Cross Mound

After hearing about Cross Indian Mound ten days or so ago, I wanted to visit.  Last Saturday I drove around but was about ten miles to the east and never found it.  Our good family friend told me it was very near Tartleton, and he was right.

A Tartleton native gave me directions, and when I said that I heard it was closed, she said, “Jump the fence!” just like everyone else.  Although I can jump, I didn’t have to as there was a space between the fence and the gate wide enough for me and just about anyone else to walk through.
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To the left of the picnic area stands the bridge, built in 1933.  It is one of the few remaining WPA projects left in our neck of the woods.   Unfortunately, vandals have spray painted it, and it looks as if it has seen better days.  Even though the bridge had steel rope supporting it, I was afraid to walk across it, and instead walked under the bridge and over the rocks in the creek.  Someone needs to tell me I am no longer a silly seventeen, but who wants to listen?  The water was shallow and my feet didn’t get too wet.   Did I also mention that it was raining?  A cold, miserable, November rain?
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I pulled myself up the bank by holding onto a small tree.  Living in the country all my life this was second nature, even though I am no longer an agile teen-ager (I was never agile) but instead a woman with two handsome little guys who call me Grandma.
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On to the trail.
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Up the hill… even though there are houses close by, the woods were peaceful.
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I kept behind the fence and took pictures, but also contemplated the sacred spot.  Due to the oak leaves, everywhere, it was at first difficult to make out the shape of the mound, but eventually I was able to see curves at the far left of the site.
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The sound of a large tree branch falling startled me.  I didn’t see anything fall, but there was most certainly a large crash.

“Backwoods Maine…Stephen King…Indian burials…” flashed through my mind.  It was time to leave.  Also, I was worried that I would get lost, or arrested for being in a closed area.

*Notice to law enforcement officials:  I am taking a creative writing course, so perhaps this is a story.  Maybe I didn’t REALLY sneak into the park.  Then where did the pictures come from, you  ask?   I don’t know.  You’re the experts.  You can figure it out yourselves.*
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I do NOT know what the “orb” in this picture is.

Down the hill and back to the bridge.  Am I going to be a little chicken the rest of my life?   Well, probably, but I did decide to get up the gumption and walk on the bridge.  I stayed on one side so I could grab one of the steel ropes if necessary.  Also, the bridge wasn’t all that high.
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Then I went home and planted the last of the daffodils.  When I told a friend about my day, she said, “You didn’t PLANT in the rain, did you?”

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