Authors: Brian MacLearn
Grandpa stood there with his impish grin with a “gotcha good” look in his eyes. All he said was, “Practice makes perfect,” and smiled even more.
I couldn’t help but smile back. As my face reddened, I replied, “Thanks Grandpa…for everything.” Before he left me alone with the tree, he pointed to the top of his workbench. He wanted to make sure I knew all of his tools were completely at my disposal to use. He even set out an old tool box, now empty, for me if I needed something to carry tools or supplies in.
He reached out his hand to me and I instinctively followed suit, shaking his hand firm as he said
earnestly, “Good luck, Son.” With that comment, he let go of my hand and headed out of the basement. I stared at the big chuck of wood and tried to envision what the heart might look like and how I would ever get it done, let alone, even started. I took a deep breath and blew out
phew
as I contemplated the immense task I had placed on myself. I also felt the pull to begin and the burning desire to follow through on what was, undoubtedly, the most important undertaking of my life.
Allison and her parents invited me over to their house for supper on the night before they left to go to Ohio. Mr. Dittmer furrowed his brow as he shook my hand when I entered the front door. Allison’s dad believed in the necessity of being mannered. It always made me smile, and I never got tired of hearing him call me young master Owens, as he shook my hand. This time, the words never made it out of his mouth; instead, he held on to my hand, carefully examining the many little cuts and scrapes, some of which were deep and red with possible infection.
“You and your grandpa working on a project?” he asked, as he let my hand slip from his. He waited for me to make eye contact with him so he could read my look.
Shrugging and smiling earnestly, I responded, “Nope, just a little something I’ve been working on, all by myself.”
Thankfully, and in the nick of time, Allison rounded the corner and flung herself into my arms, giving me a welcome hug and an excuse to bow out of the conversation with her father. I let her wisk me away into the kitchen where her mom had prepared a magnificent feast. On the table sat a pan of lasagna, spaghetti with her homemade sauce, and a salad bowl heaped to overflowing. Two large loaves of garlic bread were just coming out of the oven when we walked in. I caught the whiff of the garlic and melted butter and instantly my stomach began growling.
Without a word, we all sat in our respective places. It seemed funny to me that I had my own place at the table and no longer needed to be shown to my spot. The table chatter criss-crossed me as the Dittmers controlled the topic, choosing to discuss their upcoming trip. Only once during the meal did the discussion turn to the nicks on my hand. As I passed him the garlic bread, Mr. Dittmer once again noticed the scrapes and casually asked me what great undertaking I was working on. Several thoughts passed quickly through my head, but I didn’t get the chance to answer, as Allison interrupted the moment. She had just remembered a hot news item from school and felt the need to get everyone up to speed. We all looked at her as she excitedly proclaimed the madrigal group to be the best ever, so christened by the choir director. What really had her bouncing was her news on one of the songs they were going to perform. She had been given a small solo part. We all gave her a resounding cheer and I smiled, glad to see her so happy. Her mother asked her who all the members of the group were and I was surprised, to say the least, when she rattled off Nick’s name.
Since the musical, when all the flack had been aired, things had been much smoother between Nick and me. But knowing he was going to be spending time with Allison, away from me, and in distance place from here, didn’t sit right. I had that gnawing feeling in my gut and it had sharp teeth. Call it jealousy, but I knew that Nick would never go away quietly, and all my intuition told me I wasn’t going to like the outcome of the Chicago trip. I smiled the most sincere smile I could, as Allison continued on with her excitement about the madrigal group and the upcoming trip. Soon, the conversation turned to prom and the dress she had purchased. Her mom and dad both looked at me, as Mr. Dittmer wanted to know if she’d been asked yet or not. I could bet my face was candy-apple red and getting redder by the second, as Allison fed my harassment by telling them that she had several offers to choose from, but was still deciding on which one to go with. She wasn’t certain, but there might be a few new offers coming soon.
