Young Jeannie's rambles

In our pre-teen years my sister and I enjoyed a card game known as "Authors." There were pictures of our early America writers -- Hawthorne, Longfellow, Alcott, etc. Underneath the pictures were the titles of some of their well-known works. One of these titles was "Little Annies Rambles." I read it but don't remember the story. Perhaps I read it when I was too young and the story didn't make a lasting impression on me. However, the title has prompted me to write of one of "Young Jeannie's Rambles."

My obsession with seeds and the promise of them as given in Genesis 1:11 come shining through.

Down the hill, across the swinging bridge, through a corn field where corn shocks stood like soldiers guarding the field until next year's planting time. Already, some little green shoots of corn were coming up from loosened corn seeds. Although they would freeze, they were testament to ongoing life.

Through the right-of-way gate, up the small incline and on to the railroad tracks. We felt very lucky to have trains (The Belmont Branch) going through our farm. We felt connected with the rest of the world and studiously studied the names of faraway cities on the sides of freight cars.

I stood midway on the rails to decide which way to go, north or south. The way the north wind was blowing my hair around one would think I would choose south, but I turned north.

The St. Francis River ran parallel to the railroad tracks and it was always interesting to see the wind-driven ripples across the deep pools and shallows, insuring the river was moving on toward the sea.

I had not gone very far until I felt a long, floating spider web tangled in my eyelashes. I removed it carefully, not wanting to break it. I knew there would be a tiny spider at the end of it.

About fifteen railroad ties later I stopped to listen to other living things, making sure they did their part in scattering the seeds which grew within them as the old Genesis story promised. Walnuts, hickory nuts, butternuts, and acorns were falling.

Nearby, some leftover wild grapes were dropping to the ground. Their vines would be thicker the next year and in the years to come.

Milkweed pods were releasing their flossy seeds. I saw some land on the hard chat of the railroad bed. Others landed in the river, but with the abundant supply, plenty would land on friendly soil.

Old, spent goldenrod flowers were curling up in tawny colored fists as if to hold onto seeds. But the swishy wind was already tearing them apart.

The cold wind was also tangling my hair. I cleared it out of my eyes and saw, a little distance away, something red. At first I thought it to be some railroad man's red bandana handkerchief and knew I wouldn't be above tying it around my head.

I started toward the red object, crushing acorns into the ground as I approached.

It was the scarlet Virginia Creeper vine climbing up the base of a tree. I pulled off long strips of them, braided them into a sort of wide leafy ribbon, tied it under my chin, and let the leftover vines fall down to cover my chest. I felt like some Druid child, but it was comfortable.

When I got back to the swinging bridge a friend who had been up to the house for a visit was awaiting me.

"I like your head scarf," she said, teasingly. I took it off and cast the braided vines at the foot of a tree. As I did so I noted that a bit of roots was still clinging to the end of a vine. Surreptitiously, I scuffed some dirt over it.

Two years later, crossing the bridge, I spotted a little touch of red at the foot of that river tree. Seed, root, bulb, the flora goes on.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau