A Thousand Ways to Kiss the Earth

By Jan Groenemann

Groenemann awakens her readers to the wonder of a childhood nurtured by nature as they follow Ellie Addis and Cooper Kane growing up in the wilderness of the Ozarks. Having barely known one another as early teens their lives take them on divergent journeys. They separately come to adulthood just as they recognize that climate change is beginning to threaten the natural surroundings they hold dear. Ironically, it is the very nature they love that throws them together again; the challenge becomes how to preserve their precious Ozarks (as well as the rest of the planet) while navigating their own personal rocky terrain. A Thousand Ways to Kiss the Earth pushes the reader to examine their own vital and sacred relationship with both themselves and the natural world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Dec 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798765247006

Jan Groenemann

Jan Groenemann is a masterful and prolifically creative painter in mixed media who has won many awards and exhibited internationally. She is the author of two previous books: Through the Inner Eye: Awaking to the Creative Spirit and Woman Alone: One Woman’s Journey Through the Murky and Magical. As a poet and mystic, a creator of sacred spaces, a teacher and life coach who nurtures creativity in others, Jan lives the message she shares in Creativity as a Life Path. Through the power of everyday creativity she has created a life she loves, and in Creativity as a Life Path she shares her wisdom so that you, too, can create the life you want.

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Copyright © 2023 Jan Groenemann.

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 author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 979-8-7652-4699-3 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-4701-3 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-4700-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921357

Balboa Press rev. date: 12/13/2023

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Quote Sources

About the Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to say a big thank you to all who have supported and helped me through the writing and editing of A Thousand Ways to Kiss the Earth. For me it has been a long but wonderful journey. I have learned so much in the research required. I also found it so fascinating following the leading of my characters who often took me in unexpected direct ions.

So thank you to my writers’ group: Bob Hornbuckle, Frank Prager, Hannah Zane, and Teddy Norris, who waded through the writing of this book chapter by chapter, and to Frank and Teddy, who were the first to read through and suggest edits; to my readers: Amy Kartmann, Bob Scarfo, Camilla Baxter, and Garic Groenemann, whose feedback was invaluable; and to my editor in chief, Cortney Tatlow, without whom this probably could not have happened.

And, finally, thank you to friends and family who have been so supportive of all my endeavors. I am reminded of the saying, It takes a village, and can say without doubt that this is the case of getting a book ready for publication.

To my readers, I simply ask you to open your minds and hearts to seeing nature and life in deeper ways. Enjoy the story.

How can one doubt

when the dragonfly anoints your room,

the wren stops in to say hello,

and the hawk reminds you that death is but a transition.

—Jan Groenemann

Dedicated to my supportive and loving family:

my sons Garic, Jeremy and his wife Meaghan, Jason and his wife Renee,

my grandsons Jaden and Sky, and niece Cortney.

I love you all with all that I am.

PREFACE

F or most of my adult life I have lived in suburbia. Despite lovely gardens that surround me with nature, I so often long for those open, wild spaces in the Ozarks that I knew as a child. I grew up on something close to a thousand acres in Ozark County Missouri. Here the ground was rocky, the hills rolling and pocked with scattered stones and cedar glades. The air was fresh and the sky wide open surrounding our home on a high rolling area of the county suitable for farming. The landscape slowly dropped off to steeper, wooded hills punctuated with tiny creek valleys as it reached the northeastern edges of the clear waters of Bull Shoals Lake. From our home I had awesome views of the sunrise and sunset as well as the majestic thunderstorms that were a familiar part of each season, especially spring and summer. I felt a deep sense of belonging to this land, and I loved the freedom to roam, to imagine, and to contemp late.

As a child I found the Ozark woods a magical place. Fairies followed me via the treetops as I hiked rough, rocky trails and waded ankle-deep in cold, spring-fed creeks. My pockets were always full with unusual rocks, acorns, a piece of moss, a mushroom, or even a piece of bone. Grapevines served as trapeze and high bars, and my brothers, cousins, and I climbed to the top of saplings, squealing as they gracefully bent under our weight as we rode them to the ground. Myriad wildlife were little disturbed by our presence. The open meadows, filled with orchard grass and fescue and scattered with field daisies, Queen Ann’s lace, and Black-eyed Susan’s, allowed for racing my mare bareback at full speed. A bouquet of wildflowers always graced my bedroom dresser.

