On the spur of the moment, I took a stroll to the park across the street, to explore it some more. It was a perfect fall day for me, at just the right temperature, and I wanted to do something different to break up my humdrum existence I now have. What I discovered in this adventurous stroll, was my roots.

I started exploring the woods, and found a hiking trail that ran by the Milwaukee River. I watched the squirrels ground feed, and didn't appear too alarmed by my presence, making token runs to the tree, but then jump back on the ground to feed again almost immediately. There were hundreds of them, nice grays, with their winter coats, and fat. Two bikers drove by on that trail, and my mind immediately thought of "Lance Wannabes," yuppies who think they are something with their high dollar bikes, riding nowhere in life. To me, it is strange.

I caught glimpses of the river through the underbrush, and decided to head straight towards it, going down embankments, through the brush. I found a stand of old paper birch, and ran my hand down the bark, recalling my younger days when they amazed me. The same with the old maples, and others I had long forgotten what their names were; I touched the leaves, caressed the bark, and enjoyed the brilliant oranges of lone trees.

I ran my hands through the soil, rich, black, a thing I remembered from long ago in my youth. I remember when I was in Arkansas, and ordered a load of topsoil from a contractor, and he brought me a load of light brown soil. I asked him what that was, he said, "It's topsoil boy." I looked at him kind of funny, and asked him where the dark black soil was? "You're in the south boy, that IS our topsoil." I didn't realize how much I missed good, rich, deep, black soil, the kind that you can run through your fingers, and it tells you, this is good earth.

As I shuffled my feet through the leaves, enjoying the coolness of the fall air, I was reminded of my walks in the distant past with Josh. There are always a lot of good memories with him. Then I found the hiking trail alongside the river, and stepped to the banks, and saw the ducks on the water, ducking, swimming, without a care in the world. I watched them for a while, and reminded myself to bring corn to feed them at some time in the future. As I watched them, my mind wandered to a time of splitting firewood, smoke in the air, wood burning fireplaces, and hot chocolate. This is my time of year, this is my season. This is me. Something caught the corner of my eye of movement in the water, and I thought a duck dove under, but it never made it back up, and wondered if something swallowed him underneath. It left me wondering, but I decided to continue down the trail.

I discovered flagstone steps, and wooden bridges, and was reminded of my days in the Youth Conservation Corp of my youth in Wisconsin. We built things for the enjoyment of others. I ran my hands along the old wood beams, and looked at in detail the construction methods of how it was built. I told myself, that I'll have something like that one day, on my own land, in the woods. Then I heard the rapids, which surprised me, as I thought this river would be sedate and meandering. I stepped to the waters edge, and was going to put my hand in the river to see how cold it was, and slipped on mud, almost making a dive into the water. I caught myself with one step, and had to laugh at myself, mud all over my shoes, and then I remembered a time I did fall into the stream that was cold, along with Josh. Another time, in a moment of love and joy I miss greatly.

I was surprised to see a massive fish near the edge of the rapids, and then knew what caught my eye earlier was another fish that broke the surface. It was a Walleye Pike, and this sucker had to be at least a two and a half foot long. Then I saw the leapers, more fish of varying size, trying to jump the rocks to get up past the rapids to go upstream in the deeper waters. It was amazing to watch them, and immediately thought of the Indians who lived long ago, trying to wade in the waters to spear or snag them. My mind raced as to how to create a net to catch them, and then became humored as to mans' ingenuity to live daily life, living in simpler times, trying to survive, with the things God created and gave us to have. He is amazing, as to what He created, in this place we call home. I watched the fish body slam against the stone, to rest a bit, and then try again. It amazes me as to the traffic pattern in this watery highway, and I looked for the best avenue of approach that the fish could take, like I was going to be able to communicate with them as to how they should do it. I had to laugh at myself.

Quietly leaving this behind me, I vowed to myself that I would return, perhaps to camp, or to sit idly and dream of things to come, and things of the past. As the mist of the approaching dark clouds spit their little drops, I knew it was time to go back to my apartment, a place I temporarily call home. I have now realized that I have discovered my roots, something I took for granted, and now took me forty years of wandering in the desert of life, to return to. My roots are the woods, the leaves, the splitting of the firewood, and wood burning stoves with hot chocolate. It is the shuffling of the feet through fallen leaves, hearing the sound that is unique to those fallen leaves. Everything has a sound, it is called life. It is the music to the soul that keeps us alive. It is the dark earth, fish in the water and memories of the past, which help us, survive the turmoil of the day, and gives us hope to what lies ahead. That is my roots, to which I have returned to. And now I realize that I have to leave here one day, and build or find a place, in the woods, where I belong.

© Copyright 2005 Jon C. Randall
-All Rights Reserved-

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