My apology to my readers for this "re-run" column. But I've been "laid-up" (again). I'll be back "live" next week, Cal.
Ten miles south of the Delaware river fountainhead lies a small country village. A few dozen homes, a white-steepled church, general store, restaraunt, a tavern. Hugging the shores of the river just above where it’s violently turned by tall rock cliff faces. Deep swirling eddies form here delighting summertime canoeists. Certain times of the year (like autumn) an achingly beautiful place. Here mother nature shares creative talents freely with the inhabitants.
To the south lies a narrow, miles long valley traversed by a meandering creek that feeds the river. Floods came in recent years as mother nature in her wrath taxed the residents for the bounty of her beauty. River and creek destroyed many of mans flimsy improvements. Man being nothing if not persistent (hard-headed?) has rebuilt much of what she took away. The hardy people here know how to work with (around?) mother nature.
Not far down the valley lies a place known locally as “The Flats”. Each fall for near two decades now, people from this valley hamlet and it’s mountainous “suburbs” gather there. The creek imitating the river, makes a sharp curve around the flats. While high mountain ridges border and shadow it to the east and west.
The gathering’s informal and the only reason proffered for it is to hold a time-honored tradition called an “Apple Squeeze”. Most of the people who gather no longer farm (like many of their ancestors). But most still tend their gardens. The call of the fall crop harvest still flows in their blood. Steady and true as the clear mountain water flowing past in the creek.
Before mid-day they begin to arrive. Food baskets, colorful covered dishes, ice chests begin to fill long tables set out near giant grills warming natures bounty. A huge pyramid of logs near the creek bank foreshadows coming evening festivities. Then lounging folks, bellies full, will listen to the joyful music of man. Talented local artists joining the sounds of nature. Harmonizing with the quiet cascade of the water tumbling through the rocky creek.
Throughout the day activities busy the younger adults (and grandparents). Entertaining hordes of little ones scurrying amongst neighbors and relatives. Sack races, tug-o-wars (rope larger than some participants), horseshoes, hay rides (seems big people enjoy them much as the kids!). Colorful pinatas had the little ones squealing with delight, eyes glowing when they burst, raining candy over them! The quiet valley echoed joy in the voices and reflected peace on the faces of the couple hundred souls present.
Gazing high up to the distant eastern mountainside during the day people glimpsed two large birds soaring. Sanguine speculation among locals was that they were eagles. Some visitors (out-of-town interlopers?) weren’t so sure. Could be crows or vultures, ya know? Eagles aren’t that common they murmured?
As dusk fell the bonfire was lit, smoke billowing thickly into the clear evening air. Someone commented we might send smoke signals like indians in centuries past? Soon it roared into a tower of flames fifteen feet high. It’s warmth welcomed as the days unseasonably high temperatures dropped along with the setting sun.
Folks gathered closer as musical instruments were unsheathed from their cases. Soon the sound of traditional mountain music and voices echoed softly off the rock faced banks across the creek. In quiet reverie, my vision blurred as the musicians shadows moved over those rock ledges. Thoughts drifting to years past, I could almost feel the indians (relatives?) who surely camped on this very ground years ago. Those shadows theirs, upon those same rocks as they too celebrated the harvest!
The earlier question of the soaring eagles was answered at that moment. A hush crossed the crowd, fingers pointed. From down the creek, below tree-top level, a great bald eagle winged closer on the evening air. It appeared he’d pass by within stones throw of us there below. But no! At the last moment, his wide wings furled in and he settled in a hemlock tree directly across the creek! There he sat, peering regally down upon us from his perch. Seems he approved the bonfire and just maybe enjoyed the music? He stayed into dark, watching and listening.
Not to be alone in natures diverse approval of our gathering, some minutes later from upstream, flew a great grey Heron. Settling magestically into the water directly across the creek from our quiet celebration! Slowly wading past, fishing the shallow water. Apparently dinner music and firelight enhanced his harvest dinner as well.
I don’t know about you..., but for me the years harvest seems abundant in natures joys.
Cal Teeple, local citizen, sole fulltime member of the Observational Cogitation Consortium may be found three stools down. He may be ignored, accosted or contacted at: wayneindependent.com/cal.
