Philco

by Ken Mansfield

  This must be a meadow.

  Emerging out of the forest to its lush green edge, I am drawn from my reverie into the realization that I am not the only human being here. Sitting on a fallen log on the other edge of the meadow is a man, obviously a woodsman by the way he is dressed—buttoned-up, green-and-red-checkered Pendleton shirt, and hunters cap with a large bill and side flaps that hang loose to the side, framing a chiseled face covered in whiskers. You can feel the hours of hard work in his calloused hands—one folded over the other on his left knee. He looks up and beckons with a nod of his head for me to sit down beside him. “Hello, stranger, my name is Forrest.” He begins talking as if we were common folk, settling down together to share a few easy moments in the embrace of the dense foliage that surrounds us. He allows only the slightest pause between his introduction and discourse, drawing me immediately into stories of the forest, the beauty of its heart, and the contrast of the world outside. His voice and vacant stare pierce deep into the woods…

  Sometime during this brief interlude, he has picked up a small hatchet from the ground and is sharpening its cutting edge with his spit on a smooth whetstone. The motion is circular and sure—a continuous tempo, not unlike Levi polishing the shot glass. These two men, so incredibly different, yet somehow tied together. Their voices unique, yet both speak from their hearts creating a soft echo in their banter.

  He leans back, speaking as if to the sky and recalls something very special that took place here. It had to do with an unusual combination of separation and family unity. Basking in the sweetness of the setting, I soak up his narrative following the flow of his words and melding into the scene. Forrest’s narrative unfolds as he begins describing a being that comes as close as to what God intended for all of us to be as anything I have ever experienced.

  “By the way, you can call me Philco,” I tell him…

  RAINBOW DROPS IN THE AIR

  [FORREST]

  “I AM A MAN OF the woodlands and I am glad my name is Forrest—it seems to fit the setting. In choosing a silent and single life, I have adopted a degree of discretion regarding my observations. There is a quiet and reserved magnificence that can only be found in the depths of the glades and wooded glens. This is where I reside…loneliness is my only, and because of the way I am, best friend. I can tell you this story, but I can’t explain why I know certain particulars about these people. I am a simple man, so I understand that the beauty of what I have witnessed lies not only in its setting, but in its simplicity.

  “I can see her now…

  “She’s lovely—an expert on the depths and beauty of the forest and its ways. Sureign is her name—a name with no known origin, a name that sounds like the things around and inside her. It is a name that only she and her fathers know and connects them in a way that only they understand. It is not a given name but one that came out of the solitude and beauty of the forest.

  “Sureign and her father lived deep in the forest. He was a powerful, godly giant of a man, and she was his young, beautiful daughter. They lived among the tall trees and rich foliage that surrounded and protected them from the world outside. When she was still a small baby her mother had passed on at the hands of something cruel in the world outside, and her father was so embittered at the way things had turned out that he vowed nothing would ever harm her or that evil would ever touch the face of his only child.

  “He would leave each morning to earn provision, knowing she was safe in the deep and dense woodland sheltered from harm by her natural awareness and that God would watch over her as she played in the groves. He was assured she would always be safe—her location kept her hidden from any outside intrusions that could attempt to bring harm into her life.

  “Sureign was extremely happy because she only knew about life in the forest and she spent her days alone, dancing among the trees, going down to the small creeks where she would splash sweet spring water in her face, laughing out loud as she threw its rainbow drops into the air. She ran with white wolves down secret trails into cool ravines, and when exhausted she would lie down, face-up in the grasses of the forest floor and wait for the sun to arrive directly overhead so she could feel it shine straight down through the trees.

  “No one ever met Sureign while she was growing up—she remained hidden from the outside world, beautiful, unique, and comfortable in this protected space created by her father. She talked to no one except her earthly father and her Heavenly Father’s Spirit inside.

  “At night they would build three big fires outside their hand-hewn cabin and call them the Trinity. He would tell her great things of wisdom and truth and then they would fall asleep on the leaves between the fires. When the flames died out, the cold announced the morning. He told her on these timeless evenings in the light of the long-burning fires about the day he would no longer be there for her. He told her she would finally get to feel God on that day and that God would touch her face to let her know He was with her.

  “He also told Sureign she would know exactly what to do because God would come to care for her and He would guide her to her next destination where she would have abundant provision and, knowing about her favorite pastime, he assured her that she would always have rainbow drops in the air. Sureign knew these things would be just as he said because she had learned she could trust everything her father had taught her. Her greatest possessions were his words and his promises and her Heavenly Father’s Word and His promises.

  “Sureign would often think of her Heavenly Father and His Son and His Spirit that dwelled deep in her heart during silent times spent alone in the familiar warmth of her surroundings. A soothing peace comforted her from within even though she had no one to share her thoughts with. During these special times she would lie back quietly between the trees on prepared piles of fallen leaves while looking up into a clear blue sky, trying to imagine how God’s touch was going to feel.

