I feel I need to finish the story of the Black Lake Woods. I will attempt to tell it
as best as I can remember, as I was only seven at the time. I know I post a lot
that isn't poetry, but I’m in a storytelling mood here lately, so hang with me,
and maybe I won't bore you to death.
Though I only remember fragments, I'm told I began going hunting with my dad at the
age of four. I'm also told that my weapon of choice was a plastic toy machine gun,
which I carried religiously on every hunt. My older brother, Micah, tells me of a time
that he recalls when our dad was taking us rabbit hunting. We were going down
something of a dirt trail on the three-wheeler, when we hit a rough patch, and I flew
off the back. He says he tapped dad on the shoulder and said, "Dad ... we lost Caleb."
He says he also remembers me tumbling head over feet down the hard-pack, but I
never let go of that damn machine gun.
You might not see how the toy machine gun ties in with my story, but maybe you will
Had I not been too big for my breeches at seven, and had I been carrying the toy on
that hunt, things might very well have turned out differently.
As I said at the end of my last narrative, I gained and lost something that day. I will
do my best to explain how, to myself as much as you, the reader, just how that is.
Because for me, it truly is a haunting harmony.
So, if you will, join me once again in the woods surrounding Black Lake, next to the
White River, in a little place called Beulah, Arkansas.