A Brief Moment In Time

The hammock stretched taught between the white stucco walls of my patio. It’s “belly” sagging precariously beneath the weight of, my own belly. Contrary to what I’ve always heard, these things aren’t so comfortable. Matter of fact, I think I feel the beginnings of a backache coming on.
It is night, the patio dark. Looking up from my under-sprung slumber, I can see only the bottom of my palapa (palm leaf) roof. Layer upon layer of palm fronds woven into a thatch-like roof supported by peeled lodge poles. I can imagine the artistry required to produce this long lasting and nearly waterproof roof.
Funny, the paths your brain takes in moments of idleness, innit?
Momentarily abandoning my serious inspection of the underside of my palapa roof, I turn my gaze to the left, through the peeled lodge pole railings of my patio and out onto the now dark night and the virtual jungle that is the courtyard three floors below. This little jungle is one of largely coconut palms, ficus , banana palms, even an almond tree. It comes as quite a surprise as you enter into this wholly enclosed courtyard from the street.
My eyes adjust to the light, the full moon above shone through the partial clouds and creates a filtered effect as it passes through the fronds and leaves of the jungle. Strange shapes appear and just as easily disappear.
Across and to the far rear of the courtyard, a golden hued light shines from a stairwell. Before it the giant leaves of a banana palm sway in the gentle breeze, looking all the more like the ears of a great elephant, flaring and waving before the golden glow.
My senses slowly awaken to the front and across from me, the little palapa roofed “Papa’s Bar”, it’s evening crowd just beginning to settle in. The chatter of the guests, the "klink klink" of the glasses and bottles. This evenings performer, a blues artist begins . A not to loud but not too soft Delta Blues number wafts up through the jungle and into my slumber. I don’t recognize the tune, but I do like the blues, I find it very pleasant.
I am content. I am aware of noises coming from the street. I’m sure they were there all along, it’s almost as though I’m waking up and first becoming aware, Voices. I hear voices. Near, far, certainly to the end of the block.
A staccato conversation., Spanish, maybe Italian, just below my patio. Two people I think, back and forth. A bit loud, but jocular, I think.
The low roar of car tires as it passes down the cobbled street and by me. A “ka-thunk ka-thunk”, a bit further down as it runs over something sounding like metal in the road.
Yeah... I think I’ve been hearing this all along, I’m not sure.
Multiple conversations. A cacophony from across the street, a little café, counterpose to those from Papa’s Bar below in the corner of my courtyard.
Blue and red lights flash off of the white stucco walls and the bottom of my palapa roof. I know this to be, maybe not the first, but defiantly not the last pass of the municipal police down the street outside my patio. It is one of the many rhythms I’ve come to expect.
Wow! What was that? A shadowy figure, caught from the corner of my eye. It swooped through the canopy of the “jungle” beside me. What was it? Did I imagine it? Do they have owls here?
The full moon has risen higher. It’s golden light more penetrating the “jungle canopy”. It flickers as the soft breeze sways the fronds and leaves.
The same breeze, blowing across me, relieving the hot moist air of the early evening. It feels so sweet!
I hear it! I hear crickets, no, maybe cicadas, singing softly in the foliage. How had I not heard this?
An Elvis tune? Don’t know Elvis well, punctuating the insect symphony.
“Ka-thunk ka-thunk”, another car passes below. A scooter buzzes and farts along not far behind. A car horn honks just up the block.
Garlic! I smell wonderful garlic! Waves of it.
The jumble of voices, the café across the street, Little Papa’s Bar, one, then another. People walking this way or the other way. The voices rising as they approach and receding as they move away.
Klink! Creeeak! Thonk! The big wooden door into the courtyard below, someone has come in, no wait, or was it out? No in. I hear their footsteps on the flagstones below. Back corner, opposite the “elephant”. I look in his direction. His ears flaring in a defiant challenge. I hear the key at the lock, it opens, with a soft thunk, the door closes.
Papa’s crowd a bit louder, the air of a party just trying to begin. A female voice has joined tonights music A strong, beautiful voice, singing the sweetest blues.
Red and blue lights flashing off the white stucco walls and the bottom of my palapa roof.
“Ka-thunk ka-thunk” as he runs over what ever’s in the road.
Honk of a horn. Someone yells at someone, maybe passing by on foot. What language was that anyway? No matter.
The breeze ruffles the fronds of the palms. The fringe of my palapa.
Low chirp, chirp, chirp of a bird in the canopy, disturbed by something? I don’t know what.
The crickets, or cicadas, the symphony goes on.
Wood smoke, meat cooking. Wow, what a smell! Grilled meat. Where? Where is it?
Like an exclamation point! A trumpets sound sears through the nighttime air. A beautiful, forceful sound. A Mariachi Band? For a moment I hear little else, commanding my undivided attention. Fading, as if turning a corner. Muted, more muted now.
The cacophony of voices returning. Soft Jazz wafting up from Papa’s. The “klink klink” of glasses and bottles.
The now lessening “ka-thunks ka-thunks".
A “rattle, rattle rattle” of a roll-up metal garage door, the kind shop-owners roll down to close-up their shops, rendering the shop invisible to the passerby and hopefully impenetrable to the would-be thief.
Who knew!
Who knew all of this was just outside my patio?
I had surrendered myself to the moment, and, I had found an evenings entertainment. A feast for the senses. The sights, the smells and the sounds, all painting a rich tapestry of the night.
And time? I don’t know. 30 seconds, 30 minutes, or three hours? I just can’t be sure.
Does it matter?
And. Tell me. Where? Where am I ?

