Morning Thoughts: Gravity

Sitting in the living room at our farm, I’m watching the sunrise illuminate a spot I’ve only heard referred to as “The Grove.” It’s a quiet place. Ancient farm implements lie scattered around, of no use in the modern world save being used, on occasion, as lawn ornaments. It's fun to imagine what their users would have thought of that. Intrusive gum trees now compete here with the young oaks, adding a sort of tension to the peaceful setting.

History hangs over the spot like the morning fog that covers it this morning. Tax records of the late 1850s show the owners at that time owned eight slaves. Their hands may have made the ancient bricks just below the surface of the ground. Who knows?

They say the county Extension Service taught “canning classes” under the huge oaks that once shaded the ground here. They taught local women the skills of preserving food for their families, as well as preserving traditions. B’s grandpa made molasses in The Grove. Parts of his apparatus still linger as gateways to the past. They say he made stronger stuff here, a legend supported by the existence of a home-made still hidden away in the attic.

A branch of the “Trail of Tears” passed a quarter mile from The Grove. Did some of those unfortunates take a moment’s rest here? One can only speculate.

I’d had heard tales that Union Troops once camped in The Grove. I had dismissed them as rumors until I read about Doc Rayburn. He was a diminutive Rebel guerrilla who roamed this countryside. Legend has it, would dress as a woman and sneak into the parties held by Federal Officers. Supposedly, troops tracked him to this farm, having heard the owners were hiding him. In reprisal, cattle and mules were taken and slaves freed. Doc Rayburn’s grave has never been located.

The mighty oaks have died. One massive skeleton remains, leaning to the east as if waiting for The Second Coming. One can only guess the date on which gravity, or storms, will bring it down.

Someday, I’d like to clean the grove and make it into a park, if gravity doesn’t get me first. 

When this tree's companion fell,
I quit counting growth rings at 150.