Under The Dancing Tree

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How the earth helps us heal.
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For those of you looking for a quick stroke story, this is not it. It started out that way, but took on a life of its own. I hope it resonates.

CHAPTER I

We called it the dancing tree. We could see it every Sunday as we walked down the old dirt road that passed in front of our farm as it wound its way through the orchards to our little town's church. It was a solitary tree, dead for some years now, but not giving up its place at the top of our little hill.

I was raised in foster homes, never knowing a mother or father. My wife, on the other hand was third generation born in the valley and bred on the farm. We met when I was passing through and I never left.

Bethany, our daughter, or B, as she liked to be called, used to sing nursery rhymes and mimic the position of the trunk and its two large limbs which were raised in surrender to the sky. I think her love of farming and all things that grow began on our Sunday afternoon sojourns.

Sometimes, after church, we'd walk up the little hill and sit near the tree for an hour or two, enjoying the picnic lunch we'd packed. During the summer, we'd not stay long as the tree offered no shelter from the mid-day sun. But most of the spring and autumn, the heat was bearable. Winters were too brutal to do much more than look at it against the slate-gray sky as we passed going to and from church.

As B grew, she had more and more questions about life, all life, and death and why there were cycles and simple philosophical issues that oft times turned too complex for her mother and me. But we tried.

We tried to answer as best we could and I'm glad we made attempts because, if we couldn't provide an adequate answer during our lunch time, we'd search for the best answer later when we returned to the house and B did her weekend homework. This search for answers would later shape our lives in ways we never conceived of while B was young.

Her questions followed no patterns. Why do trees stay in one place? What's the best medicine for a bee sting? How does water turn to ice? She was filled with a lust to know everything and oft times; we'd be the beneficiary of her curiosity as we learned things that helped us understand and ultimately manage the farm much better.

As she grew, her questions focused more and more on the nature of sex and its relationship to the health of the animals and even the crops on which she was now helping us tend.

Eventually, she asked me if I ever felt alone, or if she and her mother were enough family for me. I always told her the same answer; "when the universe wants me to have more than the two of you, then the universe will give it to me. Besides, I have the crops and animals too."

She was amazing with the birthing of the livestock. To her, it was as important as the sex act that had occurred months previous.

In high school, she began to work on Saturdays for the town's vet and it seemed a given she would eventually go to school to become a vet herself. "It isn't a choice I've made," she'd say. "The universe wants me to care for everything. That's true," she'd emphasize, "so I need to learn all I can, so I don't make any mistakes. Too much life depends on me."

We believed every word.

When B was in her senior year of high-school she met Del, a boy two years older than her. Del became the light of her life. We were glad, as the young man was everything the parent of a child hopes for when they think about life mates for their children.

He was strong, serious, but with the most engaging and ready smile, a smile that really exploded whenever he saw B in town or at church.

Though their attraction to each other was instant, their courtship was slow to develop and definitely what old timers might call proper. There was never a time in the first six months of their becoming a couple when they were alone; not even at B's prom. But of course, if you are raised on a farm and work around animal husbandry, you learn at a young age what's what, and when your own body parts start itchin' you're gonna' scratch. And scratch they did.

It was my wife who told me about the conversations she'd had with our daughter and of B's intentions. We were lying in bed one night, having turned in early (B'd gone out with Del), just you know, messin' around, when she sprung the news.

"B's gonna give up her maidenhead tonight."

"What?"

"She and Del are going to have intercourse tonight."

"How do you know?"

"We talked about it."

"You talked about it?"

"Yup."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure as sure can be," my wife answered.

"Wow. That's a big step."

"Not really."

"What do you mean, 'not really'?"

My wife pulled my arm around her and snuggled up closer.

"They've been working up to it," she said.

"What do you mean working up to it?"

"You know, kissin' and stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah. You know. Stuff. The kind of stuff that leads to the inevitable."

"Stuff," I repeated, trying to sort it all out. "And you know about this stuff how?"

"I taught her."

"You taught her?"

"Yup. She was not shy in the least bit about askin' for help either."

