WH13195

My first serious attempt. Brutal honesty welcomed!



Most things slept this time of morning, or tread lightly to prevent the day’s awakening. A cautious cottontail, ears erect, poked his nose from the weeds beside a well-worn dirt trail that sloped downward through a small clearing, watched over by a few small cedars.
The creature bobbed away when a man in his late thirties emerged from the shadows of the woods atop the slope. He carried a fishing rod and tackle box and stepped carefully, for he loved the tranquility of an early Saturday morning on the riverbank.
The lower portion of the clearing ended in a short, steep decline. Beyond that lay a narrow, nearly level bank, over which trees intertwined their branches. These provided a shady canopy, a leafy mosaic for a carpet and a whisper of music as a cool breeze sifted through their branches. The small river did not rush past here; it dallied along, preserving the solitude. A small wooden bridge, weather-grayed but proud, stood just upstream.
The man, easing down the miniature precipice to reach the water’s edge, gently lowered his gear, relishing the calm optimism that would accompany the first cast.
The awakening of things around him and the serenade of feathered songsters was only noted subconsciously. And though he did occasionally swat at an eager gnat, only peripherally did he notice a red squirrel skitter from one tree to another a few yards downstream. He cast, reeled and reflected, lost in his thoughts.
Wrapped in this cocoon of reverie, he did not see Gramps come across the bridge and down the bank to stand beside him. When Gramps spoke, it gave him a start and he almost dropped his fishing rod into the river. Gramps was the man’s father-in-law, but the family had taken to calling him and his wife Gramps and Grandma when teaching their daughter to talk.
“Any luck?” Gramps asked.
Recovering , the man answered with forced cheerfulness, “Not so far.”
He glanced at the older man, who stood gazing into the drowsy waters. He wore his customary knee-high waders and a faded red plaid, the sleeves neatly rolled up to the elbow. He often met the younger man at the river as a fishing companion, for his own home lay an eighth of a mile beyond the opposite bank. Today, however, he carried no fishing gear.
The younger man remembered their last conversation, which had been tense. They had disagreed over some renovations he and his wife had planned for their home, which Gramp’s uncle had built around the turn of the century. He had left it and the land it occupied – including this section of the riverbank -- to Gramps. Gramps and Grandma had insisted their daughter and son-in-law assume the property freely when they had announced they were expecting their daughter. The younger man, though grateful, insisted the renovations were necessary, but Gramps put much stock in family heritage. Though they only wanted to make some simple changes, in Gramps’ mind, this would compromise the history of the house.
Finally, Gramps spoke again. “Done a lot of thinking this morning. You know that boy, Ed, that works at the hardware store?”
The younger man nodded, and Gramps continued. “He knows a man that’s supposed to be good at restoring old houses and such.” He paused to gauge the younger man’s receptivity to the subject. “Well, he gave me a business card. I figured he could come out and take a look at the house -- see what it would take to make those changes. He could maybe refinish it to keep the old look, if you know what I mean. Ed says the guy can also touch up where it’s needed everywhere else.” He cleared his throat pointedly as an unspoken request for consent.
“I’m sure that would be fine, long as your daughter’s okay with it,” replied the younger man.
He glanced over again. The old fellow looked momentarily relieved, then took a deep breath before broaching a new subject. He finally decided how to begin.
“I wanted to say something else, too.”
He turned to face the younger man. “I know I can trust you to take good care of ‘em --- my girls.” His daughter and granddaughter were ‘his girls.’
He went on. “Even when I first met you, I knew you would. ‘Course then I didn’t know how stubborn you were. But I guess that’s a good way to be sometimes. Just always take care of ‘em, and you’ll be all right with me.”
He noticed the younger man’s quizzical gaze at this uncharacteristic candidness. “Well,” he apologized, “just in case I never told you before.”
They both knew he had not, but the old guy was uncomfortable and needed a way
to gracefully exit the topic. Apparently he was finished, as they passed the next few minutes without speaking.
