Hills of Eden

By Jory Sherman

Jory Sherman's first book for Gallivant Press, The Hills of Eden, is a deeply personal look at the green highlands of Missouri and Arkansas. His work could easily be described as a travel book. He does lead the reader down beautiful and poignant mountain highways and long-forgotten back roads to places that reflect the timeless legacy and unforgettable characters of the Ozarks.

As he has written: "All the dirt roads lead somewhere, and I have followed many of them since that first morning, a wanderer and an explorer, never expecting anything but always finding something of great value, whether it be a diamond-strewn creek in sunlight or a midnight river full of dancing stars, or a verdant woodland glade."

Or maybe it's a memoir of the time Sherman spent in the highlands, the time, he says, that was both mystical and magical "as if the green spring hills were being born at just that moment, as if they had lain dormant beneath a low sky full of heavy clouds, waiting for that first kiss of sunlight, waiting for me."

He has written: "These green hills and memory percolates up through the thick layers of civilization in my mind ... The hills that first morning arose out of a thick mist like some Brigadoon stage set that appears only once in a span of years, then disappears until another generation spawns."

Others may prefer to use The Hills of Eden as a devotional because the power and the passion of his writing, the depth of his insights, the raw energy of his thoughts are stimulating, motivational, and inspiring. His words, his stories, those he met within the highlands remain firmly implanted in your mind long after the final pages have been read.

As Jory Sherman remembers: "I discovered long ago that it's not the things that last. It's not the things we see and touch which endure in reality, but the images of those things that are important to us, that seem to mirror memories in the soul. The images are those intangibles that we can summon from some deep place inside us and relive and enjoy again and again, though we be far from home, far from the hills and hollows that we have journeyed through to find our own truths, our own personal mythology."

As reviewer Lee Kirk wrote: "This is the sort of book that may be pulled down again and again on those days when you're feeling blue, or when you're somewhere else and need to smell and feel the Ozarks one more time."

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781937569013

Jory Sherman

Jory Sherman is the Spur Award-winning author of the westerns Song of the Cheyenne, The Medicine Horn, and Grass Kingdom, which was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in Letters.

Book preview

Eden.

A Journey Through January

There is a stillness in these Ozarks hills.   A deep hush settles in the hollows as if the earth itself is holding its breath.   In the mist of a morning, it’s so quiet atop the ridge I can hear my heart beat as the echoes of my solitary footsteps die away, lost among the fallen dead leaves of the oak and hickories, now only skeletons themselves, bleak reminders of winter’s wan cast.

The cedars stand ghostly in the dim light of dawn, staggered down slope among the wispy shrouds of fog that cling to the rocks and stumps like shredded cotton batting, while the creek at the bottom, a thin thread of silver and beryl, seeps down to the smoking mirror of the pond.

And here we are in the month of Janus-faced January, what some call mid-winter.   I am reminded that the month is named after the Roman god, Janus, a single-headed deity with two faces, each looking in the opposite direction.   Janus was the god of gates and doorways, and over time, he became known as the god of new beginnings.   It seems an appropriate month to begin every new year, and I suppose this is why I walk up to the ridge above the hollow and look down at the sleeping land below, to ponder how this year begins and get a sense of how it will flow and end.

As the mist rises and the sun burns away the fog, I walk up into the hardwoods that border a meadow that halts abruptly at a bluff outcropping.   There is the waterfall that feeds the little creek that flows into the mute pond where catfish and bass float like sleeping mobiles in a Paul Klee painting.   Once, I had a copy of the artist’s Fish Magic on the wall, facing the desk where I wrote poetry, stories and books.   I loved the print of this painting because I could go into those depths and become part of the underworld beneath the sea.   Now, beneath the bluff and its lacy waterfall, I can go into a January painting with its ever-shifting colors, its soft and golden play of light in that magical dell where I see the tracks of deer that have foraged for grass during the night, pulling the sear blades out of the ground to nibble the roots for nourishment.

Little wrens flit through the underbrush, little gray birds that I realize have followed me up here like small beggar urchins hoping for a handout.   But, I have neither bread nor seed for them.   They will have to fend for themselves in this austere January world.   And they do, of course, feeding on insects I cannot see, hibernating grubs, perhaps, creatures that live through a winter as food sources in some mysterious plan.   The buzzards have gone south, like the ducks and geese, and doves, but there are squirrels in their dens and quail tracks along the stream that show me I am not the only one staying here in the hills to weather the season.

Part of the waterfall, the shady part, has frozen into a long gray beard.   Perhaps it resembles the beard of Janus himself, for it looks ancient and Roman, and there is a stateliness about it that harkens back to another age.   A couple of days ago, there was snow on the ground and the pond froze and the little creek, too, and I did not walk up this way.   The hills were garbed in ermine, and when the sun shone, the snow glittered as if it had been sprinkled with billions of crushed diamonds.   The little gray birds, ghost birds, I call them, were hard pressed to find sustenance and clustered around the feeder and birdbath like a flock of feathered mendicants at a free give-away.   They preened and pranced until they had slaked their thirst and filled their craws with seeds, then flew away, leaving only hieroglyphics in the snow.   Their tracks looked like cuneiform jottings on clay the color of cuttle bone.

I realize that January has a lot to offer the denizens of the Ozarks.   It feels like a beginning, not an ending.   It feels like an open gate, or a door into a world of discovery.   Here, in the vast silence of the woods, there are vague whispers of an autumn that has passed.   There is a carpet of oak leaves strewn along my path, and in the soft song of the breeze sighing through the cedars, perhaps a promise of a spring not far away once winter’s gelid breath has ceased to blow through these islands rising out of the fog early every morning.

