Our Heart (20 page)

By Friday, I had become obsessed with the weather, watching the news and reading the paper to make sure Sunday was going to be bright and sunny. So far, neither the newspaper nor the weatherman on television had predicted the slightest chance of rain for the weekend. This was only a small comfort. I remembered too many times when the weather never cooperated when it was supposed to. Grandma would give me a smile and try to reassure me that the sun would most likely be out on Sunday.

Grandpa told me to settle down and get the “ants out of my pants.” He knew all about the picnic, Grandma usually told him everything, and I didn’t mind that he knew. I’d learned long ago my grandpa had a very big heart when it came to Grandma and romance. He understood that planning to take Allison to see the old oak tree meant it was a very special occasion. If anyone could relate to the way I felt it was Grandpa Jake.

I’d been hinting to Allison, over the last week, that I had something I needed to do on Sunday morning after church, but I wanted to spend the rest of the day doing something with her. I asked if she might like to see a movie at the mall in Cedar Rapids. She readily agreed and even asked if we’d have time to do some shopping. I nodded sure and inwardly smiled.

On Saturday afternoon, I made a trek up to the tree just to make sure everything looked okay. I removed some of the larger, dead branches that had fallen from the tree and which lay around its trunk and tossed them out of the way. This place always seemed to pull at me, drawing me to it. I couldn’t explain it, and I knew it wasn’t just me who felt it either. My father and Grandfather had made similar comments about Murphy’s meadow and the old oak tree in the past. To many people, it was just a beautiful place to enjoy.

As you walk up to the tree, from the path at the bottom of the hill, there is a semi-flat place used frequently by the people who journey into the meadow. Many have sat and pondered the complexities of the world or engaged in some festive behavior within the solitude of the meadow. To many, it is only a field with a large oak tree at the top of the hill, nothing really special and probably not worth a second trip up the well-beaten path. To others, it is the place, the only place where they can go to capture what is right and spectacular in the world.

When someone sees the ocean or the mountains for the first time, they can be overwhelmed by the feelings generated by them. This little corner of the world, like those others places, can invoke the same feelings of wonder to the most perceptive of individuals. There is an inherent serenity that comes with perceptive knowledge. If you only look, you understand that man
y people
do not make much of the beauty in this world. It might only be the artistic side of me, but when I come out of the darkened path from the timber, into the light and sounds of Murphy’s meadow, I never fail to instantly be uplifted by the serenity surrounding me. As you walk up the hill, the old tree seems to grow ever more majestic in stature, the closer you get. You can’t help but feel the vibrations of the meadow. It is an experience of the senses, the sounds and smells highlighting the rich colors and natural beauty surrounding you. Maybe it is not just a tree, but instead a wise old guardian of the meadow, who graciously waits for the pure of heart to journey forth and sit beneath its outstretched branches.

The stories the old oak tree could tell of the hearts healed and broken under its patriarchal watch would fill the pages of a best selling novel. There is no longer anyone alive in Cedar Junction who would be able to remember a time before the tree. When a conversation turns to the old oak, which it occasionally does, down at Bills or during a late night at the Last Spot tavern, people have shared their stories of love and loss. Many have debated the age of the old tree. The only thing everyone will agree on is the meadow is a truly natural place. It has never been cleared of trees by anyone, as far as the history can be told.

In eighteen eighty-six, Zachariah Murphy built a livery stable on the outskirts of town. As the old timers tell it, Zachariah searched all over the nearby county to find the perfect spot to build his house. One afternoon, he came upon the billowing grasses of the field and a much younger oak tree. Zachariah was so struck by the peacefulness that he knew instantly it was the only place to build his house.

Months would go by as he first convinced and later procured title to the land from the remaining living relatives of Jackson Willington, the current owner. Willington had been one of the original founders of Cedar Junction in eighteen forty-seven and passed away in eighteen sixty-nine at the age of eighty-two. Murphy spent months walking the meadow with stakes, trying to lay out the perfect foundation for his grand house. After many tentative plans, he eventually decided the only spot, which made any sense to build, was at the top of the hill where the tree stood. The tree was so much a part of the beauty of the place that he could not bring himself to cut it down.

The story, as embellished over the years, would tell how Zachariah stood with his axe in hand, ready to strike a blow to the tree, but became so overcome with emotion that he instead flung the axe far down the hill into the tall grass of the meadow, never to retrieve it. Many people over the years had heard the story and searched for his axe. Some had even used a metal detector, but no one ever claimed to have found it.

Murphy found another parcel of land and bought it, building one of the oldest and enduring houses in the town. It still stands today and is owned by Dr. Peter and Eleanor Johnston, both of them now in their mid-seventies. Dr. Johnston still sees patients two days a week and, throughout the course of his life, has presided at the birth of many of our townsfolk. He once claimed to have found the old axe tucked away in the corner of the woodshed, but after close scrutiny, a date from the early nineteen twenties could be made out on the axe head.

Zachariah Murphy lived to be ninety-four and died in nineteen forty-three. During his life, many people had tried to buy the meadow and surrounding acres from him. He never came close to selling it and made it his life’s ambition to accumulate as much of the surrounding timber around the meadow that he could. Upon his death, the land became part of a trust. The trust documentation was short and simple: the land was never to be sold nor built on. The trust had plenty of funds to pay taxes well into the future. The only time any of the land had been sold was done by proxy from the town municipality. They needed a very small part to maintain a levy on the river running through town. After much discussion, the trustees felt that the sale was in order and authorized it.

