Life’s Just-A’s I noticed that lately I have been writing about life’s just-a’s. Just An Old Leather Coat, Just An Old Rusty Truck, Just An Old Ugly Horse and on and on. If you look up the word, just, in the dictionary there are several definitions and uses for the word. More than most words by far. But the one meaning not clearly stated is how we use it to almost apologize for something. We say it was just as if it was nothing special or important or of note. I have noticed that often these things are to us clearly just the opposite. They are in fact things that have touched us and left their mark good or bad on us. The packrat in me has saved many of these and to you they may be just-a’s but to me they are as much a part of who I am as my DNA. It was just a tiny spring fed trickle drifting haphazardly through the pasture up against the mountain. A skinny barefoot boy could step across it most places. It had tiny little log jams and undercut banks with grass hanging close to the water. The water was as clear as my conscience at that age and every stone and grain of sand could be seen on a sunny day. This is where I learned to catch trout. I have fished for brookies far and wide since and have found them to be relatively easy to catch. I once hiked down off the Sky Line Drive to a brookie stream and when I got ready to fish I discovered that I had grabbed the wrong fly box and had with me a collection of flies that I had never had any luck with. By the end of the day I had fished every fly in that box trying to find a fly I couldn’t catch a fish on. So naturally I assumed that it was youth and inexperience that made these trout hard to catch. But one day I was in the area and had a couple of hours to kill and instead of fishing the Bowmans I hit that little stream and discovered that they were in fact the wildest trout I have every tried to catch. To call it a just-a, belies the beauty and wildness of both the fish and the stream itself. It is just a little private cemetery deep in the woods on State land. It is tucked pastorally in the corner were the state land meets the Peterson farm. It is from a time long past when the mountains were cleared almost to the top and stone walls crisscrossed the side hills. It is not well maintained and many of the weather worn stones have suck in the ground at strange angles. And the laid up field stone wall that surrounds it has been toppled in spots by the huge roots of the hardwood trees that crowd it with their beauty. I discovered it while grouse hunting at a time in my life when I needed these places of solace to comfort me Every day I had occasion to hunt the tag alders and ageing apple trees that drifted down the valley from this high ground I would take a little time to rebuild a part of the wall. I thought of resetting the stones but felt I would diminish the lure of the place. Chip, my huge male Wirehair would find a spot in the shade and dream of grouse hunting which he loved as much as I do. That is until it was time to share lunch with me. I’m sure others have seen it; maybe to them it was just an old forgotten cemetery. It was just a little two room school house in the valley. There was another building with two more rooms. Eight grades in four rooms. I read my entire school library in the seventh grade. It was just a little shelf with about a dozen books all classics. No fancy gym or full time janitorial staff. We were taught to sweep the floors ourselves. Well-worn heart pine floors that would be smelling of fresh wax when we returned from summer break and smelling of muddy boots by years end. A seldom if ever used paddle hung on the wall as a deterrent. And indeed it was. We would take our guns to school on the bus and hunt with the teachers after class and they would drive us home afterwards. The first day of deer season was a holiday. The second day the scent glands of a skunk would end up on the huge furnace below the four x four register in the floor providing a few more days in the woods while things aired out. This is not a confession but I did run a trap line at the time. We received a wonderful education under the watchful eyes of George Washington’s and Abe Lincoln’s pictures on the wall. My poor spelling comes from my learning disability not from any fault of a most loving and dedicated teaching staff. This school is long since closed and the kids are bussed to the sterile halls of modern academia. I sincerely hope you have some just-a’s in your life to warm you in your old age. Surround yourself with family and friends and build your memories with them, but always remember that what is really important to your core may just be the “Just-A’s”.
Posted on: Sun, 07 Sep 2014 10:25:11 +0000
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