Tales From Cabin Creek

“I'm here at my brother's place. His health has taken a significant downturn in recent months, and I'm doing what I can to pitch-in and relieve my sister inlaw of some of her stress. She hasn't worked since his latest ER visit - prolly eight weeks ago.


The 50 acre property is mostly low, with a six or so acre rise in the southeastern corner where upon the two story brick home is perched. From the house and sloping westward is the back yard, which resembles a wide fairway. At the end of the "fairway" lies a one acre manmade water hazard we call the pond. From the house, the driveway traverses northward toward the road. It descends quickly then flattens out and crosses the bottomland on a built-up berm made with the ditch dredgings. At the road, there's a bridge 300 feet to the left. The bridge was condemned after the flood of '94 - as were so many others across the Piedmont. Therefore, Tommy and Deana's driveway is the last on the gravel road. The place is quite secluded.

The property is basically square-shaped. With the exception of the driveway, front lawn, and fairway, it's heavily wooded. I suppose the shape is actually trapazoidal. This is due to the geographical fact that the northwestern corner is lopped-off diagonally by about 1000' of Cabin Creek.”

“I enjoyed the journey through the acreage. I hope your brother will be on his feet again soon, in the mean time it sounds like he is blessed to have a great brother to help out.”

“Spring is in the air: the owls are out and about well before dusk - risking confrontation with their arch-enemy - the red-tailed hawk. But the hawks are probably too pooped from their day's courting to be very concerned about food-source competitors. Cranes and geese are circling the pond on a daily basis - thinking about a respite from their northbound journey - but none have yet to splash-down. Even the vultures are getting into the courting mood - they are fun to watch as they display their aerobatic skills.

The large birds start early here. I suppose they require alot of time to rear their clutches before the onset of autumn. The smaller songbirds start later, and many species raise two clutches each season.”

“To the south of Cabin Creek - where a mindless walk in a wetland turns upward and mindful and plotted and more upward through deadfalls and blowdowns and rocky slopes; where strides become shortened and calculated as sweat beads and breath pants; where a backward glance of happenstance reveals a tree canopy below, providing a sweet, quenching vinegar of vitality that propels me faster and farther and higher and higher still; where the view of the familiar soon rolls away into a distant and unknown forested Kansas that fades away into the haze of the far, far horizon - stands Robin Hill.
Who else has loved her? How many are the spirits that linger here? What others have seen her silhouetted against the setting and sitting sun - her shapely contours through a leafy nightgown revealed - and answered with an eagerness equal to mine her amourous allure?
Who has also sat here - here where I sit now? Who were they that collected from her shoulders the small stones from which they fashioned the now-scattered tools for hunting her bountiful game and gathering her rooted bounty? Who were the mothers and fathers of Patriots and Confederates that toiled behind the axe and plow of civilization, and lie now upon her bosom in these shallow depressions faced squarely toward the rising sun?
It is easy to see from whence I came: the creek, the lawn, the road, the pasture. But beyond? What lies there? They know. They know what Robin Hill knows; they know what lies waiting in the haze.”