The Outlander

by Michelle Waters

I am an Outlander
Who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That once was a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks the Ozarks Bluff Dwellers and the Osage and then Delaware
Hunted, fished, and created shelter
For their families
Where their children ran freely
While red-tailed foxes sneaked softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chatted with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.

I am a child of Outlanders
Who came from the North
To live along the banks of the man-made lake
Where a small fishing resort, built by my father,
Nestled at the base of yet another high hill, and from the crest of that hill
The southern arm of the lake could be viewed unhindered.
Miles of blue and white water danced in the afternoon sun.
Between Table Rock Dam on my right and Long Creek Bridge on my left,
The main channel branched off- broke loose- and formed the cove
Which we shared with Dan and Cuba Norris at their dude ranch
Located by the side of the Devil’s Pool-
That ancient, sacred, cleansing spring of the Osage men.

The back waters of the cove edged our front yard.
The steep, timber and rock strewn slopes cloaked the sides and back of the 80 acres that
Mr. Curbow sold to my father shortly before the dam’s completion.
Perched between the wooded areas, and the cedar glade,
A ledge rock served as my look-out, like
A sentinel standing guard over acres of scrubby plants and limestone that my father
Transformed into grassy green patches and rocked-up retaining walls,
Laboring as the pioneer settlers had a century before-
He and my mother, pioneers themselves, carved out a home where
Dogwood and redbud trees scattered themselves amid the cedar.
In the spring, they checkered the hills in pink and white and green.
Later, verbena, black-eyed Susan, coneflower, milkweed, and Indian paint-brush
Fashioned a palette of ever-changing tones and hues.

I am an Outlander
Who went to school in a small town that
Once was a humming railroad station where
Farmers marketed fruits and vegetables and wild game,
Shipping their goods out of the land from that
Tiny railroad town, snuggly fit among limestone bluffs, the White River, and Turkey Creek.

They tell me, long years ago,
There by the creek, an old woman lived
Who washed her clothes on a rock each Monday,
While her boy played contentedly in the deeper water nearby.
Generations of children splashed gleefully
In that once glistening, iridescent Granny Hole.

I am an Outlander who continues to live in a growing town whose people
Once, only provisionally, greeted the laughter of holiday makers- those
Wealthy sportsmen and their wives
Who stepped off the train
From far off cities
To camp along the water’s edge or
To lazily float the river with Jim Owen in locally crafted Jon boats
Or, having read Mr. Wright’s celebrated novel,
Trekked the rough and rocky roads in search of
Old Matt and Aunt Molly and the shepherd of the hills.
City-dwellers came to embrace, for a time, the goodness of a fading life-style
When native hill folk families gathered neighborly to
Fill the valleys with songs of long ago troubadours.

Outlanders came, time and time again,
To find balance in themselves within the exquisite Ozark hills, and
As did my parents, and those before them,
Many returned to stay.
Pioneers and Transplanted Outlanders
Forging common values and visions for the future
Mutual concern of the land.

I am an Outlander’s daughter who looks out over
These hills and hollows now choked with highway billboard signs, half-empty theatres,
go-cart tracks, and flashing neon lights,
I find myself mourning deeply the invasion of
Greed-driven, treasure-seeking speculators, whose
Coaxing with cunning words triggered an invasion of outsiders
Seemingly unconcerned about preserving the natural or cultural landscape
I watch family farms transform into cheaply-built, cookie-cutter housing hubs- and
I grieve the loss of the quiet, family-owned fishing resorts.
Time-share vacation condos, signature golf courses, and shopping malls have
Swallowed up centuries-old oak trees
Today’s visitors, looking for faster-paced amusements and thrills,
Arrive in the “Land of a Million Smiles”
Hell-bent on having manufactured family fun and patriotic fervor.
They rush from venue to venue and shop to shop, then
Leave without ever questioning the cost.
Progress rides across the landscape as did the
Bushwhackers and Baldknobbers of old
Assaulting the environment,
Usurping the ambiance,
Eroding the ecosystem
Deaf — deaf to the living symphony of nature floating softly in the evening sunset.

I am an Outlander who has lived upon these high hills
For more than a half century
Admittedly sharing in the alteration of the environment, regretfully-
But mindful of the historical richness of the land, the need to preserve its character.

As does the doe who brings her speckled twins to the clearing in June and the
Turkey hen her brood of bobbing-headed babies marching in single file across my yard.
I watch my grandchildren
Run and laugh and chase fireflies on this ancient slope.
They swim and fish the same waters that shaped the adjacent hillsides eons ago.

Yes, I am an Outlander who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That may, in time, again become a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks other Outlanders may come to
Hunt, fish, and seek shelter
For their families.
Hopefully, their children will run freely
While red-tailed foxes sneak softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chats with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.