Buckskin and Bear Fat
Had I listened as the chickadee sang of winter’s coming, I would have let my line stay cast a bit longer on those lazy summer days, or netted a few more salmon in cold spring waters. But I was mustered in the deck of love’s cards, feeling my own drizzle within lake shimmer and skies as blue as Egyptian Lapis.
Oh she was a beauty, all tanned and tall, red and black wool shirt, those short denim shorts and hiking boots that made her hips lift and fall just a bit more than required. I often wonder if she knew –- ? Probably. She was a smart cat.
I chuckle when I recall, but as it were, she could not stay as her time was short and that other world called her back.
Here, one becomes a true king over his domain, and there is no difference between 1810 and 2010 save the soft hum of a trolling motor near the river mouth where motors are still allowed.
Smoke curls from my log cabin chimney scenting the air with fresh pine and dry poplar, and my stew pot is filled with potatoes and carrots shaded and cooled in my homemade root cellar. Small bits of jerky, added for flavor, would be enough for now. I could add more meat and fish in the later months when the snows set in and hunting would be more difficult.
I don’t find I will be leaving here too soon as there is nothing much left for me out there. A few letters from my estranged brother perhaps, and tax bills. No, I’d just as soon feel this place a bit longer, trapped in a time warp with nothing but buck skin and bear fat to chew when Orion shines in a cold dark sky and all I have are my wits, an oil lamp and my memories.
© 2013 Pamela A. Lamppa