Placid Green

Joseph Lane

Description

Its summer in Pfounds small Appalachian town. The young man enjoys spending time with his pencil and sketch pad by the lazy river that winds through his deep river valley, but drawing isnt all there is. Hes part of the Clana group of ragtag youngsters, led by their ever-faithful German shepherd dog. The Clans days of motley adventure are interrupted when the Vagabond arrives in their little town and delivers a powerful, intriguing message the townspeople will take years and years to understand. Pfound is deeply affected by the mans words and finds his happy, sunny summer ground into the dirt. His heart and soul are unexpectedly heavy. The sky again brightens for the young artist with the surprise entrance of Feather. She is a visitor to the neighborhood, but she and Pfound make an instant connection, as she becomes his most trusted sidekick. Together they bond with a wise old hermit who lives near the edge of town. It is a summer of growing up, of hard knocks, and, with the approach of August, Pfound will find his entire life and town have changed.

Informations

• Publié par: Inspiring Voices
• Date de parution: 28 janvier 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781462410750
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Placid Green
JOSEPH LANE

Copyright © 2015 Joseph Lane.
 
Designed, formatted, and copyedited by Kristen Corrects
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 
 
Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
1 [phone]
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
 
ISBN: 978-1-4624-1076-7 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-1075-0 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921389
 
Inspiring Voices rev. date: 03/11/2015
Contents
Chapter One    The Great Golden
Chapter Two    A Toe Hold
Chapter Three    The Beginning of Greater Things
Chapter Four    The Vagabond
Chapter Five    Mudhead’s Meddling
Chapter Six    A Visit to Mac’s
Chapter Seven    A Promise Given; A Promise Taken
Chapter Eight    The Parting of Ways
 
