Brent Mason: Time in the country

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When he was little, he didn’t think of the coming and going of the seasons. Little, as in before he was enrolled in school. Before life got sliced and diced into “back to school,” summer break, Christmas holiday and all the rest. It was a non-linear world for him, a dreamy wide-awake time, discovering new, wonderful things most any day of the week. He had no idea how lucky he was to live in the dirt-road, blue sky country. He just lived.

At some point that he couldn’t recall but had heard the big people talk about in smoky kitchens, the snow had retreated to the woods, where it slowly went away without being watched. The banks along the brook were covered in the brown, straw-hair hay in the open pasture, or shaded by the overhanging alders just beginning to bud out. Even from far away, he could hear the music in the high, rushing water. A gurgly, glugly swirl singing its way by. It was still too cold to fish, the big people all said in the kitchen, though it was fishing season and they had all gotten their licence.

The morning would happen without him having to think about it; wipe away the sand in the corner of his eyes, pull on some clothes. Breakfast would be there for him in the kitchen, after which he’d be told to go outside and be sure to be back for lunch. Free to play with toy trucks or marbles in the yard, or wander along the brook through the pasture. To explore, as he would much later refer to it as with his own kids. But, of course, in the time before time, he never thought about it as that. Or at all. He just did it.

A new and familiar world awaited him as he stomped through the high grass in his new rubber boots. The water was right up to the edge of the bank, funneling under the bridge. The smell of tar and asphalt mixed in the cool air underneath. He’d yell and clap his hands to hear the echo, then run as fast as he could to get out from under when he heard to rumble of a logging truck approaching. Run along the brook until the bank became crowded with alder overhangs. Then he would make his way around the impenetrable parts to where the pasture opened up again.

Off to the right, he’d wade into the stagnant little pond at bottom of a bend, nearly to the top of his new boots, looking for frog’s eggs. He remembered them being there last year, large jelly-clumps with little black dots in them he had scooped up with two hands, trying to keep them from slipping through his fingers, and carried home. Put them in a plastic pail and waited until tadpoles miraculously appeared.

Along the edge of the pond, the Adders’ Tongues were there again, yellow just like the last time. He remembered picking some into a bouquet that he gave to his grandmother and planned to do so again. He’d get some pussy willows and mix them together and watch when she placed them into a jar-vase.

At the base of the hill on the other side of the pond, there were brown bottles that had been tossed out of cars from the road above. He went around and picked them up and put them into a pile. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a pink flower sitting straight up. A Lady Slipper! Even the big people talked about them, and where they could be found. He knew they were rare, and he felt such a sense of discovery; he could feel his heart pattering under the skin. He knew to leave it, and looking at the pile of bottles, vowed to keep it a secret.

A little farther along, a small stream cut through the pasture towards the brook. He jumped back and forth over it, revelling in the length of his leaps. On the last one, he saw a brightly coloured salamander scurry, trying to hide. He chased it up the stream, grabbing and yelling and stomping until he finally caught it, holding it tight but not too tight, marvelling at the yellow spots and marble- black eyes. He set it gently back in the stream and stood up. The sun was high above him. His stomach growled at him. He wandered along the brook, heading back home for lunch.

Brent Mason is an award-winning musician and writer living in Saint John (www.brentmason.ca) Mason’s Jar is a column featuring short, fictional musings largely, but not exclusively, set in New Brunswick.