Cottonwood, an Observation

The snow had melted by the time the plant of two small leaves had reached the surface of the ground and unfurled its tiny green flags before the world. By this act, the insignificant plant forewarned all that it had come to conquer and claim all the territory within its reach. It said, “Behold, I, Cottonwood the Great, have come. I shall in my time reach far above the height of the great buffalo. I will rise to survey that which has been sheltered from other eyes. You may come to me for refuge and shade, but you shall never again stamp your lowly feet upon my particular piece of ground, nor disturb me again. I will be the observer of much greater things than those who choose to make a home within my shelter. “The raven that stops for rest upon my outstretched arms may live his ten years, may fly farther and see much, but I shall live much longer and see far more. “I will be the refuge to which the robin will entrust its young. My monumental height will guide the traveler. My spreading branches will provide welcome shade and a pleasant place of rest for the worn and weary.” As he listened to the story of betrayed friendship, Tal began to feel the stirrings of an ancestral trait. He despised the thought of cruelty and the betrayal of a trust. Trust is the bond that holds together homes. It is the fortress of the innocent. They hide and feel safe within the trust of their families, friends, and neighbors. Once trust is cankered with betrayal, it is oftentimes impossible to restore. To Talan Tackett, betrayal could and possibly should be a hanging offense. It was an instinctual knowledge in Tackett that for one to exist, there must be others willing to defend and protect that one, even at the risk of their own lives. It was the inbred instinct of his close relationship to frontier thinking that would not allow him to let his neighbors to be raided without rising to defend them. It was in every Tackett, Jarrett, Boone, Young, or Morris. This thinking was the thinking of the frontier. It was the only thing that allowed his ancestors to exist on the leading edge of civilization, let alone remove from their backs the burden of fear and intimidation. This big Italian, behind his oversize moustache, was not the man, nor was the man equipped, to right the wrong he had suffered. He was innately too good to tip the Irishman over and kick his hind end. The Irishman would not be so slick once his feathers had been combed backward, and Tal had already decided he was the man that would ruffle this shifty sneak’s feathers. Becca was preparing another one of her culinary works of art for the customers of the Emporium. It was a beautiful high-plains Wyoming day. She had the delicious hams in the oven, and the aroma was starting to permeate the place. The bread was rising on the sideboard, and the potatoes were peeled and standing in lightly salted water in the cook pot. She had a few minutes to herself and decided to walk down to the post office to check her mail. The day had started off well. The sun had been up before her and had knocked on her window to get her attention. When she opened the shade and pulled back the curtains, the little shafts of varicolored sunlight danced lightly on her windowsill. She opened the window to them, and they spilled across the room, saying, “Good morning, Becca. Can we also dance on your fluffy, soft bed and your dresser for you? Can we shine across the room and make all the little bits of diamond dust glisten in the air and cheer your room for you?” Becca had stood back and let the little beams in while the meadowlarks, the finches, and their friends played the melody that all these fantastic pieces of creation danced to. The beauty of the performance had moved Becca. Her heart felt light this morning. The entire coordinated production of musical wonderment and visual display had worked an early-morning miracle in her. She grabbed up her little boy from the bed, mussed his stringy yarn hair with her hand, and squeezed him to her. She straightened her bed, placed her pillows neatly at the head of it, and laid the goofy little guy, with the big eyebrows and button nose, comfortably on a little pillow she had on the bed especially for him. She tweaked his nose, left the room, left the house, and floated off down the street toward the restaurant. In his heart, Cottonwood remembered overhearing a conversation on the veranda of the home of the Youngs. Those sitting there, under the shade and shelter of his outstretched limbs, had reminisced about the past over cookies, coffee, and lemonade. There was an air of nostalgia in their talk. One old man had said something quite profound that Cottonwood, in all his wishing and longing for the old days, would never forget. That wise man had said, as if he had been speaking to him personally, ”Yesterday is a foreign land, you cannot get there from here.”