THE BALLOON
A man looked up in a
tree one night
to see the dark
colored shape of a turkey in flight.
With no gun in hand,
he looked again and,
the white of a card
moved with the wind.
Too far to reach, too
tall to climb,
the balloon snagged
fast to a small pine.
The balloon cam down
the very next day,
when the buzz of a
chain saw made the tree sway.
But, on its way down
to the man on the ground,
the balloon - tree
hung and became limb bound.
Not a turkey he
sought, but a purple balloon
sent aloft by a child
from a local classroom.
He grinned as he
thought, now why should he
be sent such a
message now caught in a tree?
With help of a pole
to lever the tree,
the balloon came
down; it was finally free.
The message was
simple to even he,
“Just Say No” was its
powerful decree.
The mountaineer tried
to call you on Thanksgiving Day
to tell you he’d
found your balloon that day.
And, other times too,
he tried to get through,
But, hunting season
was in and he had plenty to do.
The day after
Thanksgiving, he took his last buck;
an eight-pointer with
a spread worthy of the book.
So proud was he, he
forgot your balloon,
now hanging aloft
inside a room.
To tell of the hunt,
the Master in him,
told a tale of a buck
shot on the run,
And, tracked nearly a
mile on fresh fallen snow,
to where his run
ended far below.
His heart pounded
heavily from the rush of the chase,
but happy was he
despite its pace.
From that day forth,
he pushed himself on,
cutting wood in the
morning,
b’fore heading to his
stand.
At night in his
chair, he’d ponder his thoughts,
with others he’d
share, but likely as not.
And other great hunts
he oft retold,
to Mike and Don, they
knew them cold.
He liked to hunt
Spring gobblers best.
It takes a good man
too - you know the rest.
When first light
came, he’d grab his caller,
and tease the old Tom
up the hollow.
He didn’t always call
him in,
but when he did, what
a grin!
Talk to him about the
trees;
he knew them all by
name with ease.
Which ones to seek
when hunting game,
which to cut for a
lasting flame.
It was he and his dog
who faced the cold nights,
warmed by the wood
stove that burned bright.
A friend with coon
dogs stopped by,
set his dogs a
running ‘til they cried.
The mountains echoed
with their song on trail; their
owner called them to
no avail.
The howl of the wind
shattered the peace, and many a
night there was too
little sleep.
To every season,
there was a call.
When he couldn’t
sleep he heard them all.
The wind through the
trees made the old cabin shake, and
the pipes would
freeze beneath the sink.
Oh, how he loved to
see a full moon rise,
when the sounds of
the mountains came truly alive. When
the darkest of fears
were finally appeased,
by the screech of an owl
in a bare tree.
He was not lonely,
though alone was he,
for solitude was
peacefulness to him, you see
Most of us will never
find,
the kind of peace
that was his mind.
The friend came back
to fetch his dogs,
the ones that had run
off the night before.
He met the Man coming
in,
and was the last to
see him ever again.
Haunted by images of
him still,
driving a Jeep he
called “Old Will”.
The morning came and
another day began...
for the person they
called the Mountaineer Man.
Others of us called
him “Clay”,
he was the same man
either way.
If something broke or
quit on the spot,
he’d turn and go into
his shop.
And in his shop along
the wall,
were parts with lives
long and tall.
“Guess what this came
off?”, he’d say,
“It’s just what I
need for today.”
He worked so hard
with what he’d got,
fixed up what other’s
forgot.
He’d fashion a part
from discarded steel,
file it down to fit a
wheel.
His day was full of
doing what had need,
never slowing to rest
‘til he’d completed the deed.
He’s put some pintos
in a cast iron pot,
and onto the wood
stove to keep them hot.
While I don’t know
for sure what he did his last day,
It seems to me, it
happened this way.
The evening had come
and sitting we he,
Clawhammering a tune,
the old-timey way,
that few anymore know
how to play.
He’d picked “Shootin’
Creek” with some of the best,
and Skip-to-my-Lou
with some of the rest.
I’ll never know which
tune he was on,
when up with a start
he ran for his gun.
The turkeys, no
doubt, had come through the yard,
for out the door he
ran, leaving it ajar.
He probably missed a
long range shot;
For it was then we
know his heart stopped.
Catching him outside
to die on the ground,
his 30-30 at his side
and snow all-around.
The fire gone cold in
the stove where inside,
by its dying embers
his dog, Tyke, pined.
Each waiting for the
Master who never would return,
the dog and the banjo
which held his last tune.
I picked the banjo
once as I put it away,
enough to send the
Mountaineer’s soul away.
Freeing it now of all
its stress,
letting it go to its
eternal rest.
Up it arose, higher
than the balloon,
which a few weeks
before he’d freed from its doom.
No message from he,
will ever come down,
on a purple balloon
to us on the ground.
Up it arose above us
all,
until out of sight
once and for all.
Where the abundant
turkey and plentiful deer,
are now his angels
and source of cheer.
The Mountaineer is
gone and our hearts are heavy.
But his life was by
choice and not for many.
Understanding a
choice not easily made,
was all for us he
ever bade.
They laid the
Mountaineer to his final rest,
listening to Don
Parmley’s best.
His banjo wept as it
played for Clay,
the very eloquent,
“Going My Way”.
And the chords cried,
but never broke,
and said the words
that no one spoke.
Other music was made
that day,
though ‘twas a vacant
seat for Clay.
And, “Bubba” sang as
He was lowered away,
a song written at the
cabin in a better day.
“Back to the
Mountains”, said it all,
for His life WAS the
mountains you recall.
What did you stand
for this mountain man,
who many love, but
few understand?
What did he leave us,
to know he counted?
He asked little of
life,
yet still was
cheated.
What message has he
left us, that man gone he,
on wind and water and
endless breeze?
He loved the
mountains more than change,
and was content with
Where he was.
He belonged to
another era in Spirit and Mind,
but was content with
What he was.
And the highest peak,
if it could speak,
would whisper now our
plea.
For the message that
he left us was,
The right to be he...
Suzanne V. Pabst
Charity, Virginia
December 23, 1989