Finding Granddaddy’s Pistol, obscured by old leaves, was quite a thrill. It’s not a real gun, but the gnarled piece of wood looks authentic enough to deserve a name. Meticulous detail reflects the work of a gifted artist.     

A June morning is when I spotted the L-shaped remnant. I’d been hoeing around a deteriorating wooden enclosure that once protected a small spring. Although the spring shifted to another location years ago, those weathered boards are still brimming with memories. That’s why I don’t disturb them.

The circular casing was built to prevent runoff of hard rains from muddying the clear water bubbling from the ground. Its open top is four feet across and sides are three-feet high. Water and sand were constantly churning inside those walls during my childhood. It was a perfect venue for watching waterbugs play their darting games. Or a kid dreaming of a circus career could daringly walk the two-inch rim. 

A cement block pump house, its roof long gone, is precariously perched a few feet away. The ground on one side has caved over the years, resulting in the small building being heavily tilted. Like the spring’s enclosure, its use has evolved from practical to sentimental. 

During my childhood a short galvanized pipe ran from the protective enclosure to an electric pump in the once-sturdy structure. Another two-hundred feet of pipe ran uphill to my grandparents’ home. Water from a deep well would have tasted the same I suppose, but mystical qualities seemed infused in the spring. Maybe the water was flavored as it squeezed through layers of limestone.   

Before my grandparents had access to electricity they used a ram pump. We still have the cast-iron housing but that’s all that remains. It was a gravity fed system powered by water pressure. The ram was located a considerable distance below the spring. Water which flowed downhill was channeled into the housing. 

Force from that water turned a mechanism which propelled a small but constant supply to the house. A trickling flow slowly collected in a sink and spilled over into a large trough outside.

That was before my time, so what I know came through others. My grandparents had the only ram in our area that I’m aware of. In the days of drawing buckets of water from open wells, they enjoyed an unusual convenience. 

Granddaddy’s Pistol was near the ring of planks, partially hidden in dirt. I saw enough to hope it might be a collectible, but tried to temper my expectations. Much to my pleasure, the wood was well-preserved. 

Rinsing it off revealed delicate grains, swirls of charm that would be hard for man to duplicate. It reminded me that God doesn’t actually need our help for anything, yet he lovingly invites us to participate.

Another find, which also seemed spectacular, surfaced the same day just a few feet away. The area had been thickly covered with vines and bushes until recently. Clearing the undergrowth was richly rewarded with two hidden treasures.

My guess is the second piece was once part of a tree root. Its twisted base was a dull black color and featured a skyward-looking swan perched atop. As I washed away the grime an enchanting, reddish hue was revealed. The wood, however, was soft in multiple places and came off in chunks. What’s left is interesting, but the bird lost its head.

At first glance the pistol and the swan appeared exceptional. Scrubbing with a brush, however, proved otherwise. The pistol is captivating and solid to the core. A headless bird, on the other hand, is lacking personality.

Contrasting qualities of those two discoveries reminded me that looks can be deceiving. What may seem lovely is often only temporary beauty, a shapely form that won’t withstand a cleansing flow. Or something considered as unbecoming may be sound as a rock beneath its muddy surface.

Finding Granddaddy’s Pistol in the woods was quite a thrill. It looks nice on the bookshelf and warmly emanates nostalgic appeal. It’s a valued addition to a small collection of naturals, intriguing items Jane and I enjoy searching for.

Each piece we’ve kept is quite unique but they share a common bond, a blessing far beyond their intrinsic appeal. The artist is a friend of mine.