land, ho!

my father grew up in a country crossroad that when i was a child seemed like the prettiest little place on earth. he spent his first 17 years growing tall and fishing in wooded ponds, later working in the shop where his father sold Fords. when Daddy died, my brother told a story i had never heard. that when Daddy was working in the shop, my grandfather asked him to change the oil on a car, which he dutifully did. only he forgot to put new oil back into the car he was working on. so instead of inheriting the family business, my grandfather decided the boy who would become my daddy would be better off fixing people than fixing cars. so he sent my father to medical school.

i spent my childhood going back to my father's home, visiting my grandparents for a week during the summer. there is so much i remember about the place. the back yard swing where my grandfather used to push me into the sky. the storage house that smelled of moth balls but held a thousand treasures. the garden where we used to dig for potatoes and pick butter beans. the old shop, where we would sit in the showroom cars, turning the steering wheel and blinkers, then get cold cocolas from the old stoop-shouldered machine.

our visits also included 'going to ride,' which meant driving down quiet farm paths so my grandfather could check the crops growing on farms he had owned for some time. to my knowledge he didn't plant the rows himself, but he was overseer. one summer, he took friend Lydia and me down the path to see the largest hogs we'd ever seen in our lives.

over the years, as we headed to and from the beach, i would try to point out that farm but could never quite find it. then a couple of years ago, Daddy asked us to go back. 

though my grandparents have been gone for years, he wanted us to see the landmark of their legacy — the three small farms that are now leased, the land worked. Daddy wanted us to know where they were, so we would not forget. 

so we drove down country roads to the familiar places of my childhood and his. the first farm stands between my grandparents' burial place and their house, and that spring, before the crops went in, we could see their breakfast room window from their graves. 

and then down another road and a surprise. a family cemetery i had never seen, where my great-grandfather Moses Byrum is laid to rest. i still can't figure out why i never knew it was there.

and then, back to the farm where those hogs once grew, an expanse of winter wheat waving at us along the short drive toward the old house and barn. i watched, as Daddy's eyes scanned the horizon, the circle of land his father owned that now belonged, in part, to him. And i wondered what would become of it. 

turns out, Daddy knew. 

a few weeks ago, as we headed to the beach, we made a couple of stops with the kids. first, to the family cemetery where their great-great grandfather is buried. then on to the farm where as an 11-year-old, i had tried to pet a few gigantic pigs.

the kids took pictures, as i recounted my last visit there with their grandparents, Daddy in his favorite yellow sweater, Mama telling me how she tried to convince my grandfather to be more progressive and put indoor plumbing in the tenant house, almost 60 years before.

my siblings and i now own this farm with my aunt, my father's sister. Daddy gave us this land in his will. which i have to say was a big surprise. we did not expect anything... and though i always knew he loved this farm, i never imagined he would entrust its future to us. cityfolk though we all are.

i don't think i have ever owned anything outright. maybe a toaster. a book. a pair of shoes. but not land. 

land.

as i write this i don't know quite what to say. even after close to 25 years in our current house, the bank still owns a small part. cars? all loans, though one is coming close to being paid off. i know people who buy cars with cash, but we have never been able to do that. 

but cars are not the same as land.

land. 

the thing that drew the Israelites from Egypt and

 kept them going, 

the thing that kept Noah and Christopher Columbus in the boat, kept Scarlett O'Hara from losing her mind. (well, maybe not.) 

it is a small plot, considering. 

but it is ours. and it is land our father loved, and our grandfather before him, so there you have it.

we often joked in years past that we would one day own a third of a half of something — this land — just about enough to put a lawn chair on so we could watch the sunset on a summer Sunday afternoon.

guess i didn't count on it actually coming true. and now, though i am pretty sure where the sun will go down on a summer Sunday, i am wondering just where Daddy would want us to place those chairs.

