Textures of earth offer healing

When I looked at the unfamiliar wall calendar, I noted it stated that the date was Sept. 22. For one who has been a careful and interested watcher of the seasons, it came to me slowly that this was the beginning of Autumn.

In normal times for me, I would be thinking of all the joys of the seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness -- C.S. Lewis' Squirrel Nutkin filling his secret pantries for the harsh winter days, Monarch butterflies drifting their colorful way southward, wood smoke from neighborhood fireplaces, mums, pumpkins, hanks of Indian corn.

But, having been whacked out of my usual train of thought, of all things, I thought I was walking barefoot on the good earth, ground zero. Pearl Buck's great book, "The Good Earth," came to mind. Although I didn't want to eat the boiled soil, as she related, I did think of how good it would feel to walk barefoot in a freshly plowed field, feel the shiny damp soil push upward between my toes. Then there was the velvety ground along the riverbank where one could discern the footprints of others -- the raccoons, possums, muskrats and even mink. Delicate little footprints stitched them all together.

Perhaps more appreciative of the sandy strip were the cows. That was where we put out little piles of salt for them. This was, of course, before the blocks of hard salt came on. It was a joy to see the penned-up cows come running out to get their share, tails twisting, mooing, bumping into each other. More greedy than pigs at the trough.

However, there was one place that scared me. One day, hunting for wild huckleberries, I came upon this place. The ground seemed to be puffed up in adjacent gray-green fists. So new to me. So strange. I backed up to study it, then, very tentatively, I dared to put a bare foot upon it, half expecting some sort of sting. But the sensation was like stepping on dried sponge. In went the other foot, smashing down the quilted fists. I walked in this strange outcropping, feeling excited at the new texture, plus mild pleasure that I had overcome my fear of it. Small victories!

I described the puffed-up patch to Mama during the mandatory nighttime foot washing. She knew what I was talking about but had no name for it like the loam clay and sand. Many years later I learned that it was a lichen. More particularly and fittingly called a sponge-shaped lichen. Not a type of soil, but a Dacron quilted blanket covering the ground or rocky place.

Years later, my sister, Lou, and I tried to transplant this sponge lichen just to have a visual reminder of the barefoot days. Huge failure. Lichens choose the time and place where they want to grow. They have no roots. The thinking is that lichens appear when a windblown fungus lands on algae cells. Where does one get seeds or roots for this?

More familiar are the little shell shaped common lichens that grow on tree trunks. Longfellow's "forest primeval of murmuring pines and hemlocks" as well as those that decorate some of the trees in the far reaches of my backyard. My binoculars (maybe eyes) aren't strong enough to pick them up. But, I have pictures of them stored on the walls of my mind.

Lovely little indomitable lichens are a jigsaw of the great overall healing scheme, including the good earth.

REJOICE!

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