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My apology to my readers for this "re-run" column. But I've been "laid-up" (again). I'll be back "live" next week, Cal.
Ten miles south of the Delaware river fountainhead lies a small country village. A few dozen homes, a white-steepled church, general store, restaraunt, a tavern. Hugging the shores of the river just above where it’s violently turned by tall rock cliff faces. Deep swirling eddies form here delighting summertime canoeists. Certain times of the year (like autumn) an achingly beautiful place. Here mother nature shares creative talents freely with the inhabitants.
To the south lies a narrow, miles long valley traversed by a meandering creek that feeds the river. Floods came in recent years as mother nature in her wrath taxed the residents for the bounty of her beauty. River and creek destroyed many of mans flimsy improvements. Man being nothing if not persistent (hard-headed?) has rebuilt much of what she took away. The hardy people here know how to work with (around?) mother nature.
Not far down the valley lies a place known locally as “The Flats”. Each fall for near two decades now, people from this valley hamlet and it’s mountainous “suburbs” gather there. The creek imitating the river, makes a sharp curve around the flats. While high mountain ridges border and shadow it to the east and west.
The gathering’s informal and the only reason proffered for it is to hold a time-honored tradition called an “Apple Squeeze”. Most of the people who gather no longer farm (like many of their ancestors). But most still tend their gardens. The call of the fall crop harvest still flows in their blood. Steady and true as the clear mountain water flowing past in the creek.
Before mid-day they begin to arrive. Food baskets, colorful covered dishes, ice chests begin to fill long tables set out near giant grills warming natures bounty. A huge pyramid of logs near the creek bank foreshadows coming evening festivities. Then lounging folks, bellies full, will listen to the joyful music of man. Talented local artists joining the sounds of nature. Harmonizing with the quiet cascade of the water tumbling through the rocky creek.
Throughout the day activities busy the younger adults (and grandparents). Entertaining hordes of little ones scurrying amongst neighbors and relatives. Sack races, tug-o-wars (rope larger than some participants), horseshoes, hay rides (seems big people enjoy them much as the kids!). Colorful pinatas had the little ones squealing with delight, eyes glowing when they burst, raining candy over them! The quiet valley echoed joy in the voices and reflected peace on the faces of the couple hundred souls present.
Gazing high up to the distant eastern mountainside during the day people glimpsed two large birds soaring. Sanguine speculation among locals was that they were eagles. Some visitors (out-of-town interlopers?) weren’t so sure. Could be crows or vultures, ya know? Eagles aren’t that common they murmured?
As dusk fell the bonfire was lit, smoke billowing thickly into the clear evening air. Someone commented we might send smoke signals like indians in centuries past? Soon it roared into a tower of flames fifteen feet high. It’s warmth welcomed as the days unseasonably high temperatures dropped along with the setting sun.
Folks gathered closer as musical instruments were unsheathed from their cases. Soon the sound of traditional mountain music and voices echoed softly off the rock faced banks across the creek. In quiet reverie, my vision blurred as the musicians shadows moved over those rock ledges. Thoughts drifting to years past, I could almost feel the indians (relatives?) who surely camped on this very ground years ago. Those shadows theirs, upon those same rocks as they too celebrated the harvest!
The earlier question of the soaring eagles was answered at that moment. A hush crossed the crowd, fingers pointed. From down the creek, below tree-top level, a great bald eagle winged closer on the evening air. It appeared he’d pass by within stones throw of us there below. But no! At the last moment, his wide wings furled in and he settled in a hemlock tree directly across the creek! There he sat, peering regally down upon us from his perch. Seems he approved the bonfire and just maybe enjoyed the music? He stayed into dark, watching and listening.
Not to be alone in natures diverse approval of our gathering, some minutes later from upstream, flew a great grey Heron. Settling magestically into the water directly across the creek from our quiet celebration! Slowly wading past, fishing the shallow water. Apparently dinner music and firelight enhanced his harvest dinner as well.
I don’t know about you..., but for me the years harvest seems abundant in natures joys.
Cal Teeple, local citizen, sole fulltime member of the Observational Cogitation Consortium may be found three stools down. He may be ignored, accosted or contacted at: wayneindependent.com/cal.