My dad could predict the weather as well as any meteorologist from the close observation required for a farmer to survive. The entire family worked in the fields in addition to planting and harvesting a garden of vegetables that Mom canned in fruit jars and stored in the cellar. We milked Holsteins and a few Jerseys and raised Herefords to sell for meat. The land provided for us. Our dairy produced more than we could use, so my dad operated a milk route and hauled our excess milk (as well as that of our neighbors) to the Carnation Milk Company in Ava.

Even as a child watching the full moon rise over the meadow out my east window brought me into close communion with a Higher Power. I talked to God while lying on my back in the grass of our sloped east lawn, contemplating how it was that I was born into this body, to these parents, in this location in the world. I spoke to God even while swinging in the swing my dad hung from a high limb of the old walnut tree nearest the gravel road that ran by our house. I also spent no small amount of time trying to understand why God allowed such varied concepts of His existence and laws if there was only one right way. I was taught that God was a He—a just, loving, yet vengeful father. I struggled with these conflicting aspects.

On a hot summer day we swam in the Noble hole, a deep part of the creek shaded by giant sycamore trees. The tree roots exposed in the spring-fed, chilly waters, added a sense of mystery. Here minnows nibbled at our chill-bumped skin, and the water was so fresh we could drink it. At times we added watercress from the creek to our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Patches of sun-heated gravel along the creek’s shore burned our feet, but it was worth the painful dance to find treasured stones to add to the collection displayed in my room. I remember wondering how far the creek must have carried the colorful and varied rocks and from what cavern, for this land was laced with underground caves and rivers. Deep wells supplied our water, and Grandpa Hawkins sometimes used a divining stick to help neighbors find the right location for digging.

Neighbors called the road that ran by our house Hawkins Ridge (Hawkins is my maiden name) because the road ran first through my parents’ farm, then Uncle Dexter’s, and on to Grandpa’s, and, finally, Uncle Richard’s. If you turned off the main road you might reach the old homestead we called the Lower place where Grandpa’s family first settled in Missouri, or pass by the Bartley place, the Ludwig place, or the Dorman place, all of which constituted Hawkins land.

Years before I was old enough to remember, Grandpa Hawkins ran a general store and post office on County Road Z (the real name of Hawkins Ridge) that sat on the road in front of his house. When wandering alone through the rooms in that building, I could almost feel the ghosts of the people who once came to pick up their mail or buy groceries or feed. I heard that once that store included a bowling alley in one of the side rooms. The general store was west of our house, perhaps half a mile. If you traveled a mile east rather than west, you would reach my mom’s parents’ home that sat on a hill behind Farmer’s Store. Granddad Melton built and ran this store when Mom was a child through the time my parents were dating. But, all of my childhood this store was named Farmer’s Store and was run by the Wes Farmer family.

Granddad Melton was my teacher my first three years of elementary school and later became Superintendent of Schools for the County. Upstairs in his home Granddad had built a library that weekly supplied me with books and taught me a love of reading. His books not only came from mail order book clubs of which he was a member, but also from estate sales and auctions. He so loved books that he couldn’t bear to see one destroyed. If he found duplicates of what were already on his shelves he donated them to the local library. Many of his books are on my shelves today. I spent a lot of time at my maternal grandparents’ home and knew intimately every tree in their large yard, many of them perfect for climbing, sitting, and contemplating.

I’ve come to know through readings and research that free play in the wild increases a child’s intellect, and freedom to play and roam in nature supports our greatest psychological and emotional growth as humans. Yet, I also realize that many never play freely in nature, whether due to living in urban and suburban areas or simply spending too much time on digital devices. I’m grateful my sons had a creek that ran through our suburban neighborhood in which to fish and explore. In fact, I still walk the trail along that creek. They also enjoyed a nearby woods and cornfield. These were their wild places to play, to explore, to roam.

