Periodically we have to make space for the new things in our life. Unless we are striving to become a bona fide packrat or “that crazy hermit down by the creek”, the accumulated stuff of our lives needs to be sorted through and either returned to its place of honor or thrown into the dustbin of history. Outdoorsmen are especially guilty of collecting things and we periodically need to wade into the mess to restore some semblance of order.
Along with traps and tents and guns and paddles, lovers of the wild places also collect books about their avocation like the back of the television collects dust. Even this gets to be too much for the allotted space and we eventually have to sit down on a rainy day and make the tough decisions about which books will stay on the shelf to fill the quiet times. Those that have served their purpose and no longer command the same respect must, with no small regret, move onto the donation box to make space for future trophies.
Bored and alone on a Friday evening in our rarely empty house, I sat down in front of the bookcase to spend time with a favorite author. My mood was yet unsettled and it soon seemed better to exercise hands instead of mind so I voluntarily attacked the books versus shelf space problem.
While conducting this literary search-and-destroy mission, I pulled a few books from one shelf and ran across a volume that was long forgotten. It had resided quietly at the end of the shelf for years, partially hidden behind a protruding piece of walnut trim that prevented it from being seen or easily taken from the bookcase. The book had been through several changes of address and lifestyles but it had literally been years since the covers were opened. This volume was only in the library as an afterthought, having been found in the trash pile when another family member was moving. Sitting down among the stacks, I carefully opened the faded canvas cover as a faint crackle groaned from binding and the musty smell of old paper rose to fill my nose.
As spelled in tarnished gold embossed letters, the book was a guest register that had presided over my grandparent’s cabin on the banks of Sugar Creek, a regionally-famous smallmouth stream that flowed like a green fence through the cornfield oceans of the Indiana countryside. The cabin was sold over 20 years ago but only a minute of browsing the yellowed pages brought a forgotten tidal wave of recollections and memories of days spent growing up in those woods and waters.
The first entry on the pages is June 16, 1945 when the names and addresses of several visitors were recorded in utilitarian fashion. These simple records continued for several pages until someone decided to chronicle the results of the day’s fishing trip. That entry started a tradition that continued until the day the papers were signed to end our dynasty on the banks of the creek.
The first fishing report is a childish scrawl that notes ‘Mommie’ caught a 17-inch bass using a worm in April of 1949. As time marched on, guests started adding small comments about the weather or visitors or similar pleasantries of life on the new frontier of the 1950′s and 60′s. Further along, there are several blank pages that stood like a pause until the announcement: “Wheat’s Retreat: Bought on 30th May 1967”. With this small declaration began the most important phase of one young life.
It is noted that I first became acquainted with my secondary home on July 1, 1967. The entry for that day also marks the occasion of my first fish, an unsophisticated rock bass that fell to a nightcrawler and cane pole.
Throughout that initial year, there were many visitors and much work to be done on the cabin. The building was a simple clapboard affair with unfinished interior walls and curtains to divide individual bedrooms. The walls were decorated with old fishing rods and lures that previous owners had left behind, hung from sixteen-penny nails driven into the top header board at the ceiling line. The cabin was just rustic enough to feel like a real fishing camp without being unsuitable for more genteel visitors.
Typical of an old wooden building, there was always something falling down, broken or in desperate need of paint. My grandparents were of that Greatest generation that didn’t really look down upon someone for being poor, but couldn’t abide those who didn’t keep their home and yard in good repair. Therefore things were never ‘good enough’ as they might be nowadays and a constant battle of nature versus wooden construction was waged to a chorus of hammer and saw. My grandfather used his considerable carpentry skills to fix up and improve the cabin while grandmother ruled the kitchen with an iron fist and a wooden spoon. Meanwhile the youngsters were allowed to run wild, something fairly safe in that time and place.
For a boy who whole-heartedly bought the Huckleberry Finn lifestyle, there were fish to catch, woods to explore and suppers to eat, all being memorialized with a brief note or paragraph in the book.
Typical was a spare entry from my great-grandfather who wrote that he simply “Came out to pass away a little time” in September.
