Churdee, Burgee and I set off in the other direction, on the path that leads beneath the culvert and across the road. We scrambled up an embankment, idled for several minutes on the rocky top, and then struck off northeast along the flank of the hill. Soon enough, we came upon an old lane, so old that one only knew it was a lane because of the very slight depression in the center, and because no trees grew in the middle of it, though they were all around.
Of course, all of us knew perfectly well what was up the lane. But we went anyway, and came to the old ruined barn, and then, a little further, the remains of a stone house, which has only a few walls and half-window openings left, and where trash is scattered about, deep-tangled in grass.
It was so quiet, all age and other lives lived, except for the spring birdsong.
"We should build the manor-house at the top of the lane," I said, continuing the game we had been playing.
"Yes, but we won't build anything here." Danya poked an old glass bottle. "That is---we'll get rid of the trash, but this should be a garden."
"Oh, yes!" Everybody said. "We couldn't build anything else just here."
How I longed to buy up the land, and make a great estate of it, and clear the trash out of that wonderful, lonely, memory-full place! It was a moment out of my childhood, when many such longings came and went in the course of a spring morning, and many castles were built on the earth-and-moss-covered foundations of old farmhouses.
And then we all stood still for a few moments, feeling solemn.
And then we came home, Davy and I straying in the back, talking of grown-up things, while the girls pranced on ahead and sang in high operatic voices under the culvert, where their voices would echo.
It was like being thirteen again, and those lovely old ruins stirred me as I have not been stirred in years. They called to me, truly, and taught me again the secret of how to play. I said yesterday that I had forgotten how, but now I remember. Today I could be a nymph of the forest, barefoot and serene, and a little wild, and merry as the day is long...
Yet soft, no, wait, it cannot be. As Danya reminded us when it was time to go:
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep
I could be a forest girl, and my dearest dreams of Heaven often include something akin to that life. For now, however, I have promises to keep. And I am not sorry.... only perhaps, sometimes, a little wistful.
posted by Praelucor at 2:56 PM
1 Comments:
Wistful is how I felt reading that post. The days of seeing you all off on a hike through the wilds of Rolling Hills Farm came flooding back.
Many kisses on your star-filled brow, my dear love.
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