Brief Moment in Time

by Dicksion, William Wayne

  The trail to the mailbox crossed a bend in Bitter Creek, and there was a beautiful pond in the bend. Elm and cottonwood trees grew on the bank and erosion had exposed some of their roots. A meadow graced the bend and wild flowers grew profusely. The meadow was a favored place for chipmunks, meadowlarks, and rabbits. The pond was clear, and brightly colored fish darted hear and there after insects that were unfortunate enough to land in the water.

  Wildlife loved the bend as much as I did, and they didn’t seem to mind sharing it with me. Birds nested in the trees, and a family of squirrels lived in the elm that overhung the pond. I enjoyed lying on the soft grass in the shade of the trees with my head resting on their exposed roots watching clouds drifting past the openings in their branches. If I lay very still, after a while the animals would come out, and I could watch them playing. I wasn’t lazy—I was a dreamer. There was always work to be done, and free moments were rare.

  Now, when I’m troubled, in my mind I go back to this magical place and see the world again as it was meant it to be, and a peace settles over me. In a while, I can face the world with the feeling of a new beginning.

  Those moments by the pond shaped my life and had a lot to do with who I am today. Those were hard times, but oh how I would love to lie once more under the branches of those old trees.

  THE WISDOM OF THE OLD INDIAN

  When I was about nine, we lived near a large woodland. An old Indian man lived, in a small, one-room cabin with a dirt floor in the woods. The cabin was built of logs and mud and decorated with hides. It had a fireplace, and wall hangings that consisted of animal skins and tools. A black iron pot and a heavy iron skillet hung on pegs by the fireplace. I don’t know how old the Indian was, but he seemed ancient. He lived alone, but he didn’t seem lonely. He didn’t seem to need anyone. He must have had friends or family, but I never saw anyone else. The cabin had serene beauty. It sat in a small clearing by a stream surrounded by tall cottonwoods, shaded in summer by giant oak and elm trees.

  One day, while on one of my long, exploring walks, I came near the old Indian’s cabin. I could tell by the smoke coming from the chimney that he was home. I had gathered wild persimmons, and I thought, If I offer him some, he might talk to me.

  I went to his door—it wasn’t really a door, it was just an opening, with an old, striped blanket hanging on a log that could be released to close the opening. I knocked on a log and called out, “Hello.” . . . I could see him sitting inside, but he didn’t respond. I stuck my head in and asked, “May I come in?” He still didn’t show any sign that he had heard me. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either, so I stepped inside, extended the hand holding the wild persimmons and asked if he would like some.

  The old man took his eyes off mine just long enough to glance at the wild fruit. He didn’t reach out to accept the fruit, so I lay some down beside him. He still didn’t reach for it; he probably didn’t know what to make of me, a white boy, offering him a gift. Perhaps he was wondering what he could give in exchange.

  His face was craggy and wrinkled, and he had dark deep-set eyes. While I was there he never smiled or frowned. When he looked at me, he didn’t just look at me—he seemed to look right through me. There was nothing sinister or evil about him; he was just different. I remember thinking: He must know everything there is to know about the animals and the woods. I’d sure like to know what he knows.

  Father had told me that for an Indian to accept a gift, he must give something in return. I sat down in front of him with my legs crossed the way his were crossed. He then handed me a small piece of carved wood. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now, what it was, but it must have been something he valued. After I accepted the gift, he reached for a persimmon and ate it. He didn’t offer me one, but I had already eaten all I wanted. When he finished eating the persimmon, he looked at me and made a sound deep in his throat; I concluded that was a signal that the visit was over.

  I got up and said good-bye. He said nothing. He just watched me go with those all-knowing eyes. I had committed several social errors and done some things that I’m sure my parents would not have approved of. I thought it best if I just kept the whole thing a secret. I was sorry I hadn’t had an opportunity to ask him any of the many questions I wanted answers to, but I had to get home and milk the cows.