 
I cannot imagine that anyone would not desire to know or remember the fantasy of his or her youth. I cannot imagine that anyone would not want to remember his or her coming of age. I cannot imagine that anyone would choose to forget those wild, adventurous, yet perilous times that were our youth. I cannot imagine that anyone would choose to forego such an education in life. But yet I know that there are many who will choose to remain ignorant and dismissive of what it means to be growing up. This is my attempt to give those times a bit of grace, a touch of budding maturity, and a bit of fantasy. In the end, you will see that only love can protect and bind us together—that only self-realization can make us who and what we are. I hold that only the experiences of youth subtly but powerfully act upon us, shifting us into the thread and fabric of who we will become.
In the early years of youth, we attempt to overcome our fears. We attempt to define ourselves and shape our circle of friends. In this ongoing struggle, we may grow to become arrogant, mindless, or shiftless, or perhaps all the aforesaid! Taking a different pathway, we may choose to become more positive, more productive, more reflective, poignant, self-sustaining, even self-effacing. Some of these are greater virtues, yet they are all parts of youth. So broad and true are these features of life.
I would take great pleasure if you would story with me through these pages. Step back in time and take part in my moral fantasy. I hope that you will come to know P’found’s selflessness. I hope that you will find joy with their four-legged friend, Mudhead. I hope that you will relish in Feather’s love. I hope that you will enjoy in your long life a friend who would be as rock solid as Mac. This musing is about all of those tiddlings and morsels of life’s experiences captured in those few short years. This musing is a moral lesson, a moral fantasy, a journey through memories, and in the end, a finding of truth.
CHAPTER ON E The Great Golden
How time seems to drift slowly onward, carefree, secretly secure within its hallowed self. Flowing endlessly through the billowing, towering springtime clouds, glimpses of time’s mysteries are displayed within their broad earthly bound shadows. Their unassuming ethereal masses of vapor seem to pause briefly overhead to cast vagabond-like shadows upon the cool green earth. With voiceless whispers, their shadows pass their carnival meanings earthward to be molded into grand human imaginations. Beckoned to the call of their soft winds, leaves waver. Grand white boughs of towering cumulus clouds drift slowly eastward, seeking to enthrall one’s senses with grand, wild imaginations! Whispering in shades of white and gray, their vagaries would portend a summer that would become nothing more than lazy, wistful summertime childhood wishes.
Wanting that a dream seed in the winds of the mighty clouds might grow, a young lad lay sleeping in the comfort of his dreams. High up in the trees, the warm summer’s breezes were a comfort to the leaves. In the streets far below, the air was calm and time was idle. The movements of the neighborhood people were casual about their business goings-on. The small hamlet was alive, radios played softly from distant open windows. Rich, vibrant yellow beams of the morning sun began to find their way into many a kitchen window.
Slowly but purposefully, the townspeople drifted here and there, in this door and out the other, each following their set routine about, making their way in this toil that is life. Below this neighborhood of peoples, just a few city blocks set away from the mainstream of commerce that was the center of town, was the older part of the city. Over the decades it had become a neighborhood unto itself, a microcosm of old wives’ tales and folklore. An old, odd white-haired man—a shabbily dressed, a fedora-clad old man—hobbled with a lazy gate toward the juncture of Chestnut and Baxter streets. His inquisitive and pensive gaze took in the closely spaced red lead-painted two story homes. These structures were the black, shiny tar-papered roofs of Tannery Row. The old man’s feeble ears sensed the soft toned murmurings of the human traffic on the street. Not so far away and from the opposite side of the street, a young lad approached. His face was cheerful and his step was light afoot.
His demeanor was decidedly pointless and carefree. His mind was clearly alight with imagination and creation. As they approached one another to this unavoidable meeting, both rested their eyes away from a possible, embarrassing direct eye-to-eye contact. Both searched the pavement for a moment of social grace. The brief pressure of their ungainly encounter had nearly passed when the old man turned and spoke in a delightful voice that was full of carnival passion: “Wye, fine summer’s morning to ya, young man! Have you just a few minutes?” Putting his hands into his pockets, he pulled at the inner linings. Quickly, he turned his pockets inside out and glanced downward. Several pieces of green lint and old breadcrumbs spilled out and drifted slowly onto the roadway. “Wye, as you can see, I have all the time in the world!” Between his words, the old man laughed heartily. “Haven’t even a thin dime! Mind you, not a penny! Who needs money anyway?”
For a small, diminutive man, his roaring laughter threatened to bring the whole street to their windows. The old man paused, awaiting the lad’s response.
The young man was so taken aback by the old man’s statement. “Minutes, minutes, do I have minutes?” he silently asked of himself. Cautiously, he softly answered, “Yes, but not long. The day is new and I have things to do. I’ve got to get on home.”
The old man snapped his fingers with joy and swiftly replied, “Well, then, just walk along with me a short while. Walk up this street you call Chestnut. Wye, grant me just a little time and I will tell you a story.” Reaching as high and as far as his shaky arms and crocked, wrinkled fingers could point, the old man gestured skyward. He exclaimed, “See where it begins? It begins somewhere up there in those clouds!”
The young lad strained and gazed anxiously upward. His mind tingled with anticipation.
As the old man began to spin his tale, his gate grew stronger, his shoulders became higher and straighter. He walked aside the lad and began to gesture wildly and descriptively with his arms and hands. Amazingly renewed, the old man began to swagger with confidence. Looking down to the young man’s expectant, delightful face, he posed a simple but yet most grand question: “What is life but the breath of every day?”
The young lad was instantly taken in by the old man’s soft-spoken but commanding words. Pursing his lips and touching the tips of his fingers to them, he paused, then continued: “Listen now.”
Through the register in the center of the floor came a waft of warm air, and with it came the enticing aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee. By this aroma the young lad was awakened from his night’s sleep. There came to him a visceral comfort. The smell of freshly baked apple pastries taken from the wood-fired oven filled his nostrils and made him agreeably hungry.
Waking, quickly coming to his senses, he rubbed the sleep sand from his eyes. Looking about, he could see that morning and the household was well alive and underway! A brief but bright golden ray of sunshine had presented itself upon the far bedroom wall as it streamed warmly across the window shade. Still a bit drowsy with sleep, he thought to himself, “It may be the month of June, early June, or perhaps a day early in July?” With great pleasure he mused, “Doesn’t matter the day—school is out! It is summer time!” He was free—free to pursue whatever and wherever his endeavor might lead! “Why should I concern myself with the date or even the time of day?” The summer is long and the summer days he had recently come to know were long. Long,