The following year, my great-grandmother noted Spring Beauties, Allium root, Ground Myrtle, Adders tongue, Crowfoot, Solomon’s seal, Dutchman’s Breeches, Wood Fern and wild Bluebells growing on the hillside next to the cabin. Great-grandmother was almost unknown to me but she obviously knew her wildflowers. A few weeks later, someone lamented the lack of mushrooms.
The pages that follow are a mixed diary of weather and fishing reports, to-do lists and unusual incidents. One cryptic note states that “The boy hasn’t been found yet”, referring to an unfortunate child who drowned in the creek upstream of the cabin but was later found downstream. That incident is still the featured plot of a recurring nightmare that occasionally visits after a too-spicy late night snack.
Farther on, an entry describes a fishing trip far up the creek when a big storm rattled onto the water, causing my grandfather to mention that “little britches” got scared. It makes no note as to whom this refers, but I will assume the child in question is my brother even though he was only three years old at the time and showed no predilection towards fishing.
One page is a capsule of American history. My father’s bold script leaps and shouts to note: “July 20, 1969. History came alive today- Man set foot on the moon! Apollo 11 made the lunar landing with Neil Armstrong. One small step for man- One giant leap for mankind. Hooray!” I barely remember the event, mostly for the terrible thunderstorm that made the reception even more marginal on our tiny black-and-white portable television sitting atop a television tray on the screened porch.
While the children fished, rambled and generally ran amok, the grown-ups would pass the afternoon sitting and chatting on that screened porch until dinnertime. The menu of these home-cooked feasts was a frequently written into the day’s news, such as for one celebration of my mother’s birthday: “Dinner with green beans, fried chicken, cake and bowls too numerous to mention. Had a wonderful time eating, resting, playing games and fishing.” Today such quiet summer evenings spent with family seem so simple and unaffected as we deal with terrorism and recession and modern life that seems to accelerate faster than a jet fighter in full afterburner. I wish my own children could someday remember an antique refrigerator that always held crisp Winesap apples and little “parties” that featured homemade fudge and a contest to see who had the Coca-Cola bottle with the most distant city stamped on the bottom.
Later on, in 1972 my writing skills were almost up to the task when I made my first foray into the family literary tradition, noting that we caught a mess of fish for “super” even though the creek was a bit “murchy”.
The writings continue through the changing seasons and years and decades. Many fish went to their ultimate reward immortalized on those pages. My uncle’s honeymoon, slingshot practice and the time I jammed a fishing hook into my finger are all cataloged among the various incidents and episodes. The guest register is really a historical novel with plot twists and even tragedy such as when I somehow managed to hook the neighbor’s huge dog through the lip (strictly a catch-and-release affair after a quick trip to the vet)
The book entries continue until the cabin was sold in 1979. Today the place is a literally a junkyard, not at all resembling the childhood paradise of memory. I still fish the creek there, passing by and shaking my head every time I see the stacks of rotting wood shipping pallets the absentee owner has stacked in every corner of the yard. My fishing partners probably also get tired of the constant “I remember the time…” as we wade past but they are all good enough friends not to complain.
There are many other interesting, funny stories in those pages but a much more poignant entry at last catches my eye. On October 26, 1974 my grandmother wrote, “Dad and I came out to close the cabin up for the winter. It is always one of the saddest days of the year for us. Another year gone by. Beautiful out here and we had a wiener roast just for the two of us. I hope we can have many more happy years out here, the good Lord willing. We are so thankful for the things we have together. See you all next spring- Mother”. I am happy to report that they did indeed spend many more happy years together.
However, time marches onward and things change and people change and nothing stays the same. My grandparents are gone, the cabin is now a ruin and life is different, uneasy. My own children are now at the same age as when I ran unfettered all day but cannot be allowed them the same freedoms because the world is so dramatically different.
Jolted back to the present by such disquieting thoughts, it seems an appropriate time to return the book back to the shelf. The oversized volume will be carefully hidden so no one will bother it without careful oversight because the pages hold something more valuable than words. They hold reassurance.
I need to know that there is still a physical place, albeit a paper one, where a feral young boy spends his evening eating popcorn popped in bacon grease while playing Parcheesi at a spindly kitchen table. A place where he can still wonder about Old Bull, the monster catfish that was never caught.
As I closed my eyes and the cover, I realized the action must have stirred some long-dormant dust or pollen hidden in the binding. That could be the only reasonable explanation for a big, strong outdoor writer to have such watery eyes.
