redneck joe
Supreme Mariner
- Joined
- Mar 18, 2009
- Messages
- 13,151
I am not a writer or story teller, this just happened today. It is set sometime in the semi near future and is based on my reality and my dreams of last night.
The People of the Pages
Genesis
Dad passed a few years ago and Mysti was still floating between Capital Hill and Lopez with the latter being the majority of her time. Ann Claire is retired now and is busy with all six granddaughters. I was tired of cleaning fish most days and she was tired of eating fish most days so I planned a trip starting in Portland, on to St Helens then Seattle for lunch with Mysti before the flight home.
Pulled down the driveway parked in front of the well house. As I got out the familiar smell of the forest and the trout stream hit me. Since the house is off the beaten path and it would be odd for some stranger to pull down all the way and park (as it always had been) I did not immediately approach the house, rather I stood there and looked around deeply breathing in all the old scents.
After a minute or so a young man appeared and started walking to me, I reciprocated and we semi met at the stairs. I did not descend, he did not ascend.
“Yall don’t know me I said but I used to live here when I was a kid.”
The front door opened again and a young lady, presumably the wife / mom appeared. She listened.
From around the right side of the house a young girl maybe seven or eight years old peeked around the bush. She listened for a moment then walked over to the young man, presumably dad, and stood beside him with one hand hooked in his belt and one holding some weeds I’m guessing was for a bouquet for mom. After I had appeared to convince the dad that I was not at least an immediate threat there was a pause in the conversation while we both sort of looked around. The girl spoke:
“I know why you are here” she said softly but with surprising authority.
“Hi, I’m joe. I used to live here when I was a little boy, about your age. What is your name”?
“Emily. I know you are here because you want to talk to the People in the Pages again”
My mind raced for what seemed an eternity but probably was less than half a second and of course she was right. I never connected it, let alone admitted it.
“Do you talk to People in the Pages”?
“Yes”
“Do you like of them”?
“Not all of them.”
“Do they scare you”?
“Some of them”.
“What do you do when they scare you”?
“I talk to a different Person from a different Page.”
“Do you see them”?
“No but I know what they look like and I know what they sound like”. Still speaking with the same low key authority she seemed to be getting a bit more animated. “I see them but they are not here. I don’t know how to say that but that’s what it is. I see them but they are not here”.
The dad, Mark, invited me down the steps and introduced Amelia. We all shook hands.
I asked if a may look at something over by the carport and Mark affirmed that it was ok, maybe still not entirely convinced I was not the kind of weirdo they didn’t like. Everyone has weirdos they approve of and ones they do not approve of. Tribalism?
I walked to the edge of the front porch at the transition step down to the carport and it was still there. While the concrete was freshly poured on 8 May 1966 someone has inscribed the date. That is my birthdate. My grandparents did not live there yet; that would be a couple four years later. The day I found that as a kid I asked grampa and he told be it was not them however I have always felt an affinity for the house and property. Not just for the joy and feeling of safety it brought me as a child roaming around in the woods and creek and horse **** and all the other things that a young boy can imagine in that kind of space when allowed to roam like a feral human for entire days at a time but that concrete inscribed date has always told me the universe does in fact have a plan, an order or maybe even a motif de célébration.
After explaining this to them and showing my drivers license they sensed I was actually ok and any remaining tension lifted. The front porch still had the brick flower bed, no longer filled with roses but a brilliant array of miniature hostas. We sat and talked a bit about who I was and who they were, made some jokes and generally relaxed as friends would.
I declined an offer of coffee. In the semi awkward silence of the moment Emily stood up and announced “Daddy I’m taking Joe to my fern”.
I looked at him, he looked at me and it seemed that the tone of her voice left no alternative. She stood up and so did I.
“Follow me” in the same soft yet no questions allowed tone. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along thru the carport to the back yard pointing to a gap in the vegetation at the edge of the hill to the creek.
“It’s down there”
“I know”
Down we went. A half a century had passed since I had done this and it showed. At the bottom it was still there. The small clover field deep in the shade of the giant cedar trees. On the perimeter I spotted a couple of trilliums, the white flowers showing well against the dark greens of the carpet of clover. My path was always thru the clover, her path went around. Still pulling me along we went around on her path. We got to the creek where she pointed across to a hill of very large ferns which at the half century ago to me seems giant and probably did to her at this moment.
“That big one at the top is mine”.
We crossed the creek and climbed the short distance to her fern. She pointed to one about four feet away and a bit lower on the hillside.
“That is your today fern”.
She sat on the center of hers so I went and sat in the center of mine. We did not say anything more for several minutes, just sat there and listened to the creek and the wind and the birds.
“I come here to talk to the People of the Pages. They talk to me the most when I’m here. Sometimes in my room or in the barn or the back yard but mostly here.”
“Who are they”?
“There are lots of them. Sometimes they are New People and sometimes they are Old People and sometimes they come at the same time and we all talk.”
“What do yall talk about”?
“Everything”.
