THE LEGEND OF THE MILKFISH

Michael said we were going to
find some fish.

LAST WEEK WE WALKED OUT THE GRASS WATERWAY TO THE MEADOW BEHIND THE BENSON TIMBER. We looked at beans along the way, now drying, getting even smaller in their pods. It was just a walk, but without really planning it, we realized we were both looking for the fish.

I thought he was joking.

Many years ago we walked back there with our oldest two boys. I probably carried the chubby, red-headed baby, the oldest in a turtleneck shirt with his shock of wheat hair walked alongside. Michael said we were going to find some fish, and I snorted, because we have a tiny stream back there, zigzagging out of the woods before it goes underground when it hits the meadow. But that stream only runs in spring and fall, or maybe after a heavy rain. It's little more than a trickle, washing over a stony bottom. We might see a salamander, or the prints of raccoons or deer, but it's not enough water to support a fish. I thought he was joking.

.In those days the waterway was full of weeds--goldenrod, milkweed, Jimson Weed, Multiflora Rose, sure, but also a lovely briar of Wild Rose as tall and as wide as a volkswagon bug. Grass was a tall as our oldest, and we blazed a trail through the Timothy and Bluestem, Canadian Rye and Indian Grass, or sometimes, when the brush was too much for him, edged along the side of the cornfield. But before we even got to the meadow, Michael stopped at a colony of milkweed. Its grey, thorny, looking seedpods were hanging from the plant like something prehistoric. Some had opened, spilling snow-white floss into the wind.

"There's a fish in here."

Michael picked one just barely dry and knelt carefully to show Chandra. My oldest bent his blond head solemnly over the my husband's cupped palm. "There's a fish in here," said Michael. "What does he have up his sleeve?" I wondered, and I bent over too, showing the baby. Michael carefully opened the pod, and sure enough, we could see the fish scales--the seeds all laid out in a regular pattern, the floss beneath still damp and tight in the pod. An eyeless fish, waiting to burst and spread its seeds across the prairie to feed the monarch butterflies.

Fish in Beauty; Cultivate Peace; Blessed Be.

I shake myself back to the present and take my husband's hand, and we continue our fishing expedition. We finally find a small school of fish plants at the very end of the furthest waterway. None of the seedpods is dry enough to burst, so we will come back next week to bring home seeds to plant in our yard, to give the monarchs some respite on their long journey.

THE BEAR WENT OVER THE MOUNTAIN

Did the Bear leave these marks
as she climbed?

ON A PARTICULAR MOUNTAIN IN VIRGINIA, THE TREES ARE MAYBE NOT SO MUCH TALLER THAN WE HAVE AT HOME, BUT STRETCHED OUT, THE LIMBS THINNER, MORE SPACE BETWEEN THEM. The canopy is higher and the understory is more airy and full of light, not full of brambles like at home. Hickory, Various Pines, Tulip Poplar, and Black Walnut grow on the hillside. Spinneys of Rhododendron and Mountain Laurel fill out the landscape. Large ferns soften the mulch-covered ground. It's damp enough here that the streams still run and mushrooms still grow, popping up in bright colors from forest floor. Big chunks of quartz, sometimes bright white, sometimes tinged with a rusty color, peek out from the soil.

 

The canopy is higher...

We find plenty to explore on this mountain, one morning walking along the ridge until we get to the road, the winding, two lane highway that brought us here. We find bear scat and the prints of deer. Jack shows us how to tell the buck's prints from the doe's. My father-in-law is a hunter and knows these things, though we differ in opinion about whether my dog could catch a turkey if she wanted to. I sit on a boulder to enjoy the view for a moment and a slender lizard striped in bright colors slips like liquid into a crack in the rock.

...and the understory more airy
and full of light.

Later we put on water shoes and follow the stream that runs through the valley. Ursula runs ahead, joyously rooting in the bank and scaring up birds. My dog is a water dog at heart and she is in her element here. We find a pool in a crook of the stream and sit down for a cooling soak. We skip stones and pull limbs and other debris out of the water and throw it onto the bank to decay there and add to the musky humus of the forest floor. We take the stream all the way to the property line, then take a path up the hill that circles around before heading home to a ping pong tournament and dinner.

