|The Morel Maiden (standard:other, 2617 words)|
|Author: Alpha43||Added: May 03 2005||Views/Reads: 1798/1027||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A fellow tries deperately to accurately recall the joys of his youth growing up around his grandparents, but fears he must be mistaken because events just can't happen as he recalls them.|
Memories Of The Morel Maiden As I think back over the years and consider all the States, Provinces, countries, and continents that I have traveled, this small patch of Northern Michigan is still the greatest piece of real estate in all the world. No treaties have been signed here. No landmark business contracts were concluded on these soils. It’s not even sacred Indian lands. But it is the land of my youth. Here, I broke my first bone falling from the oak tree and I got my first kissing lesson behind the tool shed. I remember the young lady must have eaten peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, and I wanted to wash my face after that very moist experiment. I had many “firsts” here on these pine-covered acres, most are reportable, with a few were kept for private savoring. I remember every day was an adventure. I know now that I was lucky enough to be part of a very stable family. My mother and father worked extremely hard, and every extra moment spent with them was a godsend. Lynn, my younger brother, was probably no goofier than I was at his age. My Grandfather, “Pops”, was a pillar of wisdom. No lesson that you could learn from a book, but one of the wisest men around when it came to finding the deepest brook trout holes or the pastures where the big bucks grazed. My Grandmother had a unique ability to spread her wisdom without words, she said little. Just a look from the corner of her eye, and the entire family knew what was happening. Her smile was an enlightenment that beat off any bad news. But her most telling communications came when she gave that partial smile, the side-ways grin, and you knew that she knew what you were thinking and what you were going to say. That glance told you, “Don’t bother – been there, done that, enough said!” Grandma was a silent saint. Lately I have had more frequent recollections of the days of my youth. Most were exciting, many were humorous, and a few were sad moments that still bring a tear. Some of the more vivid flashbacks have been strange in as much as they really had no great significance at the time, nor were they to prove to be profound events that affected my future. Memories of Pops laughing at my first attempt to use a straight razor. Stumbling on and startling a huge doe giving birth in the cranberry bog next to our ‘swimming hole’. Damp mornings picking blackberries as big as your thumb, as sweet as maple syrup, and the joy later that afternoon of finding the glorious creation Grandma made in the kitchen, her Blackberry Crumb Cobbler. I have one memory that I am afraid I am going to wear out. Can you recall an old memory too often? Do they start to fade or lose some of the detail if you draw on your gray cells to project them too frequently? I have had this unique vision appear often, and I have had to force myself to block it out, wanting to be in a very special place were I can savor this magical event one last time, fearing it might be the final withdrawal from my memory bank. This is that special place, back home, and here is that special that memory... But alas, I may have already ruined this precious memory, because the way I have recalled it; well, I guess more than a few details may have been lost or distorted over the years. It just could not have happened as I recall it. It’s manly to tell your grandkids about the hardships of your youth; living off the land; hunting, fishing, gathering nature’s bounty. The five-mile hikes to school, uphill both ways... We’ve all heard those tales of the rugged rural lifestyle, but the truth is, we could have afforded all manner of store-bought foodstuffs, fancy, gourmet, and exotic. We choose to gather grains and berries, to fish and hunt because we enjoyed the great outdoors. We were more involved with the hunt and the competition than with the taste or nutritional value. The biggest brook trout, the buck with the most points, first to limit out on partridge, or a dishpan full of huckleberries carried bragging rights for weeks. My brother Lynn might have been the world champion at gigging frogs, and he could pick more elderberries, totally free of stems, than any person Click here to read the rest of this story (188 more lines)
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