Ouch!!
These things really are uncomfortable!

Early Morning On The Beach

There’s just something really special about getting to the beach early in the morning. And, truth be told, I am more a morning person.
The sun is about, popping out from behind the passing puffs of clouds that always seem to be present here. The water “exploding” into that unearthly turquoise glow every time the sun parts from a cloud. The morning breeze dispelling any sense of tropical heat and humidity. The promise of yet another beautiful day, despite the tiny sprinkles falling on my skin at this moment.
The chairs. The umbrellas, they are largely in place and await todays throngs.
The beach crew is here , probably since daybreak, busily raking the seaweed washed ashore last night, digging holes in the sand and burying it. Like most things here it happens everyday. Those daily rhythms I’m always going on about.
At my feet, a little team of Sand Pipers, zigging and zagging, peck pecking at the sand. They are mesmerizing.
An old and stooped woman walks by the waters edge, searching for seashells, her mesh bag by now holds several. I don’t ever see any when I walk the beach, no doubt she is the reason why.
Staff, they all greet me upon arrival, “buenos dias, como esta?” or maybe “todo bien? “, greetings exchanged, wishes for a good day “buen dia”, everyday it starts anew, just as the last.
A few more people wander onto the beach, there to lay claim to their little square of paradise for the day. Front row and center! The privilege of an early arrival, that’s me!
When I was a younger man at the beach, I always wondered , why do the “old gits” always have the front row chairs? Well... now I know. I’m one of those “old gits” now and it’s ‘cause I get here early. The view’s grand and the breezes delicious. As I pass through the chairs behind me, I look at the faces, mostly younger than I, and I just smile.
I gaze to my left, a beautiful arc of white stretching out of sight, rimmed on the left by green palms and on the right by the lovely glow of that turquoise water. Soft white waves wash ashore. Only a few people in sight, milling about the white sand, a few maybe two or three playing in the surf.
Soon, being Sunday, it will be almost cheek to jowl.
But, for now, paradise!
The privileges of an early arrival.

Todo bien!

Hey Mon, don't worry, be happy, get braided

For reasons I don't fully understand myself I have always wanted the "Island Girl braids" so I decided it was time to get me some.

Many of the shops here offer, amoung other things, hair braiding. They have signs in front that say "Your name on a bracelet in 5 minutes, Your name on a grain of rice, Temporary Henna Tattoos and Hair Braiding". Last year I had gotten one of those temporary Henna tattoos, a sleek gecko about 9 inches long on the side of my leg - one that you could not miss. This year I was going to get some braids. Knowing that I wanted to get some, I had eyed for several days, the shop across the street from the hotel. It was one of those small family owned businesses. They offered the general tourist stuff, the mayan calendar plaques, t-shirts, silver jewelry, shell earrings, resin figurines of Spanish dancers, embracing lovers, Mayan pyramids and skull heads, hammocks and those colorful woolly blankets that you can't imagine anyone in the tropics using ... and they braided hair.

