The Cedar Creeks Unabandoned Spirit

The road to the cedar creek retreat or as I call it CCR is on a mostly unnoticed, deserted and dusty back road. The flint hill rock exposed after spring wash outs can cut like jagged glass deep into tires not equipped adequately for back country road driving. The original old homestead lies just off the road with its ghosted frame just behind the skeleton of a burr oak. The oak now a shadow of a once former grand gentlemen welcoming you through the entrance to the property. Twisting and gnarled vines have straggled themselves like long knotted fingers around windowless, chipped and faded window panes of the old dilapidated house. After buying the old place as a hunting retreat and kind of sight unseen it was a bit of a shock once we drove up to discover the level of disrepair CCR was truly in. That first year I rode up with my husband to the land, I barley got out of the truck let alone walk around the nasty and dirty home. I was put off and disgusted by its age, darkness and gray lifeless saddened state. One day years later and out of sheer boredom I decided to walk about the property as my husband was cutting down dead trees and removing limbs. I first walked around to the front of the house, stepping carefully over broken glass and puzzled pieces of roofing lying about and scattered all over the ground. It was hard to look into the face of a structure that was so dead of feature and life. I forced myself to look beyond the cob webs and dirt peering past the front porch looking through for a front door. It was then that a simple door knob caught my attention and maybe because it seemed so out of place, ornate and eccentric attached to its lifeless coffined structure. I felt compelled and moved in closer to investigate further. Pushing cob webs from my face and the crunch of old boards and glass under my feet I reached for and turned the knob. I was shocked by the instant vibration and sensation that flowed through my fingers, palms of my hands and up into my arms. Bewildered and scared I let go of the knob and stood back in shock. I thought to myself, what just happened to me, was that real. Very scared but also intrigued I slowly and gently touched the knob again. This time the sensation was oddly warm, friendly, kind and gentle. Curious I looked down on the knob, I did not recognize the design and features, it was gothic looking, vintage and weathered. Once more I moved my hand away looked about the door frame and noticed that even in disrepair there was this intricate lattice design woven around and in the framework. Every reach to knob opened portals and discoveries I had not seen before in and around the home. Small treasures and charming hints of the former builder’s craft and finish work still woven securely around windows and door frames. I was becoming entranced and drawn into its story and somehow feeling its very energy, history and soul. Just then my husband honked the horn, you ready to leave he yelled. I removed my hand slowly, looking back from the front porch I quietly promised I would return again. On the drive back home, I felt I had left a part of myself there and I just couldn’t explain it away.

That was the first night I heard it, as I lay in bed and just outside my window there came this odd sound, it was like nails on the window, with short and frequent wisps and screeches. It was persistent in nature and even though I tried to ignore it I couldn’t. I got up moved the curtain and peered into the my garden. It was dark out but the moon shined as a spotlight onto a grayish white silhouetted feature. I reached for my glasses to gain a closer look and there on the hedge post I saw this translucent, angelic and statue like creature. We have a lot of wildlife around us but this creature I had never seen before. I laid back down and the next morning I brought it up to my husband in detail, explaining its features and odd gentle moaning calls. Oh, I bet that is just an old barn owl he said, they can be annoying and if it continues to keep you awake will do something about it. The next night and for several weeks following the owl returned and called out to me at exactly the same hour at night. I found myself waiting silently and getting up quickly and excitedly for our nightly rendezvous. One night after a great storm had passed through I did not see or hear from it and this went on for several days and months. I laid there sad that my new friend had gone away, good riddance said my husband, now we don’t have to listen to it outside your window anymore.