I knew better than to try and outwit the three of them and say something that would only wedge my foot firmly in my mouth. I let them poke a little more fun at me and just offered a silly grin in response. Everyone helped clear the table, and I stayed close to Allison to avoid any chance of Mr. Dittmer getting me in a proverbial corner. We spent most of the night in the company of her parents, watching a movie on television and sharing casual conversation. At the end of the movie, Stacy Dittmer gave Allison a look that even I could catch the meaning of…time to wrap it up and call it a night. Hand in hand we walked out onto the front porch. The evening air was chilly, and I could see my breath, as I exhaled through my mouth. Allison burrowed her way as close to me as she could, and I wrapped my arms tightly around her. Suddenly, I didn’t feel the cold at all and I didn’t want to let her go…ever.
We stood silently for a few minute, and then she lifted her head so we could share what I would always remember as the best goodnight kiss, ever. Years later, I would remember that kiss on many a lonely night and draw strength and sadness from its memory. I held Allison close to me, as if some sixth sense tried to tell me that if I let her go, my world would cease to exist. Her mom broke up the moment by swinging open the interior front door and politely telling me, “Goodnight.”
The next morning, I woke from one of those dreams that seemed all too real. In my dream, I was on stage performing a song I had never heard before and the audience before me was silent, as they listened to me sing along with my guitar. It was the type of soulful song that makes even the sturdiest of men
emotional
, and in the front row sat Allison, her eyes locked on me and mouthing the words, “I love you!” I strained my memory to recall the song or even the words from my dream, but they were gone with the night in the morning sun.
After eating a bowl of cereal and drinking half a carton of orange juice, I made my way into the basement to assess or reassess the progress on the chunk of tree waiting for me there. True to his word, Grandpa had stayed away from the basement, allowing me the all the privacy I needed. I flipped on the fluorescent light over the workbench and surveyed my handiwork. I had carved up a little over half of the tree section, which I had deemed usable. My first attempt had been laughable at best, but with each new effort, the progress and quality was eminently evident. My last crack at the tree had been by far the most rewarding, and I felt that I was almost there…almost. I would never pass for a sculptor and, for some odd reason, I had inherited nothing of my grandma’s artistic flair for painting, but in my own way, the heart I had conceived in my mind, sketched on paper, and now attempted to carve on the tree was slowly coming into existence before me.
I knew it needed that
something
to make it right, but I was at a loss to know what it was. It was a feeling that kept crawling up the back of my neck and fiddling with my brain, nagging at me until I had to step away from the workbench and take a break. It surprised me when I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. I was planning on heading up to the tree in Murphy’s meadow. I wanted to survey the tree for the right spot, even though I had pretty much decided on it years before. It would be more of a quest to ready myself for the task at hand and to prepare myself mentally.
I headed upstairs and grabbed a sweatshirt out of my room, along with my windbreaker. The weather outside had turned cloudy, and it looked like it could rain. I don’t know why, but as I made my way down the path to the creek, I continually peered back over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching me or following along behind. I had the strangest sensation that I was being watched. Once across the creek, the feeling intensified, and I decided to test my intuition by taking a long detour. Cutting across the timber below Murphy’s meadow, I picked up my pace and skirted along the limestone bluff that had always been a place of daring and intrigue. It had a natural, shallow cave that had beckoned to me and many of my friends and probably lots of other kids down through the years. I followed the path along the bottom and then climbed quickly up the other side, until I broached the top. I took up a lookout position, lying flat on my stomach, just out of sight from anyone looking up from below. I lay prone and silent for several minutes, keeping my eyes trained on the path back towards the meadow, and my ears zeroed in on any irregular sounds. After nearly ten minutes, I was ready to give up and chalk it up to my nerves and overly-active imagination when I heard several twig snaps, which could only have come from someone stepping on them.
