Giving Thanks

Recently, Rannie Arp sent me this story by her son Sigmund. He was born in 1959 and died 6 years ago of cancer. Sigmund was very interested in writing and was taking courses when he became ill. Even though this story is a little longer than I would usually put on the blog, and not really about Thanksgiving per se, I thought it was lovely. A wonderful reminder of all the reasons we who get to live in this magnificent place have to be grateful. And, although Sigmund is no longer with us, we can be grateful to him for helping us to remember. Peace to all in the valley. Happy Thanksgiving.

"Woodland Valley" - by Sigmund H. Arp
Before my parents built their current home, they owned a two-bedroom cabin in the Catskill Mountains. We used it as a weekend and summer home. It was clapboard, rust stain and a stone chimney. In front was a protected porch on which fire wood was stacked in the fall and winter. During late spring and summer, breakfasts were taken on the porch.

The cabin was perched upon a hill in a valley. There was one mountain directly behind us and another across the valley. There was only one road into the valley and it dead-ended by a state campsite. A small stream ran parallel to the road.
In the summer-time the trees on the surrounding mountains looked like deep green plush carpets rolling over humps and bumps. The windows would all be open, and the mixed scent of fresh cut grass and pine trees would waft through on warm breezes. In the evenings, fireflies would fill the night like thousands of concert-goers with their lighters, begging for an encore. I would drift off to sleep under the cacophony of crickets, frogs, and other nightlife buzzing, chirping, and whirring outside my window.

There were two other boys in the area with whom I would explore "our" valley. We would hike the mountains and forest pretending to be pioneers in an undiscovered land. Chipmunks and Blue Jays would announce our presence, no matter how hard we tried to walk like Indians. The only way to decipher time, was the rumbling of our stomachs, at which point we would no longer be concerned with stealth and run and deer jump down the mountain. After wolfing down a hasty lunch we would re-group and bound off to new adventures. We never lacked for a playground regardless of the weather or the season.

The stream that ran through the valley was also a favorite place. Many camp-outs and fishing trips were visited along it. There were two spots suitable for cooling off during the sweltering summer days, and on more than one occasion it was inevitable that we would come home soaked and wet fully clothed. One of our greatest adventures was to follow the stream until we founds its source. It was an all-day affair and after six miles of trekking we eventually found it. A small spring that came trickling and bubbling out of some rocks at the end of the valley by the foot of a mountain. We scooped the crystal clear water in cupped hands and drank. A cooler, cleaner, more refreshing taste could not be found we all agreed. Especially since we had discovered the source. We decided to keep this our secret. There were many secret places in "our" valley, and although the cabin is long gone and we have all grown up, the valley still remains with all its secrets for another generation to discover.