"I bet that's true," I said. I thought how B would search every little crevice to find all the answers that could ever be found about a particular subject, then she'd go over the information twice and sometimes three or four times until she owned it.

"Well, you know how she is and I truly think she's ready to be a woman now."

"It's a big step."

"I think they're gonna get married soon."

"Really? What about college?"

"Oh she'll go and I expect she'll go all the way through vet school too."

"Why didn't she give me a hint or ask my opinion on any of this?"

"Because, as much as she loves us, she's a bit shy around you."

"No she's not."

"Oh, you have no idea how shy she is, do you?"

"I don't think I've ever seen it. She always asks me anything and everything."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I thought I was. Come to think of it, I just always assumed she knew, you know...What's what."

"She knew what stuff was called, but other than seeing the animals do it, she really was a bit clueless."

"Until you taught her."

"That's right," my wife giggled. "Until I taught her."

"Is she really shy around me?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Why?"

"You're the apple of her eye."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means, there was no way for her to communicate with you her feelings about sex and lust and the itch we all get. It would be much too uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"It's a girl thing."

"Oh, stop," I chided.

"No really sweetheart, it's difficult to explain but women have intuitive feelings about what we can and can't do or say around men."

"What does that have to do with her being uncomfortable?"

"I honestly think you should just accept the fact, there are some things a daughter doesn't discuss with her father."

"Okay, I guess," I said, giving in, but not really wanting to.

"Now, about those things I helped B learn. Feel like letting me show you what a good teacher I was?"

"Sure," I said, wondering where this was going to lead.

"Well, first I taught her how to kiss," she said, leaning over and kissing the side of my cheek.

"That's not much of a kiss. Heck, B already knew how to kiss both of us on the cheek."

"Be patient, oh curious one." She then nibbled at the side of my lower lip.

"Oh my. I don't think she knew how to do that."

She moved her lips to my neck and began nibbling, working her way over to my ear lobe, gently pulling on it, blowing warm air softly into my ear.

"You've got to be kidding," I said.

"Oh just wait," she answered. "It's going to get a lot better."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. Really. The first few things I taught her were about how humans use their mouths to bring pleasure to each other."

"That's certainly differentiates us from almost all other animals."

"Hush, oh scholarly one. You just close your eyes and enjoy this," she said reaching down to help me take off my t-shirt.

When I lay back, she moved down to my collar bone, gently biting her way around my neck.

Next she moved down and took my left nipple in her mouth, circling her tongue around it, using her warm saliva to lubricate the movement. The combination of sensations gave me the start of what I knew was going to be a rock-hard erection, one that would probably be painful until I achieved release.

"I better get out of these shorts before they get too small to contain my growing problem."

My wife giggled, while I quickly slipped off my shorts and lay back in bed, this time flat on my back.

"I'm all yours, my dove. Feast away," I implored.

She came up and whispered in my ear, "Now just remember, B's doing all this and more with Del. So, don't think about it in any negative way whatsoever."

"I'm sorry, love, I can't seem to think about anything at this moment. All the blood's left my brain."

"Now you know what the stallion feels when he smells the mare in heat"

"Are you saying I'm a stallion and you're the mare?"

"More like a bull," she said, reaching down and squeezing my balls.

"Oh, you do make a man feel so, I don't know, like a man."

"Enjoy," she said, lowering her face down to my groin.

My wife knew how much I enjoyed releasing my cum into her mouth. She also was not the least bit reluctant to swallow. Not so, the first time.

The first time I ever came in her mouth was a surprise to both of us. I'd talked her into "kissing it" but was unprepared for how much pleasure I was in for. As soon as she took the head inside her lips I unleashed.

As this was new to her, she didn't at first understand what was happening and was confused when of a sudden, her mouth was full of warm, viscous semen, and I mean full.

Not thinking, she swallowed at the same instant I unleashed another volley and she started choking, pulling away to try to regroup, she took the next shot right in the eye.

As she gasped, she snorted and cum was running down her chin, out her nostrils, and was all over her face. I started laughing. She started crying. I remember, I immediately felt bad for her, but I couldn't believe how great it felt shooting into her mouth that first pulse.

