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July 25, 2006 Late at night, on the island’s point, the whitecaps of the waves could be seen in the light of the moon and in the light of the Lighthouse. People tamed the other parts of the island, and there were many places where the land curved inward, and was sheltered a bit from the wind. At this point though, the land was not tamed as much. The grass grew long, and an old cabin had neither any walkway nor driveway that was paved. Standing there in the day, one could look around and a wind would blow off the lake and bend the grasses, and then blow stronger and stronger. It was at times like this that the wind would pick up anything that it could and blow it away. There were four or five places where people had gathered rocks and put them in a circle to light a fire in the middle. Now that it was night, these were difficult to make out, and it was better to walk around slowly, if someone was gong to walk at all. Though it could be violent, the air was so fresh, that there was a reassurance, possibly a false one, that it was a good place to be. It was the deep summer and it was deep into the night, and surely somewhere was an owl, safe, but watching out with eyes, watching it all. In the autumn there, on the island, there was a tinge of relief, and a hope of things to come. It got cooler, and it was time to wear sweaters, and to be creative. It was a time of new beginnings, and there were not as many activities or people about. The ones that were found near that point of the island were only there to pass through on a walk. Summer season had been very open, and in this openness, it was easier to talk with people, or think about going swimming, yet it lacked the sights of autumn. It could not compare to the changing colors of the leaves. They were red, yellow, and brown. At those times, the evening seemed lighter and not as thick as the summer evening. There were no mosquitoes either as the air was too cold. You were retreating into yourself a bit, and thinking of the colder temperatures. Some people rented cottages there on the weekend, and went out fishing in aluminum boats. There was a cemetery also, high up on a hill, and as you walked down through it, you could pretend that your raised hand was passing through risen spirits standing there, the spirits of people like Jim McCloud, whose gave marker read 1901- 1941, but was a small marker and said nothing more. In the winter, the lake was frozen. The snow fell on Maples and everywhere else. At the night, during a storm, it piled up on one side of a house, as that is where the wind pushed it. You could stick out your tongue and feel the flakes fall on it. These big flakes of snow where thick and did not rush down, but did fall at a deliberate pace. Thousands, millions, billions, and trillions of white particles in the distance. You could see your breath in the air and the tracks of some kind of animal. Sometimes they were there from foxes. One family of them ventured past the island point around two o’clock A.M., and though some thought of a fox as one way, these foxes were fragile, and so very thin. They were timid, and one stops a far way off, looking over at you, just staring. Some of the others, the smaller ones, would still be walking, not knowing, or not caring that the one fox watching had stopped. In winter though, for the most part, you were very much thrown back to yourself, and there was hardly ever another soul about. If Jim McCloud’s phantom was there, he was a quiet one, and never told the secrets he knew. In the springtime, things were really thawing, and you had gotten used to certain darkness both physical and emotional, out there at the point of the island, where the solitary cabin let feet and feet of snow park and rest on its rooftop. Things seemed to shake loose and start to live a bit. The lake was no longer frozen. It was not a time of blooming so much though, as a time of sighing a sigh of relief, for you had made it through another winter, and spring had kept its agreement and arrived. Rains rained as rains rain. You walked in a green coat, and wondered about the big drops of rain. One hit in the eye, and seemed more real than any other water. The whitecaps crashed in again, and it was cold, but it was all ready to start living again. The water from the sky crashed on your head and you felt glad and sad all at once. The earth was wet. Wet with water, and wet with promise. Infinite pebbles and stones were on the shore. Some were so smoothly rounded. The elements had rounded them, and the elements were rounding you too. They were rounding you and you trusted they knew best. After all, what choice did you really have? ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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