  “In Sureign’s world there was no beginning, no history, no pending eventuality. It was simply about the trees and the living sounds that filled her senses. She had always been in the forest and the forest had been a part of her for all existing time in her awareness. The forest she knew had its own sounds and smells with no interference from the outside world—not once was the stillness broken by anything other than its own tendering.

  “Though her English was perfect, she needed very few words, as there was so little to know or discuss. She knew about the Son and His ways and had been taught about the people in His life and stories about all that He had gone through. She also knew her fathers—both earthly and Heavenly—and she loved sitting at the feet of her forest father as he delighted her with fascinating stories about her forever Father. They were her world and she was pleased and satisfied with these few things.

  “She had the wind, and it was her daily companion. It would sing to her as it made its way through the branches that touched the sky above her. It would dance before her in the leaves and shadows of the forest floor and stop to embrace her in the rare moments when she experienced a curious sense of the aloneness of her existence. It would cool her when she was warm, and it would play with her, spreading the mist as she made her rainbow drops in the air.

  “Her earthly father was a man of stature and presence. He also needed no name other than the soft sound she spoke when she called him father. This too, like Sureign, was more of a resonance and uttered essence that portrayed the deep love they shared. It was more projection than speaking.

  “The deep wounds he had experienced molded him into austere quietude and focus. She was his remaining treasure and his single purpose was her well-being and protection. Sureign did know that something tragic had taken her mother from them, but chose not to wonder or inquire about what had happened. It was a time and place she didn’t understand. Sometimes she wished she had a face to remember, but the simplicity of her existence didn’t prompt thoughts of sadness, worry, or lack. She had learned that her f
athers would reveal things to her at the proper times; and, until those times, unknown matters were of no concern to her.

  “She never knew where her earthly father went each day. When he returned in the late afternoon, he would bring food stuffed in the leather satchel that seemed to be his only worldly possession other than the clothes he wore. He would remove all wrappers and packaging before coming back into the woods and carefully place each item in swaths of soft white linen that she would wash in the stream after they ate and hang them out to dry. This was their daily meal. During the day, if she had need, she would drink from different springs, pluck watercress from their edges, and cherish the special times when she would stumble upon honey bees and their sweet creation. The seeming endless supply of berries, nuts, and juicy, deep earth roots were a veritable candy store. The seclusion of her existence kept her desires limited to her experiences.

  “While she was not raised by wolves, she was raised within their realm, and they grew together in awareness. They came in and out of each other’s lives, at times only by curiosity, and at others because they shared the same environment. But, mostly it was because they were a blended part of this sanctuary and there was a trustworthiness they could sense in each other. They shared what people try to own.

  “There was a gentle ravine in the forest with a little waterfall at its head, and the hillside that ran to its base was one of her favorite places to play. She would roll down the grassy slope to the edge of the small pool beneath the waterfall, her laughter filling the spaces between the trees while the animals watched from the secrecy of the glades. When exhausted from her play, she would stand under the waterfall washing the leaves and pine needles from her hair and throw handfuls of the clear water that ran off her shoulders out into the sunlight and watch it sparkle in the air. When the sun was shining down through the trees at just the right angle, she could actually create rainbows. Then she would lie on the rocks beside the stream to dry off and close her eyes to rest in the promises that these rainbows brought to mind.

  “She could hear her father coming from far away in the woods in the afternoons—sometimes she could ‘hear’ him before she could actually hear him. He would always whisper her name as he made his way to their place in a shadowed glen. She loved this time of transitioning from being alone to being in the secure warmth he offered when they were together. They would take walks before their meal, usually with her as the guide, revealing her discoveries of the day. When they came to a resting place, she would sit at his feet as he told her stories of her Heavenly Father and His creation and the lessons to be had from their telling. Without knowing, she was being prepared.

  “After their evening meal, and as the darkness fell, he would build the fires around them and they would talk, and then they would pray. These words would lead them into their rest. In the morning, she would awake to a kiss on the top of her head, but would keep her eyes closed as he prayed the day into its beginning and then listen to his leaving through the trees. When she arose, she would immediately go to the small table outside their shelter knowing that he always left a treat withheld from the night before and a message from her Heavenly Father to guide her into her day.

  “Then one day her father did not return, and that night she built the fires by herself. Sureign woke up alone in the morning chill, and after washing her face in the stream in the glade she walked out of the forest and came upon her first meadow. She was amazed at its open beauty, but it was in this beautiful setting that she experienced loss, fear, and pain; and, for the first time in her life she cried, tears of innocence streaming down her face.

  “Sureign looked out across the meadow at the wondrous hills beyond and she asked God to let her feel Him now, just as her father said He would at this foretold time in her life. Then a sudden wind came across the green, caressing her face and drying her tears. And when the wind wrapped itself around her shoulders she knew that for all time her fathers had kept their promises and that she would be okay.

