From: brucer@druwy.ATT.COM (RobinsonB)
Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles
Subject: Roots
Summary: 4th of July in May, Hawk Springs Wyoming
Date: 5 Jun 89 22:37:45 GMT
Organization: AT&T, Denver, CO

In the crackling early summer morning,
the old man sagged in one of the front porch rockers,
like a withered pumpkin mouldering in the whispering dry air,
eviscerated and tossed from the house to be forgotten.

The old gray rocker was split, and groaned beneath his scant weight.
Its runners warped and twisted the gaping porch boards,
kicking up tiny puff clouds of powdered wood
as the old man slowly rocked back and forth.

His sunken yellowed eyes, caked and lined with weak confusion,
dimly watched the dusty grains of time kicking along the pavement.
The silence was scarcely pierced by his creaking rocking remnant bones,
and by the light wind shifting the hay field across the road.

Me and Norton rode into Hawk Springs, Wyoming early one afternoon
in May, searching for roots.  It's a nice ride up there, if you can
stay off of the Interstate.  Rolling grassy hills, some old farms;
cows look up as you rumble by, then go back to the chew.
Easy sweeping roads, and you can see thunder showers
a hundred miles away.
 
I had heard that my great-grandfather Elmer
once operated a mercantile store in Hawk Springs, and that the old
building might still be there.  Well, it wasn't; it took about seven
minutes to motor up and down every dirt road in the town, to look at
every building.  But "Elmer's Mercantile" was gone, a page missing
from a history book that had never been written.

Then I saw the old man.  I pulled up and shut Norton down, climbed
the splintery porch steps, and eased cautiously into the second rocker,
next to where the old guy sat.  It creaked, then held my weight.
I said "Howdy".  He replied "Howdy"; his voice sounded like hands
stroking a three-day old beard.

We sat and rocked for a spell, watching the hay.
Then the old man said "I'm waitin' to celebrate the Fourth of July."
Remember, this was in May.  Not a lot to do in Hawk Springs, I guess.
A little toy cannon sat on the table between our rocking chairs.
He chewed his gums a couple of times, then reached down and pulled the
trigger on the toy cannon.  Nothing happened.  He fiddled with it a bit,
crusty fingers and cracked nails poked and twisted things,
then he jabbed at the trigger again.  Crack!!!  I jumped; he jumped;
six small birds punched out of the hay field and evaporated into the sky.
Then all was whispering silence again, except for the echos in my mind
of an old man's Fourth of July in May.
 
His face etched into a slight grin, and we resumed rocking.
After we rocked a little bit longer, I pointed out the town sign
across the road.  I laughed unbelievingly, "the sign says Population 100".
He looked over at me with wrinkled eyes.  "Well," he drawled,
"you'd have to count a few dogs."
 
	66
	 >
	 ^ ......................... brucer
************************************************************

Steve Garnier - 1979 Yamaha XS1100SF Special with 156,000 miles and *climbing*
DoD #00000005 - KotF (The Daemon's Byte and Keeper of the Flame), NC Chapter
Internet:steve@bucolix.ece.ncsu.edu  UUCP:{?,gatech,uunet}!mcnc!bucolix!steve
Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles