The Return of the Ragpicker by Og Mandino

Author:Og Mandino [Mandino, Og]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-78093-5
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-12-28T16:00:00+00:00

VIII

Beginning late in the spring, when the wild-flowers emerged from their long hibernation in all parts of our woods and meadow, I became very frustrated at my ability to identify by name only a few of those tough floral vagrants of Mother Nature, and so I spent long and intense hours, as if I were researching a book, poring over several field guides in order to recognize and better understand the wildflowers of New Hampshire.

Tuesday morning, on my way to visiting Simon at his cabin, I discovered several clusters of fragile starflowers, with seven graceful white petals serving as the perfect setting for their long golden stamens. Close to them were perhaps a dozen clumps of Indian pipes, with their pale, translucent stems and graceful, nodding heads rising from the leafy embankment along the north side of Blueberry Lane. When I finally found the narrow path that Simon had described, leading off Old Pound Road, I was surrounded by masses of fireweed, with their spikelike clusters of deep pink flowers rising nearly to my eye level. I walked forward slowly, with arms extended, so that I could gently push aside the sturdy stems of these tall and haughty beauties without harming any of them.

Since our section of Langville rises several hundred feet above the surrounding countryside, there is usually at least a gentle breeze that one becomes accustomed to feeling and even hearing as it flows through the trees. However, on this bright and sunny morning there was not even the slightest hint of air movement, so that the usual constant fluttering of leaves was absent. In the silence, I suddenly became aware of a strange and fascinating chorus … buzzings and hummings … squeals and squeaks … chirpings and soft moans … all low-decibel sounds that one rarely hears, of insects and birds and tiny animals and Lord knows what else, hidden beneath the cover of nearby shrubbery, going about their normal daily routine. Another world … a fascinating world we are still trying to understand … and all just under my clumsy feet.

Simon’s cabin was located just far enough off into the woods so that it was not visible from Old Pound Road. I had been expecting to find a sturdy cabin of logs, similar to so many that surround our lakes and ponds, and so my first view of the tiny shack, with its exterior sides covered only with loose gray wooden shingles, was quite a shock. Simon Potter certainly deserved better than this. He was standing in the doorway, waving and smiling as I approached.

“Welcome, old friend, welcome to my humble home. Come in, come in!”

Several old pines and a leaning birch crowded very close to the right side of the cabin and on the other side I could see that the old man was growing a fairly large vegetable garden. Recalling the terribly congested area where my office and his apartment had been, I embraced him and said, “It is not quite Chicago, is it?”

“Chicago is a great city, Mister Og, but you are correct.

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