Agate Beach a spring soliloquy A spring day; the kind which comes after a May rainshower, when the ground is still damp, but warm from the spring sun. Overhead, a sky of the most perfect blue. Translucent and deep, like looking into the heart of a freshwater spring. Birds sing in the maples and willows that hug the shores of the small stream at the foot of the pasture. Barefoot, of course, and the damp grass warm beneath your feet as you walk down the old planks that lead from the back of the house, skirting the smaller of the two gardens, past the outhouse by the fence line, between the rails of the cedar fence, and out into the field beyond. The grass smells as new grass always smells, fresh, clean, heavenly, and at either side small patches of daisies, dandelions, and buttercups wave their new blooms in the light spring breeze. The white heads of new puffball mushrooms pop through the soil and grass, turning brown in the summer and releasing their spores in a dark cloud when you squeeze them. You follow the sagging barbwire down the slight incline to where the pasture gets soft with the absorbed water, and cross a plank over the muddy ditch and proceed through the marsh grass that grows in dense clumps of stiff round bristles. Off in the blackberry thicket a brown and white Jersey cow chews contentedly on the new shoots of grass, her cowbell occasionally clanging as she lowers her head to graze. The soft warm mud oozes between your toes as you cross the sodden ground toward your destination. A few more steps brings you to the edge of the small creek, where the trail splits; one path turning right and crossing the creek and climbing the hill through the waist—high ferns to the fossil beds on the old railroad grade (a relic from the days of railroad logging), beckoning you to a new adventure on another day. You follow the path to the left, paralleling the creek, past the little pond, and into the woods until you reach the fence that signals the edge of the pasture. If you’re careful, you can squeeze between the rows of barbwire without snagging your shirt. Past the towering salmon berry and Devil’s club bushes, with their own barbs reaching out to grab your clothing or puncture the soles of your tender springtime feet. To your right the creek gurgles over the bed of yellow—red clay, where often you might stay a while and mold dishes or swing from the vine maples, but not today. ‘ Behind you the pink shingles on the roof of the old farmhouse disappear from view as you round the corner into the deep woods. Giant firs and looming cedars mingle their branches into a thick canopy above, although patches of luminous blue can still be seen between the limbs, It is cooler under the evergreens, and the path is clear but covered with a carpet of fallen needles. Follow the creek to the right, past the rough gray bark of a fir tree’s trunk, and on to the curve of the stream where it cuts close by the roots of an ancient hemlock. The water runs deeper there, and young trout can be seen darting in and out of the shadows. Over a rotten log, through still more ferns and... You’re there! Agate Beach! Where pirates rule their mighty fortress, and monkeys clamber through the banyans, and pioneers with their trusty Kentucky rifles defend their settlements from vicious Pawnee Indians, and a kid can live a thousand dreams in a single day. The creek flows under the roots of an immense tree, where the water is deep and dark, then fans out in a shallow of gravel, some of which, if you hold it up to the sun, can be seen through. Agate Beach. Even , Author: , Accession/Object ID: 2005.141.7, Object Name: Article, Title: , Description: Agate Beach - a Spring soliloquy written by Joe Beckett, OCR Text: Agate Beach a spring soliloquy A spring day; the kind which comes after a May rainshower, when the ground is still damp, but warm from the spring sun. Overhead, a sky of the most perfect blue. Translucent and deep, like looking into the heart of a freshwater spring. Birds sing in the maples and willows that hug the shores of the small stream at the foot of the pasture. Barefoot, of course, and the damp grass warm beneath your feet as you walk down the old planks that lead from the back of the house, skirting the smaller of the two gardens, past the outhouse by the fence line, between the rails of the cedar fence, and out into the field beyond. The grass smells as new grass always smells, fresh, clean, heavenly, and at either side small patches of daisies, dandelions, and buttercups wave their new blooms in the light spring breeze. The white heads of new puffball mushrooms pop through the soil and grass, turning brown in the summer and releasing their spores in a dark cloud when you squeeze them. You follow the sagging barbwire down the slight incline to where the pasture gets soft with the absorbed water, and cross a plank over the muddy ditch and proceed through the marsh grass that grows in dense clumps of stiff round bristles. Off in the blackberry thicket a brown and white Jersey cow chews contentedly on the new shoots of grass, her cowbell occasionally clanging as she lowers her head to graze. The soft warm mud oozes between your toes as you cross the sodden ground toward your destination. A few more steps brings you to the edge of the small creek, where the trail splits; one path turning right and crossing the creek and climbing the hill through the waist—high ferns to the fossil beds on the old railroad grade (a relic from the days of railroad logging), beckoning you to a new adventure on another day. You follow the path to the left, paralleling the creek, past the little pond, and into the woods until you reach the fence that signals the edge of the pasture. If you’re careful, you can squeeze between the rows of barbwire without snagging your shirt. Past the towering salmon berry and Devil’s club bushes, with their own barbs reaching out to grab your clothing or puncture the soles of your tender springtime feet. To your right the creek gurgles over the bed of yellow—red clay, where often you might stay a while and mold dishes or swing from the vine maples, but not today. ‘ Behind you the pink shingles on the roof of the old farmhouse disappear from view as you round the corner into the deep woods. Giant firs and looming cedars mingle their branches into a thick canopy above, although patches of luminous blue can still be seen between the limbs, It is cooler under the evergreens, and the path is clear but covered with a carpet of fallen needles. Follow the creek to the right, past the rough gray bark of a fir tree’s trunk, and on to the curve of the stream where it cuts close by the roots of an ancient hemlock. The water runs deeper there, and young trout can be seen darting in and out of the shadows. Over a rotten log, through still more ferns and... You’re there! Agate Beach! Where pirates rule their mighty fortress, and monkeys clamber through the banyans, and pioneers with their trusty Kentucky rifles defend their settlements from vicious Pawnee Indians, and a kid can live a thousand dreams in a single day. The creek flows under the roots of an immense tree, where the water is deep and dark, then fans out in a shallow of gravel, some of which, if you hold it up to the sun, can be seen through. Agate Beach. Even , Granite Falls Historical Society,Documents (articles, clippings, letters, papers),General Articles & Documents,General Articles,General Articles 01,Article (2005.141.7),Article (2005.141.7) 1, Article (2005.141.7) 1