NEWS FROM THE HILLS
“All things on earth point home in old October: sailors to sea, travelers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.” (by Thomas Wolfe, submitted by J. D. Beam)
The harvest moon is a golden sphere over Pilot Knob, a little lopsided now but still mysterious and beautiful. It speaks of summertime past and gone, of crops now gathered and stored, and the coming of cold weather.
The lightning bugs have put away their lanterns for the season, no more sparking in the twilight hours. Katydids sing mournfully of the passing of summer, and foretell of frost to come. Soon their sad song will be ended forever.
The cicadas are hanging up their fiddles and bows; with one lone cricket in the cellar playing a nostalgic tune. Our land is changing garments again, from the green of summertime to the multicolor hues of autumn.
The vividly colored wildflowers are gone, replaced by the scarlet maples and crimson sourwoods that fairly gleam. The seasons roll on, year after year, and yet each time they change it is new and unique all over again.
There are blue skies and blue jays, warm earth and hickory nuts, yellow leaves falling on brown ones. The smell of fall fills the air—a mixture of dry leaves, rich earth, ripe nuts, and sunshine over all. The music of autumn falls on listening ears—squirrels chattering, chipmunks chirking, blue jays quarreling, nuts dropping, leaves rustling, and the low throb of crickets. It is the beat of autumn.
Quite frequently, and more so in the autumn season, I feel the urge to get out in the woods, to reaffirm my bond with nature and feed the basic need in my soul for the quiet and serenity of God’s world.
When this feeling hits me, I abandon whatever I am doing and go. The woods called to me on a sunny day last week and I crossed the creek and climbed the bank to the timberline. Barely out of sight of the house and garden, it was a different world.
Below me, the creek ran beneath the roots of an old sycamore tree, forming a deeper hole of water that invited me to take off my shoes and wade. The sun glared down upon the field below, but beneath the canopy of colorful leaves it was shady and cool.
We knew every inch of these woods as children. There is a dim path where Andy’s grown children once played. Lacy ferns and whorls of club moss make an inviting place to stop and rest, and red and orange woodbine winds around a beech tree. Even the lowly poison ivy vine is a thing of beauty with its crimson leaves and graceful twining.
It’s not only the roses that we must take time to smell. In this hectic and hurried world, with stress on every side, it is needful to hunt a place of solace and meditate upon the blessings of God. When we begin to consider how very small we are, and how great God is, our problems will diminish.
David says in Psalms 8:3-4: “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? And the son of man, that thou visitest him?”
To ponder upon the things of nature, which God has made, makes us realize just how insignificant we are.
A few weeks ago, Gilbert Upton of Charleston requested the words to the song, “Letter Edged in Black.” The old “tearjerker songs” may have been sad, but they did tell a story.
Letter Edged in Black
I was standin’ by my window yesterday morning
Without a thought of worry or of care
When I saw the postman comin’ up the pathway
With such a happy face and jolly air.
He rang the bell and whistled as he waited
Then he said, “Good morning to you, Jack”
But he little knew the sorrow he had brought me
When he handed me a letter edged in black.
With trembling hand I took this letter from him
I broke the seal and this is what it said:
“Come home, my boy, your dear old father wants you
Come home, my boy, your dear old mother’s dead.”
I bowed my head in sorrow and in sadness
The sunshine of my life, it all had fled
When the postman brought that letter yesterday morning
“Saying come home my boy, your dear old mother’s dead.”
“The last words your mother ever uttered
Tell my boy I want him to come back.
My eyes are blurred; my poor old heart is breaking
So I’m writing you this letter edged in black.”
“Forget those angry words that we had spoken
You know I didn’t mean them, don’t you Jack?
May the angels bear me witness, I am asking
Your forgiveness in this letter edged in black.”
Get out and enjoy this glorious autumn weather!
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