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The Language of Trees
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stops. He’s near enough now to see Joseph O’Connell’s shock of white hair. The old man is standing on the porch steps, scratching his ruddy face and puffing on his pipe. The chalky smoke from his tobacco curls in tendrils over the roof.
    Behind him, Squeaky Loomis is seated on an old wooden soapbox, near a card table where he and Joseph usually play yukor. They do this to pass the time in grizzly to fair weather, telling stories, sharing bits of news. Joseph is a man of tradition, and the fact that men gather here to talk for hours, just as they did in the twenties, when this was the original Farmers Co-op, is thanks to him. On cold mornings, men still wake before sunrise to crowd around the potbellied stove. Embraces are still common. Grant has seen many, for this is one of the few places on earth where men will tell their secrets.
    On the morning of his twelfth birthday, Grant’s father brought him to O’Connell’s to have coffee with the men before they put out the docks. It had been a frozen morning, butGrant was thrilled, feeling the trill of happiness for the first time in years. The distance and rejection he felt from his father had left him with a terrible stutter that all but choked his voice. He hadn’t felt comfortable anywhere on earth. But sipping that bitter black coffee had strengthened him. It meant that his father considered him a worthy human being, capable of being in this place, with these men, who seemed as much a part of this land as the trees, the memory keepers of a secret history. Grant had loved every minute of it, listening, taking it all in. They didn’t care that he could hardly manage a hello. Because he was with his father, they had accepted him unconditionally as one of them. Grant sat in front of the lit stove that morning listening to Joseph talk about his missionary work in Kenya, about the Wataita people, and about the spirits of the Seneca ancestors here in Canandaigua that whispered across the lake. Years later, when Grant had come back with Susanna, there was a new ghost story—that of little Luke Ellis, who had drowned in the lake twelve years earlier. Squeaky Loomis claimed to have seen his ghost hovering in the branches of Leila Ellis’s huge lilac bush when he was ambling by on his early-morning walk. He had reported that he was suddenly met by Clarisse Mellon, who lived next door and had seen Luke several times, she whispered, usually just before a rainstorm.
    Joseph O’Connell is making his way down the steps, waving his cane. “For Pete’s sake, boy, where have you been?” Joseph bellows. The old man is like a grandfather, a bit of a folk hero, mainly due to his belief in the goodness of the human spirit, which he’d remind anyone of in the event they forgot. Grant doesn’t even need to inhale the scent of the cherry tobacco to know that Joseph’s pipe is filled with it.
    When Joseph embraces him, Grant’s body becomes a sponge,absorbing all the warmth it can. Why an embrace should make him feel sad, he’s not sure. He’s worried he won’t know when to let go, or that he won’t be able to.
    Joseph gives Grant a customary pat on the back, a hugger’s traffic signal. “Sorry,” Grant whispers, letting go so Joseph can breathe again. Seeing Joseph again is completely disarming and Grant can’t believe the relief he feels.
    â€œNo apologies. Just glad you’re here,” Joseph says, swatting at the flies with his cane. “Now come up and say hello. Folks have missed you.”
    â€œWindow’s broken,” Grant explains to no one in particular as he follows Joseph up the steps. He finds himself staring at a spider web stretched under the porch light. It’s marked with the first of its victims: A mayfly’s forked tail twitches slightly, caught in the threads.
    â€œSo, the silence getting to you, finally?” Squeaky asks as he pulls his fishing hat down

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