Hickory

A chill rips across the rolling, gray hillside. The sharp whistle signals to all who are alert, and reminds as if forgotten, that life must give way to death. A lone tree, high atop the barren pasture, sways majestically as if keeping watch; as it seems, fulfilling an assignment of sorts. This tree, old and gnarled, thick waisted, hoisting its long, spiraling limbs; absorbs the cold wind, surrendering its leaves and nuts to the hillside below.

A man approaches, bent with age but strong in breath, carrying a bag, stops to smell the hickory. The damp but earthy aroma, blunt with rustic flavor, reminds the man of younger days. He has made his appointment with the hickory to collect its harvest. This hillside, this tree, is an entry point, calling back memories of lessons learned and life experienced--recalling how those before have lead and wondering how those behind will carry forth. Leisurely the old man collects the nuts in the bag, admitting with his pace that his real purpose here is the emotions.

Looking down, the man sees a hickory nut partially embodied by its heavy outer shell, dried enough to have lost a segment of the shell all by itself. Wrenching his fingers around the shell, the man attempts to loosen the other segments. The man, wise in years, cannot muster the strength to rid the small nut from its shell, so he retrieves a blade from his right pants pocket. "Ray Kincaid" the engraving reads, saying it aloud. With his mind recalling his father, Ray clutches the nut and sits down on a nearby rock.

"It's been years since my last visit," he considers as his boney fingers fumble around with the knife prying off the nut's shell.

Ray's father brought him here as a boy; every fall, to collect the nuts. He remembers enjoying the time spent with his father; the hike, the weather, the hope he felt while working along side him. Lost with these memories, the wind ratchets up in force and the tree above can be heard moaning and creaking, sending a flurry of leaves and nuts crashing down. Steadying himself on the rock, Ray hears something like a voice calling out. He looks around but sees no one. "Crazy wind," he mumbles under his breath.

Finally able to rid the hickory nut of its outer shell, Ray drops it into his bag, looks up into sky and says, "Thanks Dad." The feelings toward his past continued to pour out as he thought of his father.

Ray was sure glad he came today--to this place--understanding that something right was happening. Glancing down and spotting a small group of hickory nuts, he went back to work.