Prose | Youth | Scotland | Illumination
The Mountain’s Shadow
A reverie of youth
The mountain cast a shadow over my days, over my youth, just as surely as it lay across the fells and over the farm on which I lived. Most mornings the swirling sea mist lifted off the fells and licked its way up the rugged, rose-pink granite face where it hung like a shroud till noon.
The mountain’s mass, restricted me as it must have restricted my father and his before him, punished to live on one side of the island while the rest of island life, it seemed, lived on the other.
Ours was the only farm on the western shoreline. On the east side, white cottages with their chocolate box image thatched roofs littered the fells, crossed by dry stone walls like a checkerboard.
Life under the shadow of the mountain was sometimes a lonely existence. I don’t think I spoke a dozen words to a stranger during the winter months. We never had a television set my whole childhood. We tried it one time, but the mountain blocked the signal and Dad took the television back to the shop in Oban.
I climbed the mountain most days to free myself from its capture and to feel the elation of seeing clear across the island toward the mainland, sometimes catching sight of a yacht tacking hard, fighting the wind ‘mid-Sound’ and me waving like a city kid might wave at a passing train. It somehow connected me to something or someone far off and, for a moment, I felt the promise of leaving the mountain’s shadow.
A lifetime later, I return to its shadow just to hear the snowfall and feel protected from the storms that are always coming.
I go home to be reminded of things lost, my youth, the long-ago brightness of eye, shining healthy skin, going unclothed in the moonlight, yes, that impetuous youth, laughter tears shed on summer nights that glistened and shone like seas, the whole unbridled time of youth, running barefoot, with scabby kneecaps knowing nothing of pain.
Those pale December days, waiting for Christmas over the horizon, going to church, whispering, impatient to repeat Amen, Mum kissing my hair, thick as wool, be home for lunch.
What now of youth, all done, worn out.
More from Harry:
Adrienne Beaumont, The Sturg, Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles, Trisha Faye, Karen Schwartz, Nancy Oglesby, Katie Michaelson, Bernie Pullen, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Amy, Julia A. Keirns, Pamela Oglesby, Tina, Pat Romito LaPointe, Brandon Ellrich, Misty Rae, Karen Hoffman, Susie Winfield, Vincent Pisano, Marlene Samuels, Ray Day, Randy Pulley, Michael Rhodes, Lu Skerdoo, Pluto Wolnosci 🟣, Paula Shablo, Bruce Coulter, Ellen Baker, Kelley Murphy, Leigh-Anne Dennison, Patricia Timmermans, Keeley Schroder, Jan Sebastian 🖐👩🦰, James Michael Wilkinson, Whye Waite, John Hansen, Trudy Van Buskirk, Robert Bush | Dixie Dodd
(No offense will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
Thanks for reading.