  “Weeping inward, facing skyward she laid down in the middle of the meadow to wait. That’s when she felt the soft wind on her face she had been told about. Sureign closed her eyes and whispered from her heart:

  “My God, You have the softest hands.”

  CENTER STAGE

  [PHILCO]

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, I AM awakened by a dry silence. The serenity and tapestry of the forest is now replaced by the stillness and bland air of a seventy-five-cent room at the end of a dowdy hallway. Even though I am surrounded by an obtuse nothingness in my room at the Palace Hotel, I am beginning to enjoy an anticipation that engulfs me as I wake up each morning. I think what appeals to me about the starkness of the room’s interior is that it presents a blank canvas for my imagination to draw upon as I merge into each new day. A pattern is developing here, and every day I wonder what my eyes will encounter upon opening. I imagine, in my childlike recesses, new adventures, surprise happenstances of imminent history, and more—all of these elements swirl about me like fine wine in a crystal glass of timeless implication.

  In a complete about-face to my here-to-for mentioned youthful exuberance, I find I suffer a complete lack of motivation to get up and out into this particular day’s stuff and substance. Something is holding me back from the desire to become a part of it—I deem it to be the early hour and pull the pillow over my head. That accomplishes nothing, and I conclude that by opening my eyes one at a time I won’t commit to the day too quickly. Finally, I opt for the eye closest to the window, hoping to find something there. I see nothing that appears out of the ordinary and am disappointed by my expectations. The other eye follows suit and nothing has changed.

  Still, Hurricane Hills has grown on me and something is pulling at me to get up and venture out into its offerings. I take my towel and soap to the bathroom at the end of the hall, which is actually just outside my door. If I don’t take a bath soon there will be other things growing on me besides the town. And the enjoyment and comfort I derive from cold water, a cramped, stained, rusted claw-foot tub and kerosene-smelling soap with the texture of industrial grade sandpaper is greater than I ever could have imagined.

  After a bathing experience that borders on extreme sports, followed by embellishing seen and unseen surfaces with aromatics, I return to my room and add minimal apparel to my sorry frame. Then I make my way down a now familiar hallway to the lobby. I try not to look toward the registration desk but sneak a glance in its direction. Just as I feared, she is standing there almost frozen in her personal time. This is getting very waxy and I feel like I am already having a very bad “her” day. I ignore her and move on into an unknown mission.

  I stumble through the front doors and out onto the boardwalk. My momentum carries me off its splintery edge and into the middle of a dusty street. Staring down the bygone avenue’s imaginary centerline, I become lost in its absence. I fall to my knees in the middle of the street and press my face into the soil. Suddenly, out of nowhere, horses and old cars are swerving to avoid me, though, oddly, the drivers are looking straight ahead as if I am not there. The sidewalks are streaming with people. Especially noticeable are the ladies and their long, flowing, dresses adorned with colors, frills, and sashes as they carry parasols draped in ribbons that dance in the wind. One of us is not really here. I haven’t determined if it’s them or me. I try to gain control of what is going on, but with my head in the dust and the hot sun on my back, I freeze. I now know why I was apprehensive about entering into this day. God called this meeting and has me in a position where He can now get my attention. The people around me are the dancers, players, and extras on the set whereupon I have taken center stage. I have an audience, but not the one I am seeing in the fringes. I have an audience with God, and I must applaud the creativity in his choice of venues.

  With my face in the dirt and my heart in His hands, I cry into the nadir of the waiting soil. It occurs to me now that I didn’t roll out of the sack this m
orning, nonchalantly decide to mosey downstairs, and leisurely stroll along a shaded avenue on my way to a hot latte. I was jerked from my bed, given a cold-water baptism, and thrown out into the street by the Man because He had some business to address with His child.

  As soon as I hit the dirt I knew I needed to bow down and worship, and that is just what I am doing. I find I have to bury my head almost all the way into a rut in the road to get down enough to qualify for pure subservience and devotion. Even this is not sufficient, so I roll over on my back, look to the heavens, and plead revelation. Silence surrounds me while the sound of distant activity continues around the edges, echoing up and down the street. I struggle, unsure of what is being asked of me. I know He loves it when we come before Him with a childlike nature. Because I am on my back, I decide to spread my arms and legs and begin making a dust angel. It is apparent that my actions are not quite nailing it, so I get up, dust myself off and race down the elongated street like a jack-rabbit Jonah trying to get away until I am finally exhausted. To be honest, I am tired of both the exercise and myself. By now the crowd has multiplied, a mixed chorus of boos and encouragement fills the whole town. After all the “escaping,” I am still center stage. I stop in my tracks and realize I am totally disoriented and have ended right back where I started—in that same old rut. I have not only lost my earthly senses, but in my fatigue have finally let go. It is in that weakened instance He speaks to me. At the very moment I let down my guard, revelation fills my pores and I realize I have been doing this dance all by myself. In the busyness of my frantic motions, I have completely forgotten Who is in charge. I can only bow out of center stage by exiting my personal performance and entering into the center of His will.