Morning

Those crowded into the brick
And concrete of cities
May never notice the sun
As it sets all orange like
Or see the blue of a new morning
As they rush to work.
The sun in their eyes causes a curse
As they reach for sunglasses
To dim their view of the world.

In the hills, or on any farm
There is seldom a day
That farmers don't stop and look
Up to the sky,
Looking at the world and judging
What will the weather bring.
Seldom does a golden sunset
Escape their weary glance
Or a morning fade to noon
Without an old man
Worn by toiling in the dirt
Stopping to look and say
To himself,
"My oh my, that sure is one pretty day."

To the Hills we go!

I am leaving today for a short trip to our little place in Tennessee.  Just 4 days in the mountains before I change jobs, but I will savor every minute like an old dog chewin' slowly on a ham-bone.  By now the trees are fully green and I'll be able to see a few dogwood blooming on the hillsides.  I reckon it will be so thick with new growth that the deer I see in winter and early spring with whisper by the cabin without my notice.

I am going alone.  I love to be there alone.  I'll work on the inside while I am there and try to get the strips of wood that will make up the ceiling nailed in.  I'll put up one ceiling fan for sure and maybe move some electric outlets.

A bath house is next - maybe this year.  It will have the well pump, hot water heater, sink, toilet and shower.  A line over to the cabin will give water for the small kitchen.  Next year I begin the swinging bridge that will lead to the tree-house/guest cabin about 20 feet in the air and 50 feet into the woods.  Nothing grand.  Just about 10x12 attached to the trees and access via the rope bridge.  I'll probably have electric to it just by a temporary cord whenever anyone uses it.  That will supply lights and a small propane wall heater will heat it.

Sorry for the ramble.  I am pretty well excited about going down.  I'm sure I'll have much to say when I get back.  Probably some old ragged verse to throw on here.

Stephen

Good

Taste it, smell it
See it hear it.
It is good
It is good.
Honey from the rock
Glory of the mountain
It is good
Yes, it is good.
Everlast and
Mountain Laurel
It is good.

About the rain

There is something about rain
Quiet like, fallin' on a tin roof.
Sort of hypnotizin', the sound
Relaxes a hard workin' man.

Sit there, just there
At the end of the porch
Rock back and fro, real slow
Put your head in neutral and rock.

There is something about rain
Constant, like sheets across the hills.
Mesmerizin' to the eye
Dulls the aches and pains.

Rock quietly an' stare out
Not lookin' for a single thing.
Now an' again, just stop
Sit still an' focus down the creek.

There is something about rain
Cleanses, washes, cleans.
Rinses off the toils of life
Makes the world smell new.

Daddy

Today is two years since my Daddy left this world to go into that mystery beyond this life.  I often wondered how people were able to remember the day and time they lost a loved one.  It is no longer difficult to understand.  I know the day, the time and when that moment happens I am aware of it, just as I was today.  In the midst of the rush of the day my mind leapt to one thought..."This is when my Daddy died".

I wish that you could have met him.  He was a gracious mountain man.  I never heard him gossip and talk bad about folks.  He was quiet and didn't ask for a lot.  After he was gone I helped my Mama go through his clothes and he still had socks he had not worn, had not opened in over 20 years.  He was saving them for when he needed them.  They are still in my drawer, still with the wrapper around them, ever unopened.

He could not tell a joke or story to save his life.  He would get tickled or mix the joke up and try to tell it. Finally getting through it as he chuckled at himself and the punchline that he probably delivered in the middle of the story instead of the end.

Daddy liked his coffee in thin china cups.  I don't know why, but he did.  No mugs for him.  Mama would go to garage sales and the thrift to find them, in case one broke.  He wouldn't use the good china, so she kept a few hand me downs for him to use.

I remember walking with him when I was a very small boy, holding just his little finger that he would hold out for me.  His legs were so long as he walked - all 6 feet of him that I would constantly be at a run.

Sometimes I would say, "Daddy, wait for me, I'm runnin' just to keep up".  When I got to be 6'2" I could walk along side this giant easily.  When he began to get sick with COPD I was the one who would have to walk slower, often stopping for him to catch his breath.  He once told me he was just getting me back for all the times I stopped to look at some rock or bug as I walked with him as a child.

When Mama cleaned out his closet I took an old sweater he wore often.  I placed it in a large zip lock bag and put it away.  It was an odd thing to do, but that old sweater smelled like him.  When I open that bag it still does.