By Ben Bailey
I remember as a young man, I used to sit in my truck and listen to Paul Harvey tell the rest of the story while I ate my lunch. It was not just the news but the stories behind them. Often it gave a whole new slant to the news. I guess that is where I cultivated the habit of looking beyond the surface.
I have a painting in my house painted by Lee Robertson. It is titled First Light. It depicts a log cabin and Springhouse. There is a thin layer of snow on everything and it seems to be very cold but there is a wisp of smoke coming out of the chimney and a soft glow in the windows. Some have commented that it is a bleak and lifeless picture. I see just the opposite. The logs are dove-tailed which took somebody a lot of time and effort. They are also squared and fit expertly together. The small wisp of smoke indicates that the fire has been going for sometime, maybe all night. The soft glow means a lamp has been lit. He or she is doing something that needs light, perhaps cooking or maybe reading. There are no tracks on the porch so there must be a supply of wood and kindling inside. There doesn’t seem to be a road or car nearby which means that it must be somewhere that I would like to be.
Sometimes it’s hard to discern where observation ends and imagination begins but I have decided that it really doesn’t matter, it’s the rest of the story… the what we see beyond the surface or even what we would like to see that gives meaning to our experiences. I once went for a walk in a little place called Hurricane. At one time it had been a small mountain community with several homes. As I walked the old fields through the old stone work and sat on the now silent porches, I imagined them as they once were wholesome and content with useful work. Confident that spring planting would produce a harvest. To me it was a picture of the way life should be. It gave me a warm sense of peace that I tried to capture in a poem.
Most times in my wanderings it is the mountain top I seek
Today I need a valley with tranquil weeds and creek
A sunny field to rest a spell, stonewalls with broken sod
I need to hear a still small voice, to feel the arms of God
The mountains speak of majesty, endless toil and pain
They speak of mighty exploits of effort and of gain.
Today I long to hear welcome home my favorite son
Where you been so long I just knew you’d come.
Look see what I made for you and listen to this song
How do you like this waterfall your journey’s been too long
Man it’s good to have you home Will have a wondrous time
All I have is yours you know and all your troubles mine.
I sent you a lot of letters, maybe you didn’t know it was me
Remember that hawk at shining rock and a whippoorwill in The tree
I sent you that largemouth down on Waterville what do you think of that?
I love you son I’ve followed you. I am where you’re at
And that…… Is the rest of the story.
Ben Bailey, is a native of Western North Carolina, Master Carpenter, Avid Angler, and Naturalist.