The four lanes changed to a two-lane blacktop. The moon hung
at the crest of the trees on the horizon, and I could smell the smoky
clouds of fall. The winding road was my pathway to a former place,
or to a former time of boyhood memories. The memories grew stronger as the blacktop changed to a chip-and-seal road across the Missouri River Bottoms. Just ahead, I could see the glow of a neon sign in front of a remote antiquity of the 1960s. As I drove by the watering hole, I saw a couple of Harleys and a ’57 Chevy pick-up parked outside. I slowed down, thinking a cold beer would be nice to accompany my wistful desire to return in thought to a former time. My sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place and time was a recurrent feeling, and road trips like this helped satisfy that need. I slowed the car to a crawl, trying to peer through the screen door so I could see a gathering of Boone County characters inside the country tavern. I imagined the music in the place, and maybe I did hear Bob Seger singing “Turn the Page.” I thought a second time about stopping. I had been here before, and the rough exterior and the crew inside was not a problem. However, being late to meet old friends would be, so I drove on past the establishment and on toward the river. In minutes, I came to the “Big Tree” near McBaine. I was a bigger fan of that ancient Bur Oak than I was of Bob Seger or Budweiser beer, so I parked by the tree and got out to stand a few minutes and gaze up into its arching limbs above me. I felt small at its base and imagined buffalo that once stood under the mighty canopy. I looked up through the limbs and saw the moon again in
the smoky, fall sky. If you live in central Missouri, I imagine you are acquainted with this legend. The “Big Tree” is located between McBaine and Huntsdale. It is an estimated 350 plus years old and stands 90 feet tall, making it the largest Bur Oak in Missouri. My road trip was almost complete, but I still had some miles to
go. Soon I reached the gravel road that leads to my brother’s house, where I saw a red Suburban parked at the end of the gravel drive. Timmy was actually here; this old friend was not inclined to leave his Ozark solitude and travel upstate to Boone County. He came to meet up with the Martin brothers at the cabin on Terrapin Creek. It had been about three years since I helped brother Gregg dig some holes and pour the first concrete for the cabin’s foundation footings. Gregg worked in his spare time to frame and finish the cabin. He had been wholly committed to something of an ideal, in my mind a spiritual cause, or personal goal, of building the cabin on its particular site above Terrapin Creek. Like a dedicated artist, his labor was beyond practical concern—his was an offering of love to others. His motivation was the primary thought on my mind as I
walked down the hill from the driveway of his home. I walked through the cedars on either side of the pathway he had constructed. The entire project began after he found the land two decades before the cabin was built. As I walked down to cross his bridge over the creek, I marveled at clouds passing across the moon.
The night began a transition of magical proportion for me. I crossed the creek and climbed up the last hill, where native grass Gregg had seeded bordered the pathway to the cabin. A cool fall breeze seemed a prelude to winter. I saw two silhouettes by a campfire near the cabin. The power of a spirit of brotherly camaraderie made me holler out to the figures I saw by firelight. Brotherhood is a strong thing; it has lasted through the years and, in my mind, overcame even death. I was greeted by the men beside the fire and soon received a
postponed beer. Brother Gregg and protégé brother Tim extended unique tidings. I felt a profound connection, maybe because I sensed the presence of brother Tom too as we joked and shared stories
of past memories. Three “brothers” stood around the campfire. Another, not seen, was there in spirit, a spirit strong enough for me to feel his presence. I felt sadness in my regret of not restoring brotherhood until he was gone. His struggle with cancer and the memory of my parents’ fate with the same foe made me shudder and withdraw years before. But it may, in part, have been this realization that made me determined to visit friends with cancer after Tom died. What else changed me for the better? As Tim raised his beer in a traditional salute, we all remembered Tom. In my heart, there was a measure of gratitude for my brother Gregg, who had been a force of strength in my life. His regard for us, for this niche in nature, and what he shared made me grateful. Tim stood next to me, not my DNA brother, but my brother in spirit. Many moons had passed since we were boys, but now in our mid-fifties, we were like boys more and more in spirit; we were fully capable of appreciating the spirit of nature. The campfire blazed and I saw, in the glow, years revealed like embers against a night sky, the nocturnal spirit lights glowing in my soul. These rising embers gleamed before cooling and fading into the atmosphere. But, unlike material embers, sparks of memories could be rekindled, never completely disappearing as long as consciousness permitted. When the evening on Terrapin Creek was over, my appreciation and gratitude seemed larger and I felt that, in the future after we no longer build campfires, there would still be connections with nature, rooted in childhood wonder of the natural world and lifelong friends.
