We, the Coronado Scribes, consist of both professional and amateur writers. We have in common a desire to learn, by sharing our efforts and listening to other writers. We hold pressure-less sessions every Wednesday, at the Coronado Library conference room, starting at 1:30. Often we have guests who wish to just listen. They are welcome, and so are you.
Each week on eCoronado, we will feature a different piece of prose or poetry produced by one of our writers. Please feel free to comment or ask questions in the comment section below.
The Old Fellow in the Meadow
cDoris Besikof, October, 2013
A place to write the Great American Novel. That’s what I thought as I sat at my desk beside a second story window in Chapel Hill and looked out at sunlight filtering through the trees and shreds of mist that hovered over Donnans’ meadow. A little yellow playhouse with a porch, a window and a door sat in the shade at the edge of the grass, waiting for children to come and play, just as it had for generations. A grassy footpath led to a stream at the bottom of the hill below the azaleas and walnut trees, where raccoons and foxes came to drink and wash their feet at night.
The old fellow dresses for the seasons with style. He is especially craggy in winter, with prominent, outstretched branch-arms, draped in sleeves of hanging moss and dry hydrangea blossoms dripping from the top of his crown, like feather plumes from a hat. He’s been rooted to the same spot for more than 100 years; but after dark, moonlight and windswept clouds transform his arms into bony, shadow claws that flit across the ground and chase and grab at children who quicken their steps as they hurry past.
Springtime softens him. His twiggy hair sports a nap of pale green peach fuzz. He inclines his grizzled head a bit, toward that lovely thing over in the corner by the playhouse, the one with a floating crown of dogwood blossoms in her hair. By June, the playhouse and the dogwood are invisible behind a screen of bamboo and azalea.
Summer crams the meadow with a flurry of crab and bluegrass and gives him dandelion slippers to hide his bony feet.
Autumn’s ferocious winds tear the dry hydrangeas from his hair and bare his gnarled head. He’s dapper as ever, in a gray-brown chesterfield, perfect foil for a turquoise sky and the red, gold and orange leaves that float in the air around him.
Caroline Donnan, loves him. I’ve seen her blow him a kiss as she heads up the driveway, carrying her umbrella and a plate of lemon spongette for a friend. Now, she and I have moved on, but he’s still there.
What will he wear for Halloween this year? I wonder, as I watch herons and gulls loop and dive above the sea outside the window beside my writing desk in Coronado, another great place from which to write The Great American Novel.
Springtime softens him. His twiggy hair sports a nap of pale green peach fuzz. He inclines his grizzled head a bit, toward that lovely thing over in the corner by the playhouse, the one with a floating crown of dogwood blossoms in her hair. By June, the playhouse and the dogwood are invisible behind a screen of bamboo and azalea.
Summer crams the meadow with a flurry of crab and bluegrass and gives him dandelion slippers to hide his bony feet.
Autumn’s ferocious winds tear the dry hydrangeas from his hair and bare his gnarled head. He’s dapper as ever, in a gray-brown chesterfield, perfect foil for a turquoise sky and the red, gold and orange leaves that float in the air around him.
Caroline Donnan, loves him. I’ve seen her blow him a kiss as she heads up the driveway, carrying her umbrella and a plate of lemon spongette for a friend. Now, she and I have moved on, but he’s still there.
What will he wear for Halloween this year? I wonder, as I watch herons and gulls loop and dive above the sea outside the window beside my writing desk in Coronado, another great place from which to write The Great American Novel.
