Hubby surprised me last Friday night with a drive to the country. He said he had a new place for us to go walking. The car sped over hill and dale. A fine, green haze misted the landscape. Rows of newly turned earth anchored the scene with its rich brown goodness. The evening air was still. Warm, but not hot. We pulled into a recently minted park yet known obviously to only a few as there were just three parking spaces carved out. One lone sign indicated the start of the path. Down we wended our way among the wonders of a spring wood. Tufted heads of purple phlox were just starting to make their shy appearance. Striated wood sorrel carpeted either side of the path. Overhead, dogwood branches cradled ivory blossoms while vibrant tufts of green moss and soft patches of grass popped up about our feet. The path narrowed so only one of us could slip by at a time. Gnarled roots groped their way across the path. I tripped once, but hubby was quick to grab my hand.
Then. Quite suddenly. We were there.
Treetops gradually fell away and a vista opened before us overlooking a riverbed. A perfectly placed park bench awaited us. The song of the woods surrounded us. A fly fisher cast his pole repeatedly out across the dimming river. He was so still in his work that we questioned if he wasn't just a trick of the eye. Only a branch sticking out of the water. But no. Then the pole would flick again and his hat would bobble assuring us there was indeed a person there below. We talked very little, content to simply absorb the beauty of the nature all around us. Slowly, the sun began to set enveloping us in its golden, slanting rays.
Time to head back. We neither one wished to be caught past sundown in this remote wood. (Especially as it was Friday the 13th!)
Then. Quite suddenly. We were there.
Treetops gradually fell away and a vista opened before us overlooking a riverbed. A perfectly placed park bench awaited us. The song of the woods surrounded us. A fly fisher cast his pole repeatedly out across the dimming river. He was so still in his work that we questioned if he wasn't just a trick of the eye. Only a branch sticking out of the water. But no. Then the pole would flick again and his hat would bobble assuring us there was indeed a person there below. We talked very little, content to simply absorb the beauty of the nature all around us. Slowly, the sun began to set enveloping us in its golden, slanting rays.
Time to head back. We neither one wished to be caught past sundown in this remote wood. (Especially as it was Friday the 13th!)
Driving round a bend in the lane on our way home, we happened upon Pleasant Valley Cemetery. Here the land was flatter and the sun not so far down on the horizon. John parked the car so we could explore. Old cemeteries have been a favorite of ours since shortly after we first began dating. We love to play the tombstone game making surmises about the life and times of the now deceased. When we got to Elmer & Maude's tombstone, we both noted how classically suited their names were to the 1930's era in which they had lived. I got stars in my eyes imagining the well-to-do life of Legrand & Ella Britton and how gala the event when they introduced their daughter Tamsey into society. We paused somberly over the diminutive white stone that was marked simply, Infant.
So many stories now long forgotten. Some played to a long, full life. Others whose acts ended seemingly far too soon.
The rest of the drive back to town, we rolled down the windows and just let the wind do its refreshing work.
Such evenings come too few and far between.
So many stories now long forgotten. Some played to a long, full life. Others whose acts ended seemingly far too soon.
The rest of the drive back to town, we rolled down the windows and just let the wind do its refreshing work.
Such evenings come too few and far between.
