I have never been here before, but I know this place oh so well. The ground is covered in pointy pine straw, fallen from their looming fathers. The sky high pines are the patriarchs in this neck of the woods. They grow up more quickly than their deciduous brethren, gobbling up all the sunlight for themselves, leaving no leftovers. The air is thick with their scent. That smell enhanced by cold and dampened by heat. The smell that drifts through every room at Christmas time, reminding you that Santa knows this tree too. Telling you that in the living room is a galaxy of sparkling stars hung on this woody piece of Earth, with little pieces of heaven resting in the shadow of its leaves. Yes, that’s the smell, but its summertime and Mr. Claus has awhile to rest.
Be sure to wear shoes here, though you may consider this ground holy, it’s no place to be barefoot. The needles are named well and will prick your tender toes. The cones also will harry you as you step, grabbing for your attention before they’re ground down into the ground. Aside from the evergreen refuse the ground is fairly bare. Only wiry, tough grass grows here. Thin and sparse like a comb over, the earth trying to hide its balding head by teasing the strands out over the dusty dirt. This is a place of extremes, there is little middle ground. The straight and narrow spires tower over all, but they rule over only grass and small saplings. One could fall from the tops, through their few branches and then spend the rest of the drop quite lonely. Nothing else rises to challenge the mighty masts of the forest.
The water that quenches the thirst of the scaly monoliths brushes against the lake shore. It ripples and splashes, attempting to imitate the mighty oceans whose tales the moon tells. At night it whispers to the lake, pulling at it, trying to bully it into flooding its banks and raging like a seething sea. The oceans are ancient like a dragon, who only gains wisdom and strength as the ages pass. The lake, though, is more like the old men that live around its edges. The years have mellowed and yellowed them. Turned them from men who fight in wars to men who write about them. Certainly they have the strength to fight deep inside, but it would take a catastrophe to make it rise. So the lake laps like an old lion at the red clay.
This place has not changed in years. The rooms of the house have remained the same, though things in them change. The bunk room is still the same, though the bunks have been re-arranged. New mattresses to softly snuggle the now wrinkled skin of their masters. New frames to stop the incessant squeaking, pasting a soft silence over snuffling snores. New tile, the old torn out by the soft hands of the new guard. The old timers watch on in approval as callouses are added to the palms of the young, mirroring the their own rough fingers. A softer futon and a fresh dart board. New parts, but somehow the whole remains the same.
This magical corner exists in so many places. It is an escape, a porthole into an alternate universe. One where battles were never fought, elections were neither lost nor won, bills were not paid because they did not exist, and every problem fades into the mist. Here the only worry is whether there is a new puzzle to do or an old one will have to again be won. Sleep when you’re tired, eat when you’re hungry, and don’t speak of anything that will make someone grumbley. Rise with the sun or get up at noon. Swim in the lake listen to tunes. Play cards on the table out under the sky. Sit on the dock and watch the clouds pass by. Go out on the boat and water ski, this is a place where you can be free.
The night here is dark but it’s not very scary. The most frightening part is the symphony of snores that’s bound to rebound off the walls. The orchestra begins to warm up as the early-to-beds stay true to their names. It picks up in earnest as the night owls flap their way to their nightly nests. The chainsaw breathing mixes in with the crickets and the oscillating fans. With the creaking of the trees and the huffing of the wind. The lake tries to join in with a wave or two, but mostly these are too soft to brighten the noisy hue. If you’re lucky there will be a thunderstorm. Then many will forego an extra hour to sit and watch the lightning out over the lake. It seems like even the clouds love this place and want to take a picture to remember it. Their electric flash arcs out through the night, illuminating the whole lake for a moment, outshining the moon for a brief second. If there’s no rain other lights shine out in the night. The soft bottoms of the smelly lightning bugs. Their yellow bottoms fading in and out like hundreds of indecisive candles. And so as you lay down to sleep, no need to pray for God your soul to keep. He holds this place in his loving hands already. So the shoulders relax as you lay down in your fresh sheets. Then they relax again as you exhale your last waking breath. Closing your eyes and nestling into the velvet night until the sun wakes you up with soft kisses that shine.
A place where the old and young gather together in peace. A home where you live when you want a reprieve. A place for family and friends, for beginnings and ends. A place of summer nights and warm wafting breeze. Somewhere to be relaxed and at east. All under the rustling branches of the tall tall pines. Watching us while away our lives in so many lines.
Waxing Philosophical 