“JAZZ”
By F.J. Wilson
The little parsonage stood
proud and friendly on an old country acre in a small town in North East Mississippi. The little family nestled safely in the
energy of all the Methodist Ministers that’d gone before. I was a welcomed visitor and made comfortable
by the hospitality of the family and the little house itself. Temporarily out of work and going through a
hard time in my life having just evacuated from New Orleans and the horrors of
Katrina, I was in need of this haven.
Finding myself middle-aged, alone and trying to find work in a film career
crippled by the great storm and inhabited by fast paced young people, I was
feeling very sorry for myself. I’d lost
confidence and thought this little out of the way place with my extended family
was the best place to be for a visit and recuperation.
The yard was mostly crab grass,
gravel and weeds, mowed weekly by the young Minister and his son. The beauty of the place didn’t rely on
well-groomed lawns and landscaped shrubbery, but in the yard’s well worn years
of childhood’s play. The property
bordered dense Pinewoods; the big trees almost virginal in their beauty and
size. The woods had so much undergrowth
and tangled vines, exploring them should have been out of the question - but I
felt the call - the pressure; the sudden undeniable urge to investigate this
quiet place of such verdant life. I was struck by an intense desire to risk the
vines and brambles and see what treasures were hidden in this dark world that
wasn’t mine. So in spite of my better judgment, I made it over the broken fence
of barbed wire and rotting posts. Had
this fence been put up years ago to keep something in, or something out? The dense brier and nettle bushes caused
stinging scratches to be dealt with later, and most assuredly ticks and
redbugs, but I’d started and couldn’t go back. The ancient layers of pine straw
under my feet held decayed bits of forest life and probably snakes and crawly
things I didn’t want to encounter.
Moving quickly and hoping to out step any snake ready to strike, I came
to an opening and stopped short. A small
clearing in the trees created a small chamber so soft and lovely it could’ve
been home to wood nymphs and fairies. “A
clearing in the thicket” was a phrase that came to mind and I felt the souls of
all the deer and animals that used this
place as a safe haven for sleeping and birthing. The sense of peace was
spiritual in its comfort and I saw the reason I was summoned. Across the clearing and half falling onto the
ground in a natural desire to become compost was a wooden grave marker. Carved out of Oak and rounded in the shape of
common tombstones it called out to life passing by; begging not to be
forgotten.
Our Dog and Friend
JAZZ
1936 – 1950.
There are times in your life
when you know something, half tangible, half spiritual. I knew Jazz was there, smiling and wagging his
tale and glad to be noticed once again, after so many years of not being. I sat on the ground next to the old marker
and asked the questions anyone would ask about his family, his life, his death;
there were no answers but I knew he was lying next to me. I felt my own self-inflicted
misery lifting as one does when visiting an old friend, and I wanted to put my
hand on his grateful old head, lying over crossed paws, happy to be in the
company of a familiar being. I stayed
for about an hour and then it was time for me to go back to the little
parsonage, back through the brambles and briers, back past snakes and crawly
things and suddenly I didn’t want to make the trip back. But just as sure as I was summoned into the
woods in the first place, I felt Jazz lead the way farther into the woods and I
followed. There were no brambles only
pine straw and tall trees and after a short while I walked out of the woods
onto an old paved road that led back to the church and the little parsonage
from a different angle. I didn’t feel Jazz with me any longer and I realized he
had boundaries in whatever world he lives and had come as far as he dared and returned to his lonely existence.
I told the young minister about
Jazz and asked if he’d go visit on occasion.
Thinking this would be a wonderful lesson for his small children I
offered to show him the way. He was kind
as he explained that one didn’t ‘go visit’ Jazz, but when Jazz wanted your
company he summoned you. I hadn’t
discovered anything new to this little community, they were aware of the
miracle of Jazz and his love, long before I came to visit.
There are times in your life
when you know you shouldn’t, but you find yourself envying people. I envied the people living in this little
spot of nowhere Mississippi and their knowledge and appreciation of a wonderful
dog that had lived and died but still stayed among them.
The young minister and his
little family will move to other country churches. They’ll leave their energy in the little
parsonage along with the families before them and Jazz will always be there to
welcome the new and comfort all who visit.
The End
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