Old Growth -- A Short

I see him step out onto the back porch from my perch in our favorite orchard tree. He lets the screen door creek shut softly and then pulls out his Sabbath leather gloves from his right coat pocket. Where's Grandpa going, Shane says. I look down one branch at him and shrug. Don't know, I say. I look back at the house. He is wearing a leather cap with a wide brim and rubber boots too - the same ones he wears when he's in his garden. He raises his coat collar up around his neck, adjusts his hat and then grabs hold of his walking stick, a palm size whittled branch that rests against the side of the house. I look back down at Shane. C'mon, I say. Let’s go with him!

With hurried movements we leapfrog each other, branch by branch, down the wet Filbert trunk and hit the soft ground running. Wait for us Grandpa, Shane calls. Grandpa pauses in the middle of the gravel driveway while we snatch up our own de-barked branches, raise our coat collars and run after him. We don't have all day, he says as he turns back down the driveway. We grin at each other but don't say anything. With a curl of his tongue Grandpa lets out a long piercing whistle. Within seconds, Gretta - Grandpa's German Sheppard, comes trotting around the side of the old farm house. Atta girl, he says. Where we going, I say. For a walk, he says. I start to say more but then look at his gloves and change my mind.
With the afternoon drizzle picking up again, we shuffle down the gravel driveway in silent formation. Gretta follows obediently in line behind Grandpa's left heel, Shane and I behind his right. I watch Grandpa's shoulders as we walk, how the small beads of water drip single file off the brim of his hat and create individual little pathways down his leather coat, painting the light hyde with dark streaks. He turns back to us slightly. Quit kicking at the gravel, he says. Pick up your feet when you walk, he adds. I lower my head and focus on each step. I imagine myself to be Swift Arrow, an Indian warrior leading a war party. I look for every bit of grass or bare spot in the gravel, stepping lightly to avoid my wet shoes making the slightest sound. From the corner of my eye I can see Shane hopping lightly from bunch of grass to bunch of grass behind me. He has picked up his walking stick and now carries it in front of him, ready for the possible attack that could be coming from the orchard beside us at any moment. Grandpa is our chief. Gretta is a wild wolf that we have raised as our own since she was a pup. Shane and I are the greatest hunters that our tribe has ever known. Together we walk as shadows in the midst of the gray afternoon light, making our way to some far away bit of holy ground.

------------------------------------------------

 

Our journey becomes more of a Trail of Tears, a forced walk of exile, after about a mile. Gone is the gravel, the bits of grass, the warriors and the wolf. We now walk single file along a quiet country road. I am beginning to regret our choice to follow Grandpa. But then I see the old Bollenger place up ahead. I nudge Shane behind me with an elbow and point. Steeeeeeevie, he whispers. I look back to Grandpa. He's whistling to himself now. He's also picked up the pace a bit. I decide it's worth it. Ummm... Grandpa, I say. What is it, he says without looking back. What's wrong with Stevie, I say. Yeah, why is he so weird, Shane says. I move to block Shane from Grandpa, just in case. What... Shane whispers to me. It's OK, Grandpa says. You're right, he says. Stevie does have something wrong with him. But you know, he used to be same as you and me, he says.
I look back to the Bollenger farm house. I can see the front door now. I feel a shiver. The door has a long oval, stained glass window that fills it almost completely. Although I always think there should be some sort of light, some sort of life, showing through the door... there is only blackness, like it is a portal -- a portal to some evil plane of existence, some parallel universe.
There is a story behind Stevie, Grandpa says as we continue to near the house ahead. You see this field here, he says. Shane and I both turn to our left and nod. You see how it is on the side of a hill, he says. Shane and I both nod. Well, he says. Many years ago, before either of you were born, Stevie was driving his tractor along here. He was mowing the grass, Grandpa says. I picture it on the hill as Grandpa tells us the story. I picture Stevie, with his maimed arm and his maimed leg, up on a green John Deer tractor -- Grandpa's green John Deer tractor. I picture him pulling the wide, low metal attachment with turning blades underneath that Grandpa uses to cut his own fields. I picture it and wait for Grandpa to go on. And there was an accident, Grandpa says. The tractor rolled over on him. Rolled down the hill, he says. I picture the tractor rolling over. I picture the attachment and the blades underneath continuing to cut. But he lived, Shane says. Yes, Grandpa says. He lived. But that is why there is something wrong with Stevie Bollenger, he says. I hope that never happens to me, Shane says. Grandpa laughs and reaches back to put an arm around Shane. Don't you worry about that, he says. We can't control what life brings our way, he says. He pulls Shane in close against his wet coat and we walk on.

