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Award winning works ________________
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Simplicity for my soul © It is the simple things. Cool morning breezes lightly brush the tent walls. I roll over in my sleeping bag its folds helping tug the fleeting vestiges of sleep from my mind and body. Droplets of dew from the oaks above tap lightly on the tent’s fabric, an alarm clock of the gentlest nature. And then it happens. One of those simple things. "Ah-uh-ah." It is answered. "Ah-uh-uh-ah." The sound is haunting, majestic, clarion, mournful—regal. I turn to my wife to see open sleepy blue eyes that have a morning smile in them. "Iron heads," I say. She nods listening to birds that Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings knew. My bride, Jeanelle, stretches saying, "Beautiful, how beautiful." She lies there looking at me, the happiness visible on her face mirroring mine. She knows this is why we have camped at this spot. "Ah-uh-ah. Ah-uh-ah." Their calls dominate the quiet morning air. This simple sound is a balm for my soul… for I have chosen it to be. Miss Rawlings chose a life of simple things when she moved to Cross Creek in 1928. She did so because she believed "it is more important to live the life one wishes to live, and to go down with it if necessary, quite contently, than to live more profitably but less happily." Her words are ones huge portions of the population could profit from if they were to read and comprehend. Having made similar choices several times in my life, her spirit and works are kindred to me. Warm in my sleeping bag, I fantasize sitting around a campfire with the illustrious lady of letters discussing our lives’ experiences and alternatives. Suddenly we are together in the fire’s flickering light on the shore of Cross Creek. The sweet fragrance of magnolia blossoms waft past the sandy mound we sit upon. She tells me about her door-less outhouse with its red warning flag and I laugh, telling her about being a fishing guide, cast-netting bait for tourists, who are less appreciative than a varmint in her hen house. She nods and talks of spurned opportunities to teach and I of rejected possibilities of corporate celebrity in a cement Chicago cell. Marjorie speaks of friends Tom and Martha, of collecting snakes with Ross Allen. My tales are of wife Jeanelle, friend Chet and a beloved bird dog. I speak of my love of listening to the morning call of the sand hill crane or iron head, as we Crackers know them. Marjorie wistfully tells me of her beloved magnolias particularly the one in her yard, which was her earthly nirvana. We understand those simple things; our souls are bare to the other, yet at ease in spiritual nakedness. We are comfortable at our first meeting because accepting people "fer what dey be an’ not fer what dey ain’t" is a concept we both embrace. Restricting our relationships to those with thick wallets or letters behind their name is abhorrent. Simple people with simple life styles often become our staunchest friends. They appreciate walking with me along a live oak adorned sand ridge on the shore of Lake Kissimmee, or chasing through the night with "Mizz" Rawlings looking for a whip-poor-will, ears tuned to its mystic chant. But we agree to exclude no one for those with wealth and title are the equals as friends when one of like ideals is found. Fishing, hunting and camping are my loves and she understands. My soul is most at peace when pursuing these ends. All are simple things. Being accomplished in their pursuit may require an accumulation of complex knowledge and equipment but participation is simplicity. Watching a bird dog point quail hiding in a patch of gall berries, a bass strike a top-water bait deep in a green carpet of lily pads, and gazing, only half mindfully of surroundings, into orange flames sprouting from red glowing oak embers are the things I have chosen to cherish. She is patient as I spout this philosophy to its queen. As I realize I am speaking too much and listening too little. I ask, "Marjorie, what do you do that gives you the greatest pleasure?" "Writing," is her immediate answer. A satisfied look appears in her eyes as she tells of her love affair with pen and typewriter. Awe sweeps over me as I listen to her enthusiasm for works complete and regretful frustration with stories not finished, not right. Her characters live for her as she has made them alive for us. Writing with its demands is one of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ simple things. Jeanelle tugs at my shoulder saying, "It’s time to leave the sleeping bags." Before my eyes open, Marjorie stands, walks away, pausing at the fringe of the firelight to turn, smile and say "Hey," then fades returning to a tan and yellow photo image in times’ mists. A soul mate is gone. I am left with reality. Having lived a half-century plus twelve I’ve come to believe as Marjorie Rawlings that we "do not know the irreducible minimum of happiness for any other." We must each struggle to define, and as life passes, redefine the elusive state of being. I have found mine in simplicity.
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"Open
Minds, Open Books"
