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Hearth and Stone


She’d heard him say that no one ever came here,
and wondered why they were there. It was something
to do about rocks or stones she recalled as he steps on
the rickety porch of creaking boards trod for too many
decades. She watches him push back the door hanging
on a single hinge, but stays outside the crumbling cabin,
remembering how long ago his father had called it home.

Enveloped by inside darkness he knows the room well
from a faded sepia print seen as his great-grandmother
sang her little song over and over, the tune bouncing
in his head with words that seemed to say her heart was
in a stone, then, to his questions she smiles as she puts
a finger to her lips.

Some of the missing pieces came together before her death,
suggesting that behind a stone in the cabin was something
of value to his father’s grandmother, an old thin woman of
secrets and mischief who guides him today to the aged
fireplace with rusting bolts of a long ago rotted mantel.
This is where he finds a likely stone held in place with
dried mud easily pried away so he could take out the
ancient stone, if he had guessed right.

A small, but preserved leather black bag rewards his years
of wonderment and dreams from Granny’s song about
her hearth and stone yielding a faded love letter and
three 1858 gold coins. He decided that they were placed
there by a Union soldier, whose promise to wed had been
sealed with a dowry of gold. He is in immediate shock,
because such a find over 140 years later, was the source of
untold wealth for the young discoverer and his beautiful and unadventurous bride-to-be.


F. William Broome © 2005
All Rights Reserved









A Cat Tale



During a long day of the ordinary, a walk proved that things weren’t ever

mundane and they happen whether I’m there or not; like the huge grey

cat walking the roof line of the two story brown house, stopping at the

edge as if to wonder if his next move might be worth it.



He leaps suddenly into space as I witness a furry missile hurtling

through the air; a feline flyer floating between roof and tree with the

abandonment of a trapeze artist, then to disappear deep inside a clump

of thick leaves and tree branches.



Did this crafty adventurer transport himself over twenty feet just for

the hell of it, or for good reason? It was a question without answer as

I strain to find him in the camouflage of a mighty oak. I hear it before

seeing the commotion, amidst the loud rustle of the fall. I watch him

plummet from the bottom limbs onto grass and unforgiving ground.

His entire body hits the earth with the firmness than a competing

high jumper into a sand box.



Staring at the still alive fur ball beneath the tree, and seeing it move

slowly and carefully, I am convinced that the hunter has thrown

himself into his work. His leap of faith and hunger, successfully

captures a large blue jay in his jaws before instinctively allowing

his body and catch-of-the-day to return to the ground. The huge

feline seemed to have been cushioned by an inborn ability to fall,

feet-first from whatever height.



Refusing to hang around for his indelicate feasting, I push away from

the fence, and begin walking again, shaking my head in disbelief.

I had seen nature at its peak; demonstrating small animal skill

for the basic need of the star performer.



And, as my rewarding stroll continues I imagine the old boy enjoying his find, then licking his paws for a bit of cleanup before retiring to his bed in the corner of a big kitchen full of good smells and daring-do cat dreams.




F. William Broome © 2005
All Rights Reserved