I went in the shop and was immediately approached by a very friendly young man. "I am interested in braids" I said. Their sister does the braiding, they told me, "she is a professional". He and his brothers brought out pictures for me to look at and sample braids. "Lady she can be here in 5 minutes, there is a man next door he does the braiding but they are fat, my sister do fine braids, she is a professional" . They kept showing me pictures and the hair she used for extensions "Lady you should get extensions". "It takes between 2 - 21/2 hours to get all of it braided - my sister is a professional". I was about to learn that Mexican hours are like country miles.

Just as they predicted she was there in minutes and before I knew it I was getting my hair braided. For a while they were interested in me, talking to me in broken English about which hip-hop artists they liked, did I like Mexico, how early his baby daughter woke him up this morning. One of the guys even tried to sell me some silver jewelry while I getting my hair braided - I think the look on my face made him realize the futility of it.

After a while I became invisible to them. and they went about their business while the sister braided my hair and braided my hair and braided my hair. A roaming mariachi band cranked up at a nearby Italian restaraunt to seranade the tourists for tips. They played what seems to be the same song all mariachi bands play, but this band had an incredible trumpeter. Lost in the moment one of the brothers moved into the street and danced that fast feet shuffle they do to that music. The brothers stood in the street calling to the tourists trying to get them in the shop to have a look and spend some pesos.

After a couple of hours the brothers started closing up the shop taking down the hammocks, t-shirts and moving the table of silver jewelry back into the shop. They hung grates up over the opening and closed the gate reminding their sister how to lock the gate. And their sister kept braiding my hair.

After they left, she put in a CD of slower Mexican ballads and sang low and sweetly while she braided my hair and braided my hair and braided my hair. "Lady you can be my assistant" she said showing me to hold my hands up and spread my fingers. She laced little bits of the fake hair for the extensions between my fingers so she could grab them when she was ready without having to stop the braiding. Over and over she partitioned tiny sections of hair on my head and braided, adding in the hair extentsions. She must have laced hair in my 10 fingers, 4 or 5 times. You could tell that she took pride in what she did and she even said "I like my job too much" and she braided on. "Lady you can wash with leetle, leetle shampoo and much water, one day yes, 3 days no, one day yes, 3 days no". This I took to mean you can wash it every 4 days. "Ok to swim tho". I couldn't figure out how swimming was ok but the washing was not, I guess it must be that "leetle, leetle" shampoo that is the problem.

At one point a tourist couple came by looking in thru the grates at the wares. "Come in, come in, look please" she said and managed to lure them in all the while braiding my hair. "You like" she said as they were admiring a tacky tourist mayan calendar plaque, " 20 dollars US", she said. The man indicated it was too much, she stopped braiding momentarily and looked the plaque up in a booklet as if it was a rare artifact "180 pesos" she said. They haggled, she braided my hair and they settled on 150 pesos, which is about $11 dollars US.

After a while a friend of hers showed up and stood outside the grates talking at high speed in Spanish - they chatted and she braided my hair. The friend left and she resumed singing the Mexican ballads, it was the same CD and just kept playing over and over, after a while I could have sang along.

After just 4 1/2 short hours I heard what I had been anxiously waiting to hear "Ok lady feenished". She showed me in the mirror - I was shocked I looked so different with the long "Island Girl braids". She had done a magnificint job, I later counted 58 braids, each about 14 inches long, no wonder it took 4 1/2 hours. They were very fine braids, not the fat ones, and just as her brother had said, "she was a professional". Before leaving I asked her name - Sandra, which they pronounce Sondra, hmmm, what a coincidence.

One of the little secrets about getting your hair braided all over is that you get a complementary face lift - they pull the braids very tight - I guess so they will stay in. As they braid you don't notice this, but the more the braid, it is cummulative. It makes your head throb a bit, but you get used to it. The next day I walk by the shop and the sister came out to greet me. "Lady you like your braids?" She admired her work and touched the braids on top of my still throbbing head. "Too much ouch?" she asks. I said "Si, un poco" ("yes, a little) "You come back in a week and I will switch the elastics". Apparently the rubber bands break down from the sun, but actually some of them snapped over night but the hair stays braided because .... did I mention ... the braids are very tight.

