99 WORDS...AND A LITTLE BIT MORE
The overgrown trail to the mossy covered rocks along its banks might overhear voices across the meadow, in the berry patch.
The day a fork in the trail leading to a knoll was discovered, the spirit stories changed.
People were seen in the abandoned log buildings below. An occasional sighting for those who patiently watched atop the hill.
Once during a storm, riders were seen, and life below the knoll changed forever.
The knoll trail on a stormy day is not for the meek; or so it’s said.
Now, I think back to the houses and places I frequented as a younger person. There were lots of homesteads and homes still in use, and I suspect some still are. It was clear, even then, that as families and needs grew, so might the building. It was not abnormal for a 10’ x 10’ log structure to have add-ons or lean-tos attached to the original building.
Our grandmother’s house was one such building; however, it was, and I am guessing, 20’ long. There was a large clapboard, closed-in porch along the length of its entrance. One side was the sawdust shed and the other side held a menagerie of shelves for storage. Keep in mind this would not have been heated. On the long side of the building, an addition housed two bedrooms. I am fairly certain, if my memory serves me correctly, this was also made of logs. There was a slope or step down into the bedrooms, which makes me think it was possibly built soon after, or even at the same time as the main building. The kitchen/living area and the bedrooms were heated by one stove located in the main room.
But, it’s the stories these old buildings keep to themselves that intrigue me, drawing me to them like some kind of invisible magnet. Luck is on my side when happenstance provides knowledge of people, relatives or friends connected to these historic buildings. With a few questions, life from what seems forever ago, comes to me in the form of family stories.
The buildings that stand alone, with no people to share their past, call me the most. These relics are the ones that make you be quiet and listen to what they have to say. No touching, no moving items that may have been left behind, just close your eyes and listen.
As I imagine the story of what might have transpired between the walls, a sound, other than the wind, makes me look. It’s probably a rodent of some kind. However, it is then there might be some small shard of the building’s story still in place that I hadn’t noticed before. Something so different that my imagination from behind my closed eyes needs to regroup. Off my thoughts go to plausible ideas as to why the aged item still exists, exuding a reminder of what once was. With each tidbit that’s been left behind, the journey of tales and stories continues to manifest. Storing them in the memory chip for just the right time…