Today we worry about climate change, scarcity of space and water, and most recently, how to survive a pandemic. I see the recklessness of others and their poor stewardship of our beautiful planet causing many species to go extinct and destroying our rain forests along with the fertility of our soil and the quality of our air. Our present lifestyles, along with droughts brought on by climate change, are putting adequate water supply at risk. Even in Ozark County, fertilizer runoff means the creeks are no longer safe to drink. The woods are disappearing to make way for grassy cattle-dotted fields. Attempts are being made to rewild portions of the county by bringing in black bear and elk which have long been sparse or absent from the Ozarks. The numbers of black bear, bobcats, and mountain lions are increasing, but wolves, which I recall being trapped in our community when I was a child, are rarely seen, and, when spotted, are believed to have wandered in from northern states. Their place in the county is not the ecological home it once was.

As the reintroduced animals struggle, so do we in our efforts to reconnect with the earth that sustains us. If we don’t see its sacredness and our necessary connection with it—know that if it dies so do we—then we will eventually find ourselves on that extinction list. A big part of our reconnecting with the earth is a spiritual matter, a deep feeling of connectedness. Yet, how do we come to love and care for this earth when we fail to adequately care for and love one another? We must find the ways and act upon them now. We must find those thousand ways to kiss the earth. Our very lives depend upon it.

CHAPTER ONE

"There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground;

there are a thousand ways to go home again." —Rumi

A wild wind blew across the slope of the hill as Ellie Addis made her way down the path to the creek. It was a gutsy gust of March wind that grabbed at her willowy, thirteen-year-old frame almost throwing her off balance. A second gust caught tears from her eyes and strung them out behind her like wind ribbons, as she picked her way along the rocky path. Locals joked that these rolling Ozark hills grew rocks like weeds. Indeed, they cropped out like white heads on an adolescent forehead. The girl was tough, a country girl, used to hoisting hay bales or carrying full buckets of warm milk. She was adept at walking the meadows and trails with bare feet, quick to grab a native sticky weed (sticky Willy, as her Grandma Edna had taught her) and remove the herd of seed ticks heading up her ankles with a few swift sweeps. She stopped briefly, bracing herself against the wind, checking her ankles, just in case. There were no tiny dark dots moving up her legs. It was too early, despite the unusually warm weather. Ellie smiled to herself remembering how her city cousin, Jenny, had stood screaming at the entrance to the woods, her white bobby socks turning brown with hundreds of tiny t icks.

Ellie Allison Addis wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her faded, chambray shirt. It might have appeared she was crying from the way the wind caused the tears to stream from their corners. Quite to the contrary, she was happy, even blissful as she balanced her way down the path, a worn bridle slung across her left shoulder. She was planning to catch her bay mare, Maude, for a bareback ride. That was Maud e, named after Ellie’s grandad’s old workhorse, but with the distinction of the pronunciation. Ellie was specific about that. She’d loved it when Grandad sat her atop the towering roan work mare, her back so wide that Ellie’s tiny legs could hardly spread enough. She’d loved Maude, and it had broken her heart the night the old mare ran away, traveling right by Ellie’s bedroom window to the Hoffman place where she laid down and died under an old oak tree. Grandad had assured her it was because it was her time to go. But Ellie would never forget seeing the big truck go by her house on its way to pick Maude up and take her away.

They take old horses to the glue factory, her brother Jake had said, matter-of-factly.

A blackberry bush that hung out over the trail brought Ellie’s thoughts back to the present. It would be months before there would be berries to pick for her mom’s blackberry cobbler, but her mouth watered at the thought. She suddenly felt hungry. Reaching in her pocket she felt the two wrapped peppermints she carried for Maude. She couldn’t eat those or she’d never catch the mare. Instead, she kicked at the gravel on the trail and took in a deep breath of fresh air. In Ellie’s opinion, there were few places in the world so wonderful on a spring morning as her family’s farm in the Ozarks. The birds sang as a symphony; the warm sunshine caressed her bare arms; the smell of freshness—that was what she loved the most—was sweet and healing. She even loved gathering sheets and pillowcases off the line for her mom, simply because she loved how they were scented with the fresh smell of morning.

