Thursday, February 17, 2005
always
One of Sarah's posts made me think about Spanish Moss. Without a doubt, the thing I miss most about Florida is Spanish Moss. I love the way it drips from the trees. I always ignored my mother's warnings about chiggers, and pulled it down by the handfulls. I lined shoeboxes with it to make nests. I was not above wearing it on my head like a wig, or a beard.
My favorite thing to do was simply to sit with the moss in my lap and run my fingernails across the tendrils, revealing a strong red thread-like fiber underneath the green-gray moss.
My saving grace the year I started kindergarten was my intern teacher, Mr. H. He was a six-foot tall hippie with shoulder length blond hair, flip-flops, blue jean overalls, and a guitar. I loved him. He would sing "Homeward Bound" and "Seasons in the Sun". I'd sit, cross-legged, in front of him and dream of railway stations and tickets to my destination. On cowboy day, he wore a red bandana, brought in a real leather saddle, slung it over a bale of hay, and let us pretend we were riding a horse. I was in love.
One morning, he took us outside for story time. We sat under a huge live oak on the playground and he handed us all a piece of Spanish Moss. Then, he began to tell us the legend of Spanish Moss.
Once upon a time there was a handsome young Spanish soldier with a red beard who fell in love with an Indian maiden. They vowed to love each other for all eternity. When her father and brothers found out about the secret love, they were angry, and they captured the soldier and tied him up in a Live Oak tree. They told him that if he would agree to leave the Indian maiden, they would set him free. He refused. Deprived of food and water, he grew weaker and weaker. Still, he refused to rescind his vow of eternal love. The Spaniard died, and the maiden refused to take a husband. Even in death, she swore that she would remain faithful to her Spanish lover. As a sign of their eternal love, the his handsome red beard continued to grow, even after he was dead. It covered the branches of the tree, then it began to hang from all the trees.
At this point, my teacher asked us to carefully rub away the gray on the Spanish Moss. I could not believe my eyes. It was the Spaniard's red beard! I was in awe. It was the most romantic story I had ever heard. From that moment on, I found it impossible to look at Spanish Moss without silently reciting one of my favorite words:
always
My favorite thing to do was simply to sit with the moss in my lap and run my fingernails across the tendrils, revealing a strong red thread-like fiber underneath the green-gray moss.
My saving grace the year I started kindergarten was my intern teacher, Mr. H. He was a six-foot tall hippie with shoulder length blond hair, flip-flops, blue jean overalls, and a guitar. I loved him. He would sing "Homeward Bound" and "Seasons in the Sun". I'd sit, cross-legged, in front of him and dream of railway stations and tickets to my destination. On cowboy day, he wore a red bandana, brought in a real leather saddle, slung it over a bale of hay, and let us pretend we were riding a horse. I was in love.
One morning, he took us outside for story time. We sat under a huge live oak on the playground and he handed us all a piece of Spanish Moss. Then, he began to tell us the legend of Spanish Moss.
Once upon a time there was a handsome young Spanish soldier with a red beard who fell in love with an Indian maiden. They vowed to love each other for all eternity. When her father and brothers found out about the secret love, they were angry, and they captured the soldier and tied him up in a Live Oak tree. They told him that if he would agree to leave the Indian maiden, they would set him free. He refused. Deprived of food and water, he grew weaker and weaker. Still, he refused to rescind his vow of eternal love. The Spaniard died, and the maiden refused to take a husband. Even in death, she swore that she would remain faithful to her Spanish lover. As a sign of their eternal love, the his handsome red beard continued to grow, even after he was dead. It covered the branches of the tree, then it began to hang from all the trees.
At this point, my teacher asked us to carefully rub away the gray on the Spanish Moss. I could not believe my eyes. It was the Spaniard's red beard! I was in awe. It was the most romantic story I had ever heard. From that moment on, I found it impossible to look at Spanish Moss without silently reciting one of my favorite words:
always
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