at the crest of the trees on the horizon, and I could smell the smoky
clouds of fall. The winding road was my pathway to a former place,
or to a former time of boyhood memories. The memories grew stronger as the blacktop changed to a chip-and-seal road across the Missouri River Bottoms. Just ahead, I could see the glow of a neon sign in front of a remote antiquity of the 1960s. As I drove by the watering hole, I saw a couple of Harleys and a ’57 Chevy pick-up parked outside. I slowed down, thinking a cold beer would be nice to accompany my wistful desire to return in thought to a former time. My sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place and time was a recurrent feeling, and road trips like this helped satisfy that need. I slowed the car to a crawl, trying to peer through the screen door so I could see a gathering of Boone County characters inside the country tavern. I imagined the music in the place, and maybe I did hear Bob Seger singing “Turn the Page.” I thought a second time about stopping. I had been here before, and the rough exterior and the crew inside was not a problem. However, being late to meet old friends would be, so I drove on past the establishment and on toward the river. In minutes, I came to the “Big Tree” near McBaine. I was a bigger fan of that ancient Bur Oak than I was of Bob Seger or Budweiser beer, so I parked by the tree and got out to stand a few minutes and gaze up into its arching limbs above me. I felt small at its base and imagined buffalo that once stood under the mighty canopy. I looked up through the limbs and saw the moon again in
the smoky, fall sky. If you live in central Missouri, I imagine you are acquainted with this legend. The “Big Tree” is located between McBaine and Huntsdale. It is an estimated 350 plus years old and stands 90 feet tall, making it the largest Bur Oak in Missouri. My road trip was almost complete, but I still had some miles to
go. Soon I reached the gravel road that leads to my brother’s house, where I saw a red Suburban parked at the end of the gravel drive. Timmy was actually here; this old friend was not inclined to leave his Ozark solitude and travel upstate to Boone County. He came to meet up with the Martin brothers at the cabin on Terrapin Creek. It had been about three years since I helped brother Gregg dig some holes and pour the first concrete for the cabin’s foundation footings. Gregg worked in his spare time to frame and finish the cabin. He had been wholly committed to something of an ideal, in my mind a spiritual cause, or personal goal, of building the cabin on its particular site above Terrapin Creek. Like a dedicated artist, his labor was beyond practical concern—his was an offering of love to others. His motivation was the primary thought on my mind as I
walked down the hill from the driveway of his home. I walked through the cedars on either side of the pathway he had constructed. The entire project began after he found the land two decades before the cabin was built. As I walked down to cross his bridge over the creek, I marveled at clouds passing across the moon.
The night began a transition of magical proportion for me. I crossed the creek and climbed up the last hill, where native grass Gregg had seeded bordered the pathway to the cabin. A cool fall breeze seemed a prelude to winter. I saw two silhouettes by a campfire near the cabin. The power of a spirit of brotherly camaraderie made me holler out to the figures I saw by firelight. Brotherhood is a strong thing; it has lasted through the years and, in my mind, overcame even death. I was greeted by the men beside the fire and soon received a
postponed beer. Brother Gregg and protégé brother Tim extended unique tidings. I felt a profound connection, maybe because I sensed the presence of brother Tom too as we joked and shared stories
of past memories. Three “brothers” stood around the campfire. Another, not seen, was there in spirit, a spirit strong enough for me to feel his presence. I felt sadness in my regret of not restoring brotherhood until he was gone. His struggle with cancer and the memory of my parents’ fate with the same foe made me shudder and withdraw years before. But it may, in part, have been this realization that made me determined to visit friends with cancer after Tom died. What else changed me for the better? As Tim raised his beer in a traditional salute, we all remembered Tom. In my heart, there was a measure of gratitude for my brother Gregg, who had been a force of strength in my life. His regard for us, for this niche in nature, and what he shared made me grateful. Tim stood next to me, not my DNA brother, but my brother in spirit. Many moons had passed since we were boys, but now in our mid-fifties, we were like boys more and more in spirit; we were fully capable of appreciating the spirit of nature. The campfire blazed and I saw, in the glow, years revealed like embers against a night sky, the nocturnal spirit lights glowing in my soul. These rising embers gleamed before cooling and fading into the atmosphere. But, unlike material embers, sparks of memories could be rekindled, never completely disappearing as long as consciousness permitted. When the evening on Terrapin Creek was over, my appreciation and gratitude seemed larger and I felt that, in the future after we no longer build campfires, there would still be connections with nature, rooted in childhood wonder of the natural world and lifelong friends.