Chapter Six – Through the Glasses
Having survived her first hectic summer as an innkeeper, Morgan settled into the white rocking chair with a mug of hot coffee and Howard draped over her knee. His chin rested on her freckled arm. Weekend guests had checked out, leaving the inn vacant until Friday. She savored the solitude of her beautiful farm.
The base of the Douglas fir by the driveway measured more than five feet in diameter. Owning such a tree and the surrounding property seemed peculiar to Morgan. She felt like a visitor here, more caretaker than owner. The tree belonged to the land and the eagles long before Morgan had signed the paperwork. I wish the tree could tell its story, Morgan thought as tranquility engulfed her…
…If she could hear, the texture of its timber would tell the story of her own ancestors, descendants of Áine and Patrick Morgan. Their son, Patrick Sean Morgan along with his bride, drove a wagon across the plains and through the mountain passes, starting not far from Morgan’s hometown in Ohio. The Douglas fir would tell of grazing cattle sold in Port Gamble to feed lumber mill workers and Percheron horses working in well-trained unison, pulling the wagon full of logs to the mill. The same team heaved the stumps, their massive hooves digging into the rich soil as they prepared the land for pastures, crops, and gardens.
Someday Morgan would learn that the property she owned had supported her ancestors for generations, the tree a silent observer.