I guess I must have had some sub-conscious Bo Derek envy, remember the movie "10" from circa 1980? That head full of braids? Well, now I got my own. I have always been slow to follow fads, which is why just 30 years later I jumped on this one. I have to admit in all honestly that I would not have done it if I had know it would take 4 1/2 hours and your head would throb when it was done. But , thanks to the young man's over salesmanship and under estimate of how long it would take, I figuratively speaking, had "scrathed an itch". Now a few days later, I literally want to "scratch an itch". Once the throbbing stops the itching starts, I think partly from the feeling returning to your scalp and partly from the "wash one day yes, three days no". I can't wait to cut off the rubber bands and give my head the scratching and the scrubbing of its life.

Hey Mon ... Don't get braided, be happy

P.S.

The truth is I didn't think the braids flattered me at all, but it is a little hard to come to terms with that after spending 4 1/2 hours getting it done and quite a few pesos. They were uncomfortable to sleep on and there was "too much ouch" and "too much itch". I only lasted 4 days with the braids. Now I find out what takes 2 to 2 1/2 hours that the young man had said. It is the removing of the braids. Kevin spent a little over 2 hours taking out the braids. Clipping the extension ends off and using a pencil to unbraid the hair, you have to start at the bottom and work up the braid removing each overlap, if you try to start higher the hair tangles horribly. Kevin did not sing Mexican ballads low and sweetly while he unbraided the hair and he did not "like his work too much", but he was a trooper and did unbraid my hair. I don't think I could have done it myself. Once done I had the afro of all afros. I had to brush my hair quite a while but it did not tame down until I washed it and used some conditioner and then it was just as if the braids had never been there. That is the most I ever enjoyed washing my hair. We both agreed that I would not have my hair braided all over again. So I have done the temporary tattoo, the head full of all braids, I think in the future there is a gonna be a grain of rice with my name all over it.