We sat again in silence for some period of time with the feeling of timelessness slowly beginning to allow itself back into my being. Not being well versed in speaking with seven year old young ladies I had just met, sitting on a fern in the woods, talking about something I had lost the ability to perceive since that half century ago, the thing to do seemed to just sit and be quiet.
As I sat there, I was trying to get back to that dimension where talking with the People of the Pages was as normal as eating breakfast. Build a house with twigs and moss, make a road to it from the next house all the while talking with the People of the Pages and playing with your matchbox cars on the city you have built. It starts to get dark and you say goodbye to them and you go home. Time passed and never passed simultaneously. That was my existence.
She reached over to the tree next to her fern and from behind it pulled out a small pouch, unzipped it and showed me a book. The Silver Chair - a part of the Chronicles of Narnia.
“They are not always people. Aslan comes sometimes but he is usually really busy”.
“I remember Aslan. I always felt safe when he came to talk.”
“Me too. I’m hungry. Daddy will make us a cheese sandwich with pickles”
She stood up and placed the book back in the pouch and set it back where it belonged. The climb back up the hill was even more challenging but she did show me which trees and branches to hold onto along the way. We went back thru the carport to the front porch. We both looked at the scribed date in the concrete as we passed. Mom and dad were still on the front porch so we sat down with them. How much time had passed? No clue.
“I used to go sit on my fern and talk to the People of the Pages”
“I know. Daddy can you make us cheese sandwiches. With pickles please”
He stood up with a look that conveyed yes, she meant that and she probably does know. He went inside and came back with sandwiches with pickles on them. The sandwiches were good and the sun was warm. We didn’t talk much rather just sat and ‘were’.
“You need to go home and find a fern so we can talk again when you aren’t here.”
“I know.”
Much time alone as an adult whether driving around the country or flying in a plane for work allows for much wandering of thought. Over the years I’ve had plenty of that kind of time. On this flight home my wanderings were beginning to be different yet comfortably familiar. Less of the adult things that worry us while working or when reaching the age of not working so we can worry about the plodding path to death and all the stuff that comes with that. I kept going back to the quiet time with Emily at the creek and allowing the real world embrace us in that very specific time and very specific place. That very specific time and very specific place is in fact all of reality and all of existence in its complete entirety. We just see it in those very specific times and very specific places we choose as adults to allow it in and see it.
Emily has her fern.
I must find my fern again.
Take the People of the Pages with you to your fern wherever you find it.
The People of the Pages
Genesis
Dad passed a few years ago and Mysti was still floating between Capital Hill and Lopez with the latter being the majority of her time. Ann Claire is retired now and is busy with all six granddaughters. I was tired of cleaning fish most days and she was tired of eating fish most days so I planned a trip starting in Portland, on to St Helens then Seattle for lunch with Mysti before the flight home.
St Helens
Of course the A&W was gone so I had no landmark to turn left at. I followed the signs for Vernonia hoping I could poke my way around enough to find it. I did.
Of course the A&W was gone so I had no landmark to turn left at. I followed the signs for Vernonia hoping I could poke my way around enough to find it. I did.
Pulled down the driveway parked in front of the well house. As I got out the familiar smell of the forest and the trout stream hit me. Since the house is off the beaten path and it would be odd for some stranger to pull down all the way and park (as it always had been) I did not immediately approach the house, rather I stood there and looked around deeply breathing in all the old scents.
After a minute or so a young man appeared and started walking to me, I reciprocated and we semi met at the stairs. I did not descend, he did not ascend.
“Yall don’t know me I said but I used to live here when I was a kid.”
The front door opened again and a young lady, presumably the wife / mom appeared. She listened.
From around the right side of the house a young girl maybe seven or eight years old peeked around the bush. She listened for a moment then walked over to the young man, presumably dad, and stood beside him with one hand hooked in his belt and one holding some weeds I’m guessing was for a bouquet for mom. After I had appeared to convince the dad that I was not at least an immediate threat there was a pause in the conversation while we both sort of looked around. The girl spoke:
“I know why you are here” she said softly but with surprising authority.
“Hi, I’m joe. I used to live here when I was a little boy, about your age. What is your name”?
“Emily. I know you are here because you want to talk to the People in the Pages again”
My mind raced for what seemed an eternity but probably was less than half a second and of course she was right. I never connected it, let alone admitted it.
“Do you talk to People in the Pages”?
“Yes”
“Do you like of them”?
“Not all of them.”
“Do they scare you”?
“Some of them”.
“What do you do when they scare you”?
“I talk to a different Person from a different Page.”
“Do you see them”?
“No but I know what they look like and I know what they sound like”. Still speaking with the same low key authority she seemed to be getting a bit more animated. “I see them but they are not here. I don’t know how to say that but that’s what it is. I see them but they are not here”.
The dad, Mark, invited me down the steps and introduced Amelia. We all shook hands.
