The Placid Green

By Joseph Lane

Its summer in Pfounds small Appalachian town. The young man enjoys spending time with his pencil and sketch pad by the lazy river that winds through his deep river valley, but drawing isnt all there is. Hes part of the Clana group of ragtag youngsters, led by their ever-faithful German shepherd dog.

The Clans days of motley adventure are interrupted when the Vagabond arrives in their little town and delivers a powerful, intriguing message the townspeople will take years and years to understand. Pfound is deeply affected by the mans words and finds his happy, sunny summer ground into the dirt. His heart and soul are unexpectedly heavy.

The sky again brightens for the young artist with the surprise entrance of Feather. She is a visitor to the neighborhood, but she and Pfound make an instant connection, as she becomes his most trusted sidekick. Together they bond with a wise old hermit who lives near the edge of town. It is a summer of growing up, of hard knocks, and, with the approach of August, Pfound will find his entire life and town have changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781462410750

Joseph Lane

Joseph Lane grew up in the small mountain town of Elkins, West Virginia. As a child, tall tales were often shared around the house. He attended Davis and Elkins College and majored in psychology. He enjoys the great outdoors and is a licensed pilot.

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Copyright © 2015 Joseph Lane.

Designed, formatted, and copyedited by Kristen Corrects

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Inspiring Voices

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4624-1076-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-1075-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921389

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 03/11/2015

Contents

Chapter One    The Great Golden

Chapter Two    A Toe Hold

Chapter Three    The Beginning of Greater Things

Chapter Four    The Vagabond

Chapter Five    Mudhead’s Meddling

Chapter Six    A Visit to Mac’s

Chapter Seven    A Promise Given; A Promise Taken

Chapter Eight    The Parting of Ways

I cannot imagine that anyone would not desire to know or remember the fantasy of his or her youth. I cannot imagine that anyone would not want to remember his or her coming of age. I cannot imagine that anyone would choose to forget those wild, adventurous, yet perilous times that were our youth. I cannot imagine that anyone would choose to forego such an education in life. But yet I know that there are many who will choose to remain ignorant and dismissive of what it means to be growing up. This is my attempt to give those times a bit of grace, a touch of budding maturity, and a bit of fantasy. In the end, you will see that only love can protect and bind us together—that only self-realization can make us who and what we are. I hold that only the experiences of youth subtly but powerfully act upon us, shifting us into the thread and fabric of who we will become.

In the early years of youth, we attempt to overcome our fears. We attempt to define ourselves and shape our circle of friends. In this ongoing struggle, we may grow to become arrogant, mindless, or shiftless, or perhaps all the aforesaid! Taking a different pathway, we may choose to become more positive, more productive, more reflective, poignant, self-sustaining, even self-effacing. Some of these are greater virtues, yet they are all parts of youth. So broad and true are these features of life.

I would take great pleasure if you would story with me through these pages. Step back in time and take part in my moral fantasy. I hope that you will come to know P’found’s selflessness. I hope that you will find joy with their four-legged friend, Mudhead. I hope that you will relish in Feather’s love. I hope that you will enjoy in your long life a friend who would be as rock solid as Mac. This musing is about all of those tiddlings and morsels of life’s experiences captured in those few short years. This musing is a moral lesson, a moral fantasy, a journey through memories, and in the end, a finding of truth.

CHAPTER ONE

The Great Golden

How time seems to drift slowly onward, carefree, secretly secure within its hallowed self. Flowing endlessly through the billowing, towering springtime clouds, glimpses of time’s mysteries are displayed within their broad earthly bound shadows. Their unassuming ethereal masses of vapor seem to pause briefly overhead to cast vagabond-like shadows upon the cool green earth. With voiceless whispers, their shadows pass their carnival meanings earthward to be molded into grand human imaginations. Beckoned to the call of their soft winds, leaves waver. Grand white boughs of towering cumulus clouds drift slowly eastward, seeking to enthrall one’s senses with grand, wild imaginations! Whispering in shades of white and gray, their vagaries would portend a summer that would become nothing more than lazy, wistful summertime childhood wishes.

Wanting that a dream seed in the winds of the mighty clouds might grow, a young lad lay sleeping in the comfort of his dreams. High up in the trees, the warm summer’s breezes were a comfort to the leaves. In the streets far below, the air was calm and time was idle. The movements of the neighborhood people were casual about their business goings-on. The small hamlet was alive, radios played softly from distant open windows. Rich, vibrant yellow beams of the morning sun began to find their way into many a kitchen window.

