“JAZZ”
By
Nita Wilson
The little parsonage stood proud and friendly on an old country
acre outside a small town in North East Mississippi. The little family was nestled safely in the loving
energy of all those who’d lived in the little dwelling before. I was a welcomed visitor and made comfortable
by the hospitality of the family and the little house itself. I was out of work having just evacuated from
New Orleans and the horrors of Katrina.
Finding myself middle-aged, alone and trying to find work in a career crippled
by the great storm and inhabited by fast paced combative 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 recuperation.
The yard was mostly crab grass, gravel and weeds, mowed weekly
by the young minister and his son, but the beauty of the place didn’t rely on
well-groomed lawns and landscaped shrubbery; it was the yard’s well worn years
of childhood’s play that gave it such charm.
The property bordered dense Pinewoods; the big trees almost
virginal in their beauty and size. The
woods had so much undergrowth and tangled vines that 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 to 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, or chiggers as we’d called
them in childhood, 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 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.
“JAZZ”
Our Dog
and Friend 1936 – 1950.
There are times in your life when you know something, half
tangible, half spiritual. I saw Jazz there,
smiling and wagging his tale, 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… questions 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 watched as 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 inhabits
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
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. Thanks, Jazz, you’re a good boy.
The End
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