Flowers Never Grow in Schubert's Woods

Prologue

Flowers never grow in Schubert's Woods, only tall trees, and miles of grass, leaves and dirt. Trees that stretch toward Heaven, then cower, afraid to enter. Black and English walnut, dogwood, apple, chestnut, damson plum, birch, pine, cedar, and silver maple. Normally not found together. But anything is possible here, where neither rules nor time exists.

There's one way in, an undulating gravel path that races half a mile, then without warning, tumbles onto an oblong stretch of scarred blacktop. From the sky, it presents as a pirate's eye patch--- with greenery for hair.

Off to one side, the parking lot wears white stripes, but regulars ignore those lines...when they've come to stay. Straddling two spaces, crossways, as if they've run out of gas. Lunchtimers pull close to the picnic area, then walk a short flagstone path. Least it looks like flagstone until you scrape it with your nail.

Most rainy days, folks sit huddled under the sagging roof, four splintery tables shoved together, flanked by massive stone fireplaces where years of debris fill holes where fires once made out. Now full of beer bottles, sandwich wrappers, and crumpled notes that never had a chance to save a life. On windy spring afternoons, droplets spray the air, wetting meals and sticking napkins to wooden slabs. Most optimists wait it out, center driven, while pessimists escape, wearing smeared newspaper hats and impatience.

Those who come to play, pull their cars under the clusters of trees way in the back, where branches open, then close senile fingers around each limb, barring judgment. First timers circle in, then quickly out, not understanding the rules. Convinced they've interrupted a private party, they turn around just to the left of the steamed windows, or pull into a space and then back out.

Either way, the woods are there, as sure as my hands on these pages. Waiting.

Accepting those who have no where else to go.

I aint dead yet

I stopped trying to figure out the woods, years ago. Some things weren't meant to be understood. Unquestioned gifts. Like icy rain on hot summer nights or sex in unyielding places. Least that's what Marian says, only she calls it "fucking," but I still can't say that word. Too raw. Took me months to master "Bastard," and "Shit," but Marian insisted I keep trying.

It's liberating, old girl. Fling the words out and they'll find their own melody. Just let em go, Baby. Like flying a kite at the edge of a cliff, or riding a ten-speed downhill with no hands. Heart wide open. Just try it,