Nostalgic but more, this outing on a hot summer afternoon
Guided by a dear friend who lived in Madison as a youngster and teen.
I, by contrast, a Yankee in birth and mannerisms, saw for the first time
A Madison that hadn’t previously revealed itself—until this afternoon.
We rode past parts of town new to me but perhaps a bit painfully old to her
The remnants and restorations she’d not visited since her father’s passing.
Past the hospital, still standing and in use, where my friend was born
Past the building where she had been a telephone operator.
“Telephone operator,” I almost shrieked. That’s what I had wanted to be
And then questions poured from my mouth: When? How long? What memories?
Patiently she answered each question, provided such interesting glimpses
With humor and a storyteller’s gift–all on a hot summer afternoon in Madison.
It’s not all fast food and diners.
“Last night 's dinner. I cooked.
Tonight's dinner is cooking as we roll! I love it!”
Jambalaya, Stuffed Bell Peppers, Steak and Potatoes.
A taste of home, cooked on the road.
Images of diners and truck stops cloud reality. Long haul truckers understand the truth:
Home is where the heart is.
Perceptions of bears and a mountain named for bears
Of little relevance for a Golden Retriever
Especially with wild turkeys and other birds in plain view
“Visible” that is, to Jazz’s sense of smell.
Yet neither human eyes nor a canine nose had alerted
Earlier on a walk through those same woods
To anything more amiss than a makeshift encampment
Vacated minus a couch and children’s toys.
Not adept at reading Nature interrupted we hiked on
Leaving such reading to the bears and wild turkeys.
Worn, threadbare, or plain are not descriptors
That work for me.
Riveting, spellbinding, and entrancing will do
Though better yet, soothing.
Not often that I trade staring at a screen
For staring at a mountain.
Yonah Bald, you caught me unaware
And 24 hours slipped away.
Peeling bark on a yellow dogwood
About as appealing as my sunburned neck.
On the tree a result of small rodents chewing.
On my neck a consequence of heedless pleasure.
Sunscald on a yellow dogwood, rain-correctible
For a mere mortal not so reversible, even deadly.
(With thanks to Peter Smagorinsky for the photo)
perfect words never happen
or do they? maybe. sometimes. never.
To write: compose, mark, communicate, share . . .
things that matter; things that keep us moving onward; things that move all of us, as one.
it's hard. nonetheless, "the journey continues with all that is "real" (and "real" in our dreams). The future awaits, after all, right now. [sweetdreams]."
yes. maybe it's:
To write: to make dreams real.
Upstairs in The Globe, Jericho Brown is reading.
Reading as in performing. Performing as in poetry.
Eyes are on him; ears take in his sounds.
A backlight and ceiling fan define the improvised stage.
Seat in the Shade is a euphemism on a hot Georgia night.
Our sweat evaporates to join his on stage. We are one.
American Pharoah made history Saturday: the first Triple Crown winner since Affirmed in '78.
Galloping through the fields on Beach Ridge Lane, I dreamed of making history, too. The wind blowing against my face; the powerful thud of hooves up and over the hills. Mom telling me to be careful even though I loved riding bareback and really testing my skills.
Galloping through the fields on Beach Ridge Lane, Bonanza and Perrier led the pack. [Followed by Blue, Izzy, and Cody later on.] The gate jingled, and you'd hear the thundering of hooves no matter where they were out and about. Always nosing about for a carrot, sugar cube, extra grain, or some other treat. Or, when it came to Bonanza, any and every thing he could attempt to eat.
Galloping through the fields on Beach Ridge Lane, we/they became a part of [our] history, too. The hard work and responsibility, the barn naps, climbing the old sycamore down by the creek, the show ribbons, swatting flies, the falls (all my fault in the front yard), swimming in lakes or trotting through rivers and creeks.
Yeah, that's our kind of history.
[image: Bonanza (left), me, Perrier (right)]
Someone drives this for a living.
Someone else watches from her rearview mirror.
Will the truck about to pass be this truck?
Will its radio be playing the same country station she has on?
Does it matter?
It’s not just a truck.
To the photographer’s eye, an illusion
Made possible by a contrast.
Green leaves in their prime
Against a wine-colored smoke tree.
To the viewer’s eye, a reality
Shaped in part by having peaked.
Who’s to say who’s right or wrong?
Enough that two eyes still see.
Photographer: Peter Smagorinsky (6/4/15)
Where if you don't like the weather
it'll change in the blink of an eye
[or so I've been told].
Reminds me of Blacksburg weather blowing over the mountains.
Sleep with your windows open to feel the breeze; frozen by morning.
Reminds me of OBX weather, well, sometimes.
Really depends on when you catch the breeze and what direction it's blowing in.
Welcome to Georgia! 68 degrees and sunny today.
[Edgie's roof open kinda day.]
Maybe, just maybe, today will help us all s-p-r-i-n-g ahead to focus on the blossoms and possibilities that are ahead.
[As we say, ONWARD.]