Today’s post comes from guest blogger, Scott Newport. The themes are spring, Easter, and the legacies we leave our children. The story is a precious memory of the days when Scott’s son Evan was still living. So join Scott and his hunting buddy on a tramp through the Kentucky woods.

If the Walls Could Talk, Part 1

Before I could say a word, my hunting buddy Dave had stopped and jumped out of the truck we were in. He grabbed a small disposable camera as he headed for an old log building.

“Hey Dave, what are you taking a picture of?” I asked.

Slowly, he turned his head and looked at me as though I should already know the answer and whispered, “I am taking a picture of a new-found home.”

A New-Found Home

I thought he must be crazy as he spoke, and I started to slip out of my seat. Maybe it was just another one of his southern sayings. You see, we were in the middle of a hundred or so acre, rolling hay field in southern Kentucky early one spring. We must have been on top of the tallest hill in Calloway County, as the view was just spectacular. We had been out hunting since before daybreak, and I shot a fattened turkey in the nearby woods for Easter Sunday supper. He thought it would be nice to have a picture of me, a Yankee, in front of an old, seemingly abandoned log cabin that was built in the 1800s.

I walked up to the overgrown brush still full of morning dew. I could see Dave, slightly crouched down and nestled behind the entanglement of honeysuckle. He put his finger to his lips to silence my footsteps and pointed with the other to a turkey vulture that had a nest in the top of the tipping, old rock chimney of the cabin. “Ahhh,” I whispered back. Now I knew what he was talking about.

The Cistern

After he took a picture of the vulture, and even a few of me with my hunting prize, he pointed to a clump of bushes and tall grass that hid the remnants of an old well or cistern. He pushed the limbs away as we both peeked down the well and, to my surprise, it was near full of water. I wondered how many buckets of water had been pulled out of there for a cool drink or maybe to do some dirty laundry after a hard day of working in the fields.

Inside the Cabin

Even though that was my first time at the cabin, it wasn’t his.  I knew there must have been many here before us. It was surely a legacy that had been passed down for generations. Before my imagination went wild with old tales of years gone by, he stepped on to the old wooden porch that still creaked – probably the same as it did the day it was built. He stepped inside and invited me to follow as he pointed to a hole in the floor. “Be careful,” he said, still keeping his voice down. The sound of the bird’s footsteps sounded as though a child was throwing small pebbles on to the tin roof.

As I cautiously looked around in amazement, I noticed half of the roof was missing. This allowed enough light to see the floor’s skeleton, which couldn’t hide the many hand- hewn logs. It was obvious the builder of this home was a fine craftsman. The house had only two rooms. The one in the front was the main room, and the one in the back must have been for sleeping. There was even an old wood-burning stove partially falling through the rotten floor. The walls were made of logs, and loose mortar – now homes for hornets – still filled the cracks.

If These Walls Could Talk

As we stepped off the corner of the porch, my southern buddy looked back at the home and said as he touched the walls, “If only these walls could talk they surely would have many stories to tell.” He then turned his whole body around as though he imagined we were both there on an Easter, maybe a hundreds years ago.

“Just imagine all the children who rested on this front porch after playing a game of tag or maybe throwing small stones down in the well just to hear the plunk and the echo of sound off the dirt walls,” he said.

I joked back at him. “I bet a few jugs of white lighting had been sipped here after a successful hunt, too.”

He laughed. “Yea, you’re probably right, but not today.”

I started to feel his imagination and love for the cabin. I even felt a little proud as though I just had brought home supper. I am sure there was no guarantee back in that day the father would be able to bring home the sustenance of life.

A Special Bond

This whole particular pioneer journey in my life began a few years back. You see, me and my southern buddy share more than just hunting stories and adventure, we also share a story few ever tell around a campfire or a Sunday get together. We both have a child with a terminal illness.  My son was still alive; his daughter, Lindsey, has gone but her memories will never be lost. We never talk much about it to each other but that’s why we are so close. We don’t have to talk about it.  We just know. Even though we live hundreds of miles apart, every time we get to meet, we are like brothers who have come home from a war few have fought. He is probably the only guy I hug.

Come Back Tomorrow

The cabin tour is over, but much remains to be explored in relationship between these fathers of children with terminal diagnoses. So come back tomorrow when the walls will whisper the rest of their secrets. Until then, type “Scott Newport” in the search box to read his previous posts at DifferentDream.com.

Part Two

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