Yeah, it must be the dust.
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The Book
Posted by Brent on 1/01/09 • Categorized as Out in the Open columns,WildBlog
Along with traps and tents and guns and paddles, lovers of the wild places also collect books about their avocation like the back of the television collects dust. Even this gets to be too much for the allotted space and we eventually have to sit down on a rainy day and make the tough decisions about which books will stay on the shelf to fill the quiet times. Those that have served their purpose and no longer command the same respect must, with no small regret, move onto the donation box to make space for future trophies.
Bored and alone on a Friday evening in our rarely empty house, I sat down in front of the bookcase to spend time with a favorite author. My mood was yet unsettled and it soon seemed better to exercise hands instead of mind so I voluntarily attacked the books versus shelf space problem.
While conducting this literary search-and-destroy mission, I pulled a few books from one shelf and ran across a volume that was long forgotten. It had resided quietly at the end of the shelf for years, partially hidden behind a protruding piece of walnut trim that prevented it from being seen or easily taken from the bookcase. The book had been through several changes of address and lifestyles but it had literally been years since the covers were opened. This volume was only in the library as an afterthought, having been found in the trash pile when another family member was moving. Sitting down among the stacks, I carefully opened the faded canvas cover as a faint crackle groaned from binding and the musty smell of old paper rose to fill my nose.
As spelled in tarnished gold embossed letters, the book was a guest register that had presided over my grandparent’s cabin on the banks of Sugar Creek, a regionally-famous smallmouth stream that flowed like a green fence through the cornfield oceans of the Indiana countryside. The cabin was sold over 20 years ago but only a minute of browsing the yellowed pages brought a forgotten tidal wave of recollections and memories of days spent growing up in those woods and waters.
The first entry on the pages is June 16, 1945 when the names and addresses of several visitors were recorded in utilitarian fashion. These simple records continued for several pages until someone decided to chronicle the results of the day’s fishing trip. That entry started a tradition that continued until the day the papers were signed to end our dynasty on the banks of the creek.
The first fishing report is a childish scrawl that notes ‘Mommie’ caught a 17-inch bass using a worm in April of 1949. As time marched on, guests started adding small comments about the weather or visitors or similar pleasantries of life on the new frontier of the 1950′s and 60′s. Further along, there are several blank pages that stood like a pause until the announcement: “Wheat’s Retreat: Bought on 30th May 1967”. With this small declaration began the most important phase of one young life.
It is noted that I first became acquainted with my secondary home on July 1, 1967. The entry for that day also marks the occasion of my first fish, an unsophisticated rock bass that fell to a nightcrawler and cane pole.
Throughout that initial year, there were many visitors and much work to be done on the cabin. The building was a simple clapboard affair with unfinished interior walls and curtains to divide individual bedrooms. The walls were decorated with old fishing rods and lures that previous owners had left behind, hung from sixteen-penny nails driven into the top header board at the ceiling line. The cabin was just rustic enough to feel like a real fishing camp without being unsuitable for more genteel visitors.
Typical of an old wooden building, there was always something falling down, broken or in desperate need of paint. My grandparents were of that Greatest generation that didn’t really look down upon someone for being poor, but couldn’t abide those who didn’t keep their home and yard in good repair. Therefore things were never ‘good enough’ as they might be nowadays and a constant battle of nature versus wooden construction was waged to a chorus of hammer and saw. My grandfather used his considerable carpentry skills to fix up and improve the cabin while grandmother ruled the kitchen with an iron fist and a wooden spoon. Meanwhile the youngsters were allowed to run wild, something fairly safe in that time and place.
For a boy who whole-heartedly bought the Huckleberry Finn lifestyle, there were fish to catch, woods to explore and suppers to eat, all being memorialized with a brief note or paragraph in the book.
Typical was a spare entry from my great-grandfather who wrote that he simply “Came out to pass away a little time” in September.
The following year, my great-grandmother noted Spring Beauties, Allium root, Ground Myrtle, Adders tongue, Crowfoot, Solomon’s seal, Dutchman’s Breeches, Wood Fern and wild Bluebells growing on the hillside next to the cabin. Great-grandmother was almost unknown to me but she obviously knew her wildflowers. A few weeks later, someone lamented the lack of mushrooms.
