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Vallhalla
Lo, there do I see my father. lo, there do I see my mother, and my sisters, and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning.
Lo, they do call to me.
They bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla,
Where the brave may live...forever!
SilenceTwo of my favorite bloggers, Amy(http://amykane.typepad.com/blog/) and Brigid(http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/) have stirred up some long held recollections on silence. Brigid in particular, wrote on the silence encountered while stand hunting. And that write brought up the following:
~~~~~~~~~
We were cross-country skiing in mid-February up the James Creek trail, across from Winter Park. It was the day after a big snow. There were no others in the virgin white landscape. My ex wife and I moved in that slow glide, taking our time up the winding incline. The only sounds were the rhythmic swish...swish of the skis cutting through blue-white powder, the creak of shoe leather against wire bindings and the rush of air in and out of lungs, gulping for oxygen in the thin, cold air at 9'000 ft. The creek was covered over with ice and snow, its voice silenced. Squirrels and rabbits hibernated in cozy dens. Crows, the only noticeable birds, circled in the lower canyons. The land up this high slumbered.
We stopped on an open rise to drink water. The thud of my racing heart slowed and I realized that there was no other sound. New snow muffled any echoes. Erie silence, nothing moved, no breeze. That silence, it seeped into my being. It would have been cold were it not for the brilliant sun pouring out radiation, burning through thin air.
As the sun worked on the snow, pine and spruce boughs released their burden of new powder. Those small, muffled small avalanches were the only sound to rise.
And I wondered how the Ute Indians and solitary trappers survived in these mountains during those long, silent winters.
And that, beloved, stirred up these memories:
Kit Carson, the famous scout, trapper, trader and early political figure in Northern New Mexico spent at least two winters in the St. Vrain River drainage, north and west of modern college town of Boulder, Colorado. In 1840 he built a rough cabin on a outcrop ledge of granite, facing more or less south by south-east. The remnants of the fireplace can still be seen on that ledge and the mountain that bears the name, Cabin Mountain.
I grew up fishing on the creek that was also named for Kit Carson’s winter home; Cabin Creek.
The header on the advertisement read something like this:
“ Luring Pines Cabins, Meeker Park Colorado – Bob and Mary Anne James, proprietors.”
They were my great aunt and uncle. They purchased the cabins in 1949 and rented them out every summer until they retired in 1972.
Some of my most coveted memories are of the early years. Those years where the cantankerous pump house chuffed and rattled on the creek. It provided an outdoor, cold water spigot for all of the eight cabins. Each of them had one electric light and one small true "icebox" and a great cast iron cookstove. Those were all the modern conveniences available. There was a double shower house up the hill. "Thunderbuckets" were kept under each bed. Each morning they were emptied in one of the four double-holer outhouses that sat off to the off side of the creek drainage.
Over the next five years, improvements were made. Dad and Uncle Bob ran real plumbing to each cabin. Harry "Doc" Sutherland brought in his backhoe and cat. He dug the hole for a double chamber septic tank and leach field, and ran the sewer lines from each cabin. The county gave a grant from the Feds to upgrade the electrical service. Refrigerators were installed. My uncle Pete and his Dad “Buzz” built a lodge addition to the main cabin. “Doc” Sutherland built a massive native stone fireplace at the far end. The lodge became the office and gathering place for all and sundry to read, play cards or work puzzles on rainy days.
It was an evening luxury to stretch out on the day bed in the den as the quick summer heat rose off the roof and our caramel toasted skin. We kids would dose off as Dad and Uncle Bob listened to the Denver Bears playing baseball 90 miles away down in the sweltering city.
On most weekend mornings, my grandmother would wake me just before dawn. In the flint cold half light, we would eat a bit of toast and drink some tea, maybe some orange juice and sneak out the back door. Outside, our fishing poles and an old spade waited.
We hiked down a steep trail, down into the dew laden hemlock and alder, aspen and willow next to the creek bed. There we dug for worms. The rich black, mica and sand laden soil yielded sleepy cold earthworms...bait for trout.
The next few hours would find us silently plying deep honey holes, undercut banks along open gravel ripples and the deep rock bound sweeps of Cabin Creek. It wasn't "sport" fishing. We were hunting for meat.
We would come up the hill at lunch, clean our catch, eat and take a quick nap in the soft afternoon. Sometimes hikes or a truck ride high on the hillside to gather deadfall for firewood would preclude the afternoon fishing. But most days we would return as the sun began to set, seeking the lunkers who came out to feed as the light in the canyon dimmed.
Time meant little. We were ruled by the moving sun. Clocks were merely a nuisance. One phone serviced all eight cabins. And supper left us sleepy, ready for the deep feather beds with crisp white sheets and heavy Pendleton wool blankets. There was a deep and profound peace most nights, broken only by the sound of the wandering breeze whispering in pines or the distant screech of hunting owls, or the errant coyote calling to its pack.
Sh-h-h-h-h-h-h...I can still hear the silence when the well house pump grumbled to a halt, the giant philco radio's tubes darkened, its hum no longer worrying, and the icebox motor realized that it was damn near as cold outside as it wanted to be inside.
