I always enjoyed walking through the pines after a heavy wet snowfall. I wore a winter coat, gloves and boots, and imagined myself a pioneer adventurer. I would enter the pines on the east side of Cortlandt Lake near the junction of Putnam Road and Tryon Circle. I was never alone on these walks. Chickadees flew from tree to tree and followed me as I walked along an old horse trail to the lake dam. These tiny birds were as curious about me as I was of them. Did they wonder about the empty burlap bag which I carried over my shoulder or the special task I was requested to perform before Christmas, 1947?
I looked down at the snow-covered path ahead of me and saw rabbit, raccoon and deer tracks, and my eyes searched the surrounding pines for these wild animals. I stopped and listened, but heard only the short chirps of the chickadees.
Sometimes snow slid off the tree branches and landed on me or near me. It wasn’t the fault of the chickadees. The temperature was ten degrees above freezing, so the snow on the pine boughs just slid off at the slightest rustling of wind. When I got snow in my face, I just smiled and brushed it off. My hair and face got wet and cold because I did not wear a hat.
I stood at the edge of the dam and looked north. A thin layer of ice covered the lake from the dam to beyond the island. I suspected there was open water near the old wood bridge at the inlet. As December progressed to January, that area would be covered with ice too. For a boy looking for adventure, one inch of ice was sufficient to stand on, two inches or more were sufficient to skate on.
Following the old rocky path down to the pool at the bottom of the dam, I stood and gazed at the water pouring through the center outlet. I wondered about how fish survived in such cold water, or under ice. Did they live or die? I watched two crows circle high over the lake. Then I turned and walked along the old horse path to the bridge at Highland Drive, where I stood and watched the water speed under the bridge south toward Annsville Creek. There were small pieces of ice floating in Sprout Brook, and I would set my eyes on one and follow it until the ice went out of sight.
The sun usually came out after a heavy snowfall but this day was grey with unbroken clouds. I walked along Highland Drive to the intersection of Heath Terrace, and I entered the pines near the outlet from Spy Pond on the lake side of the road. It was a very quiet place. Houses had not been built here yet.
My mother had sent me on a mission to collect creeping (running) cedar, which grew in this location in abundance. I placed the burlap bag on the snow-covered ground, and started to clear a wide area with my gloved hands. I gathered enough for three or four hand-crafted Christmas wreaths, sometimes breaking the small vines as they held firmly in the ground. As I finished stuffing the burlap bag, I realized that ice, snow, dirt, and vines of creeping cedar were mixed inside the bag. Perhaps my sense of smell was extra sensitive caused by allergies to mold, but I could smell the wild fragrance of this concoction and I would always remember it.
Returning home by the same route, I exited the pines and said goodbye to the chickadees, crossed Putnam Road, followed the old tractor road half the distance to Sprout Brook Road, and crossed a snowy field and entered the breezeway to my house. I dropped the burlap bag in the breezeway, and entered the house to the gratifying smell of fresh bread baking in the oven. My mother was in the kitchen.
"I got the creeping cedar, Ma!"
"Thank you," she replied.
When I expressed a hungry boy's interest in the bread, my mother proposed a trade: a slice of fresh baked bread with butter in exchange for the burlap bag filled with creeping cedar.
I got the first cut of freshly baked bread, which riled my brother John but pleased me immensely.
No comments:
Post a Comment