Thanksgiving Post Card #1

 

My "Old Friend"

23 November

The first day of the break, after a little writing and work in the morning, I went to Kings Gap to have a ramble. As I passed our local supermarket, I watched rude and impatient drivers taunt one another. It feels like we are living in a graceless age. The only time that people enthusiastically thank me, it seems, is when there is a commercial transaction. I am left with the thought that the gratitude was only part of their job.

As I turned into the park and noticed the sign warning that it was hunting season, I cursed under my breathe. I forgot to bring anything to wear that was orange for protection. I kept to the area around the mansion, which is a no hunting zone. I wandered, somewhat aimlessly, looking for pileated woodpeckers but happy to see any wildlife.

I stopped by to see my “old friend,” a black gum tree with a hollowed-out trunk that looks like it stands precariously. It sits along Rock Scree Trail, near the conjunction of several other trails. I usually stop by before the winter sets in and early in the spring to see if it is still standing. I check on it because I know its days are numbered and I worry that wind will take it down eventually. Trees in a forest will help one another in interesting ways, according to Peter Wohlleben. I like the idea that other trees will share nutrients and water with distressed and aging neighbors.

Lone trees are on their own and I like to photograph solitary trees because it is easier to capture their intricacies and majesty. Especially in the autumn and winter, photographs can be stunning. Yet, every time I photograph a solitary tree, I think about how Wohlleben describes them as being alone and without support.

During the summer I started spending time sitting on a bench in mansion garden to watch and photograph birds. It was a little chilly, but I did so again on this day before Thanksgiving. The longer I sat, the more birdsong I heard. Because I was sitting with my back to the sun, I could see the shadows of birds fly across my field of vision. By November, the chipmunks are sleeping. The cardinals, unseen, could be heard in the not-too-far distance.