Slowly but purposefully, the townspeople drifted here and there, in this door and out the other, each following their set routine about, making their way in this toil that is life. Below this neighborhood of peoples, just a few city blocks set away from the mainstream of commerce that was the center of town, was the older part of the city. Over the decades it had become a neighborhood unto itself, a microcosm of old wives’ tales and folklore. An old, odd white-haired man—a shabbily dressed, a fedora-clad old man—hobbled with a lazy gate toward the juncture of Chestnut and Baxter streets. His inquisitive and pensive gaze took in the closely spaced red lead-painted two story homes. These structures were the black, shiny tar-papered roofs of Tannery Row. The old man’s feeble ears sensed the soft toned murmurings of the human traffic on the street. Not so far away and from the opposite side of the street, a young lad approached. His face was cheerful and his step was light afoot.

His demeanor was decidedly pointless and carefree. His mind was clearly alight with imagination and creation. As they approached one another to this unavoidable meeting, both rested their eyes away from a possible, embarrassing direct eye-to-eye contact. Both searched the pavement for a moment of social grace. The brief pressure of their ungainly encounter had nearly passed when the old man turned and spoke in a delightful voice that was full of carnival passion: Wye, fine summer’s morning to ya, young man! Have you just a few minutes? Putting his hands into his pockets, he pulled at the inner linings. Quickly, he turned his pockets inside out and glanced downward. Several pieces of green lint and old breadcrumbs spilled out and drifted slowly onto the roadway. Wye, as you can see, I have all the time in the world! Between his words, the old man laughed heartily. Haven’t even a thin dime! Mind you, not a penny! Who needs money anyway?

For a small, diminutive man, his roaring laughter threatened to bring the whole street to their windows. The old man paused, awaiting the lad’s response.

The young man was so taken aback by the old man’s statement. Minutes, minutes, do I have minutes? he silently asked of himself. Cautiously, he softly answered, Yes, but not long. The day is new and I have things to do. I’ve got to get on home.

The old man snapped his fingers with joy and swiftly replied, Well, then, just walk along with me a short while. Walk up this street you call Chestnut. Wye, grant me just a little time and I will tell you a story. Reaching as high and as far as his shaky arms and crocked, wrinkled fingers could point, the old man gestured skyward. He exclaimed, See where it begins? It begins somewhere up there in those clouds!

The young lad strained and gazed anxiously upward. His mind tingled with anticipation.

As the old man began to spin his tale, his gate grew stronger, his shoulders became higher and straighter. He walked aside the lad and began to gesture wildly and descriptively with his arms and hands. Amazingly renewed, the old man began to swagger with confidence. Looking down to the young man’s expectant, delightful face, he posed a simple but yet most grand question: What is life but the breath of every day?

The young lad was instantly taken in by the old man’s soft-spoken but commanding words. Pursing his lips and touching the tips of his fingers to them, he paused, then continued: Listen now.

Through the register in the center of the floor came a waft of warm air, and with it came the enticing aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee. By this aroma the young lad was awakened from his night’s sleep. There came to him a visceral comfort. The smell of freshly baked apple pastries taken from the wood-fired oven filled his nostrils and made him agreeably hungry.

Waking, quickly coming to his senses, he rubbed the sleep sand from his eyes. Looking about, he could see that morning and the household was well alive and underway! A brief but bright golden ray of sunshine had presented itself upon the far bedroom wall as it streamed warmly across the window shade. Still a bit drowsy with sleep, he thought to himself, It may be the month of June, early June, or perhaps a day early in July? With great pleasure he mused, Doesn’t matter the day—school is out! It is summer time! He was free—free to pursue whatever and wherever his endeavor might lead! Why should I concern myself with the date or even the time of day? The summer is long and the summer days he had recently come to know were long. Long, seeming to never end!

Gathering himself up from his bed, he sensed that elsewhere in the house, others were moving about. Scrambling to the floor, he quickly found his clothing. A quick whiff of the shoulder of his shirt confirmed that these were indeed his clothes! His black and white rubber-soled tennis shoes were neatly placed at the end of the posted bed, near the floor register to keep them toasty warm should it be wintertime. They were his only pair of shoes. It was his habit to often lose his shoes and by some amazing grace, each night they always seemed to find their way back to his bedpost near the floor register. Tying his shoelaces, he thought to himself, I have kept my shoes nearly new, they have worn so well. From the shelves of the Five and Dime Store. Oh well, not so new after all; just only one hole in the right big toe. There’s a lot of summertime left in ’em! He then remembered that the sole of his left shoe flapped like a flip flop with every step. He often thought of it as a loose, much too talkative tongue! Yet he was still satisfied as he pulled the left shoe onto his foot. He remembered their fresh smell when they were new, clean, and unworn; fresh out of the box. He could now clearly see that they had become worn and ragged. He knew that he would soon have to discard them. His bare feet would quickly toughen to the abrasion of the sandy, stony summer’s earth.

With his last thoughts of yesterday and his goals for today now firmly in his mind, he quickly finished dressing. Just as he had done every morning so far back as he could remember, he scrambled to the south-facing bedroom window. Looking outward from the second story window, he could see that the streets below and far beyond were wrapped in the ever-so common dense river valley morning fog. The clouds had come to Earth. Upon the ground they rested like a silent, peaceful nighttime flannel blanket. Not so far away he could see the finely crushed green and gray tar papered roofs. These were the homes of many of his friends and home to some of the older ones he did not yet know. Yellow and greenish gray wisps of smoke curled slowly upward and away from crudely constructed short red brick spires. The lazy smoke struggled to climb a mere three hundred feet into the air. From time to time, the pungent smell of burning sulfur laden coals briefly caused an odd, yet pleasant stinging sensation in his nostrils. But, this was all proof that many had built a fire to take away the cool edge off of the night. In the distance, not so far away, the tops of the old tannery buildings could be seen rising above the dense layer of clinging fog. Their long red lead-painted single story wooden structures dominated the landscape. Reaching out from the main two and three story cluster of center buildings, the long hide processing buildings reached out like many red boney fingers. Now abandoned, they were once the cowhide tanning and leather processing plant that was so named The Kessler Leather Company. It’s now crumbling remains were only memories to the hard labor and toiling voices of long-departed workmen. The structures were nearly completely lost and overgrown to all but for the favor of the neighborhood children.

The young lad gazed and pondered a moment at the tannery roofs. Amidst the acreage, the neighborhood’s clan of children had found many hours of happiness, laughter, and adventure. The tannery had also yielded its share of bruises and broken bones. It was a place to be reckoned with—it was a place of unexpected grave dangers. He broke free of his reminisces; he was hungry for food and family. Toward the stairway he ran. Onto the landing he leaped. Full of expectation, he thought to himself, What will be the day? What will come of this day? It is a new day! Counting the five remaining steps, jumping one to the next, hands gripping the railing, he joyfully shouted, Five, four, three, two, one!

The smack of his flapping rubber sole announced his arrival into the kitchen. Momma and Granny had been awake before daybreak. It was clear that they were who made this house a home. They had stirred every morsel of food and baked every slice of bread. Uncle Elton quietly packed a lunch making ready for the day’s work at Western Maryland Railway Company. He was happy in their work; it was a fair wage. The depth of his friendship among hard working comrades was uncommonly good. Theirs was dangerous but proud work done by proud men.

Stinker, the yellow-and-blue-eyed black and white kitten that had recently invited himself to become the newest member of the family sat quietly, watching intently over every move that Uncle Elton made. Momma was soon to be out the door for a day of well-earned wages in the town bakery.

Brother Mike, sitting in the corner, closed the metal lid of his lunch pail. He was about to leave for his first job, clearing the states’ right of way for the Department of Highways. His tall figure, topped by a head of sandy hair, cleared the wooden screened door. He briskly turned about, smiling, and simply but confidently said, I’ll see you all this afternoon…Let’s not say goodbye but say, ‘See you later.’ He too was off to work.

Small and diminutive, Granny Dolly sat in the outer circle of the group. Smiling privately, she was full of contentment as the soul of the family was being warmed and made ready for the day. Last but not least, this young man, P’found, sat quietly enjoying his apple pastry. This day will spin for itself as many a day has played out many a time before, he thought. He remembered that he was nicknamed P’found, having been so named by old man Mac of Rain Tree Lane.

P’found, now finished with his breakfast, remembered his unfinished work of yesterday. Swiftly, he ran back up the stairway and to his room. He gathered his paper artist’s pad and pencils. Tucking them under his left arm, his free hand snatched up the long thick willow switch from its resting place behind the kitchen door. Weeks earlier he had collected its wispy but stout green length from the river willow tree. It made the perfect weed whacker. With his works in hand and ready for the day, he rushed out into the cool summer morning air. Like all the others before him, the trailing sound behind him was the rushing of air through the screen and the clapping of the wooden screen door of 117 Chestnut Street.

The door’s closing was quickly followed by Granny’s maternal voice: Where are you going? Now, you remember this, young man: Be careful with your tongue and what you might say to a stranger—you might be talking to an angel!