My Grandpa Jake was only fifteen when Zachariah Murphy died, and he never had the opportunity to meet him. Murphy never married and had no children and no nephews or nieces. His only sibling, a sister, had died when she was still a young child. He was a man of intuitive insight, and when the automobile came along, he was one of the first to embrace the new contraption, as many people called it. His old livery stable is now home to the Kasten Brothers Gas & Garage. Zachariah never became the stalwart
entrepreneur
he envisioned himself to be, but he ended his life rich in friends and admirers. Upon his death, the town’s small library was dedicated to and named in his honor. Inside the library is a display case housing many photographs taken throughout Zachariah’s lifetime and donated by people, whose lives he touched.

I stood facing the object of so many stories, the tree, and I was immanently aware of the magnitude and relevance of being here. My grandfather and father were a part of its history as well. I walked around to the back of the tree and gazed on the spot that had drawn so many others over the years, the hearts carved by my grandfather and father. It would never cease to amaze me at how much time and effort my father and Grandpa Jake must have put into the hearts, forever displayed on the oak tree and a part of the town lore. It was an artistic gift presented to the ones they loved. What my grandfather and father rendered on this magical old tree was not the pocketknife version of a hastily scratched out heart. What they created was the dedicated and painstaking pursuit of art, which countless visitors admired and commented on. Over the years, many had made viewing the hearts their sole purpose for the trek up the hill.

My grandfather placed his heart in the center of the tree and, even though it was no bigger than eight inches by eight inches, it stood out larger than life itself. You only had to see it to understand that what my grandfather accomplished was not something that could have been done in a lazy afternoon. It had taken several long hours of preparation, contemplation, and tedious precision to complete. The heart my grandpa carved on the tree could not be more cherished than if it had been done by Michelangelo himself. Grandpa Jake carefully cut, chipped, and chiseled away the outside bark to create an oval canvas upon which to work. He finely sanded
smooth the inner bark of the tree. Using all the woodcarving tools at his disposal, Grandpa carved his mind’s inspiration into the tree like a painter brushes colors on a new and unblemished canvas. When he was done, he sealed the tree, where the bark had been stripped, to protect it and to preserve the testament of his love, his carved heart forever.

Only a couple of times over the years since my grandfather first placed his heart on the tree had anyone else tried to carve their own heart. No one was ever brave enough to attempt one near his, until my father carved his. After my dad placed his heart on the tree, all attempts by anyone else stopped. The hearts and the tree took on a new meaning for those who ventured to see it. For lovers, young and old, it became more of an inspiration and affirmation of their undying love for one another. They would lose themselves to the sentiment of the hearts. To leave such a lasting testimony on the tree, my father and grandfather had epitomized the power of love and commitment.

To those who came all the way up the hill to the tree, it was not enough to just stare at the hearts. There was an intense internal desire to touch them as well. It was as if they could draw some magical elixir from their contact with the hearts. It might have come from the tree itself or the affirmation of the tranquility surrounding the meadow. It might just as easily be the love rendered in the hearts on the trunk; either way, for those who were touched by its sight, it became unforgettable. Over the years, both my grandfather and father would diligently return to the tree, to touch up any blemishes or apply more sealer, to protect their hearts and the tree. I couldn’t stop myself and just like all those before me, I traced the outline of the hearts with my fingers as I read the names inscribed within them.

To step into the meadow,
from the denseness of the timber, into the open and inviting sunlight of the meadow, was only the first part of the journey. The aroma of wildflowers and the gentle breeze wafting over the tall grass would heighten the senses as the dank and dimness of the forest gave way. The tree stood at the top of the hill, and its royal branches waved, like a gesture of welcome, in the wind. The climb up the hill only magnified the anticipation that climaxed when lovers held each other close and placed their hands together as one on the intricately, carved hearts. There was not another place in our town or across several counties that had borne witness to more marriage proposals or testaments of enduring love than here at this very tree. The hearts alone would bring their share of tears, but the inscriptions dedicated to true love and the atmosphere surrounding the moment could turn even the toughest individual misty-eyed. Inside my grandfather’s heart were the words, “Jake & Sarah,” and “For your love I would cross any ocean.” Inside my father’s heart was carved, “Randy & Emily,” and “You are the song that fills my heart.”

What seemed dumb to me as a little boy, who had spent hours climbing this tree without a thought about the hearts below, now brought a weakness to my knees and undeniable emotion to my heart. To place your love and commitment in this way on the tree for all to see was more than just a statement; it was the quintessence of the romanticized declaration of undying love. I understood this notion more so now than I ever had, as I touched the hearts of my grandfather and father. I wondered if someday I would carve my own heart on this tree. Would it be Allison’s name I placed inside my heart to be forever joined with me?

It was tough to look at my parents’ heart and not feel an immense loss. I wondered what my mother would have thought of me today. I wished I could ask her about all the unanswered questions I kept locked inside. For the first time, in over two years, I found a small measure of sympathy for my father. I was still so very far away from forgiveness. I acknowledged the love he must have felt for Mom. His quote within the heart touched me today, more than it ever had. I placed one hand on each of the hearts and offered a silent prayer to God. I prayed for a future full of hope and where my dreams would come true.

I walked all around the tree, picking up debris and tossing it into the bag I was carrying. Satisfied that I had made the place look as pristine as possible, I headed home. My insides were churning now. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, but I feared it too. When I made it to the opening in the tree line, I looked back up at the old oak. I waved goodbye and hoped it still held some magic for me.

When I got back to the house, Grandma Sarah was in the kitchen finishing up with the potato salad. She gave me her all-knowing look, as I walked in and then asked, “Well, is everything up to snuff?” I just nodded, and she smiled at me. Her eyes were focused intensely on me, as she offered more of a directive rather than a question, “Tomorrow is a special day. Are you sure you’re ready?”