susanbyrumrountree.com is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

summer sentence

it is on the third day

that the words come back,

letters long absent 

from your page, 

but as you figure out how

not to spill the water

as you pour it into the 

rented kitchen's coffeepot,

there they are, 

stretching ahead of you 

like line to a new boat, 

and you grab hold 

of that line

and hold on

because you know 

what's coming

finally coming,

so you think twice

about the pink sunrise

you saw just a bit

ago

as you scramble the eggs

and scratch the grandog's nose

butter your toast

and serve up breakfast 

for your kids who 

are almost never 

under the same roof

anymore,

and you think 

some more

as you

butter yourself up 

for a stretch out

in front of the ocean, 

when you

will crack open 

that new book

because you've already

read two 

in the past days 

as you listened 

to the ocean

talk to you 

for the first time 

in many, many months,

you catch yourself thinking again

that you are

relieved 

that the first book

is done because 

you feared

so for the woman

and the boy

in that story,

and you found yourself

weeping at the end 

of the second one

because you could

imagine how the man

and his wife, and 

the girl 

all felt 

at the end of that one,

and yes, 

you think still more

as you listen 

to the churning

of that blue ocean

and watch

the pink-tutued baby

next door dabble

in the saltwater puddle

at her feet

and remember when

the daughter sitting 

by you

with a book 

in her hand

was just that size,

doing just that thing,

dabbling, 

trying to 

carry 

a small bit of wave

in her tiny hands,

when you first brought

her to this beach...

so you take 

a short walk

in and out

of other people's vision,

those

lining to beach

propped under

a kaleidoscope

of umbrellas

watching

the gulls, 

the tattooed 

girls, 

lanky

 boys

skimming

the surf 

with their boards

and you wonder how they

can keep from

falling, 

and you peer to see

what other folks are reading

on iPads and phones and

in actual books,

like the weathered woman

sitting where the seafoam 

laps at her feet

who is in the final pages

of a good book about dogs,

so you walk on

and find yourself beneath

the pier, 

and at once you recall

your 

grandfather's

knotty 

fingers

cutting blood worms

with an old knife

on the splintered pier bench

then plying 

the bloody bits 

onto a hook 

for you 

to cast

over the side,

and you think 

how many times you 

watched the water

and felt the tug

not knowing whether it

was fish 

or foam

but you pulled it in 

surprised

at 

seaweed 

or silver fish

biting,

and as you think 

of those times 

all those years ago

you remember

your father's thin

tanned fingers as he 

stood on the pier

and slid his serrated

scaler on the surface

of the fish, 

the fingers of his other hand

holding tightly to the 

surprised

mouth and fins 

of the spot

or bream

as scales flew 

in every direction,

and you think of that summer

when he grew a beard

and you didn't like

that at all

or how that year,

the beach didn't 

seem to soothe him

like it always did,

and on your way back

you look out over 

the sea and the foam

and think of 

how many times 

you 

walked this beach

with your dad

and how this

is your first

time, really,

without him 

being here for

even a day or two, 

when you are

and there you

are, making new

prints in the 

moist sand

without him

by your side,

and as you make your way

back 

you 

wonder who

that girl was

so long ago who

wrote a story

about this place

that her daddy 

loved so, so much,

then you spy your children

sitting there

by the sea, 

your son's fresh beard

irritating you

just about as much

as your daddy's did, 

and you

think how

many more stories

there will be

to tell of this place

even though 

daddy can't

sink his 

narrow

toes 

in this 

sand 

anymore.

as writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

this one's for the birds

Ordinary joy. Our most profound joy is often experienced during ordinary moments. What was one of your most joyful ordinary moments this year?

Every morning as I make my coffee I look out at the birds. My mother taught me years ago how to know a common house wren from one called Carolina, a thrush from robin, catbird from mockingbird, junco from chickadee. I watch the towhee scratch for food on the ground, the nuthatch descending the tree head-down, and I thank my mother for one of the many simple joys of daily life she shares with me.

Bigdaddy & great-grandson, John, ca:1988

For bluebirds, I thank my grandfather. He used to raise them, if you can do such a thing, fashioning nesting boxes out of old pine, hanging them on the north side of the house, one in the small pine grove he planted when I was a child, just steps away from his front porch. On summer afternoons as we sat on the porch, splashes of blue flittered around the yard, father birds in and out of the boxes, feeding nesting mothers and later, growing broods.

When my husband and I bought a house in Atlanta, Bigdaddy brought me a handmade box, and we hung it on a tree in the back yard and waited. No bluebirds. We moved, taking the box along with us, rehung it, but nary a bluebird did we see. In 1989 we moved again, and once again I hung the box. No bird darkened the door for a year. One day before we had lived in the house for a year, Bigdaddy died. And on that morning as I was looking out my kitchen window, a flash of brilliant blue flittered through the yard. And landed on the door to the house. (I am NOT lying here.)

Sadly, he didn't stay, but I was hopeful. When the homemade box — not one of the fancy new ones — rotted, I reluctantly replaced it with a new one, moved the box a little more to the north side of our yard. Birds flittered through but never stayed. I put out meal worms, just like Bigdaddy did, and when a clutch took up in the plastic decorative box in my neighbor's back yard, they came to my house to feed. To bathe in the birdbath. Sort of like college students... it would be only a matter of time before they came home to stay. At least I hoped.

Eastern Bluebird, female —rountreemediaphotography

One morning earlier this year I scuffed into the kitchen, filled the coffee pot and looked outside. Blue, dancing through the yard caught my eye. A daddy bluebird was on the box. I watched, as he stood first at the door, then hopped in, his beak peeking out, then quickly, flew to stand on the box's top. I grabbed my binoculars, searched a nearby tree for Mama Blue, whom I knew was close at hand. And there she was, first on the top, then slipping so quickly inside I almost missed her. Back on the top, and the two danced a little jig, then flew away. Every morning after I kept watch, hating to leave for work for fear I would miss them if they returned. And then one day, in a flurry of wings and straw, they built a nest.

Years ago I bought a book on bluebirds, since my grandfather could no longer tell me how to raise them up. I knew now to knock before I opened the front door, but that it was ok to visit, to count. Each day I knocked, and each day I opened the door, first to find it empty. And then, joy! Two sky blue eggs. Then three. Then four. But Mama won't nowhere to be found.

Joy came again when I saw her on the top of the box. She flew inside. And stayed. Daddy flew in and out, keeping her sated. I brought more worms, and in the mornings, I knocked first, then sprinkled them on the top. Mama usually flew in from high up in the trees, out for her morning swirl, and watched. And before I was even steps away, she and Daddy stood there on the top, feeding.

Joy, again, when one day as I approached the box with my worms, I heard the tiniest chirps. Babies! I counted the days on my calendar, estimating when they might fledge, (16-21 days) worried I would miss it while I was at work.

But Mama bluebird was good to me. She waited to push those babies out of the nest on a day I was home and could watch. She sat in the dogwood, coaxing in a gentle voice, until one by one, they each took that first baby flight toward her, their soft freckled down fluttering. It seemed to take hours. And then suddenly, they were gone.

I kept feeding the worms. And my bluebird parents came back each morning for the feast.  At least for awhile. By midsummer, there was no sign of them, until one day, my father was visiting, and we noticed twigs coming out of the sides of the box. We opened the box to find not pine needles and straw but the makings of a nuthatch nest, which he advised me to remove, as there were no eggs inside. Within the week, my bluebird couple was back, and four more eggs took up residence. And I bought more worms.

This time I wasn't home when the babies fledged, but some weeks later when I looked out in the yard, four fat brown speckled birds, their feathers tinged with blue, slurped at the bird bath. 

And what do you know? Just now as I let the dogs outside, I see Mama Bluebird again, her head peering quickly into the box.


Joy abounds. Yes I can do just such a thing.