Lost and Found and Lessons Learned

 

                               Lost and Found and Lessons Learned

By Patrick Shields

 

The December winter afternoon was not pleasant; cold and dark. A strong West wind blew dead leaves from trees that were swirling like flocks of wild birds on an annual migration.

The young boy was shivering cold, having been out all afternoon looking for his dog, Rascal, who went missing three days ago.  He’d scoured the countryside, asking everyone for a mile around and no one had seen a medium-sized yellow dog.

His Daddy said the dog would show up. “Probably got himself lost chasing something”. Mama was sure he’d come home when he got hungry.

The boy wasn’t sure of anything. He had lost a friend and it hurt. It was hard to sleep, he wasn’t hungry, and he couldn’t concentrate for thinking where Rascal might be. He had never felt like this before.

He walked past his grandma’s house as it was getting dark. He checked the barn and under the porch before knocking on the door.

Inside the kitchen a fire burned in the wood stove. Taking off his coat, he backed up to the stove; a pot of stew was simmering there. Grandma had just taken a pone of cornbread from the oven. For the first time in three days, he felt like eating.

“You didn’t find your pup, did you”, asked Grandma.

“Nope, I’ve been everywhere. No one has even seen a dog”.

Grandma said, “I’ll call Doris and tell her it’s too dark for you to walk home tonight. You can stay with me”. He nodded his approval with his mouth full.

Grandma cranked the old wall-mounted Bell telephone; two shorts and a long ring for his house and talked to his Mama for a few minutes.

After a big piece of pound cake, his grandma said, “Come on, son, let’s sit by the stove and have a little talk”.

He got up and took his chair by the wood stove. He really didn’t want to talk. That was hardly an option with his grandma.

She began. “I know you lost your dog and a fine good friend he’s been. I’m sorry he’s gone. He may come back, and he might not. Something I’ve learned in my years on earth is that life is a game of wins and losses”.

“Most of time the wins and losses are small and easily forgotten; they are just part of daily life. Occasionally, there are the life changing wins and losses”.

 “I lost my best friend, your Grandpa Caleb, 10 years ago. You wouldn’t remember him, but he met you before he died. You weren’t a year old, and barely standing on your own”.

 “I miss him every day”, she continued, “yet for a long while after he died, I couldn’t sleep, eat, or function. Your Daddy did the work around my farm, worked a sawmill job, and took care of his farm, also. Your Mama suffered a loss, too. She had lost own Daddy.   Almost every day your mother came over to help do the housework, feeding the stock, shoveling snow, and bringing in wood for the stove. You, of course, sat on my lap and gave me blessed relief from the sadness and heartache of losing Caleb”.

“Some neighbor or another came by with food and to visit nearly every day. They took me to town to shop or do other business.  I hadn’t learned to drive the car while Caleb was alive. The community helped in so many ways. They brought light to the dark, painful winter”.

“That spring, your Aunt Sara told me we were planting a garden. It took some convincing. She said work was a healer, and it proved so. The smell of the soil, tomato vines, the flowers and sound of bees going about their business gave me a renewed sense of purpose.”

“I got to thinking of all the good times Caleb and I had; how much joy this farm, my children and family had brought to me over the years. I began to thank God for all the good things in my life. The wins were beginning to come back. Although the loss of Caleb will never go away, I began to feel whole again.

“About this time of year, Caleb and I would go up on the hill and find a small cedar tree to decorate with keepsakes from our families. Your folks would bring you over and we would light the tree. You laughed and pointed, making words we couldn’t understand while rocking back and forth on your chubby little legs.”

The boy went to bed that night and slept better than he had since Rascal disappeared.

As the Christmas holiday came closer there was still no dog. He was beginning to lose hope of finding his dog, but he hoped maybe Rascal had found another home. He pondered over Granny’s little talk about grief, faith in God, family and the joy friends bring. He began to think of wins and losses in his short life. The wins were ahead by his calculations.

Just before school was out for the holidays a local storyteller came to the schoolhouse. Mr. Jim, as he was known around the community, worked as a carpenter and handyman. He and his brothers were well known for their musical abilities and storytelling.

Mr. Jim played his fiddle and guitar, told stories, and had all the children singing every Christmas song they knew.

At the end of his program, as he was putting his coat on, he asked if anyone had ever seen Santa Claus. The universal answer was no.

“Well, how do you know he exists”, he asked.

“Because” they answered”, in one voice.

“Aw, smart bunch of kids like you can come up with a better answer than “because”, he said.

The room was silent. The boy raised his hand.

“Well, what do you think”?

“We believe in Santa Claus because he lives in each of us. He’s a spirit, like God. We can’t see him, or hear him, or touch him and no one knows what either Santa Claus or God looks like. But we believe in them.  Grandma told me if you believe in something it’s part of you. Believing in something gives you strength”.

The storyteller smiled. “I know your grandma to be a wise woman. Your lucky to have her. I could not have put it any better”.

Late in the evening he saw Dr. Arnold’s mud-spattered T Model Ford coming down the lane.

 His Mama came out on the porch.

“Evening Doc, what brings you here”?

Doc came around the car with a dog, a piece of twine tied around its neck. There was a cast on the dog’s front leg. His ribs stuck out and he was so thin you could read a newspaper through them, nothing but skin and bones.

“A feller told me you lost a dog, Mrs. Carter. It’s taken me a while to find someone who might know he belonged to. I’ve had him about two weeks. A hunter stumbled up on him near dead and brought him to the office. I’m not a veterinarian, but I set his busted leg best I knew how and got him drinking and eating”.

“What made you think he was ours”, she asked. “The boy has been practically distracted looking for him”.

“A man came in the office a couple days ago. Said he sharpened tools, scissors, knives, and asked if I had any work for him. I always need something sharpened. After he finish up, I paid him. As he was leaving, he saw this dog laying by the stove. He kneeled and petted the dog. The man looked up at me, smiling, and said, “This pup belongs to John Carter’s boy”.

“Now, I don’t know why he would know that. I’ve never seen him around before, and I know most folks in the county. He was a big older man; big white beard, green wool shirt sleeves rolled up over red long johns.  Soft spoken and polite, too. He had a red Studebaker wagon and a good horse pulling it. He had all kinds of ware piled on the wagon. I could tell he wasn’t your poor old mountain tinker. Still don’t know hardly what to make of him but I felt in my heart he was right. So here I am, and seeing them two slobbering on one another, I guess there isn’t much doubt about it.”

Make of it what you will…

Merry Christmas y’all