Thoughts From A Chair by Jennifer Nordberg
_____________________________________________________

"In The Woods A Daisy Bloomed"

  I came across the old house as I hiked through the north woods. It had not been
lived in for at least sixty years by the looks of things. The house was surrounded
by trees and entangled in vines, as if the woods were trying to knit it into their 
arboreal blanket. The siding appeared to be hand-hewn; the front steps were 
rickety. I tried the doorknob. It came off in my hand. I pushed against the door. 
I heard a low creak as it eased open on its rusty hinges. I stepped into the front 
room of a mostly empty home. I could imagine that this was once a cozy cottage 
tucked away here in the woods.
  A few pieces of furniture remained in the front room. These appeared weathered 
from all the cold winters and warm summers spent without climate control. In one
corner sat the remnants of a wooden rocking chair. One of its old rockers lay on
its side on the floor beneath the chair like a frown. The wicker of the seat was 
long gone, probably taken to be used by birds and mice for bedding many years 
ago.
  Next to the rocking chair sat a round-topped table. It appeared to be solid 
maple. Why had the owners left this behind? It was probably beautiful when it 
was newer. The years had done away with the varnish, and the weathering ruined 
the wood surface. It was sad to see.
  Walking into the dining room, I was stopped in my tracks by the floor-to-ceiling 
rock fireplace. It was hand-made, one stone at a time. Each stone was about the 
size of a large grape fruit. The builder must have collected these from the river I 
passed a couple of miles back and carried them here in a cart. Whoever it was,
he went to a great deal of work to make this fireplace.
  I walked through a crumbling arched doorway. This room was the kitchen. On 
the floor was aging, cracked linoleum. It curled along the cracks. A rust-stained 
porcelain sink stood under the window, and an old oven had a tiny window in the 
front. The window was missing its "glass", although I do not think it was really 
made of glass, since they could not temper it to resist heat back in those days. I 
recall my father saying he thought they made the windows out of a mineral called 
mica, and that it was very fragile when it was hot.
  A door led off the kitchen. It opened to a small fruit cellar. It smelled cool and 
damp down there. I did not want to see what was in the cellar -- too creepy.
  Back in the kitchen, I noticed a few dishes in a cupboard. They were beautiful, 
white with small green and pink roses painted on the boarders. Why did the
woman leave these behind?
  On a shelf in the cupboard next to the sink, I saw a large, empty quart-sized jar. 
It was not entirely empty, though. A black mouse sat inside. It appeared the mouse
was looking for a midnight snack and fell into the empty jar. It had probably only 
been there since last night. I took down the jar, carried it outdoors, and laid it on
its side. The mouse left in a flash. It never looked back as it made tracks into a pile
of brush between two trees.
  I brought the jar back into the house and laid it on its side so that would not trap 
anything else that happened to hop, crawl, or slither along into it.
  Walking through the kitchen and front room, I came upon the house's only 
bedroom. There stood the remains of a large bed frame, in great disrepair. Against 
one wall was a tall chest of drawers. Next to the bed on the wall side was a baby's
crib. This must have been the side the mother slept on, to be near the baby.
  What happened? Why did they leave? Where did they go? Did something happen
to the child? I saw something under the crib. It was a child's faded wooden toy 
block.
  I suppose I have no way to find out the answers to any of those questions. 
Whatever had happened was over and done with long ago, probably before I was 
born. I felt a bit sad thinking about this. Someone had brought his family out to the 
woods to begin a new life, only to have to abandon it, most likely before they 
wanted to.
  I looked out the bedroom's one window. It was small, and had a view of the 
woods and the hills beyond. About thirty yards from the house, covered in ivy vines,
I saw a small stone cross. There was my answer. No wonder they left.
  Suddenly, I felt uncomfortable standing in their bedroom. It was as if I was digging 
through their underwear drawer or snooping through their medicine cabinet. This 
was a private place and I felt a bit red-faced to be here just strolling through their 
private sorrows. It was suddenly time for me to go. As I left, I stopped by the 
small stone cross to say a prayer. There was a name on it. It simply said "Daisy."

by Jennifer Nordberg      copyright 2003

RETURN

.