------------------------------------------------

The afternoon light is growing brighter as we step off another gravel driveway a couple miles away and into the underbrush on a small dirt path that leads us deep within a canopy of Douglas Firs. The rain has stopped, not that it could follow us into this place anyway. Above, the afternoon sun fights through the clouds and pierces the thick fir branches in the form of long, narrow fingers of light that shine on the tall ferns growing all around us on the mossy forest floor. We're almost there, I whisper to Shane. He nods in agreement. With the brief appearance of the sunshine, birds begin to call to each other above. They seem to be announcing our arrival onto this hallowed ground. These Jays and Crows are somehow guardians to this secret world. I imagine that if the elves of Middle Earth still lived in a place that it would have to be a place like this place. I look ahead to Grandpa and notice his Sabbath gloves again. I suddenly wish that I have gloves to wear, especially in a place like this.
We both see it before he points it out to us. It is a massive piece of wood, a trunk that makes the other trees all around us seem like walking sticks. Its roots alone are taller than Shane, maybe taller than me. As my eyes follow the trunk upward I hear Shane say, Grandpa... what is it? Grandpa stops. He sets his walking stick against a smaller tree to his right. Gretta disappears from view as she sniffs her way around the backside of the gigantic trunk. Shane and I step up beside Grandpa. We both pin the backs of our heads against our shoulders as we stare heavenward. Is this the Tree of Life, Shane asks? I elbow him. Don't be silly, I say. But somehow it is me that feels silly. What is it Grandpa, he says again. Shhhhh, Grandpa says. Can't you two be quiet for even a couple seconds, he says. I begin to count in my head. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi... I get to 20 Mississippi's and then Grandpa says, this is not just another tree. This is a very special tree, he says. This tree is an Old Growth tree, he says. Woooooow, Shane says. I don't elbow him this time.
I look back down the trunk and then look at Grandpa. What's so special about an Old Growth tree, I say. Don't be smart, he says to me. I'm not being smart. But before I can defend myself Shane says, yeah Grandpa... tell us about the Old Growth tree. Shane and I both stare up quietly as we wait for Grandpa to explain. Look at it, he says. Do you see the size of it, he says. It takes a very, very, very long time for a tree to grow to this size. Do you see how far it goes, he says. Do you see how far it reaches out to either side, he says. Shane and I follow the tree's trunk up as far as we can see. We turn and follow the branches out as far as we can see. And look at these roots, he says. Shane and I look down to the massive roots that stretch out in every direction. They are eye level in places before burying deep beneath the mossy ground around us. These roots are the most special part of the tree, he says to us. How come, Shane says. Because, he says. The higher the tree grows, the further the tree reaches, the more impressive this tree becomes, the deeper its roots have to be, he says. He pauses. Shane and I wait quietly for him to continue. Then he says, the tree could not become what is has become without holding on to its roots. Shane and I don't say anything. Someday you will understand, he says.
I look from the roots back to Grandpa now. His head is bowed. I see a small bead of water on his left cheek, only briefly, before it disappears beneath his graying beard. From where I stand, with him towering above me, I imagine him to be an Old Growth tree. He is a gigantic trunk that stretches up as far as I can see. His arms are long branches that reach out as far as I can see. And his boots are massive roots that have long ago buried themselves deep within the ground around us. I marvel at him, my Grandpa in front of me, as he marvels at this Old Growth tree in front him.

He is right... The roots are the most special part. And yes, Grandpa is right... Someday I will understand.