Sometimes it's the simple things that restore your faith in love.

The Cottage by Salty Brook

by C.J. Heck


The dusty lane was narrow and little snippets of grass peeked up here and there between the deep ruts where I walked. The lane continued along, snaking through the lofty pines on either side to snuggle up beside a little winding brook that seemed to gurgle secret songs.

Lost in my thoughts, the dewy morning was a memory by the time I noticed how the sun now warmed my shoulders from high above the trees.

As I rounded a small turn, the lane widened into a clearing. There I saw a small hand-lettered wooden sign tacked to a post just above a black metal mailbox which read:  The Cottage by Salty Brook.

A little further down, the lane stopped altogether, dead-ending near a cottage nestled in among the tall and fragrant pines.

The small cabin looked so weary. It had seen its better days. The weathered boards were now a light shade of grey and the curtains at the windows were yellowed and worn. On the long front porch, two small boys sat playing and I slowed my walk to return their waves.

The yard was wide, spreading all the way to the woods on either side and then around and behind the little house. The grass was sparse, but what was there was well taken care of.

There were toys strewn about the yard, and two red bicycles were parked as if patiently waiting for their small riders' return.

I almost missed the little girl as my eyes first swept the yard. She was sitting under an gnarled and ancient apple tree, a rag doll in her lap, and humming softly to herself. A fragile child, she had the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen and her delicate face was framed in golden ringlets. She looked to be about the same age as my five-year old grandson.

When she spotted me standing there, she put down her doll and came over to me. At first she seemed shy, peeking up at me with big blue eyes,  toeing the ground with a sandaled shoe.

Then suddenly, in a rapid succession of questions (which were all strung together as one long one), she asked me how did I get there, where I was going, where have I been, and what was my name.

I couldn't help but laugh. This adorable little waif had immediately stolen my heart with her gentle innocence and her multitude of questions.

I don’t know how long we sat there talking in the shade of the old apple tree, sitting indian-style on the grass. After a while, I simply noticed that our large and small shadows had gradually lengthened at our sides.

One by one, I answered her questions.  I told her my name and in her turn, she shared her name and that of her six siblings. She told me they didn’t go to the school. Their mama taught them at home. Then she told me all about their trips into town, again stringing all of her words together like so many pearls strung on a necklace.

“The other kids in town all laugh and point at us.  They say we’re shabby and poor. Mama says it’s okay. She says we should treat others as we would like them to treat us, and those kids just don’t know any better, so we shouldn't blame them.

When I asked Papa if we were poor, he said we weren’t poor. He said we're rich in the things that really matter. We just don’t have much money.”

Her mom and dad then came to the patched screen door on the long front porch. “It’s time to eat,” her mother called.

My little friend got up and headed toward the front steps. One by one the others came, each giving Mom a kiss as they passed by her in the doorway.

The mother asked if I would stay and eat with them, adding, “There’s always room for more,” and when I entered the clean and tidy cabin, I saw that she had already set a place for me at the long wooden table.

The moon was peeking through the clouds and all of the shadows by the gently gurgling brook were gone when I finally left the Cottage by Salty Brook. There was a new coolness to the pine scented air, but I wrapped their love around me like a cloak and wore it home.

 

The End