Just south of Tallahassee, there’s a place called River Sink. It’s said to be the shortest river known. It used to be surrounded by acres and acres of pristine scrub oak forest. In spring, the woods were filled with cloud-white dogwood. In fall, wildflowers bloomed in purples and yellows. Back in the seventies, I had a very good friend that lived beside River Sink in a home-made, Indian-style structure called a chickee. She waded through swamps, dragging out logs to serve as beams. She tied them together to form a frame, thatched the roof with palmetto fronds, draped it with mosquito netting, and moved in.
This was not an overnight fancy. She lived in her chickee on the banks of River Sink for years. When winter came along, she’d put up a teepee and sleep in her sleeping bag on the ground. Two or three layers of pants and shirts kept out the cold, she’d assure you. How she continued those icy morning baths in River Sink was always a mystery to me!
Now, this young woman’s passion was playing the flute. Strains of Telemann or Bach would drift through the forest and echo off the trees and river banks. Folks who came to swim in the cool waters of River Sink would swear that they heard fairies in the forest. Those who happened to see her perched on a fallen log or standing in a sunny clearing playing her flute, would think they had seen a vision. Her long hair would glimmer with golden highlights. Her eyes would reflect gray-green of surrounding foliage.
Eventually, a lucky young man came along and won her heart. They moved away, got married, and took jobs in the city. A few years ago I was visiting some friends in the area and went to see if her chickee was still there. It had fallen in and given way to vines and underbrush. Breezes broke off brittle pieces of palmetto and set them dancing though the woods. I stood there for the longest time, just missing her. Trees sighed gently in the wind, and I knew that the forest missed her, too.