Bobby's View

There is a place in the North Carolina Mountains, it is the place where Bobby grew up. It is still a rural mountain community with a small village but mostly just farm land. It's the hard life of dairy farming, with the never ending task of milking the cows twice a day, every day and some very harsh winters to boot. It is a life from another time and place, yet it is still here.
I did not know Bobby, I only know his story and only a very small part of that. But is is a story that has a hold on me for a lot of reasons but mostly because of how I came to know it, in small bits spread out over time. It seemed to be a story that found me.
I have been a walker all my life. I started walking a a young girl and it has always given me a calmness that little else can match. I love walking in the countryside, here in the very area where Bobby spent his childhood years. I walk along the road in the middle of dairy farms under the watchful eyes of the cows in the field who find me very curious. There aren't many walkers in these parts; they alll work too hard and have little energy left for idly walking.
My favorite walk is up a fairly long and steep incline The surrounding farm land undulates up and down hillsides with the road curving a path thru it. Because of the way the land lays it causes views to appear and disappear depending on the curve of the road and the height of the hills. Walking up this hill at times I can catch a glimpse of an old country church up on a knoll. The road I am on comes to a t-intersection, with both directions heading up hill again. To the right you can walk to Virginia in less than a mile, to the left you can walk to the church up on the knoll.
The church is exacly what you would expect to see here. It is a white clap-board sided building with a modest steeple atop. Over the front door is a sign with the name of the church that says "Established 1886". A big old shade tree stands in the side yard. Out back is the cemetary that stretches even farther up the hill. The church is very non-assuming except for the commanding 360 degree views that surround it.
I am not one of those types that likes cemetaries, especially those types given to ghost stories. But there was something about this one that drew me in. It is fenced and just inside the gate is a wooden cabinet attached to a pole.The hinged door on it is kept closed by inserting a piece of wood thru the latch. You can open the door, it is not kept locked. Inside is a paper diagram of the plots of the cemetary labeled with the name of the deceased, it is sort of like a table of contents for the place.
One weekend we had a couple visiting us in the mountains. He is a childhood friend of my husband. One morning she and I went for a walk. I told her about the cemetary since it seemed like a place that would interest her. And so we headed there on our walk. Once inside the gate we began walking horizontally along the rows looking at the headstones. We started looking at the dates and looking for the oldest, calling out the year every time we found one older than the last. The face of some of the stones was almost smooth with the carvings now mostly gone from years of weather. Reading the stones often tells stories, seeing an infant dead after a week and the mother right next to it gone a month later, probably from grief. We must have walked along a dozen rows or more looking at the head stones.
After a while I noticed way beyond the populated rows, back in the far right corner up on the hill a bit was a marker all to itself. We walked back to have a look. My friend is from Pittsburg and true to their custom is a devout fan of the Steelers. Immediately she noticed the image of a football helmet on the stone and recognized it as a helmet of the Dallas Cowboys. Below the helmet was Bobby's name, his birth date, the date of his death. Noticing the year of his birth I realized that Bobby was my age. The inscription read simply: "Loving Father, Caring Brother". We wondered why the stone was all the way in the back and off to itself, there must be a story that goes with it.
A couple of seasons or two passed - all the while we walked these glorious mountain ranges. Taking in the farm land around us and the majestic Blue Ridge mountains that surround it in the distance. No matter how many times I walked this route - I could never get tired of this scenery. I have walked all over the world and this is my favorite walk, it reaches deep down in my soul.
A season later we returned as always in the late spring. And as usual we walked. One day I was on my own, I had walked to Virginia and to the old church and was heading back. At the top of the ridge I stopped to speak to a neighbor. After talking a few minutes I told him how beautiful I thought the area was and how especially nice the views were from the ridge his house sits on. He thought of this as God's country. He told me there used to be a man who would park his truck just past his driveway at sunrise or sunset and look out over the mountains. It was Bobby, he had grown up just down from the ridge, he must have been looking at the very site where he grew up and the view that he had had all those years ago.
He said that Bobby had taken his own life. His family, distraught and not expecting his death was not prepared and did not know where to bury him. My neighbor goes to the white church up on the knoll and they reached out to the family and told them they knew the perfect place to lay Bobby to rest. As far up on the hill as the cemetary behind the church went, from there you can see the same view that Bobby had sitting in his truck at sunrise and sunset. I told him I knew the very stone he was talking about and had wondered why he was buried there all to himself, never dreaming it was because of the view. I thanked him for the story and it settled into my heart.
Last year our friends were visiting us again. I told them Bobby's story and she remembered seeing his head stone when we had walked the cemetary. We all decided to walk up to the church and look at the head stone again. The first thing our friend noticed looking at the stone was that Bobby was born on the very same date as he was, the same year, they had shared the same birthday. I can't imagine how me and his wife had missed that before. This time I noticed at the bottom of the stone was a carving of the setting sun over the mountains. I had not noticed that before but now I did and I knew why it was there, it was the view that Bobby loved, the view that brought him here.
On and off I think about Bobby. All I know of him was where he grew up, that he was my age, he was born on the exact date of a dear friend, that he loved the Dallas Cowboys and was a loving father and caring brother. I didn't know Bobby, but I know Bobby's view. It brings me great piece and I hope it brought him some too. Rest in peace Bobby.

