Aspiring Writer

Aspiring Writer

DAD- A MEMORIAL

   He was a hard man and rancher from birth, standing poised against the approaching sunset. The smoke from a distant forest fire gave an ominous red glow to the retreating sun. The Native Americans believed a red dawn was a sign that blood would be spilt that day, and this day had been no exception to that lore.

   Re-holstering his Western Roger Single Six pistol into a shoulder harness, he softly rubbed once the right side of his nose, with his index finger; disfigured by a past break with a hoof to the face during lambing season. More than likely the cause for the hay fever he suffered. His skin was sun worn but his eyes were gentle, and caring.  He was content although his facial expressions rarely gave him away, to all but his beloved wife. He melted for her, extinguishing anger as water on a fire with her command. 

   Repositioning his dirty old and worn Stetson hat, he ran his left hand through his moist black hair thinning now on the forehead. He cleared his throat and by spitting to the ground he exposed his aged and darkly yellowed teeth, but they were still his own.

   He then reached to hold the trunk of a young Ponderosa Pine. His gnarled fingers, each broken and never set properly, gently touched its bark as one would a small child. The fingertips were always cold but he regretted nothing in life. To him, taking effort and money to visit a doctor was a waste of time. There was work to do and he had no right to put more toil onto his brother, so as each were broken he pulled them as straight as he could and got back to work. 

   With the mountain lion laying dead at his feet he stood immersed in the view with his bow legs holding his weight. This was good land, he thought. As he looked to the sheer red cliffs of the Kolob Canyons, part of Zion National Park and bordering his land, in its beauty he recovered from any fatigue. He had tracked the Cougar all day after discovering several dead sheep that morning and as he prepared to throw the great cat from the cliff the two words he was known for slipped from his parched lips, “Lousy sucker!”

   Everyone knew the man on sight, a master horseman and a crack shot, with a well placed curse here and there. Along with his patched and farm greased 501 Levis , he wore overworked but well oiled boots and plaid long sleeved shirts, not to forget a cowboy hat and favorite jacket that both should have been retired twenty years earlier. He was respected even by those he had just met, commanding a silent obedience.

   He swung into the saddle, wheeling his horse toward the cabin. It was a long ride and dinner would be late tonight.

END

SEQUOIA GROVE

SEQUOIA GROVE 

A simple curious path winding through a dense forest,

Sight and smell… mesmerizing,

A gentle breeze filling thoughts with fragrances; fresh wild flowers, pine and aspen.

A doe mule deer lazily lifting her head to watch from the dew moist meadow.

I had no memory of this place, no idea how I had arrived.

Moving slowly through this new found paradise, a fox crossed my path;

Indifferent, innocent, with out alarm.

Thick moss covered every tree trunk, as one might wrap a child at rest.

Butterflies bobbing from one to the next. 

Standing soon beneath the majestic, cinnamon-red, deeply furrowed trunks of the Giant Sequoia Tree.

Forward one towering beyond description or belief, its width diminishing any creature to that of insect.

The silence within the area… angelic, pure, perfect.

The ground is soft and spongy to step, thick with fallen needle.

Wrapping their base, a blanket of beautiful green fern, flourishing happily with out the warmth of our great star.

White Fur growing throughout where the sun broke between the great Red Wood.

A small gentle brook twisting along side the furthest; bubbling softly toward a distant pond.

Fresh green grass thrived without restraint along its banks,

Curling over the sides and at places, into the water itself.

The grasses to the east forming a comfortable rolling recline in the earth, a place of rest.

Yellow butter cups and purple daisies engulfing the glade, both grass and moss alike.

Small pink wild rose pedals swirling in the smooth, un-rippling surface of a wide brook pool.

South; a picturesque pond, reflecting the mountains, Sugar Pine and aspen on its far shore.

A lonely island sitting near the center with possibly; yes, blueberry bushes at its waters edge.

West, a small cottage and its thatched roof just beyond a hedge of elderberry.

Two proud Yellow Pine growing at its north east corner. 

Oh…, Yellow Pine, to smell between the folds of its bark.

Sweet scents of butterscotch, strawberry, vanilla and chocolate.

The last of which is found only in those struck by lightning, there was no such damage here.

Intense euphoria flood, at the sound of cheerful bird song,

The distant cry of a golden eagle.

But where…?                      I am Home.

END

TO LOVE HER

To love her – is to sit and rest from a long and weary day,

Reaching within a well worn pocket to retrieve a picture from an otherwise neglected wallet.

The picture she always hated the most,

The candid, full of excitement photo that reflects the early relationship and floods memory.

To love her – is to gently glide calloused and worn fingers across her face,

Memorizing every dimple, every freckle… every thought.

To love her – is to watch your children at play,

Their laughter and eyes, sparkling from their mother’s very best qualities:

Tenderness, joy and spontaneity.

To love her – is to learn from her sobering example.

How she can so freely give to those who need more than she,

To love even the lowliest social outcast?

To reconcile loved ones for evil speaking of those less fortunate.

To build on her strength, her courage, her Christ-like radiance.

To love her – is a loss of words to express a deepest gratitude for her unselfish love.

Always there to listen or to hold, her soft, and at times concerned, touch.

For this lack of expression, she will never know how much I love her.

To love her – is to love the eternities more than this fragile life itself.

She is my life but more over,

She is my eternal life and I wait for the day we arrive at forever.

To love her – is to be accused as I have, of peering through rose tinted glasses,

Even as we approach our twentieth year together.

To this end I clarify;

To love her – is to take a rose and seal it up in gold, to preserve it forever and ever.

-- EER

                                                                                                                                                    EERuseell