Fall had finally come and we headed up to CCR to set up the deer stand for hunting season. My husband was somewhat surprised and confused by my eagerness to help and new-found interest in the run-down property. I jumped right out as soon as we pulled in and with camera in hand rushed right up to the front door. I took a deep breath and reached for the knob and portal with childlike anticipation. This time I felt a gentle push, an odd but gentle nudge pushing me to move around the home. With not a thought as to why I followed the urgings and moved past the house, the stickers, thorns and weeds to an open and small brown clearing of dirt. In the circle of dirt, I turned around very slowly in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree complete motion taking the entire view in. Through the corner of my eye a very tall and rugged barn caught my attention instantly. A much bigger structure in comparison to the home, its towering solid frame absorbed and blocked the west suns heat thus protecting other structures around it. The tall prairie grasses and itch weed blocked any easy access to the barn. Determined now for a better view I kicked and knocked down anything that got in my way to gain a closer look. The barn was extraordinary even its somewhat weathered and worn state. Unlike the house the barn was more seasoned and cured into a magnificent finish of grays, browns and reds. The wood roof shingles and missing boards that had fallen off allowed shards and shadows of light to interplay and dance perfectly around lines of solid and petrified wood beams. There was just enough light that dimly revealed the hull of a once thriving and working farm. There were sturdy wood stalls built that had fed large animals and, in the corner, a small old homemade milking stool still waiting for the farmers return. Iron hooks on the walls had remnants of old rope hanging on by wispy and tethered old threads. The more I looked about the more I saw and felt that this was not just an old run-down property, it had once lived and thrived and been part of a real family’s beautiful story that mattered. I pressed my hand upon the wood of the barn, I felt its pulse, its strength, its rough weathered skin and timelessness.

As I stood there and quiet in the moment the familiar call of the old owl pierced into my silence. In a trance of emotion and peace I climbed the wood ladder at the back of the barn, sunlight from the top had beamed down and illuminated it for me. Slowly I climbed up each crooked wrung of the ladder until reaching the top. Once at the top I pulled up and sat cautiously near the opening with my back against the splintered barn wall. My hands shaky but firmly securing them for balance in the dust of the wood floor. It was an open vacant dusty area missing some boards and wood shingles in the roof. It gave off an almost church like presence with its vaulted cathedral ceiling and lighted stained-glass features. I was awe struck at the light show as beams in all different facets entered and exited the space effortlessly. As I looked to the left where a wood door had once hung there was a single piece and sliver of wood hanging and clinging barley to its hinge. Then a familiar outline in the opening caught my attention and I instantly recognized it as my dear friend the old barn owl. My heart so full and tears rolling down my face I whispered, it is so good to see you again. He never moved his body but effortlessly turned his head and looked right into me. His claws holding tightly to the frame and opening of the small portal into the barn he stood as a living statue. His eyes wide open and dark as night, his face beautifully white and shaped in an almost heart like manner. His wings of gold and brown majestically anchored at his sides pointing in a perfect and sharp slope down from his solid and feathered frame. I could sense his dutifulness, his wisdom and yet I was sensing something so much more than the scene between us. Time suspended and lingered as I looked into his eyes and he into mine. Then the wind started to rush into the loft, the open shingles and missing boards creaked and groaned with deep tired moans of finality. Oh, my I said please no, I don’t want this to end, I don’t want this once thriving homestead and barn to become a ghost and fade into the abyss of non-remembering. The old owl raised his wings the span and tips of his feathers touching each edge of the door opening, seemingly soothing the barns-tired sighs and easing its eventual conclusion. I nodded at the owl, I understand now and see everything you see, that all of this has its time, purpose and ending just like us. That old barn owls are the very caretakers of the lost and left behind. Like angelic apparitions you draw and siren us, those of us who are writers into your story. We then compose, craft and weave memories into words one last time before the images are all gone and what remains falls into a empty silence forever more. He then lowered his wings and turned his eyes to meet mine, bowing his head in agreement he looked around the barn once more. Then with a magnificent and powerful thrust he pushed away from the frame and soared effortlessly over the dark creek waters and up into the light of the forest’s shadows. I still look up into the shadows and light of the old barn for my dear friend and have yet to see him again after all these years. I also look up to see if yet another barn owl has been sent as his replacement. There is and will always be a deep mystery in those called to be a night watchman, they perch in the shadows, dutifully guarding and honoring the soul and spirit of the abandoned and forgotten.