Nature's Simple Lesson

NATURE’S SIMPLE LESSON

A Short Story By Willys Watson

*

For anyone with even a minimal amount of experience the job was a no-brainer, nothing more than covering the roof of a two-car garage with three-tab shingles. The pitch was slight, all the corners were squared and the sub-roof was solid. It was a simple task that required a little physical effort and not much more than mental afterthought.

It was also a near-perfect Spring day.

* *

Ten years ago Doc would have considered such a contracted work a small reward, a gift from fate for having to do what he did for a living. But ten years ago he didn’t feel so old, so unfulfilled, so unsuccessful. Now he dreaded such jobs because of their simplicity, knowing full well that the lack of mental challenge would afford his mind the questionable luxury of reflection. Because reflection takes whatever route it chooses he instinctively knew it would encompass a gauntlet of emotions ranging from common regrets to self-inflicted, unrelenting doubts. Knowing it was going to be a long, stressful day, and not wishing to prolong it, he threw the first bundle of shingles over his shoulder and started up the ladder.

* * *

By noon Doc had finished the front part of the garage and he sat resting, perched on the rooftop, looking out over the back yards of the surrounding homes. A bluebird, perhaps out of curiosity, landed a few yards from where he sat. He barely glanced at the inquisitive intruder because his thoughts were not receptive to possible symbolisms. Omens had to be ignored to maintain his present frame of mind.

The roof he was covering was for a detached garage built behind a large, 60s style Ranch House sitting on a full acre of land. Although the home and the property itself were ill-kept, mainly because the house had not been lived in for years, he knew this place, soon to be offered on the open market, would carry around a million dollar price tag. Despite it’s shape, he knew location was everything and all the homes in this area of Encino were well within this range.    

　

Just looking out over the back yards of those other lovingly manicured homes, watching children at play, seeing parents and dogs sharing their domain, filled Doc with a deep, mournful yearning. This remorse was not motivated by envy for what these people had acquired in their lives as much as it was for the self-chastising doubts he encountered along his chosen path in life.

He could have had all this if only, as he had subconsciously reminded himself at least a dozen times already today, he didn’t have the goddamn gift he was unquestionably cursed with, if only material gain had been award enough.

Ten years before he had walked away from a well paying job in another state, leaving behind security, friends and family. He had moved to California hoping to become recognized enough for his creativity as an artist to support himself this way. But, as was usually the case with serious painters, for every step forward, while chasing this dream, it seemed he was pushed backwards three steps. Now, sitting on this roof, all Doc could believe for a fact was that the dream was not one step closer than it was when it was first envisioned.

 

* *

Trying to sidetrack the nagging doubts, seeking a momentary reprise, he focused on the fail tree rising up over the lower rear end of the garage roof. It was a pitiful, twisted specimen of a plum tree, as neglected as the property it grew up out of. His initial concern, thinking again like a hired worker, was that the overhanging branches would pose a minor problem when it came time to cover that part of the roof. He thought about cutting back those low-hanging branches but quickly decided against it for several reasons. The part of his heart that had not become too hardened felt pity for the tree, knowing these haphazard limbs, clinging to life, were actually starting to bud and this ages old, abused, neglected plum tree was defiantly saying to the world that it was, indeed, going to survive at least one more year.

He also knew enough about trees to understand that this fragile old timer might go into shock, might not survive, any pruning right now while it was budding, no matter how careful he were. After staring at the tree from his perch for a moment longer, he slid down the roof to the far back of the garage to take a closer look.

The blossoms were a purplish-red, small by comparison to most fruit bearing trees or plants. But still, considering they were sprouting from such an unsightly aberration, these blossoms offered their own remarkable beauty, a gift from nature to itself. So perfectly exact, so seemingly purposeful, so subtly convincing were these blossoms of their own right to existence that they shouted to the world that they were there for their own sake and their own sake alone.

Yes, Doc told himself as logic gained control, these blossoms were nothing more than a by-product of nature being itself, fulfilling their role as an part of the recycling of life.    

　

Then rational gave way to melancholy because he also understood that this beauty, offered so freely, would go unnoticed by the world outside this property’s fence line. He also had to assume that this aging plum tree will probably be cut down when the new owners took possession.

After saying a heartfelt prayer for the old tree, asking an unhearing God to spare it at least until after the blossoms had given way to the wind and coming fruit, the roofer forced these thoughts from his mind and started back to finishing the work he was hired to do.

*

That evening, as Doc sat back in his tattered desk chair, drawing smoke from his pipe, sipping iced tea and listening to Mahler, the last thing he wanted to do was think. Running gauntlets, whether physical or emotional, is always tiring and he was numbing his exhausted mind by staring indifferently at the unused canvas propped up against the wall across from him.

Yes, he reassured himself, he had entered a no-pondering zone.

Then, without considering the consequences, his stare moved across the room, lingering for a moment on an older painting he had done, a work he had been very proud of, now framed and hanging on the wall. It was a surreal landscape, blending nature with form. It’s vivid, almost startling colors suddenly awakened the sub-conscience eyes he had so wanted to keep closed.

For a second his thoughts returned to the blossoms. He thought about their gift of beauty, existing without needing explanation, conformation or justification.

Slowly he rose from the chair and headed for the canvas. Sitting yoga-like on the floor in front of the canvas, he reached out and caressed the untreated linen, as if reacquainting himself with a lost or neglected friend.

Then Doc picked up a nearby brush and, for the first time today, he smiled. He smiled because, for the first time in a long, long time, his soul let his head understand that beauty is created for it’s own sake.

Reviews

[roarke]

The path leads. It only requires the eyes to see. W.W. you framed this story just right. Brought the moment to fruition, the plums to bare. Then, ah... creation is inspired. Nice story W.W. enjoyed.