For weeks afterwards, she was determined to learn how to please me with her mouth. It was not long after, that I began experimenting with giving her pleasure orally. We obtained, what we both agreed was a level of expertise in that particular area of our lovemaking.

I think, living on a farm puts humans more in touch with our base instincts, than living in a city allows.

On the farm, we're constantly aware of the smells and tastes of the earth and its diverse constituency.

There's horse piss, compost, cow dung, decaying plants when the crops are turned, and a myriad of other smells to assail the senses year round.

The taste of an apple picked ripe or fresh food served at the end of a workday, is intoxicating.

In spring, when the earth wakes up from its long winter nap and plants begin to bloom, the subtle perfumes of various pollens, helps prepare us for birth and the cycles of life. Our senses come alive.

I truly feel love-making, in all its magnificent configurations, is best when done near places where you can smell things growing, things other than humans that is.

I was lost in my thoughts when I realized I was about to cum. I tapped her shoulder, a signal we'd developed years ago to let the other know when we are close.

She murmured and took me down her throat just as I let loose.

"Ummm," she gurgled.

"Oh, god," I exclaimed.

I clenched my fists and expelled a torrent of semen, a copious amount from which my wife missed nary a drop.

I felt and heard the sounds, of her swallowing everything I offered. I was as close to ecstasy as a man gets when he's serviced by the woman he loves as much as he loves anything else. I was giving her the gift we both cherished and it was well received.

Later, after I'd recovered my senses enough to communicate in a somewhat intelligent manner, she asked, "Did you like that?"

I grunted an affirmation.

We both started laughing.

"Your turn," I said, moving quickly to grab her and throw her back up against the headboard, pulling her legs apart as her head landed on the pillow.

"Me barbarian," I grunted. "Me hungry. Need food."

"Well then shut up and eat. I've already had my share for the week."

And that's just what I did. I feasted on love and I feasted on flesh.

Life couldn't get any better.

But it could get a lot worse.

Over the next couple of years, B and Del became husband and wife. At first, they tried living in a small room in town, but spent so much time working at the farm we figured it'd be best if they just gave up the room and moved in with us.

Del and I worked the animals and the orchards. B and her mother worked the other crops, managed the homestead and kept their two very hungry men well fed with great food and even greater love.

It was at Thanksgiving dinner in the second year of their marriage they informed us that B was with child. It was the best Thanksgiving any of us could ever remember.

We'd decided that Del and I would build a house for them on the property. B immediately chose the hill where the dancing tree stood as the site.

We drew up plans, made arrangements for a well to be dug when spring came, got the plans approved and settled in for a glorious Christmas holiday.

Three days after the New Year's celebrations were over, my wife wanted to go into town to return a gift. B was a bit under the weather and I had some chores that needed to be attended to. Del offered to drive her in so he could go to the hardware store for stuff we needed at the farm. They never made it.

We were told it was black ice that caused the wreck.

An eighteen wheeler hit a patch at a bend near the bottom of a hill and jackknifed just as Del came down from the opposite direction. There was no where for him to go and in an instant they were gone.

CHAPTER II

Grief is a funny thing. Not funny ha-ha, but funny as in curious. It affects each of us differently and to greater or lesser degrees. It changes our perceptions, our needs; it can even change our moral turpitude. Though I didn't think it at the time, I needed more from life than I cared to admit.

I couldn't move. I knew it was a bad dream that would soon end, but it seemed to be taking longer to escape than any other bad dream I'd ever had in the past.

B on the other hand, though devastated, took the news rather better than I. Maybe it was because she was pregnant. Maybe it was because she'd not been with Del as long as I'd been with her mother. Maybe it was because she is a woman. In any case, she carried on with a grim determination. But, even in my grief state I worried for my daughter.

As days turned into weeks and as weeks turned into months, the only real joy I felt was when I realized my B was getting ready to give birth. I was scared but I was glad too.

B seemed oblivious to anything other than the daily tasks that needed completion to keep the farm from falling apart.

