Old Man Robur

This morning while walking to the post office to mail out a package I
noticed the early autumn chill that seems to be lingering in the air
as of late. The low hanging clouds that just wont seem to drift away
and the splotches of color that are starting to emerge in the many
greens of the failing summer.
It was the kind of morning that didn't muse much thought. The
imagination seemed to be held in a lull of what seemed to be twilight
but was actually noon, a trick of nature that leads many straight
into seasonal depression.
Downtown is buzzing this week with farmers plotting to take off their
fields and the county fair taking place on the north end of town, the
very highlight of the year in small town Ohio. But I scarcely noticed
the fracas in my dreamy state. I just walked right through it all the
way to the post office where I sent out my package with a smile and a
thank you to the elderly woman behind the counter and once more I
made my way through the dividing gray of sleep and awake that has
fogged over my little village. For a moment I wondered if any
traveler wondering about in such gloom would, in a little time, give
into the daze in the air and begin to dream of brighter places or in
antithetic thought, see apparitions.
I've walked this same path through town countless times. With each
passing I take brief moments here and there to admire the older
houses. Some Victorian, others English tutor, all of them having
their own charm. Along the way there is a place where the sidewalk
ends and I always find myself confronted with the notion to keep
going forward despite of the missing path. But I always make the
ninety degree turn that will take me to the other side of the street,
to a brick laid sidewalk, the crosses in front of a wooded ravine
that leads shortly to the river bank.
That turn always lingers in my mind and I wonder how many others make
the same decision everyday but in a more metaphorical manner. Where
the sidewalk ends…so does the journey. Time to make a ninety-degree
turn and head in another direction rather than taking the road less
traveled. Best to go the easy way these days. No point in taking on a
challenge that has not all ready been concreted over.
It was a cringing thought. But one that would help me today and muse
the most unlikely of writings. Only because I did make the turn where
the sidewalk ends and ran straight into an old friend of mine named
Quercus Robur.
Quercus is the silent type. Most of the time he just stands there in
the same place, watching pedestrians walk down the street without
giving him so much as a glance. In fact, the old man has stood in the
same place for so long that he is often ignored as being part of the
landscape.
I don't know what mused him to call out to me today aside from the
fact that I too have passed him by so many times with not so much as
a smile or nod that he may have wanted at least some attention. My
name was the only word the old man spoke. And when I looked towards
him and gave him a slight smile he tossed me a gift that is presently
setting right here in front of me as I write this article.
Old man Robur made this little present with his own hands. And there
is more of him in this little thing than in any of his many tales.
I've been contemplating it all day. And much like a Zen koan I could
probably contemplate over it forever.
It's such a small thing, green with a hint of brown and topped with a
button. It feels cool to the touch even though the room is warm and
it is setting near to my crystal desk lamp. There is such a powerful
magic held inside this thing. A magic that no witch could ever weave
which is such an odd detail considering that Quercus Robur doesn't
know the first thing about magic or witchcraft. But this thing has
the power of immortality, strength, and ancient wisdom locked inside
of it. No man can recreate it, no computer can reprogram it, and no
key can unlock it save for nature itself. It's one of a kind and yet
Mr. Robur has made thousands of these things, all with the same
magical touch and the same powers just this year alone. In fact…aside
from just standing there making these things is about all he does. He
makes them and sets them out for anyone to have freely with no
questions asked. But most people never stop by to pick one up.
To me it is the perfect gift from a very old friend. To everyone else
who walks down this same path through town, it's just an acorn.

P.S. "Quercus Robur" is the Latin name for "the common oak".

Angel Snowden -2006