Just south of town, the city purchased an old
homestead, unoccupied for at least a century.
Once they had removed the crumbling house and barn, the funding was
exhausted and neither trails nor comfort facilities were ever built. As a result, the site is rarely visited and
it has become my favored natural getaway.
Using deer and fox trails, I established my personal route through the
refuge and, over the years, I cannot recall encountering another human being. As one who values solitude, that has been the
most appealing trait of that secluded plot of land.
So, on a mild, sunny October morning, I was
surprised and a bit dismayed to find a family picnicking in the lower
meadow. Since I had parked my pickup
along the only access road, it was a mystery how they reached the site but I
assumed they had walked in from a nearby neighborhood.
They were an unusual family, indeed. The father, wearing overalls, a work shirt
and a broad-rimmed hat sat on the blanket, sharing lunch with his wife who,
despite their hike, was clothed in a full-length sun-dress and a straw bonnet. Two young boys, perhaps aged five and seven,
chased one another across the meadow, giggling and calling to their
parents. Like their father, the boys
wore overalls and buttoned shirts and both were barefoot. Despite my friendly wave, they ignored my presence.
Moving on, I climbed to a wooded ridge above
Jake’s Creek and ate my own lunch atop a rocky overlook. A red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead
while a mixed flock of juncos and finches foraged in the thickets just below my
perch. Other than the distant calls of
blue jays and crows, all was silent and I nearly dozed off as I lounged in the
sun. Since my wife was out of town and I
had no personal commitments that day, I was in no hurry to leave my little
piece of heaven.
Nevertheless, I decided to depart a bit
early and introduce myself to the family who now shared my beloved refuge. Besides, I imagined they might want a ride
back to their home, especially considering the nature of their dress and
footwear. But, as I approached the
meadow, I found that they had already left and was angered to see that they had
littered the pristine site. As I walked
over to pick up the debris, cursing their selfish behavior, it became evident
that the white plates and cups were, in fact, stones, not paper.
To my surprise, they were weathered headstones. One was for “John Marshall, beloved husband
and father,” who was born in 1810 and died in 1848. The other was for his wife, Sarah Marshall, 1813-1848. A chill ran down my spine as I pushed aside
the tall grass to find two smaller markers.
One was for Jacob Marshall and the other for Thomas Marshall. The dates had long since eroded from the stones.