To the bridge over the river, P’found answered. To the fishing spot! Okay, okay, I’ll watch my tongue! Unfinished work was on his mind!

Granny’s concerns were placated. She returned to her work in the kitchen.

With his works in hand, he ran onward to complete his river sketch. Along his way, he passed by Miss Pauline, sweeping the sidewalk with a long stick crafted with handpicked, tied, and bound wisps of broom sage. They were tied with bright, multicolored twine of her own choosing. Great detail and meticulous care was given to its construction. Along every crack, crevice, and small place in the sidewalk, that broom worked—swoosh, swoosh, side to side it flew! Dust floated upward, trailing behind her as she tirelessly worked onward. For forty-seven years, as if it were her self-appointed task, she had been chosen to sweep on time every morning at eight a.m. around the entire block, singing joyfully as she went. There were no words to her singing and no rhyme to her musical tune. Yet, in some odd way, her glee made perfect sense. A smile was always present on her face. She was a fixture. In her small way, she daily gave timing and confidence to the neighborhood.

P’found thought to himself, It makes her happy, it makes me happy, it makes the whole neighborhood happy. Peaceful, it was! As P’found passed by, nearly touching her shoulders with his, she smiled a toothy smile and called out to him, Let it be! He’s alright!

As P’found continued onward down the narrow and uneven broken sidewalk he passed under the great, broad-leafed catalpa tree. Clusters of fragrant white flowers hung like pods of grapes. Soon he came to pass by the Shaw house. Mrs. Nora Shaw was hanging the daily wash upon the clothesline strung from pillar to pillar on the broad expanse of the front porch. She had grown old, but she was always ready with a smile. Her cheeks were rosy red with a bright patch of rouge rubbed onto each cheekbone. From her to every passerby, she always spoke pleasant words. As always, she spoke to P’found. Waving high above her head in a swinging arc, her long slender arm, shiny brass bracelets jingling and calling out a song of their own, greeted and beckoned him forward. She called out to him, Won’t you come and have a cup of tea? He remembered that his mother had often fondly spoken of her: No finer a human being has ever walked in shoe leather!

Thinking about her kindly nature, P’found considered to himself: Maybe its anger that makes for a shorter life? Her kindness has let her live. He remembered that she had once told the clan, There will be many faces that will turn toward you and there will be many faces that will turn away from you… Now, make yourself ready—any one of them might just be an angel!

He passed on by and turned the corner at the hedge row. Again, she said, Now you come on back later for a cup of tea. Bring your friends and there will be a ghost story or two! We can make it a night of the spirits! Late at night and many times before, the clan had departed from her storytelling sessions, half afraid, chilled to the bone with goose bumps, reassuring themselves that it was only stories she had told, not a chance that there could be any truth to them. Their telling had given her as much pleasure in life as the clan had taken in hearing them!

I’ll be there at six, P’found began, and I’ll bring… His words trailed way as he marched proudly onward down the concrete walkway. He turned onto the wide expanse that was the sandy pathway that led to the swinging bridge. It was bounded by rows of stout, broad mature maple trees. They were grand trees that had been planted many, many decades ago. Each tree was well rounded and balanced in its form, and their appearance seemed as if they had been given a single haircut. Their expansive leafy limbs had been witness to perhaps one hundred fifty years of history.

P’found had spent many hours in these trees. In some places, he had found that he could climb from limb to limb, tree to tree without descending to the ground. Over the years, children had carved a tunnel, an airway of sorts through the trees. This airway imparted a certain sense of power. At times one could choose to hide. There, one could listen and watch, making privy to parts of the seemingly cryptic conversations of the adults as they passed below. Or, one could lean against a limb and wile away the hours, giving way to one’s own meandering thoughts. Below the mighty limbs and broad expanse of leaves, the earthen pathway was made of pale yellow dirt and sand ground finely and packed densely by the decades of passage by the many thousands of footsteps that had passed over. On its wide course, five or six could easily walk abreast. Lining the pathway were the tall reeds and bushy tails of pampas grass. Beyond, there were weeds and briers—places where brambles and black berries grew. In August, the neighborhood adults always saw to it that the ripened berries were quickly dispatched.

Before reaching the swinging span over the Tygart River, P’found was inextricably forced to turn and gaze upon the majestic maples. They defined the pathway, as they framed the approach to the swinging bridge. As P’found neared the bridge, filled with excitement and anticipation, he broke into a run. Beneath his feet and as he glanced over his shoulder in childish pleasure, he could see the wisps of yellow dust and sand that were kicked up by the soles of his