Introduction, "Woodsmoke"
By
Ben Schley (1915-1996)
Printed with permission from
Ben Schley’s family – ED.
“This
book is about many things and many places. All the stories relate in some way
to my love of the natural world. Some are true. Others are fiction. All are
influenced by my experiences as a youth in a small town on the banks of a
storied river where I could spend countless days on the water and roam the
woods and fields. One such day spent with my father more than half a century
ago has had much influence on my life.
“I
remember it now as one sometimes recalls a dream... no time frame, no visual
perspective and everything seems a bit skewed as if seen obliquely. We sit
close by the river. My father, his big hands cupped around a burning match, lights
a fire and carefully feeds small bits of bark and twigs to a tiny flame. The
damp wood burns slowly and smoke fills the quiet air. I turn away and rub
smoke-reddened eyes with grimy hands.
“We
fished the Potomac River earlier that day. I sat in the bow while Dad poled the
heavy wooden scow slowly through a rock-strewn stretch of water. I trailed a
worm-baited hook on the end of a long bamboo pole. It was a cold day in late
September and I was wearing a too-large green raincoat. It was tightly belted
at my waist and the sleeves were rolled to my elbows. The coat was made of
oilskin. I thought it smelled of the sea.
I didn't catch any fish that day but my father would pick up his bamboo
fly rod now and then and make a long cast or two over the flat gray water.
Though he caught several fish, he kept only two small mouth bass, threaded them
on a stringer, tied it to an oarlock and let it hang over the side of the boat.
I could look down in the clear water and see the bass trying to break free. How
old was I then? Six or seven, perhaps eight. Surely no older and with very
little meat on my bones.
“A
cold rain fell most of that day and an inch or so of water sloshed around in
the bottom of the boat. My feet were cold and rain began to find its way
through the tattered fabric of the old raincoat. I was miserable and shivering.
My father took the fishing pole from my shaking hands, cut off the hook and
carefully wrapped the ‘Cuttyhunk’ line around the handle and laid it along the
gunnels. Then he pushed the heavy boat upriver and toward the shore.
“Finding
dry firewood wasn't easy that soggy day. While Dad searched for deadwood in
sheltered places I gathered strips of gray-brown sycamore bark. Stinging
nettles lashed my bare legs and water squished in my sodden sneakers. We found
shelter in the exposed roots of a fallen sycamore by the edge of the river and
my father started a fire. Small at first, it gained strength as he layered one
stick after another in the heart of the flame. The wood was damp and the fire
hissed and cracked and cast out sparks. It required constant care. Thick smoke
poured out and I moved several times to escape it. ‘Smoke follows beauty,’ my
father said and we both laughed.
“Later,
when the fire burned brightly, I curled up in the roots of the old tree. I was
warm and discarded the raincoat. Half asleep, I watched my father staring into
the flames. After a while he sat back against the roots of the ancient
sycamore, brought out a blackened pipe, filled it with tobacco and lighted it
with a burning stick fished from the fire. Then he began to talk about the
river and the many forms of life that had depended upon its constant flow since
the beginning of time.
“Rivers,
he told me, are living things, treasures to love and cherish. . ., the very
life blood of our earth. But like all living things they must be cared for and
defended. ‘The Potomac is our very own river, yours and mine,’ he said, ‘and
someday it will be yours to watch over and care for.’ The fire burned low and
my father covered it with damp earth.
The rain and the slanting September sun glinted off the surface of my
living river. Today, my heart beats
with the rhythm of the many rivers of my life.”