Johnston County Project: The Writer and the Split Rail Fence
The Writer and the Split Rail
Amanda drove along in the sunshine, on her way home from a busy Saturday at her family’s small business. It was a 40-minute drive from her house, and her thoughts were straying as they always did when she had a few moments alone.
She was a new Mommy and she was thrilled to get back home to her baby and her husband, but just now, in her thoughts, she was struggling. The family business was brand new, and the responsibilities of running it fell mostly on her, as her husband still had a full-time job elsewhere. Her baby almost always came with her to the business, too, so she was learning to be a Mom and a business owner at the same time, and she was doing it alone.
To compound the crazy, Amanda had secretly been writing a novel. She would sneak out of bed every morning at 4:30am and write for a couple of hours before anyone woke up. This was her passion, but she would often be forced to put her writing away, for days or weeks, to keep up with the demands of the day. This lead to a serious case of writer’s block, and she just couldn’t figure out what her characters in the novel should do next.
This is what she was contemplating as she drove along familiar highway 42. A small sign on the side of the road caught her eye and drew her from her thoughts. The sign read, “Apples for Sale, next right.”
For some reason, she slowed the car and kept an eye out for a right-hand turn. She came upon it suddenly, as it was not a state road, just a dirt path, almost hidden from the highway by the overhanging trees. The path was lined by a charming old split rail fence, made of graying wood and covered here and there with twisting green vines.
Amanda mashed the brakes and pulled into the dirt lane. She had a passing concern that maybe the car wouldn’t make it up the bumps and ridges, but she wasn’t really worried. Instead, with every rotation of the wheels that brought her further into the woods, she became more and more curious about the apples. Was there an orchard tucked away back here someplace? Who was selling the apples?
After a moment or two, the trees opened into a large clearing, a field, really, and Amanda noticed other cars parked there. She parked, too, and got out, then walked toward a large sign that simply read, “Apples.”
As she walked toward the sign, she saw a grown man squatting on the ground, building something with a pile of rocks, the way a child might. And not far from him, there was a lady swinging in an old tire swing hanging from a tree. Amanda recognized her, she was a neighbor, Mrs. Joy, and she was a grandmother. What in the world was happening, here? Why were the grownups acting like children?
She approached the Apples sign, and saw beneath it a table laden with plump, bright red apples. A man with a white beard wearing overalls approached her with a smile. He tipped his straw hat to her and said, “Hi there! Would you like to try some apples?”
Amanda was immediately at ease with this friendly person, and answered, “They look delicious! Did you grow these yourself?”
The man nodded and said, “I sure did. These apples are quite special, a hybrid that my family has grown for ages. Everytime I eat one of these,” here he grabbed an apple and tossed it up and caught it again, “it brings me right back to my childhood days. Makes me feel like a kid again!”
He held the apple out to her, “Give it a try!”
Amanda happily took the apple and crunched into it. It was delicious! And something else, too, the sweetness of the juice seemed to seep into her soul. She understood what the apple man meant about feeling like a kid again. She’d always been a pretty creative person, but her imagination suddenly exploded into color and sound. She twirled in a circle, completely forgetting to pay the man, and took another bite.
She began to imagine the trees were part of a deep and magical forest, their arms reaching up into a sky made of glass. She rushed to a tree trunk and imagined a home there for fairies and squirrels. She plopped onto the ground, and laughing, she broke little sticks to make a tiny playground for the fairies.
She played and played until the glass sky began to turn gold and orange and then to darken. Slowly, as if waking from a dream, she realized that she needed to get home to her husband and baby. She pushed herself from the ground and looked around. There was no one else there now, even the apple sign and the table of apples were gone. A bit confused, she walked back to her car and drove the rest of the way home, her senses buzzing from her time spent wrapped in imagination.
When she sat down to write the next morning, Amanda was able to very quickly recall her playtime imaginings from the day before. This was amazing! Her creativity flowed and her fingers sped along over the keyboard. Her writer’s block was gone!
From that day on, whenever she got into a bit of a writing slump, she would remember that delicious bite of apple and her day of childhood play. Many times, she drove back to that dirt path seeking answers about the special apples, but she never saw them, or the apple man, again.
The End
