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The sycamore that refused to remain a martin pole.
One fine day in late winter, the sun was shining, hinting at the wonder of a spring yet to arrive; and a young boy grew restless. Dale was thirteen and lived with his Dad Dave, his Mom Nancy, three younger sisters; Hortense, Carmen and Davilee, and a younger brother Wallace. They lived on a small ribbon of land along the Anglin Branch of Sextons Creek in Owsley County, Kentucky.
Life had packed a whole lot of experience into his thirteen years. He had helped raise gardens, tended tobacco bases, worked mules, tended to chickens, as well as smaller brothers and sisters, milked cows, hunted for food, helped to slaughter hogs, and helped break many a bean for his Mom to can for the long winters. Being the oldest living child of Nancy and Dave, he had known the births of his brothers and sisters. In fact, a new brother or sister would be arriving in a few months.
He had also known the sorrow that death brought as its gift. He had lost a baby brother Glen. Dale had only been two, and he couldn’t really remember Glen, but just this past year he’d lost a baby sister Wanda. Wanda’s death had jiggled his memory a bit when the same pall of sadness had hung over his home yet again. His Grandma Jane had just died this month, not even eight months after her husband Garrett had passed on.
Births and deaths were both mighty big events, but Dale marveled at how the little routine events of life quietly continued on in spite of the big ones. He reckoned that that was maybe a good thing. Maybe Mom and Dad would just be too busy taking care of those little things so the big things couldn’t burden them too much.
On this late winter day, Dale was filled with restlessness. The winter tended to keep them inside a little more than in the summer. Oh, they still spent lots of time outdoors, sledding when there was a good snow. They would drag the sled up the steep bank behind the house, slide down the hill and turn the sled to run along the frozen creek bed. Their Dad Dave would chop a hole in the ice so the animals could drink. Dale and his siblings nicknamed this hole the “hell hole”. They tried their best to avoid the hell hole on their sled runs, but occasionally someone would have to take a quick break to run in and change clothes before trying again. They also went hunting; they’d hunt for squirrels, possums, groundhogs and sometimes they even would tree the rare coon. Sometimes they would go traipsing through the woods, just to be outside so as not to be cooped up inside.
On this day, there wasn’t a snow to sled on, and none of the other winter activities interested him. He sat outside on the back porch step, holding a tobacco stick in his hand tapping it periodically into the ground. The warm sun was softening up the ground a bit. He stood after a moment and then squatted down, sitting on his heels. He began to daydream of the warm days of spring, followed by the hot days of summer when the feel of the cool water in the swimming hole would be welcome.
But right now, he was a tad tired of the cold. He was getting spring fever and wanted to do something different, something he hadn’t done before. Dale stood up and began walking. He took his tobacco stick with him and used it as a walking stick. He walked up the path that led to the outhouse and continued on past the barn and the outhouse, walking along the bank of the creek.
Dale walked on up along the creek bottom and began to notice several small sycamore trees along the creek bank. He saw one, in particular, that was nice and straight and not too awful big. He thought about the pile of wood planks laying in the barn. They would use those planks to make a new feed trough for the animals or a new sled to race down a snowy bank. An idea began to form in the back of Dale’s mind, an idea that kept inching closer and closer to the front of his mind. Finally, that idea sunk its hooks right into Dale’s brain and he enthusiastically decided what he was itching to do this fine “almost spring” winter day. He was going to build a martin house!
Dale dropped his tobacco stick and ran back to the barn. He checked the plank pile, carefully selecting this one; casting aside that one. When he had enough planks, he realized that he was hungry and ran back to the house to see if dinner might be ready. As he ran up the step and onto the back porch, his Dad opened the door. Dave had just been about to hunt Dale up for dinner. The smell of Nancy’s cornbread, beans and taters temporarily made Dale forget his project, and with his mouth-watering he washed up and then ran to the table where his parents and siblings now sat.
The family began eating and all was pretty quiet except for the sound of a fork on the plate or a glass clunking on the tabletop. Dale hurriedly cleaned his plate of beans, taters and hot cornbread washing them down with a cool glass of milk. He began to excitedly tell his Dad about his project. Dale’s younger siblings started jumping in with questions about the project: What would it look like? Where would he put it? How many martins would it hold? Their father quietly interjected; “Now let your vittles stop your mouths.” This quieted them down until after dinner when Dale got the go-ahead from his Dad to make the martin house. Dale’s sister Hortense began helping their Mom Nancy clean up after dinner, but his other siblings were all anxious to hear about this martin house and just what role in its making they would have. Dale began to think that he should’ve kept his project to himself. He began to downplay the adventure of its construction and up play the enjoyment of watching the martins after the fact.
On this late winter day, Dale was filled with restlessness. The winter tended to keep them inside a little more than in the summer. Oh, they still spent lots of time outdoors, sledding when there was a good snow. They would drag the sled up the steep bank behind the house, slide down the hill and turn the sled to run along the frozen creek bed. Their Dad Dave would chop a hole in the ice so the animals could drink. Dale and his siblings nicknamed this hole the “hell hole”. They tried their best to avoid the hell hole on their sled runs, but occasionally someone would have to take a quick break to run in and change clothes before trying again. They also went hunting; they’d hunt for squirrels, possums, groundhogs and sometimes they even would tree the rare coon. Sometimes they would go traipsing through the woods, just to be outside so as not to be cooped up inside.
On this day, there wasn’t a snow to sled on, and none of the other winter activities interested him. He sat outside on the back porch step, holding a tobacco stick in his hand tapping it periodically into the ground. The warm sun was softening up the ground a bit. He stood after a moment and then squatted down, sitting on his heels. He began to daydream of the warm days of spring, followed by the hot days of summer when the feel of the cool water in the swimming hole would be welcome.
But right now, he was a tad tired of the cold. He was getting spring fever and wanted to do something different, something he hadn’t done before. Dale stood up and began walking. He took his tobacco stick with him and used it as a walking stick. He walked up the path that led to the outhouse and continued on past the barn and the outhouse, walking along the bank of the creek.
Dale walked on up along the creek bottom and began to notice several small sycamore trees along the creek bank. He saw one, in particular, that was nice and straight and not too awful big. He thought about the pile of wood planks laying in the barn. They would use those planks to make a new feed trough for the animals or a new sled to race down a snowy bank. An idea began to form in the back of Dale’s mind, an idea that kept inching closer and closer to the front of his mind. Finally, that idea sunk its hooks right into Dale’s brain and he enthusiastically decided what he was itching to do this fine “almost spring” winter day. He was going to build a martin house!
Dale dropped his tobacco stick and ran back to the barn. He checked the plank pile, carefully selecting this one; casting aside that one. When he had enough planks, he realized that he was hungry and ran back to the house to see if dinner might be ready. As he ran up the step and onto the back porch, his Dad opened the door. Dave had just been about to hunt Dale up for dinner. The smell of Nancy’s cornbread, beans and taters temporarily made Dale forget his project, and with his mouth-watering he washed up and then ran to the table where his parents and siblings now sat.
The family began eating and all was pretty quiet except for the sound of a fork on the plate or a glass clunking on the tabletop. Dale hurriedly cleaned his plate of beans, taters and hot cornbread washing them down with a cool glass of milk. He began to excitedly tell his Dad about his project. Dale’s younger siblings started jumping in with questions about the project: What would it look like? Where would he put it? How many martins would it hold? Their father quietly interjected; “Now let your vittles stop your mouths.” This quieted them down until after dinner when Dale got the go-ahead from his Dad to make the martin house. Dale’s sister Hortense began helping their Mom Nancy clean up after dinner, but his other siblings were all anxious to hear about this martin house and just what role in its making they would have. Dale began to think that he should’ve kept his project to himself. He began to downplay the adventure of its construction and up play the enjoyment of watching the martins after the fact.
Dale somehow managed to finish the construction of the little house without too much sibling interference. Next, he took an ax and went down past the barn and found the sycamore tree that had been his inspiration. It was only about six inches in diameter at its base, but it was at least fifteen-twenty feet tall; tall enough for a martin house. Dale chopped at the base of the tree trunk until it fell with a thud onto the ground alongside the creek bed. He began working on the branches, chopping them off one by one. Before a couple hours had passed, he was dragging his martin box pole up along the creekside, past the outhouse, past the barn and on up the path to the edge of the back yard.
