THE END OF THE DAY

Sitting on his porch at the end of the day was one of Andy’s favorite pastimes.  They always began the same,  filling his pipe,  letting the fragrant tobacco relax him,  feeling the weight of the day slip away,  like shrugging off an old pair of overalls. 

Drawing deeply on his pipe, he lets the smoke out slowly, the blue gray haze hanging there on the evening air like it is waiting for directions.

He would often sit this way just relaxing and on different evenings,  something, a  noise like geese honking or a smell like dry leaves burning, or any number of things   would take him back in time to memories of long ago.

The weather was turning colder,  crisp and dry,  perfect harvest weather but soon these evening times would be in front of the stove instead of on the porch.   

How many fall evenings has he sat like this?   He has so many memories, so much has changed in the world.  The historic events and  family members being born and others passing on.  He feels very short of true personal memories, there would be many he was sure,  if he had married and had sons and daughters,  family stories branching out in all directions but as it was and is,  there is only him,  and this old farm.

The years of plantings and harvests seem to blend together, the seasons and cycles, most similar, except for bad weather years and the years he worried about money.  A sound almost like a chuckle escapes from his throat as he remembers falling from the hay loft and breaking his back.  There were a couple money worrying years after that,  unable to do his own work but with the help of neighbors,  they got it done,  he had survived.  Yes good years overall,  the land had been good to him and he needed little.

Now he hears Canadas honking and calling from the marsh, it is a familiar sound in the fall,  the migration is underway,  this brings back the memories of his early childhood.  

~~~

He lived a quarter mile down the road then,  just above the marsh,  in the big house full of family including his Grandparents,  his Grandpa had no pipe but he did chew.  He shakes his head in disgust to remember the old can by the side of the chair.  Well chew was not for him, but Grandpa seemed determined to do it.  His Grandpa was bent over and had had a few breaks of his own by the time Andy was old enough to remember him much,  but remember him he did.  A man of enormous patience,  sitting with Andy while the questions flowed from him like water.   Thinking back now,  what better way to know this place,  his history,  the story of the family and the area than from his Grandpa’s own memories.

He remembers the evening Grandpa told him about the people who were down in the marsh that day.   They had passed by on the lane that morning going down to the waters edge,  in groups of 6 or 7, most walking, a few on horseback.   He remembers being surprised that Grandpa had not gotten all ruffled up about that but he just stood by the gate,  his thumbs hooked through his bibs,  watching.   That evening as they sat on the porch swing,  I asked him who they were and why they were on our land.    Grandpa said to hold on a minute, no more questions until he could tell me their story.   

I was squirming around quite a bit while Grandpa got settled in,  his pillow to prop up his bad leg and another plug of tobacco,  but he finally got started.   

It seems Grandpa believed this land had belonged to many folks before us and would belong to others after we are just memories.  The folks down in the marsh that day, or their people, had been on this land for generations before any of Andy’s folk had started plowing up the land.  They had moved on probably looking for better hunting or because that is the way they had always lived,  but they came back each year in the autumn camping by the marsh,  bonfires and singing,  some would dance,  as if in celebration.  

They mean us no harm,  Grandpa told me,  they are just living their life just like us.  They will be gone soon,  but listen tonight as the wind carries the voices and brings up the drums and chanting, it is restful in an eerie sort of way.  Try to think hard on what that kind of life must be like.  If you can be open to thinking about other ways of life you can learn a heap of stuff.  It is always too bad when things move too fast and young people always think the new ways are better.   Some may be better but you must also think on how long things have endured,  how mankind has survived and flourished.  It is a very long story but one well worth considering!

~~~

Yes that memory has been with Andy for so long,  he has tried to share it with his nieces and nephews and all of the family as they sit in the evenings.  He laughs now when it again dawns on him,  he has become the elder,  the one with the stories and if they are told correctly,  they carry so much insight.

There is little wind tonight,  but Andy closes his eyes and tries to remember the sounds of that night.  The drums mostly,  they carried so deeply and clearly almost like the pulse of the earth.  The voices came clear and then would fade as the wind carried them over the marsh and the fields.

It has been years since he has thought of the story of the visitors but he smiles when he thinks of the kind way his Grandpa had of sharing most things with most others.  Yes he hopes there is a bit of his Grandpa in him,  he hopes he learned patience and understanding.

The night aIr has gained a damp edge to it so he prepares to go in now for the night.  He knocks his pipe on the porch railing,  he gathers a great amount of determination in his mind,  going to stand up now,  been sitting too long,  get so darndable stiff.  He eases himself forward and he manages to get up,  cradling the cat to his chest,  he heads in  for bed.