A Slice of the Perfect Day/The Perfect Ride

It was that perfect day.
A perfect ride seemed only natural.About 25 minutes north of us is the mountian town of Galax Virginia. Sadly past it's prime as most of these little towns now find themselves. It is never-the-less, blessed with "one sweet ride".
Rails to trails are parks where there was once a railroad. The rails, now pulled up, what is left is a 56 mile "linear parkway" running from Galax to Pulaski Virginia. Along most of it's length it follows the beautiful New River.
All of the trestles, bridges and tunnels are still here. Many park features have been added for camping and picnicing. And may I add that the Virginia Parks System keeps things in top shape. It is quite simply, the jewel in the crown for this part of Virginia. We consider ourselves extremely fortunate to live so close to a "treasure".
Now, bicycles have been a part of my life since I was, maybe, 5 years old. I remember the feeling, the freedom, my world was suddenly bigger. I was a big kid now. Sandy and I try to ride as often as possible. While we are living in France, velos (bicycles) are the norm. We use them to get almost anywhere in or around our little seaside village. It's really quite liberating. That is there, this is here. Here, it is more casual, more recreational. Not so practical as the principal way to get around.
Today, however, a ride for ridings sake. 12 miles down to Fries Junction, on the river, and 12 miles back. Nearly flat all the way. Following Chestnut Creek, a broad stream tumbling over boulders, even a waterfall at one point. Shaded a good portion of the way, trees arching over the trail. It couldn't possibly be a more perfect ride. Long curving trestles, high above the stream. A tunnel, it's cold breath blowing out at you, maybe a hundred feet before you enter. Blackness, a disc of light ahead, almost spooky as you make your way tenatively through it's darkness. And, at the junction, a nearly 1/2 mile long bridge taking you across the New River, the clap, clap, clap of the floor boards as your tires pass over. Mesmerizing!
Beautiful just doesn't do it justice.
Oh... and today, I'm in good form. I've got the legs. I've got the lungs. 12 miles to the junction. 43 minutes. Oh yeah! You do the math! And Sandy... right there with me. So cool! She rides an hour a day either on stationary or on a trail. I'm impressed, for her and for me. Then, I remember watching the Tour de France last month. 16-17 mph, they were doin' it uphill, 12 percent grade.
Oh well. I'm still plenty happy with that. A brief rest. heart's pumpin', a bit slower now. The air, so clean, the breathing easy. warm sun, a subtle breeze, the river lazily courses by. I have absolutely no problems at this moment. Except, perhaps, the thought of 12 miles back to Galax.
I had ridden hard this morning on the trip down. Won't so hard on the trip back. Don't have it in me to ride that hard back. But hey, trails like these are just made for a lazy ride. Just like the river, we will get there.
This time, I see, hear and feel more, but one benefit to slowing down a bit. Summer's peak. Everything's so green. flowers blooming, the creek tumbling over it's boulders to my left. Nice! So nice! About the midpoint, we stop at Chestnut Falls, a now fimiliar picnic shelter with a four star view. The rest, welcome by now. The sub sandwich, surprisingly tasty. We are refreshed. it's a lazy 6 more miles back to Galax. Have to admit, I was a bit knackered by the time I reached the parking lot at Galax. But, I had ridden well, very well this morning.
A good ride. No... a perfect ride, and, a slice of the perfect day.
A little tradition has evolved to cap these now somewhat frequent rides. Up the road from the park, maybe half a mile, Bea's Resturant. The object of my desire, the ice cream. A large cone of the darkest chocolate soft serve I've ever seen.
Does that hit the spot!
I just love these little traditions.
Don't you?

