Chapter-- 

What can I say about a single tree? There were a forest of trees, writer. I always imagined the life they had witnessed from their first germination. There was one tree in particular that was of interest. It was a small, broad oak set by itself on a level, grassy meadow above lush farmland off the road that joined the commune with the town. Alone, it felt the secret of silence. Even the wind that blew warm and soft seemed to say a thousand things in a moment against my face. In the distance ran a little creek.

The tree was significant because of the graveyard under it. Rasputin's grandfather was buried under there. An old, iron gate circled the tree. His grandfather, apparently, was a vagabond from the east coast until he connected with a mining company. Then he was a logger and owned a little logging company until the depression came along. He had been a lady's man and even with a growing family at his feet would roam to the prettiest woman in the town until he had a reputation envied and despised by the rest of people. I had run into one who told me, with relish, "we ran that old bugger off when he had the audacity to run for city counsel...just ran him off into the hills," he told me. But, Rasputin claimed that he had retired to the hills after his marriage wore out. "He wanted to make peace with nature and learn nature's ways. He brought a woman with him and they lived in nature for 35 years. A whole generation of time they spent in nature until they were filthy with it."

There was a fine, heavy granite stone empty but a simple name and date of birth and death. The empty space seemed to invite some intrepid chiseler to come along and bite into the stone a favorite saying; a saying of grace and redemption. "Here lies a man who loved well." "He happily kissed the faces that pleased him." "The seed of nature must propagate at a profligate rate." "No man fears the dark wound of Nature."

There were no such sayings, only blankness. Now I can't say I believe or disbelieve in spirits. I've seen enough both ways. But, I have to believe that when a spirit sees that nothing is written about it in the graveyard it gets spooked. The whole area seemed, at times, spooked by old gold miners, Indians, stagecoach robbers, prostitutes, assayers, and the like. The heat smelled of these spirits.

There were rumors all over the hills of loot that had been buried by robbers. The robbers of the mountains wrote poetry. And there had been a few hangings. I saw a description of it in an old newspaper. They had no mercy for transgressors at that time. No, that tree and graveyard sparked something that I wasn't too conscious of when I first arrived.

David Eide
January 24, 2014