She made a list each morning while I ate a bit of food as my appetite had disappeared.

"Dad, don't forget to check and see if the chickens need food. We can order on Friday if they do," she'd say.

"Un-hum," was about all I could offer at each request.

"Dad, don't forget this or please make sure that, or will you get such and such when you go to town tomorrow," was about all the communication we had between each other those first few weeks.

At night, we'd eat dinner silently.

On Sunday, she still got up and went to Church, but I'd stopped. It wasn't because I was angry at god or anything; it was more because I didn't want people to tell me "how sorry they were". Hell, I was sorrier than the whole town combined and didn't need salt rubbed into my gaping wound. I was scared, too. I was one child away from being without a family once again.

B never said a thing. She just got up, got dressed and walked all the way to church like she'd done her entire life.

In late spring, during a particularly torrential rain, her water broke.

"Daddy," she screamed. "Daddy, come quick."

I ran from the barn to the house, getting soaked in the 20 seconds it took to make the run, and burst into the kitchen petrified something bad had happened.

"Daddy, my water broke. You're gonna' have to help me with the birth."

"Okay baby. Did you call the clinic?"

"I tried, but the phones are out."

"What about your cell phone?" I asked, hoping I wouldn't be left alone with the task.

"No luck."

Though I was a farmer and helped with a few hundred births, it was always animals, not my daughter and soon to be grandchild, I helped bring into the world. The baby was three weeks early, and that seemed a bit unusual. I realized I was scared to death of something going wrong. I started shaking.

"Daddy, Daddy, what's the matter?"

I came to my senses at the sound of worry in her voice.

"Nothing, sweetie. It's just, well; I'm a bit apprehensive I'll screw up somehow."

"Nonsense. I've more faith in you than I have in my own doctor. You've probably delivered just as many babies."

"I doubt it," I started to say, when B let out a cry that curdled my blood.

"God, Daddy, it hurts. Something's wrong."

"Change your sheets and get on the bed. I'm going to boil some water."

"Please hurry. I don't like what I'm feelin'," she pleaded.

I raced to the kitchen and poured a stock pot full of water, put it on the stove and lit a fire, turning it on high.

I got some string from the utility closet and threw it in the microwave to sterilize it.

I took some kitchen knives and threw them in the stock pot to boil away germs and started looking for anything else I could think of in case I'd need it during the birth.

"Daddy," B screamed. "Hurry, Daddy. It hurts."

"Coming baby. Water's just now boiling."

I shut off the microwave, grabbed the bucket and realized I was still in my soaking wet clothes. I quickly stripped down to my boxers and went to help B.

Katy was born five hours later.

She was a breech birth. But having dealt with a few over the years, I had an idea that B and the child should be handled the same way I'd handle a foal in trouble; with cool, dispassionate, movement and a, b, c, type steps. I reached inside B with my fingers, found the cord, made sure it was not trapped, raised the baby's arms up one at a time, while twisting the child gently to prevent the head from being squeezed and bruising the brain. It worked.

I cut and tied the umbilical cord, washed the baby, handed it to her mother, and examined the birth canal for damage as best I could. B required stitching which I knew would hurt, but it was necessary to make sure the damage was kept to a minimum. I got the necessary things from around the house.

After, I sewed her up, I put the placenta in a pan to take outside for disposal later and turned my attention back to mother and child.

B was holding the child to her breast and was crying.

"Honey, is there something I did that hurt you?"

She looked up into my eyes and just shook her head.

"Then what's the matter?"

She looked first at the baby, then up at me.

"They're not here Daddy. It's just you and me."

I couldn't hold back. Months of pent up emotion exploded from both of us. We cried for over an hour. It was a hell of a way to welcome new life to the world, but we couldn't help it. Our grief needed to be let out.

We cried until we were drained.

Two days later, Doc Beasley came out to check on B and Katy.

"You did a great job sewing her up," he told me. "How'd you sterilize the thread?"

"Alcohol."

"Hmm. I guess I can leave it in, but it won't dissipate. I'll have to remove it when she comes to the office in three days for a check up."