Before I walked back home, I thought of Janus, January’s namesake.   I could see such a god, looking backward toward autumn, and forward toward spring.   The god of new beginnings.   Fitting to think such pagan thoughts on such a day in such a time in such a place.   The Ozarks have been that for many a soul, I knew.   A place of new beginnings.   And, maybe all journeys should begin in January.   Perhaps one of Janus’ faces would actually smile.

In the mist of a morning, it’s so quiet atop the ridge I can hear my heart beat

as the echoes of my solitary footsteps die away,

lost among the fallen dead leaves of the oak and hickories,

now only skeletons themselves,

bleak reminders of winter’s wan cast.

Daybreak

I’ve looked at these mornings for a thousand years. It seems that way. Yet each morning seems like the first, the only. I have looked into the dark mists before day breaks and wondered what it would have been like to have been present at the dawn of creation. It must have been a slow process according to all that I’ve read, but it seems to me that there must have been a single morning that was like the ones I witness each morning in these Ozarks hills.

There must have been a day when a man looked into the dark and saw the sun for the first time, rising above the horizon all aflame. It would have been an awesome sight. It is still so, even after so many suns over so many eons of time.

The earth itself seems to fall into a solemn hush just before dawn. The woods go quiet, and the whippoorwills fall silent. There is a change in the air’s rhythm and flow. I stand at the edge of the woods and wait, listening, wondering at the changes, wondering if I am imagining them. But no, even my dog cocks her ear and listens. There is not a sound and I have heard this silence, too, thousands of times.

There is just that one moment, though. It lasts an eternity and it lasts but a split-second. I take a breath to see if I am still alive or maybe just to make a mortal sound. Then, the earth begins to change. It begins to grow as if the hills were sprouting for the first time, as if the trees suddenly rose up out of the soil and grew leaves, as if the grasses, smudged by night, emerged from nothingness.

The sun’s light begins to break over the land, shooting life and color into dead Stygian things, putting shape to gnarled blobs, sculpting the bluffs, carving a bed where a river will flow and then making the river itself appear as if by magic.

The hills take on form and definition and they seem like the first hills ever created, different from the ones I saw at dusk the day before. They are the same, of course. Yet, they are altered, too, by time, by the wind and the weather’s slow beat and by the light streaming from a star only 93 million miles away.

The hills are changed and I am changed.

I change each morning when I stand outside at daybreak, struck with the wonder of this vast universe, the wonder of those things close at hand. The other day my wife looked out the window and saw a young whitetail buck walk onto our road, less than thirty yards from where she sat at her computer. He was joined by a doe and they ambled along the road, flicking their tails, sniffing at the clumps of grass alongside. She watched them as they casually walked into the field of grasses next to the house and headed for the creek a short distance away. She was changed by that moment, brought into the environment even as she sat at her desk.

The other evening, I saw our female cat Coco trotting up that same road, carrying something in her mouth. Behind her trotted our male cat, Boots, following her as if he wanted to share in her kill. I thought Coco had caught a chipmunk or a baby squirrel. But no, she was carrying one of her own kittens. She brought it into the garage and then trotted back into the woods where she had dropped her young. She carried the other one back a few moments later, and we set up a nest for her and looked all around the fields and woods to see if there were any more. Coco is but a kitten herself, yet she brought her kits in to shelter where she has been nurturing them for several days.

We were changed by this sight, too, and taken out of ourselves into the world of nature.

Many years ago, I made a vow to myself. I changed my hours to accommodate that silent promise. I have never regretted the commitment: Never miss a sunrise. Never miss a sunset. These are the most beautiful times of day, the quietest. The break of day gives me a feeling like no other, fills me with energy and hope. When the sun sets, I feel a part of all the cycles of seasons and days, of years and centuries. I have been a participant in life, not just a bystander.

I wish I could have seen these hills when they first saw sun. But it doesn’t matter, really. Each morning is like the first morning. When I see the dawn break, the words to that remarkable song by Harry Chapin run through my mind.   The sun makes not a sound, yet it strikes deep chords in me and it starts that tune running through my mind.

Praise for the morning, the words say. And this morning, like the first morning.

Even if you watch for a thousand years.

Many years ago, I made a vow to myself. I changed my hours to accommodate

that silent promise. I have never regretted the commitment:

Never miss a sunrise. Never miss a sunset.

The Coming of Spring

Some days here, you can sense the coming of spring to these Ozarks hills. There is the urgency of the morning tapping at your mind with the insistence of crickets. There is the dawn itself, with its ruddy cheeks, its promise of a long day’s sun. This special dawn is more confident, healthier, stronger, livelier than it was during the long winter.

The morning, on these sweet Ozarks days, shrugs its shoulders like a young child. You can feel the warm smile of the day on your face when you open the door. April rushes up to you on a girl’s silver skates and sprays you with a splash of icy breeze delicate as a silken shawl. A deep breath tastes of cedar and redbuds and dogwood blossoms. The lake breeze is fresh, bright as sleek trout moving in shallow creek waters.

A once-dry creek bed fills with snow melt, breaks through a deep hollow, wends its way along the thawed ground seeking life and the mingling with the big lake that was once a mighty river. The bluffs, still frigid with ice and secrets, catch the warming sun, reluctantly shed their long ermine beards, become shawls of dripping waterfalls. You can hear the water’s ancient song long into the night.

Spring in the Ozarks is fickle, relentless, full of surprises. It brings out the raccoons, the opossums, the brown robber birds. Gray squirrels skitter down the oak trees with flaring paramecium tails and chittery voices. The air soars across the newborn land, full of promises and pleasant whispers.

This is the way Spring is for me here. This