Sunday, December 22, 2013

A Four Oaks Christmas Story

Once in a while, for the amusement of friends
I start spinning a story to see where it ends
While I might mess with facts, I can say with conviction
That sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction
Of last night, for instance, I give this depiction:

It’s three nights before Christmas and out at Four Oaks
The wind is a-howling, the fire pit smokes
The Baileys is waiting for coffee to brew
In a Dutch oven bubbles a savory stew

I’m humming and poking at embers and ash
When from deep in the forest I hear a great crash!
Into the darkness I peer warily
Into the shadows that stretch scarily

I wish for bright light but the fire burns low
I see I must stray from its comforting glow
To fetch a few logs from the edge of the wood
So I zip up my coat and I flip up my hood

It’s 20 long paces to get to the stacks
I take a deep breath. I take up the axe
If something is out there to give me a fright
It will see what I’m made of. I’ll put up a fight!

Into the shadows I step quietly
With my axe at my side, and what do I see?
But a monstrous Thing half obscured by a tree!
With an eye that glows red and looks right at me!

What should I do? Should I strike? Should I run?
Should I offer it stew? Would it eat a bun?
As I ponder these questions imagine my shock
When the Thing heaves a sigh and commences to talk.

In a whisper it says, “You’re tall for an elf.”
It takes me a bit to recover myself.
For it’s plain to see as the strange Thing draws near
It’s no monster at all! It’s Rudolph the Reindeer!

I notice he’s staring rather intently
At the axe in my hand, so I set it down gently
A smile spreads over his sweet furry face
I ask, “How in the world did you come to this place?”

“I was practicing flying and following my nose
When I began to feel sleepy and started to doze.
I awoke to discover I’d lost altitude
I’m sorry to startle, didn’t mean to intrude.
If you’ll just point me North, I’ll be on my way,
And the children will have presents come Christmas Day.”

“I know where to direct you,” I say. “See that star?
It will guide you North. It will take you far.
But before we bid each other adieu,
Tell me—are you hungry? Would you like some warm stew?”

His nose flames bright red; his agitation grows great
At the sight of the boiling pot on the grate
And I realize then that the Thing I’d held grim
Had been more scared of me than I’d been of him

I laugh loud as Santa: “Ho ho! Ho ho ho!
I see there is something that you need to know.
You’ve clearly mistaken me for a barbarian.
That’s not venison stew. That’s all vegetarian.”

Now maybe you don't think my story is true
That we shared a fine feast and then off he flew
But last night I learned something I never knew
And Rudolph said I could share it with you

While he’s grateful that children want him to be fed
And leave cookies and carrots before they go to bed
As together we sat, the reindeer and I,
He told me he much preferred blueberry pie

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Coming Home

I’ve moved 22 times since leaving my parents’ home at the age of 19. More than one friend has remarked on my restlessness, but I never thought of it that way. It just took me a long time to find a place that felt like home. But I’m here now, in a tiny jewel box of a renovated farmhouse called Four Oaks, freezing my ass off on the front porch so I can look at the outlines of the Blue Ridge Mountains while I write about moving to the country.

I might be the most unlikely person to move to the country. Of my 22 homes, 21 were in suburbs or towns or—most recently—in the heart of Washington, D.C. I like knowing people are within screaming distance if something goes horribly wrong. I’ve stopped at enough tiny towns off the interstates in West Virginia and Eastern Kentucky to know that some country people can be scary as shit. I’m terrified of mountain lions, which, in case you don’t know, are freakin’ everywhere, people. And I am afraid of the dark.

But I’d had enough of living in the city and I couldn’t face another suburb. Then one Sunday afternoon, heading to an open house suggested by my real estate agent, I drove down a gravel road thinking yeah right, and happened upon Four Oaks. Walked through the front door and felt it as viscerally as I’d ever felt anything: this place was home, and I had to have it.

A month later, Four Oaks was mine: the hundred year-old heart pine floors, the big front porch with the tongue-in-groove ceiling, the metal roof, the tight trim work, the finishes that make the home’s modern comforts feel rustic and authentic. Also mine: the scary cellar, the itty-bitty closets, a half acre of dust where a lawn needed to be, and a plethora of snakes, spiders and stink bugs. Shrieks in the dark I can’t identify—maybe a birdlike thing, maybe a catlike thing. Maybe a ghost. Who knows?

Who cares? Not me. I’m cozy here. Neighbors go by on horses, on bikes, and in cars; they stop and introduce themselves and welcome me to the neighborhood. I go to the spaghetti dinner hosted by the local volunteer fire department. One morning, as I stepped onto my front porch with my first cup of coffee, I found four fat turkeys in my yard.  “They were on your porch earlier,” my neighbor called to me across the gravel road.

The other day, her youngest daughter, 10 year-old McKenzie, saw me out on the porch and came over for a talk. She asked my permission to ride her bike on my long driveway. She told me about a scary movie she’d seen. She said her favorite subject in school was geography, because it was interesting to learn about people in different lands. “People have different minds inside their heads,” she informed me.

After 22 moves, I guess I must like geography the best, too. And I’m learning that sometimes a different mind finds its way inside the same old head you’ve always had. Who knew?

In place of that old restlessness, I’m content here at Four Oaks. That might seem bland to you, but it’s a thrill to me. Because I think this might be how it feels when you’ve finally found your way home.