  A couple of weeks later, one of our turkey hens was missing. “She’s probably nesting,” Dad said. “Why don’t you go see if you can find her? If you find her nest, you’ll find her.”

  We didn’t keep our animals penned up. They were healthier if they ran wild and foraged for themselves.

  A turkey hen will not go far from her nest; she has to guard her eggs. Many animals in the wild, such as possums, snakes, pigs, and even stray dogs or coyotes, like to eat eggs. But a turkey hen is capable of driving off any of these predators.

  While hunting for the nest, I walked near the old Indian’s cabin. He was sitting outside this time, chewing on a piece of meat. The last time I was there, I concluded that he lived entirely on what nature provided. He had no garden, nor did he raise animals. He didn’t seem to need them. When I was in his cabin before, I didn’t see a gun. I hadn’t even seen a bow and arrow, so that meant that whatever meat he ate, he trapped. I sure wanted to know what he knew about trapping animals.

  As I walked by, he gestured to me with his hand. I walked over to see what he wanted. He offered me a piece of meat. All I had to give him in return were three marbles that I had in my pocket. I always carried a pocketknife, but I didn’t want to give that up. He seemed pleased with the marbles, so I sat down and began chewing on the meat. It was surprisingly good. It had a smoked flavor and tasted like rabbit, but I wasn’t sure. “What kind of meat is it?” I asked shyly.

  He spoke for the first time. “It’s rabbit,” he said.

  “What kind of arrow did you use?”

  He smiled, and shook his head. It seemed I had asked a foolish question.

  “Why would you use an arrow to shoot a rabbit?” he replied. “That would waste a good arrow. Do you know how long it takes to make a good arrow?”

  “No,” I admitted. “My brothers and I make bows and arrows to play with, but they’re not good for hunting.” I looked up at him before taking another bite. “If you didn’t use an arrow, then how did you catch this rabbit?”

  He answered my question by asking a question. “What does a rabbit do if you scare it from its hiding place?”

  “It runs.”

  “And what does it do if you run after it?”

  “It runs in a hole.” I replied.

  “Then make a hole for it to run into. And what kind of hole is the rabbit’s favorite hiding place?”

  “A hollow log.”

  “Then make a hollow log for the rabbit to run into.”

  I looked into the face of the wise Indian as the simplicity of his trap dawned on me. “How do I do that?”

  He explained: “When you find a hollow log that would be a suitable hiding place for a rabbit, cut a piece of wood out of the top, so you can reach into the log and grasp the rabbit that you have trapped.”

  “What’s to stop the rabbit from escaping out the same hole he ran into?”

  “That’s the right question,” he smiled and continued. “Sharpen the ends of sticks made from the branches of a willow tree. Willow sticks will be flexible. Place the sharpened sticks in a cone shape around one end of the log, with the sharp ends pointing inward. Everything about your trap is made of natural things, and there’s nothing to frighten the rabbit, so it won’t hesitate to run into the log. The rabbit can easily push the flexible sticks aside as he goes in, but when he tries to get out, the sharp ends will poke him. He won’t hurt himself because he doesn’t feel threatened, so he sits quietly until you’re ready to open the trapdoor to get him. Once you get this rabbit, you put the door back in the opening, and your trap is set for the next one.”

  I was amazed at the common sense involved in the making of
the trap. This is the kind of knowledge I wanted from this remarkable old man. I didn’t want to stay too long and wear out my welcome, even though there were so many questions I wanted answers to.

  “I must go now. May I come back? I would like to learn more.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’ve heard my parents and grandparents talking. They say that the old ways are dying, and most of the truths of how it was, are being lost. I want to preserve that knowledge, so I can tell my children and grandchildren.”

  “How are you going to keep the information?”

  “I’ll keep it the same way you’ve kept it—I’ll remember.”

  "No one is going to believe stories told by a mere boy,” he said.

