A Story About Nothing
One day in the summer before my 10th birthday, I was wandering the woods of our 160 acre farm, all that was left of the 500 acres Tom Stone had claimed with his land grant, issued for his service in the Virginia Militia during the War of Independence. Near the very western edge of the property, I came across what I imagined to be an “Indian road”. I was very excited. Again, I was 9, almost 10 and had an imagination to match my age. This “road” was entirely hidden from view if you stepped 5 feet into the woods, but standing on it, you could clearly tell how it went in each direction. I began hiking up and down it, amazed by something I knew I wasn't understanding. You could take off running and easily follow the path without anything getting in your way, and yet you could never really tell where it was going for more than a few yards. After running up and down this road all day, I was forced by the failing sun to head home. At the dinner table, I gleefully announced my discovery of the “Indian road” and how I was convinced that, as I ran up and down the road, I could tell there were spirits running with me.
Well, of course, this gave my family a laugh and I was told that I had simply found a deer trail. They are everywhere in the woods. There were no Indian roads or running spirits. There was nothing unique or even interesting about my discovery. It was nothing but a deer trail. I was very discouraged and didn't go back to that part of the property the rest of that year.
The next spring, as I was out and about doing no particular thing for no particular reason, I found myself back in the general area of the trail. As I thought about the summer before, I was feeling silly for thinking I had found something important. Within a few moments, I realized I was standing on the trail. I had an undeniable feeling that I was not alone. I tried to shake the feeling by telling myself it was just a deer trail and there was nothing interesting about it. But the feeling was overwhelming. It was as if a thousand eyes were watching me. So, I began to follow the trail off of our property. When I got to a place where a road cut through it, I picked it up on the other side. Fences cut across it, and I continued. I came to a house with a big yard. It took me a while, but I found where the trail picked up. I barely made it home before dark that night.
We only lived on the family farm for a few years, and after that first time, I never tried to tell my family about the Indian road again. But I did go back and visit it several times. Each time, I had that same feeling. I had a longing to follow it. Like I needed to follow it. When I would run on the road, it seemed I could hear the voices of its past in my ears.
The entire experience was illogical and, even though I thought of it many times as I grew older, I always realized it was just the experience of a surfer kid from California, dumped into the Appalachian woods. I had found nothing but a deer trail.
Some years back, a new bourbon came on the market. I read a review and decided to give it a try. It was a nice bourbon with a very complicated flavor and a very inexpensive price. I learned its name came from an Indian road, called a trace, which used to lead, in one form or the other, from the Mississippi delta to the Great Lakes. The part that passed by the distillery was called the buffalo trace, thus the name of the bourbon, Buffalo Trace. Upon learning this information and discovering this wonderful bourbon, I hopped on Google Earth to see if I could find the distillery. To my amazement, I could see the trace. Google Earth has since changed its imagery with AI and it no longer used raw photography. But, back then, even with the interruptions of modern life distorting it, I could still make it out on its whole route.
I found something else, though. A branch of this trace cuts east by north east, in almost a straight line from Frankfort, Kentucky to the old river crossing west of Portsmouth Ohio, where a huge Indian town had stood for perhaps thousands of years, and ends at a large salt deposit on the north east side of modern Portsmouth. That trace runs along the western edge of my old family farm. With a little more research, I read that these traces were often used by the underground railroad to smuggle slaves out of the Old South.
For years, I had no idea what any of this meant. I have often had the feeling that my life was following a trail just like that Indian road. But lacking any way to explain it or even prove it to myself, all I could ever do was keep these thoughts to myself. Until today.
What does all this mean? Maybe nothing. It’s just a tale about a trail.
Thank you for reading this. I warned you that this was a story about nothing.
Originally written in 2010, first published at BadQuaker.com on April 3, 2011, mistakes corrected and updated for grammar November 22, 2018
Final Thoughts
The Joke
I am a big fan of jokes that have a very long build up and a corny punch line at the end. Probably my favorite joke is the one about Quasimodo wanting a vacation.
Side Note: As you tell this joke, you have to over act each part. Hunch over as you say Quasimodo's lines and jump back and forth at the appropriate moments. Stand very straight as you say the priest's lines, and make all the appropriate faces as you speak.
Of course Quasimodo lived in the bell towers of Notre Dame in Paris. It was his job to ring the bells every hour. Quasimodo did his job faithfully for many years, never missing a single hour. But he was getting very tired of his job.
One day Quasimodo approached the Cardinal and begged a moment of his time. The Cardinal said, "Speak, my son." So Quasimodo asked for a few days off to go and sit by the sea and meditate.
The Cardinal said that would be perfectly fine if Quasimodo could find a replacement bell ringer for the time he was gone. So Quasimodo put an ad in the local paper that read, "Wanted: Temporary labor, good pay, one week employment, paid training. See Quasimodo at Notre Dame bell towers.
After a few days, this man approached Quasimodo and said that he was here about the job. Quasimodo was very excited, and asked the man to follow him up the stairs to the bell level.
Up the stairs they climbed and climbed until they finally reached the bell floor.
Quasimodo said, "Now watch carefully how I do this." Then Quasimodo leapt off the platform and grabbed the first bell rope. Quasimodo began slowly sinking as the bell began to tilt until the first strike, "Bong!" Then as the rope lifted Quasimodo he leapt to the next bell rope, "Bong!" From rope to rope, Quasimodo leapt until he had rang the well-known tune of the bells of Notre Dame, then back to the platform with the new recruit.
Quasimodo asked, "There. Do you think you can do that every hour for one week?
The recruit said, "Well it doesn't look that hard, mind if I give it a try?
Quasimodo answered, "Go right ahead, it's actually quite fun."
The recruit leapt toward the first rope, but just missed it, falling face first against the bell that gave out a slightly duller, "Bong."
Then the poor man fell all the way to the paving stones below, striking with a horrible thud.
Quasimodo raced down the stairs as fast as he could, but by the time he got there, several priests had arrived and they were all talking about this poor man. Quasimodo stood silently, not really knowing what to do or say.
After an awkward moment the Cardinal arrived and asked Quasimodo, "Do you know who this man was, Quasimodo?"
Quasimodo was incapable of telling a lie to the Cardinal, so he said, "I don't know his name, but his face sure rings a bell."
I'm beginning to believe that life is like a joke with a long build-up and a completely predictable punch line at the end. The twist on this joke of life, though, is that the end still surprises everyone.
First post & table of contents
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