The silence was terminated by a dismayed cry from far back up the trail. Experience told them it came from the house. The younger man broke into an anxious trot back up the path toward the house, doubling his pace when the cry came a second time. He knew by the quality of the sound she had been standing on the back porch, which faced the riverbank and the patch of woods above the clearing through which he now passed. He reached the edge of the woods where they bordered the vast back yard.
The porch stood empty. This seemed to indicate that whatever problem had caused his wife’s distress had occurred inside, and the man’s worry now focused on his daughter. She was always playing on the stairs – had she fallen?
As he covered the last fifty yards from the forest to the house, a disturbing vision displayed itself in his mind: his daughter lay twisted at the foot of the stairs, unmoving; his wife knelt before her, sobbing and wailing the child’s name, powerless. He would stagger in, and she, too stricken to speak, would turn on him. Her drowning eyes would accuse his absence.
He pounded up the porch steps and flung open the screen door. His steps shook the old house as he bounded through the kitchen and rounded the corner into the hall, which opened into the foyer. When he reached it, he halted, momentarily paralyzed. His wife sat on the bottom stair, leaning against the banister, her eyes overflowing with tears. On her lap she held his daughter, whose frightened eyes darted from face to face questioningly. His wife tried to speak, her mouth struggling to form words without twisting into a sob. Her shirt held a black smudge where mascara-stained tears had fallen. He knelt before them, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“It’s G-G-ramps,” she sobbed.
“What?” he repeated, confused. What could Gramps have done to cause this? “What did he do?” he asked, his fear shifting to anger.
She looked bewildered. “Huh?”
“I just saw him,” he went on. “What happened? What did he do to upset you?”
“Upset me?”
Still uncomprehending, she continued, “He’s…gone! He must have passed away a little while ago. Mom found him. She went to wake him up for breakfast, but he wouldn’t wake up. He was…already gone!” she finished, the last sentence melting into another sob.
He stood there, perplexed, shaking his head.
“No,” he began, but the sound of crunching gravel interrupted him as a car pulled into the driveway.
“You must have misunderstood her. I just saw him before I ran up here.”
As he walked toward the front door he wondered how such a gross miscommunication could have occurred. He opened the door as Grandma got out
of the car, still in her nightgown and robe. She looked tired, but mostly composed. This seemed to indicate he had been correct about the miscue, but why in the world would she be wearing her bedclothes outside?
She walked in, and when she spotted her daughter and granddaughter weeping on the stairs, he saw her jaw tighten. With her head tilted compassionately, she shuffled over and sat beside them, hugging as much of them as she could get her arms around. He stared at them all in astonishment.
“At least he went peacefully,” Grandma managed after a moment. Then, she lifted her head suddenly, as if she had just remembered something. She put her hand in the pocket of her gown. “I found this on the nightstand. I think it must be for you.”
She handed him a business card. It read: John Nance Renovation - Specializing in restoring historic buildings. Not knowing why, he turned it over. A message had been scrawled on the back: Take care of my girls.
He shuffled back to the kitchen, trying to make sense of the situation, and leaned against the sink. Something caught his eye through the window. Someone stood on the path just where it entered the fringe of forest, and there was no mistaking the red plaid button-up and dull waders. He thought he could distinguish a slight, sly smile on the old man’s tanned, lined face. Striding quickly across the room, he shoved the screen door open. The porch would provide a clearer view.
When he reached it, the path and the woods stood empty and quiet, save the whisper of the morning breeze as it brushed past on its way to eternity.

Paige Turner

You paint some beautiful images with your writing.

Quote:

He glanced at the older man, who stood gazing into the drowsy waters

to name one of many.
And the story is very touching.
I had no idea who Gramps was until I was filled with the images of a man fishing in the wild. I think if you had more dialogue between the man and Gramps, it would be more fulfilling to the reader.
I do like your style and your choices. But this story line has been around too long. It needs something special. Personally, I think you have the wherewithall to make a difference.
Just my opinion for what it's worth.

__________________



i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

sallyoquy

I really liked this. The description was spot on. I was there on the river bank in the early morning quiet. There was also a sense of peace between the two men in there conversation despite the conflict they had had.