  “I’ll wait until I’m no longer a boy before I tell the stories,” I said, as I stood up. “After the truths of what you tell me have been forgotten, I’ll tell them again for anyone who wants to know.”

  He seemed satisfied and nodded; I nodded in return, and left. I couldn’t stop thinking about the simple beauty of what he had told me. Then I remembered why I was out in the woods in the first place. I was searching for a turkey’s nest. I wondered if I could think like the wise old Indian. Would it help me find the turkey’s nest if I could think like a turkey?

  If I were a turkey, where would I hide my nest? I’d build it on a high spot where I could see if a predator was coming. Building the nest on a high spot would prevent it from being washed away should there be a rain. If I were a turkey, I’d build my nest among tall grass to keep it hidden. I’d want it to be near water, so I could get a drink and not have to leave the nest exposed to predators.

  I’m giving that turkey a lot of credit for intelligence. I’d been told that turkeys are pretty dumb birds, but I wanted to do it the way I thought the old Indian would.

  What did I have to lose? I wasn’t finding the nest my way, so I started searching for knolls of grass near water. In less than an hour, I found the nest. Was it just a coincidence?

  I went home and told Dad that I had found the nest. He said he was wondering what was taking me so long. He was pleased that I had found the nest. He told me to keep an eye on it, so I would know when the eggs hatched and to bring the chicks to the barn. That was perfect. It gave me an excuse for being away, and I could learn more from my new friend. I hoped I had made a new friend.

  ***

  I went back to see the Indian several times, and we talked about many things. He taught me to build stick traps for birds, and to build a warm shelter if I were ever caught out in a blizzard. He taught me to make a really good bow and arrow for hunting or as a weapon, should the need ever arise.

  “Never use a weapon in anger,” he said. “A weapon, used in anger, is as bad for the one using it as it is for the one it is being used against. Anger was the main reason Indians failed so miserably in their struggle with white men for control of the land.

  “Land is what the struggle was all about,” he added. “White men wanted to own the land. Indians believed that no one should own it, and they destroyed themselves with their anger. If the Indian and white men had learned to live together, both would have benefited.”

  I was too young to really understand all of what he was trying to tell me. But he taught me to catch fish by using green walnuts to stun them and then, by draining the ponds, you could get all the fish you wanted.

  “Listen to the birds and the animals,” he said. “They’ll tell you when danger is near. Be very quiet, so the animals won’t be afraid. They’ll then come out from hiding, and you can watch and learn from them. Animals will talk to you, if you’ll listen, and there’s much they can teach you.”

  Not long after that visit, my family moved to another part of the state. I never saw my old friend again. I have always felt a great loss. He had a wisdom that I wish our statesmen of today had a little of. There’s another great struggle going on, and we need men of wisdom to solve the problems so that all mankind can live in peace.

  I didn’t know the old Indian’s name—names were never used. Later, I learned that he was called Chief Gray Eagle.

  THE CREEKS OF MY CHILDHOOD

  The children I grew up with knew little of the lives of children who grew up in cities. We heard city children talking of “their territory,” “their street,” “their turf.” Our playgrounds were the creeks. We never thought of them as “our creeks”—they belonged to everyone. Even though the creeks ran through land that was owned by other farmers, the farmers didn’t mind if we swam or fished in the ponds, and most didn’t mind if we hunted on their land. The creeks ran from property to property; the water belonged to no one. Brightly colored minnows darted this way and that in the ponds. And around every bend was a new pond. Water made tinkling sounds, as it flowed from pond to pond. Fish splashed in the water, and meadowlarks sang their hearts out.

  We played in the shade of the trees and watched their branches dancing in the wind. Squirrels jumped from tree to tree; rabbits played in the meadows. Birds built nests and fed their young—they were free as the wind, and we were free as the birds.

  We were a part of all of this, and all of this was a part of us. We learned more while growing up on those creeks than we learned from all the books we ever read. The balance and the harmony of life were displayed right before our eyes. We witnessed mating, birthing, and watched mothers tend and nourish their young. We then learned the sorrow and beauty of growing old and dying.