Suddenly Ellie halted in her tracks. A great red-tailed hawk sat on the single fence post left from an old, barbed wire fence that once divided the pasture from the woods. The hawk stood tall, unafraid, and seemed to stare right through her. The stiff wind ruffled his feathers slightly as he reached to preen. He was unconcerned with the girl bounding down the trail toward him. Ellie smiled and continued. But the hawk stood his ground as she passed fewer than ten feet from him. With her dark hair tousled by the wind, she seemed part of the landscape.

Maude would be skittish in this wind. One windy day the mare had been so spooked that she threw Ellie into a sticker patch, knocking the breath right out of her. Ellie had literally kissed the ground in gratefulness that nothing was broken except for her pride. Still, she loved the feel of Maude’s energy beneath her as they galloped full speed across the hayfields on the creek bottoms; it was worth the risk.

The stately trees that slowly thickened into woods were dotted with every color of green, as were the brush oaks that, at times, intruded on the path. Ellie missed none of it. She loved spring, she loved the trees. She’d often hugged many of those old trees as she climbed high and swung from grapevines that curled their way up the branches. She loved to lie beneath their canopies dreamily staring up into the limbs and leaves pretending to be a fairy that could fly as high as the tree tops reaching toward the sky. One of the most fun games she, her brother Jake, and their cousins played was to climb as high as possible up a sapling until it would bend from their weight and take them on a wild ride toward the ground.

Suddenly Ellie caught her big toe on a sharp stone and stumbled forward. Damn! Fuck! she exclaimed as pain shot up her foot. She would be in big trouble if either of her parents heard her. No one in the family cursed. It was literally against their religion. She sat on the cold ground to examine her toe. A blister of red was forming. Shit! she said under her breath. The forbidden words felt powerful on her tongue, though she wasn’t even sure what fuck meant. She had an inkling that it was something not good, maybe even dirty.

She’d been in the hay loft building tunnels with her brother and Jimmy. Jimmy was a third cousin prone to saying bad words. He pulled a splinter of straw from underneath his fingernail and yelled out that word. You don’t even know what that word means. Do you? he scoffed, turning to stare at Ellie.

No. What does it mean? Ellie asked.

Jimmy smirked and said, Come on over here, and I’ll show you.

Ellie, knowing Jimmy was up to no good, stood, silently staring him down.

Come on, Ellie, her brother Jake interrupted. It’s time we got home.

Later Ellie asked Jake to explain to her what fuck meant. But he just shrugged and said, Forget about it. Jimmy’s a creep.

That had been some time ago. She still had to convince Jake to enlighten her on that word. The wind caught her again and she stumbled, breaking the fall by grabbing a brush oak that grew by the path. She needed to focus as the path was steep. Her thoughts turned back to Maude—she had more important things on her mind today. It was Saturday, changing seasons, no outside chores left to do. She had the day to herself, and there was nothing she loved more than to get away to the woods and fields. And, of course, time with Maude was also high on her list.

The trail became rockier as it descended to the creek that marked the boundary of the woods. From there the fields stretched out across a narrow valley. Ellie stopped to pick up a stone that caught her eye. She turned it in her hand. It was strange as stones go. There was an almost perfect square inset that was much darker than the rest of the stone, as if it had been carved out so that something could be fit into it. Though she wasn’t Catholic she was fascinated by their icons and imagined a miniature statue of Mary sitting in the indention. Pastor Gaines said having icons constituted idolatry. Even paintings of Jesus were questionable, but Ellie loved art of all kinds. It seemed to her that God would want you to praise Him with any talent you might have. She stuffed the rock in her jeans pocket thinking it would be a good addition to her collection.