Now came the digging of the hole to put the martin house pole in. Where were the siblings when you really needed them? Dale took the post hole digger and began digging. It wasn’t the most fun part of the project, but it had to be done. When the hole was deep enough, Dale took the post hole digger back to the barn where he retrieved his finished martin house, the hammer, and a few nails. He carefully carried his load back up to the back yard where the martin pole lay. Dave helped his son to nail the house securely to the flat surface of the pole top.
The sound of the hammering had caught the attention of the siblings and they came running out into the yard. They had heard about this martin house, now they were finally gonna get to see it. They eagerly awaited seeing the pole raised. After the house was secured to the pole, Dale and his Dad positioned the end of the pole into the hole and gradually began raising it up toward the sky. When it was upright in the hole, they began filling the hole with dirt and positioned rocks so that the pole stood oh so straight. They tamped down the ground and continued to add more earth until they no longer could. Dale’s sisters and his brother Wallace cheered and then looked expectantly at Dale, ”Now where are the martins?!”
Well, Dale’s martin house would soon provide a home to martins. The martins would lay their eggs, raise their families and then fly off only to return the next year. The martins did this for a couple years, but one year a snake, lured by the sound of baby martins made its way into the house and ate the babies. Dave shot the snake with a shotgun, killing it, but the martins would never return.
But that is not the end of the story. That pole took root in the moist sandy soil of the family’s back yard. What was once a sycamore tree and then a martin house pole became once again a sycamore tree. That small tree grew over the years into a majestic beauty.
Many years after the events in this story, Dave and Nancy’s granddaughter would walk beneath the sheltering branches of that tree and think of the wee little man Zacchaeus climbing such a tree to see Jesus. And years later, Dave and his grandson would stand on the back porch and shoot a twenty-two at the little balls that hung from its branches. Dave’s blue eyes would twinkle when his shot was followed by a small white cloud of poof!
Dave and Nancy passed away years ago. Their old home place is returning to the earth from which it sprang. Still, along the Anglin Branch, a majestic sycamore spreads its branches.
Now came the digging of the hole to put the martin house pole in. Where were the siblings when you really needed them? Dale took the post hole digger and began digging. It wasn’t the most fun part of the project, but it had to be done. When the hole was deep enough, Dale took the post hole digger back to the barn where he retrieved his finished martin house, the hammer, and a few nails. He carefully carried his load back up to the back yard where the martin pole lay. Dave helped his son to nail the house securely to the flat surface of the pole top.
The sound of the hammering had caught the attention of the siblings and they came running out into the yard. They had heard about this martin house, now they were finally gonna get to see it. They eagerly awaited seeing the pole raised. After the house was secured to the pole, Dale and his Dad positioned the end of the pole into the hole and gradually began raising it up toward the sky. When it was upright in the hole, they began filling the hole with dirt and positioned rocks so that the pole stood oh so straight. They tamped down the ground and continued to add more earth until they no longer could. Dale’s sisters and his brother Wallace cheered and then looked expectantly at Dale, ”Now where are the martins?!”
Well, Dale’s martin house would soon provide a home to martins. The martins would lay their eggs, raise their families and then fly off only to return the next year. The martins did this for a couple years, but one year a snake, lured by the sound of baby martins made its way into the house and ate the babies. Dave shot the snake with a shotgun, killing it, but the martins would never return.
But that is not the end of the story. That pole took root in the moist sandy soil of the family’s back yard. What was once a sycamore tree and then a martin house pole became once again a sycamore tree. That small tree grew over the years into a majestic beauty.
Many years after the events in this story, Dave and Nancy’s granddaughter would walk beneath the sheltering branches of that tree and think of the wee little man Zacchaeus climbing such a tree to see Jesus. And years later, Dave and his grandson would stand on the back porch and shoot a twenty-two at the little balls that hung from its branches. Dave’s blue eyes would twinkle when his shot was followed by a small white cloud of poof!
Dave and Nancy passed away years ago. Their old home place is returning to the earth from which it sprang. Still, along the Anglin Branch, a majestic sycamore spreads its branches.
Such a beautiful story
ReplyDeleteThank you so much. 🙂✌🏻
DeleteSuch a beautiful story.
ReplyDelete