That was silence.
The only sound was the echo of starlight bouncing off the Aspen and Ponderosa...and the soft distant laughter of Cabin Creek as she danced down the canyon, splashing her bright skirts in the moonlight. She was happy to know us, to share her life and bounty with us in those quiet summers so distant now.
That was silence, that was true peace.
"The Darkness Around Us...
is Deep"
That is a quote from the American poet, William Stafford. In the poem, he speaks of communication between humans. If, in our broken world, our own personal brokenness, we do not communicate with depth and clarity...and brevity, we are bound to let loose the hounds of hell that ravage individual, community and ultimately, cultural relationships.
That is exactly what has transpired in Washington with the passage of the Frankenstein monster know popularly as the "Health Care Bill". It is blatantly unconstitutional and fully the largest Socialist piece of legislation to pass through both houses of Congress since Lyndon Johnson's "Great Society" boondoggle.
It has polarized our country into volatile camps, the likes of which we have not experienced since the Viet Nam war. And, the responsibility for this sits on the shoulders of those who we have elected to protect us from such invasive and suffocating legislation. Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and Barrack Hussein Obama and their subordinates stand at core of this national disaster. They must be held responsible for its passage. And we, the electorate constituency must respond with our voices, our votes and if need be with our very lives.
The existence of the United States as a Constitutional Republic hangs in the balance. The time is short. It is imperative that we stand and speak. We must act decisively.
We must act NOW!
I leave you with this quote from the fine English writer, theologian and Christian apologist, C. S. Lewis:
Connie
I had a classmate named Connie. Her sweet soft oval face and strong aquiline nose framed huge dark eyes set over a sensuous, ready smile. I first noticed her in 5th grade. She was the Annette Funicello of our class. And like many of Mediterranean descent, she began to mature physically at a younger age than most. Connie was blessed (or cursed) with budding breasts. Most of the boys were intrigued, not quite sure why. Whispers, rumors of what sex might be were spoken by some, with furtive giggles and sly smiles.
I was the smallest in the class, painfully shy. I admired Connie from the back of the room, settled safe in the confines of my ancient cast iron and wood desk. Fifth Grade was a distraction from life spent wandering the pastures, creeks, woods and fields. Sometimes late at night, her dark eyes and growing curves filled my head, lit a small ember deep in my young belly.
Sixth Grade was different. We had a male teacher. His straight ahead, no-nonsense style caught hold of my wandering mind. Over the summer, I had grown taller, more gangly. Connie had blossomed, hips and waist and growing breasts. She didn't walk. She waltzed in the hallways. Her dark eyes glowed deep fire. And, she wore makeup!
Early that first week, I convinced myself to do something brash. I saved back a portion of my allowance for a month. In the Ben Franklin Five-and-Dime I pondered over the cheap costume jewelry. One silvery ring with a dark blue paste stone caught and held my eye. It was the same blue of Connie's shaggy, tight cashmere sweater. THAT ring had to be the magic talisman that would win her heart for me.
I bought it, wrapped it in white tissue with a carefully printed note: "From a secret admirer.” I just could not bring myself to sign it.
The next morning, I hustled out of the house early and sneaked into the classroom. I lifted Connie’s stained wood desktop, and with trembling hands deposited the burning passion wrapped in tissue on her Pee-Chee folder. Scared to distraction, I ran out into the hall, down the stairs and out into the brilliant September morning. Relieved at not being seen, I ran to join the little group of guys who were my friends.
The bell rang, calling us to class. I was petrified. Looking for any excuse, I hung back until the schoolyard teacher called to me. I crept in the back door and skulked to my desk, slinking low.
Connie had just opened her desk and stood, her head tilted, a quizzical expression on her warm face. She opened my package with her long elegant fingers and laughed, saying something like, "This is sweet. Who put this here?"
I sat stone cold frozen, deer in the headlights, unable to think or move. Those dark, laughing eyes scanned the classroom, seeking the gift giver. They passed over me without hesitating. Joe, the class clown began to snicker. All eyes zoomed in on him and Connie laughed out loud. Immediately, everyone "knew" that Joe had pulled a fine practical joke. General laughter and kidding ran through the class as Joe acted the part flawlessly. While I melted, shoulders slumped, my heart felt like a dark stone. It was too late to stand and claim the deed. No one would believe me, least of all, beautiful Connie…unattainable Connie.
I felt the fool and the dolt growing like a dark shadow about my head and heart. That feeling became a ragged cloak that I wore all through Junior High and High School.
That was 51 years ago. This year is our 45th class reunion. Connie will be there. According to the class historian and my hunting buddy, she is divorced, living and teaching in a small town in Southern Colorado. And, I am told, she is still quite stunning at age 62.
It will be interesting to greet her as a late middle-aged man. My guess is that those smoldering dark eyes are still burning. What effect will they have?
THAT, beloved, is a question which can only be answered by walking through the fear of the once skinny young boy. The man in me can do that, assuring that still present lil' feller that the grownup will speak for him with strength and grace...51 years later.
"Of all the tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience."