Picture
this:
It's
a country scene, a spectacular day, and before you stands an old-fashioned
Tuscany-red grist mill, a long wall fronting the cool waters of
a mill pond, its glassy surface rippled by a flotilla of languorous
mill ducks, the shot framed by copses of regal, well . . .
let's call them mill trees.
It's
a postcard, a jigsaw puzzle, a brochure . . . it's Hurricane
Mills-pronounced "hair-a-kin" if you want to sound like one of the
locals. It's this serene and idyllic scene that Aunt Jean Buchanan
has long enjoyed gazing upon, but there's more there than meets
the eye.
Jean
has long been a fixture working at the Loretta Lynn Ranch, a picturesque
vacation destination in Middle-Tennessee with campground, museum,
the Butcher Holler homestead, Hurricane Creek canoeing and fishing,
horseback riding, the antebellum plantation home shared by Loretta
and her late husband, Mooney, the old mill house in the picture,
and so much more.
Jean
has been part of Loretta's team for-well, let's just say more than
a few years. (Sometimes doing the math can be very impolite.) She
likes to count herself among the Lynn family's friends, even having
once lived with daughter Cissie Lynn for a while to help with Loretta's
grandkids.
Jean
loves this beautiful scenery and the myriad people who come from
across the country and around the world to visit, so you can imagine
our concern when she had to take an extended break from her time
at the ranch. See, Jean began to suffer from an unusual vision problem,
something about macular holes developing in both eyes, and suddenly
she found herself nearly blind, unable to see her way around the
world she knows and loves.
The
notes she used to send me every few days stopped, no more cheerful
cards saying, "We had 40,000 for Motocross this week-my ears are
still ringing!" or one of her favorites: "Loretta is in town this
week, doing a concert Saturday night-it'll be so nice to see her
again."
Aunt
Jean even had to hold off reading my latest book, and she couldn't
make her regular visits to my website to smile over my latest postings,
maybe sending one with a message to a friend or two. Any writer
knows that no matter how many eventually read your work, sometimes
you find yourself staring at the keys thinking about saying something
just for those few "fans" who matter the most.
Like
Aunt Jean.
Jean
agreed to undergo double surgeries. She knew the risks, on one hand
possibly losing all her sight if the operations failed, on the other
hand knowing she'd likely go blind anyway for trying to pretend
nothing was wrong.
Luckily,
the procedures seemed to go well, but for a time afterward she lived
in a world of shadows and blurs. Still, she found herself recalling
vivid images from a lifetime well lived: her children's first steps,
crude drawings posted proudly on refrigerator doors, the fruits
of successful gardens drooping heavily on the vines, the mail carrier
bringing words from those who care. And she recalled the scenes
of heartbreak, her niece and nephew taken too soon, friends facing
challenges too great for any one body to endure, the dreams of those
she loves accommodating the harsh realities of everyday life against
the shifting backdrops of small-town life.
And
she remembered the slow, wrenching loss of her husband, our beloved
Uncle Van.
But
even amid these heartbreaking visions she found images of truth,
the contrasts of light against dark, and what she could see most
clearly again was Uncle Van's gentle smile as he held his grandbabies
tenderly, his face aglow, his heart soaring.
It
was in those shadows and blurs of recovery that Aunt Jean dared
face her own uncertain future. She looked ahead, best as she could
see, and discovered that those grandsons of hers still could use
an extra pair of eyes to watch over them, and the profusion of flowers
arrayed across her porches and walkways still needed her tending,
and the creek bank she always liked to stroll still waited with
promises of birds to dance mid-air while hungry fish break the water's
surface in search of fleeting willowflies, and her nephew still
waited patiently for another of those notes-"Made some new friends
today, and Loretta's back in town again"-those notes she always
ended with the simplest of words, sometimes difficult to read, their
meaning always clear as day: "We love you."
And
the surgeries did succeed, giving Jean back her sight, at least
for a time, a gift her latest note describes as "something we take
for granted."
But,
you know what? I don't think she ever takes anything for granted.
See, Aunt Jean has always found immeasurable appreciation for that
one small corner of the world she shares.
She
doesn't work at the Loretta Lynn Ranch because she needs to, but
rather because there she sees a vision of what we can all behold-if
we're willing to look close. Even then, I believe she can see just
a little bit more.
For
it's in those moments, even when few are close by, that she can
still see all those myriad faces from around the world; and though
Mooney is passed on she can still see him in the legacy he left
behind; and even when Loretta is off on a tour Aunt Jean can see
the Lynn young'ns pursuing their own busy careers.
Even
now, Jean can stand before that mill house and see the Lynn family
there, generations sharing a wonderful bit of Middle-Tennessee with
those willing to make the journey . . .
And
sharing it, too, with friends, old and young, even those who stop
by from just up the road.
So
picture this: it's a country scene, a spectacular day, and before
you stands a magnificent old-fashioned Tuscany-red grist mill, the
cool waters rippled by a flotilla of languorous mill ducks who somehow
seem simply to belong there.
And
maybe Aunt Jean is nearby, maybe off to the side, or maybe she's
finally decided to retire and spend a bit more time looking after
those boisterous grandsons of hers playing in the yard, or tending
the profusion of magnificent flowers that line her porches and walkways,
each an image committed forever to memory.
But
like Loretta Lynn and her family, no matter how many generations
come and go, a part of Aunt Jean Buchanan can always be found there
at Hurricane Mills.
You
might spot her if you're willing to learn the secret she carries
deep in her heart:
Even
in the darkest times, you can always remember the light, and you
can always find another way to behold the most exquisite of scenes.
The
trick lies in remembering also to picture those you love, the people
who shared it with you.
Look
close!
And
remember: there's always more than meets the eye.
* * END * *
©
2005 The Fresh Ink Group, LLC. All Rights Reserved.
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