Whoever it was had tried to be even more stealthy than I had. Instead of following the path, they had moved farther down the hill and were coming up the terrain from my left. I rearranged my position so I could follow their movements without being compromised. With the dimness from the weather and the denseness of the trees, it made it difficult to see too far off. I strained my eyes to catch the slightest movement from the direction I heard the twig snapping sounds come from. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the crunch of brush and the snort from a large doe, not more than twenty feet from me, rattled me from my intense concentration. My heartbeat subsided as I watched her sniff the air and move off, away from my hiding place. I stayed put for a few minutes longer to make sure there wasn’t anything or anyone else out there. Satisfied, I rose from where I had been lying and headed uphill, through the trees, towards Murphy’s meadow.
I no longer had the feeling of being watched, but I still remained cautious, not wanting to be caught off guard. I broke the tree line into the meadow and caught sight of the beautiful old oak, as he presided over the forest, from his perch at the top of the hill. Today, the first sight of
it
caused a new feeling within me, one I could only describe as, immenseness. It wasn’t only the tree that caused this feeling; it was the undertaking I was about to begin and the inherent meaning that went with it. Once I carved the heart on the trunk of the tree it would be there until the tree itself ceased to be. How many years would others gaze upon my heart? Probably long after I had ceased to exist. As I stood there, looking up the hill towards the guardian of the meadow, I suddenly felt humbled by the task before me. Inspiration struck, and it came to me what the missing piece was I had been searching for to complete my heart.
I took my time walking up the hill, my mind full of visions and memories of my past. I ducked under the largest of the branches stretching out from the main trunk. Standing on the backside of the tree, where both my grandfather and father had placed their hearts, I faced my destiny. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel any anger towards my father; this wasn’t the time or place to harbor it. I needed to be of right mind. I wanted to embrace all my feelings of happiness and love as I carved my heart and to do so with a pure conscience. I don’t know why I felt this, but I did. For whatever reason, it seemed right and important to do so.
I’d touched the hearts of my father and grandfather many times in my life, but today it was different, somehow more meaningful. I let my fingers trace the outline of each heart and read the words permanently enshrined there. “For Your Love I Would Cross Any Ocean,” and “You Are The Song That Fills My Heart.” My heart began to beat faster as I raised my fingertips to the spot where I would soon begin to make my own little piece of Owens’ history. I rested both palms on the designated spot on the trunk of the tree, fingers spread wide and the thumbs stretching out to touch each other. It was a rather simplistic way to measure out the width of my heart, but it made me smile nonetheless, as I quickly ascertained that Allison’s
and my heart would fit perfectly. I stood back from the trunk of the tree and, in my mind, willed the bark away to reveal the wood canvas below. I pictured the exposed trunk, neatly smoothed down and our heart beautifully finished on it. I felt the pangs of excitement and nervousness jet through my body. According to the weatherman, tomorrow would be the perfect day to start, sunny, with a moderate breeze. I mentally packed my tool kit and prepared myself for the days ahead. I knew tonight would be one of those where sleep wouldn’t come easily.
I was totally lost in my thoughts, making my way back down the hill to my grandparents’ house. When I stood in the kitchen, facing Grandma, it was her voice jolting me back to reality. I looked around sheepishly, shrugging at Grandma Sarah, as she asked me again for the third time, if I was hungry. She made sure that I knew it was the third time she’d asked me, too. I nodded yes, even though I wasn’t hungry at all; my insides were still in “Allison Land.” By the time she had made me an extra large chicken salad sandwich with all the trimmings, I was back in the present and suddenly very hungry. I found a way to devour the sandwich in record time.
Grandma would always smile at my appetite and add little jabs and digs to poke fun at me. This time she said, “Thank God you aren’t twins or there wouldn’t ever be food left for Grandpa and me.”
I smiled and asked her if she still had any leftover apple pie? She chuckled and went over to the counter by the sink. She picked up a plate with a large piece of apple pie all ready cut. Grabbing a fork out of the silverware drawer, she set the plate in front of me. Grandma Sarah squeezed my shoulders with both hands, before kissing me on top of my head.