I’ve come to believe that one should either live in or live out, but nowhere in between. What I mean is that, for me anyway, life is best experienced in the crazed hustle of a city, or in the quiet rhythm of the country. Suburban life, which is neither in nor out, seems uninspiring, if not sub-human. Writers will sometimes begin their careers in cities, since that is where the paying jobs are, then move into seclusion when they can finally afford to. I was no exception.
For as long as I can remember, I have loved words. They were mysterious to me. Why did they mean what they meant? Who decided that “ph” made an “f” sound? I loved words like “plethora” and “bountiful”. I loved the way words rolled out of my mouth, how they connected with one another to form pictures in my head. I loved to read them, and I longed to write them.
High School yearbooks and college magazines gave me a start, and I made a fair living writing as a freelance journalist. An editorial here, an investigative article there, and soon I had a full blown, even respectable, career. And somehow, through it all, the mystery never left. And I knew I would follow the path of many writers. The road that led from “fact” to fiction, from information to imagination. I would write a novel.
There was this nagging dilemma, however. I had no story.
I’ve read many favorite beginnings. “Once upon a time….” “I had a farm in Africa.” “Mine is a parish like all the rest.” “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Or this doozy: “Magnanimous Despair alone could show me so divine a thing.” These were words that anticipated adventure, heartache, a life well lived, or a great love.
I tried my hand time and time again, trying to find a story. I lived the well known image of the frustrated novelist crushing page after page, the floor littered with balls made of false starts. I could not begin because I had nowhere to go.
Then one day, my story found me.
My Grandfather spent his last years tending a small, eight acre patch of ground in South Alabama, near the Gulf of Mexico. The soil was a mixture of red clay and white sand, and it yielded a variety of produce from okra to hot peppers. He would pass a good part of the day in the tin barn with his cooking, canning, cats…and Jim Beam. As a boy I worked many days under his eye and the hot Alabama sun, passing down the rows of vegetables, and doing odd jobs around the place.
Toward the back of the property was a pine wood, bordered by a wide creek that ran toward the Bon Secour River. A small cabin had been placed in a clearing there, which had at various times been occupied by Grandpa’s workers and friends. It was a simple structure, but sturdy and well kept.
When my mind turned toward leaving the city, it quickly took hold of that little farm and cabin. After Grandpa died, no one could bear to part with the place. The field was overgrown and the warehouse chained. The little house was empty. But it was still in the family, and mine for the asking. I knew that with a little scrubbing, a computer, the internet, and a cell phone, it could be a rustic but wired novelist paradise. So I went home.
Since I knew it would take the better part of a week to hook up phone and computer lines, I set about bringing the place back to life. My brother had kept Grandpa’s last Chevy truck in working order, and I was happy to exchange it for my small “city” car. Though it had seen better days, I loved the “three on the tree” transmission, the AM radio, and the huge steering wheel. There was also an old Massey Ferguson tractor and bush hog, which once it finally cranked, made fairly quick work of the undergrowth around the house, and the lane that led to the back of the property, over a small wooden bridge, and up to the wide front porch.
I could envision the pattern of my days. Rising early to read and write, a run, a couple of hours reclaiming at least a part of the garden, then, quiet evenings on the porch. I was not disappointed in the way my days went. But once again, I was staring at blank pages, and the crumbled paper began to pile up, only now I had a fireplace to dispose of these rejects.
I arrived in late September, so any real hope of a garden would have to be postponed for months. I had mowed down the weeds to at least declare my intentions for the next spring, but then left it at that. So, as often as not, by late afternoon I would find myself in an old rocker on the front porch. And it was from there, on an October afternoon, that I saw them for the first time, walking down the lane toward the house.
They had suddenly appeared from the woods behind the barn, instead of coming through the front gate from the road. I wondered where they had come from. It was a man and a woman, and from a distance it was hard to tell how old they were. Not young, but not old. They were clearly heading toward my house, as if it were their intention to eventually get there, but at the same time it seemed that they were in no particular hurry. They had to have seen me sitting there, but I had not yet captured their attention. They had caught mine.
The woman was not tall, but she was slender, and there was a lightness to her gait. She wore a brown, flowing skirt and cardigan sweater that hung loosely on her frame. It was clearly his. She held the man’s hand with one of her own, but with the other made lively gestures. I could see she was talking in a very animated way, though I couldn’t make out her words from that distance. He walked slowly beside her, with his face bent forward, clearly listening to what she had to say. She suddenly stopped, grinned and said something softly, and he tipped his head back and laughed.
When they came to the bridge, they paused in the middle and looked over the rail at the creek. A brief silence settled over them both, and held them for a moment. They gazed at one another without a word, then began to walk toward the house.
Now they were looking toward me, as if I had suddenly entered their circle of awareness.
I honestly couldn’t tell if they were 35 or 55. If I had to just guess based on their faces, I would have guessed they were older, but there was a vitality about them that gave them something of an ageless quality.
He was very tall. For some reason, it was obvious to me that he was a quiet, reserved man, what most people would call “laid back”, but you could tell from his eyes that little passed his notice. He looked right at me, and I don’t know how to describe how I suddenly felt that he knew what life held, that he knew joy and he had known sadness.
And the woman. She was, in a word, lovely. There was a sense of serenity about her, as if she knew who she was. But there was also an energy, something very inviting, open, and curious.
She was the first to speak, and greeted me happily and warmly. “Well, hello!” The man stepped up on the porch and extended a huge, friendly hand in my direction. I had not noticed before, but he had been carrying a paper bag, which he now handed to me. She said, “A little house warming gift.” It was a bottle of Italian wine, and, as I later discovered, a really good bottle of wine. I don’t know why this surprised me. A house warming gift wasn’t a surprise, it’s just that in south Alabama, I would have expected a blackberry cobbler or a casserole. So again, I was a little intrigued.
“So, is there a path through the woods there?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “there is a little path, but a huge hole in your fence. If you plan on keeping anything in, we’ll have to try and fix that.” I could tell he wasn’t too sure about fixing a barbed wire fence, and that he was kidding around.
“I’ve ordered a herd of buffalo from a catalog, but they aren’t here yet,” I responded, and I think it was suddenly clear that neither of us was a farmer, or rancher, for that matter.
The woman gave a little laugh and said, “We’ve been away and just came back today. So why don’t you plan to come for dinner tomorrow. We wander to the porch for drinks at about 5:30, and dinner around 7:00. You can come for either or both. We will interrogate you until we hear your entire life story.”
“I’ll need a drink first if I’m going to be interrogated,” I said, “so I’ll come for both and bring the wine.”
It was a brief exchange, but there was such an easy hospitality about them, that it seemed like friendship would come easy.
“We’ll see you then, new neighbor.” She turned and looked up at the man with a smile. He nodded at me, then slipped a long arm around her shoulder. They both waved and turned to go. She wrapped both her arms around him as they walked slowly away. When they finally disappeared behind the barn, I realized that I had watched them the entire way, and that I hadn’t moved.