My eldest son, J. Brim, and I took two of my grandsons into the Brim Hollow last week. Whitman Brim and J. Manning found themselves lost in the wonder of a place they had never been. Days later I realized a mobile device was never mentioned while we were there. (Of course, there is no reception in the hollow.)
We had walked for about a mile when Whitman made his first observation.
“Whew, I’m burning a lot of calories,” he said. “How far have we walked?”
“A long way,” I answered.
“How much farther?” he asked.
“A long way,” I said.
Both boys asked a thousand questions about the old home place and ancient barns. As we walked cautiously among the silent walls of the old house, I told them stories of the rooms where I once slept as a boy, and how my grandmother cooked on a woodburning stove. I showed them where the water bucket once hung at the back porch, and of how we drew water from the well. They were much impressed with the massive fireplace that once warmed the entire house.
Wide eyes and “wow”s were the order of the day.
As we ventured deeper into the hollow, I showed them how the road once turned sharply down into a creek bed called “the narrow place.” With no small effort, we climbed over giant rocks, and over and under fallen trees to make it into the creek. I showed them the rocky bluffs which defined the narrow place and how the road led out of the creek at the other end. They were impressed.
We stopped by the remains of what was once called “the little house” where a family of 14 once lived. I explained to them the house had only one room and of how all the children slept in the attic.
All the talk of days gone by inspired Whitman to ask a question.
“Daddy Jack, was your hair black when you were young?” he asked.
“It was once upon a time,” I said.
“You got a picture on your phone?” he continued.
“There were no cellphones when my hair was black!” I said to myself.
I was disappointed I could not pinpoint the location of a little springhouse from which I once drank the coolest water. All evidence of it ever exiting was not to be found. And a barn where we once “walked” sticks of tobacco in and hung on round, worm-eaten tier poles was all but gone.
Arriving in the “head” of the hollow, we took the boys to see the remains of a majestic springhouse. Its rock walls were once six-feet tall with great wood beams supporting a shake shingled roof. In the rock floor, a “bowl” had been hewn out to pool the cold, clear spring water. I once dipped water from that bowl more than half-a-century ago. The springhouse floor was now filled in with sediment and the flow of the spring disappeared underground.
We showed the grandboys how the old log cabin and pulled its rock chimney to the ground, and we marveled at how the main chimney, tall and erect, had refused to yield when the big house folded under the weight of the years.
As we prepared to hike back to our truck, Whitman asked, “how far is it back to the truck.”
“Two miles,” I said. “You are going to burn a lot of calories.”
I must admit as I came away from the hollow that day, I was a little saddened by all the change I had witnessed. Everything changes. Well, almost everything.
So, I sought comfort in the Holy Writ.
“Behold, I change not.” “… the same yesterday, today, and forevermore.”
Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall
