The Journey Home

As those of you who are familiar with the explanations of my poems, know I get my inspiration in some rather common places. Sometimes it strikes me when I am writing in a birthday card or a Christmas card and often in the shower. This time, I was thinking about what to write in a get-well card for a very special little boy.

It all started in December when Analia came home and asked me if I had heard that the Rick's baby was in the hospital, in very serious condition. That really made me stop and think. Baby? The youngest Ricks child that I could think of had to be somewhere between a year and a year and a half. I never have been too clear on when an infant stops being a baby and starts being a child or an adult for that matter. The last time I ever talked to my mother I was 42 years old and she introduced me to the nurse at her bedside as "my baby". Any way Evan Ricks was in the hospital and they didn't seem to know what was wrong with him.

After many tests and evaluations, it was decided that he has acute leukemia. We have all been praying and fasting for him ever since. And after two months of chemotherapy he has shown some improvement, at least to the point where keeping him occupied is becoming a problem.

As I was out for my daily walk one day I got to thinking about what my mother had told me once about keeping a two year old occupied while he was in traction. I broke my leg when I was two and laid in traction for a month. She said that if it hadn't been for the books that friends gave me while I was in the hospital, she was sure that she would have gone out of her mind.

Books what a great idea! Even if Evan wasn't feeling well enough to play on the floor, at least his mother could read to him. The next time I talked to Marie, I asked her if she could use some books or toys for Evan. She was delighted and said that they would be a great help. The very next day I rushed to the bookstore and picked up a couple.

That day as I was thinking about the difficult time that this little boy was going through and about what to write in his get-well card, some ideas for a story about a little mouse and his journey home began to take form in my mind. Soon the story had expanded far beyond what I could put in a card. The Journey Home" is dedicated to Evan Ricks and his brave struggle to make it home again. Believe me, compared to Evan Ricks, Eric Roundtail had it very easy.

Gale L. Wolfenbarger

17 February 1991

The Journey Home

Once upon a time

And very far away,

A mouse named Eric Roundtail

Dashed out the door to play.

The sun had warmed the grass so green

And bathed the fields with light.

The breeze caressed the flowers gay

And set the birds to flight.

He'd waited for this day so long

Until at last he could,

Without his mother's careful gaze,

Explore the forest woods.

He ran through grass still wet with dew

And breathed the sweet perfume

Of flowers bending in the breeze

And trees ablaze with bloom.

He climbed the trees and called to squirrels

Collecting winter's store

Of acorns, nuts and berries sweet

'Til their cheeks could hold no more.

He ran across a sparrow's nest.

The mother screeched with rage,

He scrambled to a gopher's hole

Beneath a fragrant sage.

His heart was pounding as he hid,

His ears laid back in fear,

The world was bigger that he'd guessed.

He hoped his home was near.

But then he thought he heard the squeal

Of friends as games they played,

And slowly he peeked out to see

Where all the noise was made.

It seemed it came from by the brook

Where he was not to go.

But mothers always seemed afraid

Of things both high and low.

Sure enough he caught a glimpse

Of Nathan Nuzzelnose

Eating berries on a bush

And stains upon his toes.

Quickly as a mouse can scoot

He dashed right up the limb,

And Nathan squealed as Eric stopped

On the branch right next to him.

Now Nathan wasn't usually one

To keep anger to himself,

And Eric had disturbed his meal

And scared him lots as well.

So Nathan with an angry snort

And without a second look

Gave Eric Roundtail quite a shove

And he tumbled in the brook.

The icy water froze Eric's toes

And made his ears turn blue.

It made it hard to see ahead

And hid the shore from view.

Now swimming wasn't a thing he liked

Or bathing as you might guess.

He scrambled on a passing branch

And there sat down to rest.

The world he saw as he sat there

Was something very new.

He'd never been this far before.

What was he going to do?

Just then he heard a mighty roar

From something far ahead.

He didn't know what it could be,

But it filled his heart with dread.

Now Eric's life was very new.

He wasn't yet so tall.

He didn't know much of the brook

Or its tumbling waterfall.

He looked around to find the shore.

Perhaps he could escape

The thing ahead that roared so loud

And made his knees to quake.

The water here was very swift.

The shore was very far.

The brook it seemed was very wide

As rivers often are.

Before his thoughts could make a plan

Or his voice could make a sound,

His woody perch with a sudden lurch

Was hurled down and down.

The next thing Eric knew for sure

Was of a cozy bed,

Of blankets made of softest down

And pillows 'neath his head.

"Good day to you my sleepy sir,

And how are you today?

I see you've found your wits again,"

A squeaky voice did say.

At first poor Eric didn't know

If he should be afraid.

A thousand questions filled his mind

but not a sound he made.

"You took a rather nasty bump

And nearly caught your death.

I found you lying near the shore

With just a hint of breath.

I've never doctored a mouse before

Or brought one into my hole.

I hope I've made you comfortable.

My name is Matthew Mole."

At last young Eric took a breath

And cleared his voice to speak.

He tried to rise from where he lay

But found he was too weak.

"I fear you'll find it takes some time

To mend the knock you took.

You won't be running for some time

Or swimming in the brook."

And when he heard of swimming

And of his frightful ride,

A shiver went right up his back

And made him cold inside.

Now eat some soup and rest a while.

We'll talk when you are well.

I have some broth of clover root.

It makes that yummy smell.

The days slid by and Eric's thoughts

Returned each day to home,

While Matthew searched for things to eat

And he was left alone.

When at last his legs were strong

And he could wait no more,

He waved good-bye to Matthew Mole

Standing by his door.

He wished his friend could go with him

To talk along the way,

But Matthew gathered roots by night

And slept by light of day.

His journey home was very hard

And perils marked his trail.

He hid from owls while coyotes howled

And shook from tip to tail.

He followed where the creek had come

And searched for signs of home.

At night he huddled in a ball,

So sad and all alone.

One day with joy he thought he saw

A sparrow that he knew,

But when he called, it screeched at him

And soared into the blue.

His heart was sad, his feet were tired,

His legs were cramped in knots.

His courage failed from time to time

And still he would not stop.

His home was there and he would find

A way to find the place

Where mother was and all the world

For him was warm and safe.

The days stretched on for endless miles

And hope began to dim

Of ever finding home again

And mother there within.

And then one day with weary legs

And tears upon his cheek,

He found the tree where he had fled

The sparrow's scolding beak.

Before he could wipe from his eyes

The tears that he had shed,

His mother cried, "Eric, son,

We thought that you were dead."

He ran to her 'mid tears of joy.

He thought his heart would burst.

He'd made it back to Mom and home.

He'd weathered though the worst.

And so my friends where e’er you are,

'Mid sorrow or despair,

Remember home and ones you love

Are waiting for you there.

And if you think you cannot reach

Its door what e'er you do.

Remember Eric made it home

And know that you can too.

Gale L. Wolfenbarger

15 February 1991

Copyright © 2003 Gale L. Wolfenbarger