From the Past

From the Past
(May 23, 1998)
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

         The weary man, shoulders bowed by years of struggle, stands in a sea of memories while the Oklahoma wind whispers through his pure white hair. Lines of sorrow deepen in his rugged face when his eyes behold the ravages of time, of neglect, of wanton destruction on his childhood home: the house partially gutted by fire; the windmill fallen, choked by weeds; the weather-worn barn with doors and windows gone, like his dreams of farming this panhandle land.

         He runs his hand over the Ford Model A body with regret, as if to smooth the bullet holes away. Another plan, to rebuild the car, punctured by thoughtless vandalism.

         Slowly climbing the steps to the single room above the entrance and stairs to the half-dugout which was the main house, the room his bedroom for over nineteen years, the man finds an empty shell, the back wall burnt. He turns, squinting across fields where once cattle grazed and vibrant crops grew, fields he had wanted to till and tame, causing them to bloom with life. Now they stand as barren as the house beneath his feet.

         Then remembrances overshadow reality as he hurries down the steps, crossing the weed-crowded yard to the corral. From deep within the man, the boy emerges with excitement of happenings long ago.

         “Here,” he reminisces, “is where I built a chute. I ran the horses between the sides and penned them in. I walked along the top, brushing the horses with empty sacks, touching them until they were used to being touched and became used to me.”

         Inside the corral, he lays his hand on a four-foot-tall stump. “This is the stubbing post I made. I trained many a horse here.”

         Starting toward the barn, he stops, frowning at the gullies running from the stock tank in the corner that is formed by one corral fence and a wall of the barn. The gullies are deep washed-out areas which run under the foundations of the barn itself.

         “Look how someone ruined this.” Sadness replaces the excitement as he follows the damage across the ground. “Someone let the stock tank overflow and cause this, overflow many times.”

         Entering the abandoned barn starts another round of memories, of wonder at the endurance of the building where hours of tending horses and of milking cows passed. The old stansions stand as if waiting cattle heads to be placed once more. The room where milk and cream were separated remains empty. The loft where once feed awaited use and where a young cowboy watched a horse learn not to buck covers the work and play ground of years ago.

         “Hey, I can still climb the ladder,” the man exclaims as he makes his way to the top, reliving days of yesteryear.

         The barn tour finished, he makes his way to inspect the rest of the buildings and barn yard.

         The chicken houses, neglected, bring back recollections of cleaning manure, gathering eggs, feeding and watering hens, and of dressing fryers by the hundreds. Trash litters the ground much as the present conditions of his childhood home litter the thoughts and memories that the man wants to keep and to protect.

         Tears blur his sight as he slowly moves toward his car. His heart aches as he leaves his childhood home and thoughts of what-was for good.