I asked if a may look at something over by the carport and Mark affirmed that it was ok, maybe still not entirely convinced I was not the kind of weirdo they didn’t like. Everyone has weirdos they approve of and ones they do not approve of. Tribalism?
I walked to the edge of the front porch at the transition step down to the carport and it was still there. While the concrete was freshly poured on 8 May 1966 someone has inscribed the date. That is my birthdate. My grandparents did not live there yet; that would be a couple four years later. The day I found that as a kid I asked grampa and he told be it was not them however I have always felt an affinity for the house and property. Not just for the joy and feeling of safety it brought me as a child roaming around in the woods and creek and horse **** and all the other things that a young boy can imagine in that kind of space when allowed to roam like a feral human for entire days at a time but that concrete inscribed date has always told me the universe does in fact have a plan, an order or maybe even a motif de célébration.
The Fern
After explaining this to them and showing my drivers license they sensed I was actually ok and any remaining tension lifted. The front porch still had the brick flower bed, no longer filled with roses but a brilliant array of miniature hostas. We sat and talked a bit about who I was and who they were, made some jokes and generally relaxed as friends would.
I declined an offer of coffee. In the semi awkward silence of the moment Emily stood up and announced “Daddy I’m taking Joe to my fern”.
I looked at him, he looked at me and it seemed that the tone of her voice left no alternative. She stood up and so did I.
“Follow me” in the same soft yet no questions allowed tone. She grabbed my hand and pulled me along thru the carport to the back yard pointing to a gap in the vegetation at the edge of the hill to the creek.
“It’s down there”
“I know”
Down we went. A half a century had passed since I had done this and it showed. At the bottom it was still there. The small clover field deep in the shade of the giant cedar trees. On the perimeter I spotted a couple of trilliums, the white flowers showing well against the dark greens of the carpet of clover. My path was always thru the clover, her path went around. Still pulling me along we went around on her path. We got to the creek where she pointed across to a hill of very large ferns which at the half century ago to me seems giant and probably did to her at this moment.
“That big one at the top is mine”.
We crossed the creek and climbed the short distance to her fern. She pointed to one about four feet away and a bit lower on the hillside.
“That is your today fern”.
She sat on the center of hers so I went and sat in the center of mine. We did not say anything more for several minutes, just sat there and listened to the creek and the wind and the birds.
“I come here to talk to the People of the Pages. They talk to me the most when I’m here. Sometimes in my room or in the barn or the back yard but mostly here.”
“Who are they”?
“There are lots of them. Sometimes they are New People and sometimes they are Old People and sometimes they come at the same time and we all talk.”
“What do yall talk about”?
“Everything”.
We sat again in silence for some period of time with the feeling of timelessness slowly beginning to allow itself back into my being. Not being well versed in speaking with seven year old young ladies I had just met, sitting on a fern in the woods, talking about something I had lost the ability to perceive since that half century ago, the thing to do seemed to just sit and be quiet.
As I sat there, I was trying to get back to that dimension where talking with the People of the Pages was as normal as eating breakfast. Build a house with twigs and moss, make a road to it from the next house all the while talking with the People of the Pages and playing with your matchbox cars on the city you have built. It starts to get dark and you say goodbye to them and you go home. Time passed and never passed simultaneously. That was my existence.
She reached over to the tree next to her fern and from behind it pulled out a small pouch, unzipped it and showed me a book. The Silver Chair - a part of the Chronicles of Narnia.
“They are not always people. Aslan comes sometimes but he is usually really busy”.
“I remember Aslan. I always felt safe when he came to talk.”
“Me too. I’m hungry. Daddy will make us a cheese sandwich with pickles”
She stood up and placed the book back in the pouch and set it back where it belonged. The climb back up the hill was even more challenging but she did show me which trees and branches to hold onto along the way. We went back thru the carport to the front porch. We both looked at the scribed date in the concrete as we passed. Mom and dad were still on the front porch so we sat down with them. How much time had passed? No clue.
“I used to go sit on my fern and talk to the People of the Pages”
“I know. Daddy can you make us cheese sandwiches. With pickles please”
He stood up with a look that conveyed yes, she meant that and she probably does know. He went inside and came back with sandwiches with pickles on them. The sandwiches were good and the sun was warm. We didn’t talk much rather just sat and ‘were’.
“You need to go home and find a fern so we can talk again when you aren’t here.”
“I know.”
The Flight
Much time alone as an adult whether driving around the country or flying in a plane for work allows for much wandering of thought. Over the years I’ve had plenty of that kind of time. On this flight home my wanderings were beginning to be different yet comfortably familiar. Less of the adult things that worry us while working or when reaching the age of not working so we can worry about the plodding path to death and all the stuff that comes with that. I kept going back to the quiet time with Emily at the creek and allowing the real world embrace us in that very specific time and very specific place. That very specific time and very specific place is in fact all of reality and all of existence in its complete entirety. We just see it in those very specific times and very specific places we choose as adults to allow it in and see it.
Emily has her fern.
I must find my fern again.
Take the People of the Pages with you to your fern wherever you find it.