Barringer Hill

(from the prompt "Garden")


Once upon a time there grew a garden atop a hill. An ancient oak sprouted from the center of the garden, the roots of which were rumored to keep the hill itself upright. Many perennials and vines grew and reproduced year after year, and they were joined in the spring by poppies, marigolds, petunias, violets, sunflowers, daisies, and chamomile. A mossy brick path looped its way around the great oak tree and disappeared back into itself.

The hill served as a monument for the farmland and town nearby. And its crown, the garden, served as a sanctuary for generations. It was many things to the people of the valley: excitement for children in winter; haven for lovers beneath the naked autumn moon; peace for old men on calm summer morns. Each year multiple weddings were held in the shadow of Barringer Hill (for that was its name), and picnics were arranged by the congregation of Mason Methodist Church. These took place in the grassy fields and knolls surrounding the dear hill.

Barringer Hill was an ivory tower for the people of Mason, Pennsylvania. A haven of earthly rest. In the spring they would tenderly clear last year’s leaves and debris, letting the new growth breathe. Favorite flowers were often transplanted from private gardens in town, and no one minded. Beauty alone, while certainly enjoyed, was not the reason for loving the hill and garden. Indeed, the collective love seen year after year was founded in a concept—the idea of an asylum, beloved and revered by all.

One year a friendly carpenter built a white gazebo, decorative on the outside and spacious within. He placed it on the south side of the great oak, right in the middle of garden growth so that vines would grow up its columns and into the trusses above. The view from beneath that tiled roof was lovely. Beyond miles of farmland to the left, one might catch the sunrise above distant mountains. And to the right, in the west, grass fields ran until meeting the town and dusty roads. The southern view was very far and rolling, and it was speckled with farmhouses, barns, silos, and elm groves. Crops of soybeans, potatoes, and tobacco lined the open spaces, shifting according to shallow brooks that snaked across the valley.

The gazebo quickly became a place of affection. Cool summer evenings could find hands clasped, arms entwined, heads resting on sunburnt shoulders. Hushed voices would blend with murmuring oak leaves and the lowing of faraway herds. Grace and peace and kindness seemed ingrained in the very boards of Mason’s octagon cathedral. It seemed appropriate that the townsfolk had their own contribution to the hill. It became a sort of gift—one that they maintained with equal kindness as the garden itself, caring for the white pillars and benches for generations.

When young people began to fall in love, or when old friends yearned to reconnect, one would smile, look the other in the eye, and say, “Meet me at the top of Barringer Hill.”