I
had the opportunity to go hunting the other day. It is late fall and the evenings
are crisp and cold. It’s the time of year when the deer are skittish and fear to
come out of the woods and into the clearings.
My
son-in-law took me to his family property. It is a large swath of land in the
middle of a neighboring county. I learned the land was once a plantation site
before and during the Civil War. The heirs of the slaves from the plantation still
live in dotted plots of land around the area.
We
arrived a couple of hours before dusk. The tree tops held full sun as the
filtered light pooled on the floor of the mixed pine and oak forest. We detoured onto a church
property that sat abut to the hunting property. Its century old building held
onto the weight of time with ancient timbers and stone foundations.
We
drove behind the church on an old path that was being taken over by thorny
vines and low hanging pine branches. The thick layer of pine needles and leaves
surrendered under our truck tires as we idled our way toward an ancient graveyard…
the graveyard of the landowner’s workers. Its thick walls were stacked with
large stones that were pulled from the country side and away from the fields. I
could feel the time and toil it took to complete the wall that surrounded us…
it was heavy with its own personal history.
The
hand forged gate was pinned into square pillars that stood as high as my arms
could reach… I slid a loose stone back into its intended place on the pillar’s
top knowing it will be secure for another generation. Inside, I rubbed my hands across the chiseled
names of souls that lived and worked on this land in the eve of the 18th
century. I could only imagine their life's journey.
We
made our way into our deer stand and sat in the silence… only hearing the
movement of small birds as they foraged under the crisp fallen leaves. We sat
quiet for an afternoon looking for movement in nature, but I found something I
wasn’t looking for…
Shannon
R Killman
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