Pine Heart Roots

  On a Friday afternoon, I packed the car and my mom and I drove down Sea Blue Lane.  Our destination was Pine Prairie, Louisiana.  Wheels rolled down blacktop while music notes rocked and rolled through the Malibu.  We sped through Lafayette and entered “Country Land”.  As I passed by horses, my eyes lit up with little girl joy, as usual.  Cows grazed as clouds speckled their backs.  The bayous were fading behind us as pine trees started to grow in their place.  The scenery was refreshing, renewing our minds with fresh crawfish waters.  We finally arrived at my cousin, Dana’s house and parked upon O’Banion territory.  I needed to strip my bark of “stress needles” and regrow peace around my “pine heart”.     

I was feeling distant from my dad.  Year after year, the roughness I once felt on his hand was smoothing.  He is branded in my heart, but I needed that brand to be lit under fire once again.  My dad’s hometown was kindling to arise my dad’s young life to walk beside me.  Bob “young heart” hiked the Beaver woods and dribbled a basketball at Oakdale High School.  He was once a ten year old tumbleweed, rolling, sprinting over slithering snakes, rambling for spike-tusked hogs.  He was once a bouncy seventeen year old who practiced and strived.  Bounce-bounce-rebound! To pep rally! Drums sound!  The deep dark followed my dad six miles home to lit, glistened sweat.  Dad, I’m ready to walk those remembrance miles with you.

On a Sunday afternoon we headed to my aunt’s homestead.  We zipped down the piney lone highway, sunshine conforming, branching into leafy shadows.  Pulling up in the gravel driveway, history encrusted beneath tires below. Land, drummed-drummed-drummed, with a farmer’s plow and cattle hoofs. Hi! Aunt Germaine and a “how are you?” were exchanged through the little, comforting house.  History lessons began with rushed turns of yellowish pages in yearbooks. There’s dad!  Points, laughs, and smiles cascaded throughout the room.  Pam, my cousin, and Ernie, her husband, were a part of the family crest that day.  Coffee filled our belly-tanks and cake sweetened our taste.  “Brandy, do you want to go see the old place?” my mom asked.  I was eager to explore and take a stroll with my dad into the past.  Pam and Ernie were delighted to take me on the great grandparents tour.

We made it to the clearing.  The sun blasted the house with “there it is!” revelation.  I made sure I wore my boots and jeans that day, to protect from Louisiana mayhem.  We made it to the ole’ O’Banion homestead.  We crept up to take a closer peek at a breezeway of memories and a living room once livened with Southern hospitality.  A chimney of hand-laid brick, once smoked filled, still stood like a marine in rank.  The red dots collaborated with the green Live Oaks in the backdrop.  We brushed through leaves painted on the ground.  Browns and beiges, swished-swished-splotched.  We edged up to the back porch. Ernie, being a woodsman, bravely walked into the kitchen, exploring the backwoods ruins.  My dad’s little feet once paced the spicy kitchen.  He’d steal a flitter or two and then pounced outside.  Bye, Grandpa James!  Bye! Grandma Lizzie!  Pam and I stood on the steady wooden porch.  Boards were still sturdy, hammered with quality and pride.  I inched by the screen door.  I discovered an Irish gem, the backing of a straight-back chair.  I asked Ernie and Pam if I could have the treasure.  Indentation of living melted over the top.  “Take a seat!” sincerely wore on the chair.  I felt threaded with the grainy “ancestor wood”.  I was engrained to this ship-lap structure and emerald isle land.

The cypress prize was in sight, the barn filled with working spirits.  Ernie and Pam were my tour guides leading me throughout the one hundred sixty three acre timeline.  Ernie was very knowledgeable with ringed timbers and the livened ranch flowering with wild strawberries.  Red Oaks and Live Oaks played together.  They tangled and tangoed over the whispering forest.  Tall pines asked if they could cut in, “May we have this dance?”  Under the dancing trees the barn modeled its rustic boards and rusty nails.  I caressed, laid my hand on the wood inside the barn.  Its veins connected to mine, pumping me with strength from my great grandpa and great grandma.  A Celtic knot rounded my wrists.  I am Brandy, daughter of the O’Banion clan.  Animals once rested in the stalls, sighing from a tiresome day of struggles and “Samson-like” pulls.  The barn now is in a coffee-break era, sipping and telling tales from long ago.  Hello, gray solace, what is the story today?  I took a picture with the embracing aura.  Come!  Lean on me and rest your racing mind.

Ernie took us on a trail by fence and wire, ties that once held farmland together.  He cut pieces of wood from the rugged fence.  The aroma of the wood amazed my senses.  The cologne whistled us down thicket lane.  Strolling down the path a needle in the “forest field” appeared.  Ernie pointed out a pine tree that was now stripped of bark.  The heart pounds-pounds-pounds, wanting to be found.  The sun crowns the remaining statue.  I could slightly hear my dad beyond, dashing through cumbersome brush, wrestling with sword-like beasts.  Beat-beat-beat.  We walked towards the clearing. Goodbye, daddy feet, until we heavenly meet.  We came to the end of our woodsy, wonderment journey.  The red cardinals swooped in and tweeted, “God-speed!”  My dad bids me farewell, waving with his budding calloused hand.  His spirit rested upon my soul and stately soil.  My heart was branded once again. Embers glowed on my fair Irish skin.  My pine heart took root in the tranquil O’Banion earth.  

As I walked through the deepening woods, my dad's boots were whispering, crunching behind. I made my way to a little white house that once held O'Banion love and fluff-puff flitters. I then trekked passed towering Live Oaks chatting of ringed heart age. Lacy limbs friendly chased me through clover. A ruddy, rustic barn appeared. It once worked alongside Irish calloused hands and held tough hoofs of loyalty. I strolled, staining my mind of red woods and pines. My heart pounding with nails that stamped fencing of "this way, my daughter." History tinged the surroundings. It twined and bound over my dark blonde hair. Time to leave wild strawberry love paths. To clearing, pushed pass leave sash. Cardinals of rosy red surprised. Goodbye, great grandma, Lizzie. Goodbye, great grandpa, James. Till then, visiting daddy spirit. "I love you" stitched throughout my flowing shawl, carrying the pattern to sunlit heart.