The Circle

I could never quite see Al’s eyes when we stood toe to toe.  It was a long way from my head to his face - he, standing over 6 feet tall and me, a lanky 9-year-old whose waist-high view of the adult world hovered halfway between the real and the imagined.  Without clearly seeing them, however, I knew his eyes were kind and sparkly with humor. The ends turned up which made him seem always in a good mood.  Al is my grandpa, Pa Al we called him, and as I remember him in this special ‘place and pose’ – a giant of a man amid the storytellers of the campfire circle – I thank God for placing me there to know him.  

I first approached the circle of men – mostly uncles and cousins - anxiously as any kid would, not knowing if they would tell me to scat or, worse, simply ignore me.  But Al’s eyes said what I needed to know: it was okay to join them. He welcomed me by reaching into his pocket and holding out penny candy in his massive hand from which I chose my favorite.  Relieved, I prepared for the storytelling by being as quiet as possible, popping the candy into my mouth, and waiting and listening.

Though the campfire circle and the house where Al lived were just a mile or two from town, the scene was so enveloped in evening darkness by the canopy of trees that it could have been hundreds of miles from civilization. We were not isolated here by any stretch of the imagination. In fact our nearest neighbor – a second or third cousin – lived shouting distance of Al’s house.  The cousin's dogs slept nearby, and occasionally one would rise up to scratch his long ears and pound the earth with an errant foot.

My mind raced with excitement.  I imagined myself in the deepest reaches of isolation.  The feeling made me aware of things I would not normally notice. My hair and clothes would smell like wood smoke until I washed in the morning.  Sounds in the night became loud. The serenade of night creatures was familiar and comforting.  Like an arrangement in a recording studio, the constant banter of crickets and other critters created the background music for the soloist, a lonesome whip-poor-will. Mournful tree frogs were the backup singers.  Only the solitary barred owl’s hooting disturbs the melody by sending the dogs into fits of howling and baying. 

The coolness of the night air reminds me that fall turnips will be planted soon.  I don’t like to eat them, but Al and my grandmother Clara Mae do.  They have turnip greens almost every meal. I think greens remind them of hard times that have been conquered and are now behind them.  They are not materially wealthy, but they have enough to live a comfortable life - rich with generosity and friendships, family and neighborly get-togethers.

Since he was a young boy, Al worked mostly in the woods.  His older brothers worked a team of oxen to pull logs out of the woods.  Think of it: young men steering a team of oxen for miles all day long.  Al cut, loaded and hauled logs to the local sawmill after trucks were introduced into the woods.  He earned an honest living by laboring 6 days a week.  His reputation as a generous, kind and helpful man was earned throughout his life, but especially during the Great Depression and the years that followed as people struggled to survive. Everyone who knew him genuinely loved him. Though he completed only the compulsory eight grades of school and never went to college, he inspired generations of college and post-college graduates – all of his five children attended college and most of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

The hounds were fitful when the storytelling began.  Al’s tale is an adventure with his family. His slow, languorous speech quieted the dogs and they commenced the ancient spinning to create a safe bed for the evening.  Satisfied now that he had everyone’s attention, Al’s story took on the cadence of an honest to goodness narrative.

I imagine his stories now. The young boys set out on hunting escapades in the woods as sleuths looking for clues that would lead them to their prey, and often the story ended in a suspenseful, heroic effort by one or all of the boys.  My dad was the hero of one story. He conquered nature by valiantly swimming a swollen river in December with one of his friends on his shoulders saving the friend from certain death by exposure.  Another story told how the cousins tracked a deer for almost a whole day before it was slain.  The cousins ended up outwitting the deer on their own as the dogs got too tired to run. The boys had no choice but to continue the chase, for their Uncle Ervin had told them not to come home without a deer; the family had nothing to eat at home but turnips greens and biscuits. They needed meat now in the dead of winter, and the woods would provide if the boys would be smart and persevere.

I listened as different ones in the circle commented. One would enhance the story by remembering a new detail. Another remembered a comment Uncle Ervin made when the troupe arrived home with their kill. One would piggy-back off this story to transition to a similar one where the outcome was not quite so heroic or maybe even more heroic. The storytelling would eventually wind its way back to the present – “What ever happened to old so-and-so?” or “That spot sure looks different now.” At the end, there was a period of silence as if the circle of men needed the time to cement the images of the story into their minds for the next telling.

After many years and many tellings, the stories never lost their significance.  My dad, the uncles and cousins would always be heroes. At the gathering of the clan each summer, the youngsters looked at the men with awe and admiration, no matter what they did or did not do with the rest of their lives.

As an adult, I would enter another circle of mostly men gathered around a conference table instead of a campfire. I was comfortable in this new circle because of how I was welcomed all those many years ago.  Al saw me as a child wanting to learn, and I became as comfortable in the company of adults as I was with kids my age.  I enjoyed being around the older folks.  I looked forward to the storytelling, and I felt the love in the way they saw each youngster as a precious link between the past and the future.  There was great respect in their love, and in return I am respectful of the stories they told and what they mean to me as an adult.

I remember Al when the smell of turned earth on a spring morning fills my mind’s eye with the pictures of youth; when the first birds of spring sing to me from an opened window. The night sounds, the adventures of a long time ago remind me how precious each generation is to the next. Al taught me this, and I am grateful.

(C) Copyright 2016   Carolyn Elmore