The pages that follow are a mixed diary of weather and fishing reports, to-do lists and unusual incidents. One cryptic note states that “The boy hasn’t been found yet”, referring to an unfortunate child who drowned in the creek upstream of the cabin but was later found downstream. That incident is still the featured plot of a recurring nightmare that occasionally visits after a too-spicy late night snack.
Farther on, an entry describes a fishing trip far up the creek when a big storm rattled onto the water, causing my grandfather to mention that “little britches” got scared. It makes no note as to whom this refers, but I will assume the child in question is my brother even though he was only three years old at the time and showed no predilection towards fishing.
One page is a capsule of American history. My father’s bold script leaps and shouts to note: “July 20, 1969. History came alive today- Man set foot on the moon! Apollo 11 made the lunar landing with Neil Armstrong. One small step for man- One giant leap for mankind. Hooray!” I barely remember the event, mostly for the terrible thunderstorm that made the reception even more marginal on our tiny black-and-white portable television sitting atop a television tray on the screened porch.
While the children fished, rambled and generally ran amok, the grown-ups would pass the afternoon sitting and chatting on that screened porch until dinnertime. The menu of these home-cooked feasts was a frequently written into the day’s news, such as for one celebration of my mother’s birthday: “Dinner with green beans, fried chicken, cake and bowls too numerous to mention. Had a wonderful time eating, resting, playing games and fishing.” Today such quiet summer evenings spent with family seem so simple and unaffected as we deal with terrorism and recession and modern life that seems to accelerate faster than a jet fighter in full afterburner. I wish my own children could someday remember an antique refrigerator that always held crisp Winesap apples and little “parties” that featured homemade fudge and a contest to see who had the Coca-Cola bottle with the most distant city stamped on the bottom.
Later on, in 1972 my writing skills were almost up to the task when I made my first foray into the family literary tradition, noting that we caught a mess of fish for “super” even though the creek was a bit “murchy”.
The writings continue through the changing seasons and years and decades. Many fish went to their ultimate reward immortalized on those pages. My uncle’s honeymoon, slingshot practice and the time I jammed a fishing hook into my finger are all cataloged among the various incidents and episodes. The guest register is really a historical novel with plot twists and even tragedy such as when I somehow managed to hook the neighbor’s huge dog through the lip (strictly a catch-and-release affair after a quick trip to the vet)
The book entries continue until the cabin was sold in 1979. Today the place is a literally a junkyard, not at all resembling the childhood paradise of memory. I still fish the creek there, passing by and shaking my head every time I see the stacks of rotting wood shipping pallets the absentee owner has stacked in every corner of the yard. My fishing partners probably also get tired of the constant “I remember the time…” as we wade past but they are all good enough friends not to complain.
There are many other interesting, funny stories in those pages but a much more poignant entry at last catches my eye. On October 26, 1974 my grandmother wrote, “Dad and I came out to close the cabin up for the winter. It is always one of the saddest days of the year for us. Another year gone by. Beautiful out here and we had a wiener roast just for the two of us. I hope we can have many more happy years out here, the good Lord willing. We are so thankful for the things we have together. See you all next spring- Mother”. I am happy to report that they did indeed spend many more happy years together.
However, time marches onward and things change and people change and nothing stays the same. My grandparents are gone, the cabin is now a ruin and life is different, uneasy. My own children are now at the same age as when I ran unfettered all day but cannot be allowed them the same freedoms because the world is so dramatically different.
Jolted back to the present by such disquieting thoughts, it seems an appropriate time to return the book back to the shelf. The oversized volume will be carefully hidden so no one will bother it without careful oversight because the pages hold something more valuable than words. They hold reassurance.
I need to know that there is still a physical place, albeit a paper one, where a feral young boy spends his evening eating popcorn popped in bacon grease while playing Parcheesi at a spindly kitchen table. A place where he can still wonder about Old Bull, the monster catfish that was never caught.
As I closed my eyes and the cover, I realized the action must have stirred some long-dormant dust or pollen hidden in the binding. That could be the only reasonable explanation for a big, strong outdoor writer to have such watery eyes.
Yeah, it must be the dust.
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