Looking for Me Read Free Page A
Book: Looking for Me Read Free
Author: Beth Hoffman
Tags: Romance
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only yesterday. I stepped through a tangle of weeds and pressed my palm against the locked door. “I miss you, Daddy. I miss you every day.”
Around the silo Eddie and I went, picking our way along an overgrown path that edged the woods. The air was alive with the chirring and flutters of night.
When my brother and I were little children, Grammy Belle often walked us into the woods. Twigs crackled beneath our feet, and the trees would reach out their branches and give us a poke, as if to say hello and remind us to visit more often. As we worked our way deep into the shadows, my grandmother would point out the treasures—clusters of jack-in-the-pulpit, spotted green tree frogs, and wide fans of fungus. One evening when we were sitting on a rock, a cecropia moth landed on the toe of my shoe. Grammy winked and said it was giving me a blessing.
My grandmother taught us to honor the woods, to enter its wonders with respect. She told us to never intrude or cause any harm, saying we were Mother Nature’s guests and to mind our manners. One afternoon the three of us were hiking and came to an ancient black walnut tree. My grandmother stopped and patted its rough bark. “A powerful healing force lives deep within these woods. Whenever you children are hurting or can’t make sense of things, just come out here and spend some time with the trees. Give their trunks a good strong pat. When you go home, you’ll feel better.”
I pressed my small hand against the tree, looked up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and absolutely believed her.
I believe her still.
And tonight, as I gazed into the dense woods, I took in a slow breath and gratefully accepted whatever offering might come my way. I thought about that old saying, how we can never go home again. But I think it’s more like a piece of us stays behind when we leave—a piece we can never reclaim, one that awaits our next visit and demands that we remember.
TWO
A t the age of ten, I got a glimpse of my destiny. It happened on a steamy summer’s day back in 1964.
What I remember most vividly was how the legs of that old chair poked up from the weed-choked ditch. And how, when I pulled it to the side of the road and stood it upright, its threadbare seat exhaled a tired puff of dust into the air. Even beneath the layers of dirt, I could see that the chair was beautiful. A dining chair, I guessed, the kind that once sat in a fine home and had seen lots of fancy dinner parties, birthday celebrations, and holiday feasts. The arms were curved and graceful, and the back was shaped like an urn. What that chair was doing in a rural Kentucky ditch is something I’ll never know, but I wanted it something fierce, so I took it.
Finders keepers.
Though I was a good half mile from the farm, I hauled that chair all the way home. First I looped my arms through the chair’s arms and carried it on my back like a wounded soldier. When it got too heavy, I dragged it behind me. The air was hot and thick with humidity, and when the wind kicked up, it was like walking toward a blowtorch. But that old chair was mine, and nothing was going to make me leave it behind.
When I finally arrived home, light-headed from the heat and parched with thirst, I lugged the chair up the dirt driveway and into the backyard. As I set it in the shade beneath the oak tree, Jigs, my dog, did a happy lope-hop off the back porch and greeted me. I loved him up for a minute, took a long drink from the garden hose, and then collapsed on the grass. Jigs sprawled out next to me, and we just lay in the shade enjoying each other’s company. While scratching his ears and wondering how I’d fix the seat of the chair, I heard the squeak of the screen door.
I looked up to see my mother step onto the porch. Her sundress hung limp in the heat, and her sweat-dampened hair was pinned high off her neck. She shook out a rug, draped it over the porch rail, and looked at me. “Where in the world did
that
come
Around the silo Eddie and I went, picking our way along an overgrown path that edged the woods. The air was alive with the chirring and flutters of night.
When my brother and I were little children, Grammy Belle often walked us into the woods. Twigs crackled beneath our feet, and the trees would reach out their branches and give us a poke, as if to say hello and remind us to visit more often. As we worked our way deep into the shadows, my grandmother would point out the treasures—clusters of jack-in-the-pulpit, spotted green tree frogs, and wide fans of fungus. One evening when we were sitting on a rock, a cecropia moth landed on the toe of my shoe. Grammy winked and said it was giving me a blessing.
My grandmother taught us to honor the woods, to enter its wonders with respect. She told us to never intrude or cause any harm, saying we were Mother Nature’s guests and to mind our manners. One afternoon the three of us were hiking and came to an ancient black walnut tree. My grandmother stopped and patted its rough bark. “A powerful healing force lives deep within these woods. Whenever you children are hurting or can’t make sense of things, just come out here and spend some time with the trees. Give their trunks a good strong pat. When you go home, you’ll feel better.”
I pressed my small hand against the tree, looked up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and absolutely believed her.
I believe her still.
And tonight, as I gazed into the dense woods, I took in a slow breath and gratefully accepted whatever offering might come my way. I thought about that old saying, how we can never go home again. But I think it’s more like a piece of us stays behind when we leave—a piece we can never reclaim, one that awaits our next visit and demands that we remember.
TWO
A t the age of ten, I got a glimpse of my destiny. It happened on a steamy summer’s day back in 1964.
What I remember most vividly was how the legs of that old chair poked up from the weed-choked ditch. And how, when I pulled it to the side of the road and stood it upright, its threadbare seat exhaled a tired puff of dust into the air. Even beneath the layers of dirt, I could see that the chair was beautiful. A dining chair, I guessed, the kind that once sat in a fine home and had seen lots of fancy dinner parties, birthday celebrations, and holiday feasts. The arms were curved and graceful, and the back was shaped like an urn. What that chair was doing in a rural Kentucky ditch is something I’ll never know, but I wanted it something fierce, so I took it.
Finders keepers.
Though I was a good half mile from the farm, I hauled that chair all the way home. First I looped my arms through the chair’s arms and carried it on my back like a wounded soldier. When it got too heavy, I dragged it behind me. The air was hot and thick with humidity, and when the wind kicked up, it was like walking toward a blowtorch. But that old chair was mine, and nothing was going to make me leave it behind.
When I finally arrived home, light-headed from the heat and parched with thirst, I lugged the chair up the dirt driveway and into the backyard. As I set it in the shade beneath the oak tree, Jigs, my dog, did a happy lope-hop off the back porch and greeted me. I loved him up for a minute, took a long drink from the garden hose, and then collapsed on the grass. Jigs sprawled out next to me, and we just lay in the shade enjoying each other’s company. While scratching his ears and wondering how I’d fix the seat of the chair, I heard the squeak of the screen door.
I looked up to see my mother step onto the porch. Her sundress hung limp in the heat, and her sweat-dampened hair was pinned high off her neck. She shook out a rug, draped it over the porch rail, and looked at me. “Where in the world did
that
come