The sun was warming the dry stones and gravel as she approached the creek. The spring-fed and clean-enough-to-drink water was flowing briskly over a solid stone bottom. Finding the creek too inviting to pass up, Ellie lay the bridle to the side and took a seat on an elevated slab of rock just the right height to allow her to dip her bare feet into the refreshing water. To her left she could see the pond that sat at the edge of the woods and was fed by a spring that flowed into the creek. She and Jake had built toy boats by stacking scraps of 2x4s on top of one another and fastening them with nails. With a good throw they could be propelled across the pond, the heavier ones slid beneath the water like half-submerged submarines. Her dad had not liked the clutter the armada created on the water’s edge, so they’d had to clear them all out; it had been fun while it lasted! She and Jake had also built a makeshift raft on which to traverse the large pond. That had to be dismantled because Daddy felt the deep, spring-fed pond was too dangerous. Maybe it had to do with it being so far from the house, but what fun they’d had until it was banned.

With the heat of the sun on her face and shoulders and the chill of the spring water on her feet, Ellie was soon lost in reverie. Transported, she found herself contemplating heaven and wondering if it could be any better than this moment. She never questioned her belief in a God; how else could the earth be filled with so many wondrous things? She was amazed at the life you could find just by lying on your stomach and looking closely into the grasses. The light dancing on the water of the creek created sparkles all around her, like diamonds. It was magical. There had to be some force far beyond her imaginings that could create such variety—such beauty. As she sat, it was as if the flowing water joined her very life’s blood and flowed right through her. She was caught up in yet another of those moments where she felt no separation between herself and the creek, the rocks, the trees, and that thing she knew was. She only knew to call it God.

Finally, Ellie lay back in the grasses beside the creek and stared straight up into the clear blue sky. Space. How far did it stretch? Where did it end? And if it ended, like the woods at the fence line, then what was beyond it? It almost made her brain hurt to contemplate space or eternity, going on forever. The human mind simply could not. There had to be an ending. But then, as sure as there was an ending, something else had to begin.

Ellie sighed. It was just too big to take in. How was she who she was? Ellie Allison Addis, in this body, in the United States of America, in Missouri, in Ozark County, and right here on this rock. She could have been born anywhere in the world in any body—black, yellow, red. Was there something special about being Ellie Addis? Did it mean anything?

How long she lay there she wasn’t sure. But the sound of someone using a chainsaw cut through her thoughts and brought her back to her intended task. She needed to catch Maude if she wanted time to do some riding before chores. Reluctantly she picked up the bridle, stood, and scanned the landscape. The roar of the chainsaw continued. Someone was cutting up a downed tree for firewood, she guessed. She crossed the creek and began to call for Maude.

Spotting the mare under a tree at the edge of the clearing, Ellie reached into the pocket of her jeans and brought out a peppermint. The mare knew the gesture and started a leisurely stroll toward the girl. Ellie marveled at the mare’s graceful movement and the relaxed way her long tail swished at a fly as she moved confidently in anticipation of the treat. Geez, Maude. You’d think you were a sugar addict. Ellie laughed as she held out her hand.

Maude’s large soft lips nibbled at Ellie’s palm, and with the help of her tongue she picked up the small peppermint candy. Ellie slipped the reins around the mare’s neck and the bit through her teeth as she chewed. Patting Maude’s neck she teased, Girl, you’re getting a bit round from all this tender new grass. I may have to keep you in the lot for a while, so you don’t get too fat!

Ellie’s hand was covered with sun-bleached horsehair, lighter than Maude would be once she shed her winter coat. You need a good brushing, too. She wiped the hair on her jeans and again lost herself in her surroundings, giving Maude time to savor the peppermint. Fall was her favorite season, but spring was a close second. Pops of green in every possible hue peppered the still-sharp outline of tree forms. Trees were like people, Ellie thought, each unique in shape, and she loved it when you could see them clearly against the backdrop of the hillside. She especially loved the sycamores that stood stark-white against the grays and black browns of the oaks and hickories and the dark green cedars. Soon those beautiful forms would be lost in cascades of leaves.

This time it was Maude nuzzling her hand that pulled Ellie back to reality. Okay girl, time to go. No. No more candy for you—got to find a log. I don’t think I can jump high enough to mount you from the ground.

Girl and horse waded through the tall, dry grasses at the edge of the woods to a downed tree that lay about two feet off the ground, held up by broken branches. Ellie sat on the tree trunk and then