The next day we drive to a larger river and pile into three canoes, one for each generation. The river is wider than our stream, but no deeper and our boats scrape bottom pretty often. The drought is not so apparent here, but here nonetheless. The river is quiet and we enjoy the peaceful floating downstream, floating through the scenery as it unwinds with very little effort from us, just an occasional stroke to steer away from a place where ripples in the water reveal the shallows. Michael and I were in the first canoe, and at the bend of the river we came silently upon a Great Blue Heron standing like a statue until we were 15 yards away, then spread his magnificent wings and mutely lifted off to fly upstream. At another bend we came upon him again with his mate, and we followed them downriver for half an hour or so, creeping up to within a few yards before they flew. This repeated 7 or 8 times until eventually, they tired of our company and flew back upriver, the way we had all come, to be shed of our disruptions.

Later, up at the house, the kids found some scars on a tree—three sets of four parallel stripes cut into the bark and healed over. Did the bear leave these marks when she climbed the tree? We know the bear is in the neighborhood, because Jack saw her one day in the bottomland, chewing on a different tree. He showed us those marks, on a limb about 7 feet up. These, however, look more dramatic, and tell a different story. Is it fact or fancy? What dramas do these mountains hold?

Shadows on a Stone

That evening, in Floyd, we found a country store with an old fashioned candy counter. It was a blend of history with a modern, thriving arts community. On Fridays they host a Jamboree with traditional Appalachian music and clogging, the traditional dance. Sadly, we have to leave before Friday comes, but will plan the next trip to be sure we can make it for the festivities.

Dance in Beauty; Float in Peace:
Blessed Be.

Close Knit Community

In Birdland the sky is gray and the snow is spilling down again. The last cycle of snow and melt and re-freeze had left us with a bare yard and only the grays and tawny browns of a winter landscape. The fields and garden are dry, as if the freeze has squeezed out all the moisture. Yesterday I noticed the hackberries scattered all over the ground like currents in a bun. Did the wind shake them down, or did the trees just let go with the cold?

Now a flurry will add another layer to the wintertime landscape. The sky is leaden as far as I can see to the West, and it’s cold but not windy, so I expect by noon we’ll have a nice frosting on all the fences and a blanket for the yard.

Today I am rushing to get my work done because of two important visits. This afternoon is my knitting circle at the Steeple Gallery Coffee House—a weekly gathering of wonderfully creative and fun women who meet to knit and share and visit and drink coffee. It convenes on Fridays, so I can only come during semester breaks, making today’s visit even more special for its rarity. I’ve got a finished project to show—a felted knitting needle holder that I copied from Susan. But I need some advice, because my washing machine doesn’t agitate, which is necessary for the felting process. Mine is pretty, but not quite felted, and it doesn’t like to stand up on its own. Should I just wash it about twenty more times, or try to felt it by hand, or ask Susan to agitate it for me in her washer? When I told Barbara about the flower I was going to knit for a decoration, she dug up a crocheted flower she had cut off of an old sweater and gave it to me. Now when I look at my project, I think of my connections to both of these lovely women—something to be glad of in the gray days of winter.

The second visit is from some of my nieces and nephews. Once in awhile they converge at

Birdland for a holiday. Some are home from college; some are already back at high school. I like to bake for them. I’ve got cookies already made, and plans for pizza and scones, waffles for breakfast.

They are busy young people, and they won’t all be here, but I am grateful for any who can spare the time. They come to get out to the country and away from their routines, and though I know they love me, they come more to visit with each other. I’m happy to provide this venue and mostly stay out of the way. They energize me, and give me an excuse to get the house clean, make up the guest beds, and pull out the board games and the ping-pong table. Ellis will be glad for their company. My youngest is the last little bird in the nest, and he loves to hang out with his cousins.

The snow continues to fall in tight, tiny crystals that collect first in the packed down places in the yard, showing me where the dogs have trotted out a new path around to the side of the house where I’ve plugged in their wintertime water bowl.

They also have one to the edge of the field where they go to bark at the coyotes whose commute takes them down our grass waterway every morning. The sky is now a bright white in the West, and the snow is falling faster, with bigger, fluffy flakes. It’s time for me to get to my baking and cleaning, my preparations to receive my guests.

Believe in Beauty; Dwell in Peace; Blessed Be.

Mary Lucille Hays lives in Birdland near White Heath. She cherishes family and community and any excuse for a gathering.