Crossing Paths

                              Word Count 1330

CROSSING PATHS

           A true story                 

The woods that encircle the old Cemetery in Jacksonville, Southern Oregon, are fast disappearing, but there are still paths that remain to calm and delight, except for those odd early mornings when mists creep and curl around to greet the ghosts of the long dead.

Southern Oregon is known for its timber industry, Sitka spruce, Western hemlock, Douglas-fir. These soft woods cover the wide open hillsides, but the valleys that lie hidden away from the coastal range are unbearably hot. The woods are not green and dark, like English woods, but the seasons give the woods life and a unique beauty all their own, where trees and shrubs grow with poor soil and little water.  

A long time ago, my husband and I built a home in Jacksonville, an old gold-mining town of small shops, unique boutiques, and a variety of restaurants, set in the deep valley between the heavily wooded hills and grassy plains of the Applegate Valley. Very early in the day, during the  summer months, before the temperature reached a 100 ºF, it became habit to take Tina, my black Labrador, for a walk in an area known as The Woodlands, close to the historic cemetery.

During the next five years of our daily walk along the same paths I began to notice the different faces of the woods and I wrote in my journal:

Sometimes the air breathes and hums, smells of damp earth linger, at other times the wind whips around the misshapen trees, hissing and snarling, tossing  leaves from the trees. Limbs break. Grasses lean..

Bus today the woods are shining after the rain. The clouds have cleared away and the air is fresh and sweet, filled with birds chirping and cooing. The bark of the wet Manzanita shines with the patina of polished leather. Gnarled branches of old scrub-oak are laced with grey-green lichen and leaves, no longer crisp underfoot, glow with new lustre.

Last week the ground was hard and covered with a white veil of frost. Before that, snow had hidden the paths and revealed tracks of deer. Today, they are etched into the mud on the path that leads to the thick grove of Madrone. Tina, sniffing the dampness, unearths a pheasant. His voice echoes sharply through the silence as he takes off in flight.

In the spring, miniature cyclamen at the trees' base, push up from matted earth into clusters of deep purple.

In these woods, I am alone, but not lonely. I feel a sense of gratitude being able to walk in this special place, and yet, as I look up into a tree I see an orange ribbon. There are more ribbons on stakes stuck into the ground where someone's dream home is to be built. Aware of a sadness, I cry out, "Move on little deer. Soon there will be few spaces left for you.” I shout into the trees, "Fly away my lovely pheasant, soon your voice will be replaced by the workman's hammer, bulldozers scraping the land to cover its softness with concrete, houses, and people.”

I never pick wildflowers, knowing how quickly they wilt and die, but today I pick the miniature cyclamen, those bright purple flowers whose days are measured by their changing colour. I shall press them in a well-loved book and preserve the memory of these quiet woods. For surely, when I walk here soon, it will be among elegant houses on wide paved roads.

The narrow paths in the Woodlands meander among stunted fir and scrub oak, twisted Madrone, and parched dry grasses, circling the perimeter then weaving back again making it a perfect place for early morning joggers. I often saw Margaret, a young woman with a ponytail wearing a pink T-shirt and white shorts that showed off her tanned and muscled legs as she jogged rhythmically along. Sometimes she'd pass me twice while I walked the circular route with Tina.

It began with just a wave when we saw each other on the paths that crossed in the woods. She would stop to chat when we bumped into each other in town, and sometimes we would enjoy coffee at The Good Bean Coffee Shop, a regular hangout of mine in Jacksonville.

Time passed and Tina died, I moved away from Oregon, and only returned to visit my daughter who had purchased a home in Jacksonville. On one of my  visits, I decided to take Annie, my daughter’s Golden Retriever, for an early morning walk before it was too hot.

We headed for The Woodlands. It was a relief to find the paths were still there, although some had disappeared into the tailored grounds of someone’s new elegant home. The air was already warm, the earth cracked and dry, and the paths were covered with old oak leaves that crackled and crunched noisily beneath my feet. Annie was bounding along in front of me, stopping only to sniff at some secret and intriguing smell.

When we reached the crossroads where the paths intertwined, Annie suddenly stopped. Her ears went up, her tail went down, and almost tucked between her legs. She pushed her body close to me as I patted her head and whispered, "What is it, Annie?" 

I looked to the right and left. No one was there. Then I spotted Margaret jogging toward us from the upper path, her ponytail swinging from side to side; her strides even and rhythmic. I called out, "Margaret." She passed directly in front of me, and I called again. There was no reply, no outward sign of recognition. But, I supposed, like a lot of runners, she was lost in thought because she went right by me without a single word.

When Annie and I finally made it to the coffee shop, no one was yet sitting outside. I looped Annie's leash around the leg of a table, went inside, and ordered a skinny latte, twelve oz, one-shot. When I came out, Annie was slurping water from a dog bowl that is always kept full outside The Good Bean. I sat down at a table in the shade, and when I saw one of my former neighbours, Sharon, coming down the street with her little Yorkshire terrier, I waved and she greeted me with a hug.

As she sat down opposite me, she said, "It's been a long time since we saw you."

“Yes,” I said, it must be about five years.”

We chatted for a few minutes, and then I thought about Margaret. "Sharon," I said. "I was walking in The Woodlands today, and I saw Margaret Thornton. I didn't have the chance to talk to her because she was running and didn't see me. How is she?"

A strange look came over Sharon's face as she leaned toward me, "Ahh! Are you okay?"

"Yes, why."

"Margaret Thornton died two years ago. Cancer."

"But I just saw her," I said. "I'd never forget her face and her ponytail and the way she dressed. It was her."

"Well!" Sharon looked at me with raised eyebrows, "Perhaps you saw her ghost."

It was apparent Sharon believed I was slightly demented, and she hurried away, dragging her reluctant Yorkie behind her. I started to think about my sanity then. Had I imagined it? Why did Annie act so strangely? Then I suddenly remembered that although I had seen Margaret, I hadn't heard her. I had been walking through crackling leaves with Annie, but Margaret passed by in total silence.

So, now, I have to believe that spirits do return to places they love. There are ghosts. And this is just a memo: When I leave my mortal coil, you will find me walking in the woods that used to be. Probably it will be a broad, hard, road beside elegant homes and long driveways. But perhaps, perhaps, in the middle of a carefully landscaped lawn, there will be one small, brave, purple flower.