  ***

  After the summer was gone, a deathlike cold came. The trees were silent and bare. The ponds froze, and we wondered what happened to the fish that had lived there. Birds were quiet, animals hidden. Oh, the long wait.

  Then, one day, a beam of sunlight broke through the gray winter clouds and warmed the meadow. A small piece of green poked its way up through the soil and, in what seemed only a moment, the meadow sprang to life. Flowers bloomed, and the birds and animals were abundant. We played once more along the creek, one year older, and a lifetime wiser.

  We had witnessed a moment of eternity, and saw the life force of the universe in action. From what book can you gain that knowledge? No prince or princess ever grew up in greater splendor.

  Oh, if every child could grow up near a creek.

  THE PRAIRIE FIRE

  Everett, J.D., and I went out to find the dens of furbearing animals. We hoped to catch them, skin them, prepare their hides as pelts, and sell them to help buy food.

  The wind was howling across the hills and valleys. It was a cold winter day in 1934, and we were inadequately dressed. We had no wood, so we couldn’t build a fire, but we noticed that the wind had blown tassels of grass into a clay ditch that was about six feet deep.

  “Why don’t we burn the tassels to get warm?” I suggested.

  Everett struck a match, and threw it into the tassels. The tassels were so dry that they almost exploded. It was as though he had thrown a match into gasoline. In an instant, the fire sprang up and a gust of wind blew burning tassels out onto the meadow. The prairie was on fire!

  A prairie fire is a serious thing. It can burn for miles, destroying homes, barns, and animals. We had made a terrible mistake.

  I was nine; J.D. was eleven, and Everett was thirteen. We were young, but we had witnessed prairie fires and knew we were in trouble. Luckily, the fire was between the forks of two canyons.

  “Let’s control the fire by containing it between the canyons,” Everett shouted.

  Luckily there were some green bushes growing in a ditch nearby, so we cut branches with our pocketknives. Thank goodness for the pocketknives Dad had given each of us. After hours of swinging the bushes and our coats, we managed to extinguish the fire. Now I understood the term, “busy as fighting fire.”

  Everett, J.D., and I looked at each other acknowledging our success. We were bone tired, our hair and eyebrows were singed, our clothes smudged and torn, our faces and hands burned and red. We hadn’t had a drink of water all day. We looked a mess.

 
When we walked into the house, Mother took one glance. “What on earth happened to you?” she asked.

  As we were explaining, Dad walked into the room and gave us one of his ‘you-should-have-known-better’ looks. “Well,” he said, “I guess you’ve learned a lesson. Come on, you can rest later. We’ve got to milk the cows and do the chores.”

  Nothing, absolutely nothing, could preclude the milking of those damn cows! After the cows were milked and the chores done, we ate supper, took a bath, and went to bed. Oh, the bed felt so good.

  FIRST DAY IN A NEW SCHOOL

  In 1935, America was still in the midst of the Great Depression, and like most farming families, we were poor. We had sold our farm and became tenants leasing farmland from owners who usually lived in cities. The leases were yearly, and we had to move every year or two.

  The owner of our last farm decided he wanted to farm his own land, so he and Dad terminated their lease agreement, and we moved to our present farm. This new farm was much better. It had better land, better grass, and a beautiful stream running through it.

  The new farm had a low, rambling farmhouse that sat on a bluff surrounded by stately oak trees overlooking the valley of Spring Creek. The bluff was about fifty feet from the south side of the house, and about twenty feet high. Oak and elm trees grew along the edge, providing shade during the summer.

  The water in the creek had created a pool at the bottom of the bluff. Some previous occupant had tied a steel cable high on a branch of one of the trees and tied a sack of straw to the end of the cable to serve as a swing. Holding onto the cable, we could ride a long, swinging arc from the knoll out over the stream, and drop into the pool. It was a wonderful place to swim in the summer.