A Perfect Day

Have you ever had a really perfect day? You know, one that figures to be just about perfect.
Well, I had one this week and if there's one thing I've learned in life is that a day like this just doesn't happen along very often. In fact they're quite rare indeed.
And you know what. When you luck out and one of these days happens to bless you, you have to take notice of it! Yeah, that's right! Birthdays, anniversaries and such, well they just happen. But hey, a really great day, now that's something that should grab your attention.
Now, you might be wondering, just what constitutes an excellent day to Kevin? Or.. not? It might sound a bit anticlimactic after all this fuss, but here goes....
first of all, in the mountians of North Carolina. Woke up around seven. It's cool this morning, deliciously so. It's been a bit too warm for days now. Man... I love this!
Breakfast on the back porch. There's a fog about, wafting through the trees. The sun is struggling to punch through. A lovely green "stain glass" effect envelopes me. It's just lovely, the green glow.
Breakfast, modest. A bit of cereal. Sliced fresh South Carolina peaches topped with fresh local blueberries, picked yesterday less than 12 miles from here. A cup of freshly brewed coffee, mine half milk, half coffee and a bit of sugar. Nice! Nice and simple. I sit, not wanting this morning to evaporate. But.. you know it does.
No walk up to Virginia this morning. Feel like a bike ride today. About 20-25 minutes north in Galax Virginia and we're on the New River Trail. A rails to trails park land. It follows beautiful Chestnut Creek down to the New River. Couldn't be a more perfect day. Sunny, breezy, maybe 78 degrees, but... more on that in a soon to be published post.
Wow, that was great! I feel great! Maybe just a little bit hot. Ahh, stop by Bea's in Galax for a spot of soft serve chocolate ice cream. Oh yeah!! Makes me feel like a kid all over, and, perhaps a little cooler.
Back on the "farm" and still, still perfect weather. Maybe 78, strong breeze, bright sun, puffy white clouds, and, a big ole wet pond just waitin' on me. So, me, some kind of suit, a cold beer (Stella), an inner tube a little splash. Slip into pure bliss! I could feel myself "sizzling and cracking", the bronze comming over me. That breeze, the rippled water, pushing my little boat self across the surface. I drift, looking upward aimlessly, those puffy white clouds slowly glide by. My inner child struggles to see the images. But it's not as easy as it once was. Still... how does it get much better?
A couple of hours later, and... I'm all pruney and that "sizzling and cracking" is now more of a burning. Perhaps it's time to retire to the porch for a spot of "porch sittin'" A sweating bottle of Pinot Grigio, Barefoot, yeah, you heard me. a surprisingly nice little quaff for... say $5. Two glasses, my lovely wife, that wonderful breeze. The warm sun, now beginning to create the evening version of green "stain glass". Again... how does it get much better?
Perhaps a bit of a "lie down"?
Oh my! That was nice.
The evening ages, but still, just as lovely. I'm gettin' a bit hungry by now. Pure joy to maybe grille out on an evening such as this. Think I'll thickly slice a pork tenderloin, rub it generously with dijon mustard, sprinkle with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper, a dusting with the herbes de provence I brought back from Provence. Fire up the ole Weber kettle grille. my mouth's watering just at the thought. A couple of those ears of local sweet corn my friend Randy brought by yesterday. A fresh Caprese salad, local tomatoes sliced thin, sliced whole mozza, "fresh my farm" basil, a splash of EVOO & balsamic, coarse salt & pepper.
UH--Huh!
A warm baguette and for desert, a fresh chilled South Carolina canteloupe.
Aint that some kinda menu?
The coals, now glowing. Clean and oil the grille. Lay on those little pork medallions, they sizzle as they hit the grille.
A cold Stella in a freezer chilled glass, a bite of that Caprese salad. Pull a slice of warm baguette from the basket, a liberal spread of warm (real) butter. Oh yeah! Oh yeah! this is it!1
Turn the medallions, now carmel and lined on one side. My god, that smell! It can drive you crazy! No smell can equal grilling meat. it's primal, pity the vegetarian.
No rush. No rush.
Meat, now pulled from the coals and rested, me, now drooling from the edge of my mouth.. fork tender, oh my god, yes!
Encore cold Stella.
Push back from the table.
Savor the flavors. Savor the company. savor the moment.
This day. this day, please do not end.
The light, now failing. The green now turned rose toned in the western sky as the sun dips behind the mountian. Still warm, although a perceptable chill arrives, falling fast. The breeze, softer now, do I feel a goosebump or two?
I feel absolutely great!
This day, I have been there every moment. I have thought no thoughts other than those immediately before me. I sought the day as I did as a child, moment by moment.
It comes to a close, I am not sad. The now 60 degree air, the blackness that almost seems to swallow you. The cascading symphony of cicadia, treefrog and bullfrog.
I shall sleep the sleep of a child tonight.
It was a day, a great day.. and I took it completely!

The Country Life "Bits and Bobs"

Country Life

Surrounded by all these farms, it is impossible to not become just a bit aware of the sometimes harsh but always demanding nature of a farmer’s life.
They are to this day so firmly tethered to the changes of the seasons. Terribly at the mercy of mother nature’s whims.
City folk, me included, we have our impressions of “the country life”. One which is slow and easy. Country folk, however, may see it a little differently. Stressful, hurried and frequently out of their control. Qualities most often associated with the urban lifestyle are equally abundant here, just manifested less abstractly.
My fate was never to be a farmer. However, I cannot help but harbor tremendous admiration and respect for those who produce my food. I salute their sacrifice, their skills and intelligence, their success and their often equal acceptance of adversity. Thank you!!

Got To Plant The Corn

Always there is that whim of mother nature. What I wax on about poetically as the “rhythms of life”, here, they are “deadlines”.
It is early/mid May. Time to plant the corn. This is “feed corn”. Food for the cows. Spring is always either too wet, too dry, or too cold. Still, the corn must be planted, soon, or the season will cut short before it has reached maturity. It has been wet. Waiting and more waiting. The rains abate. Quick, quick! Everybody cutting the cover crop, the alfalfa, the rye, bale it for the hay. Then, suddenly, everywhere I look. Tractors with complex looking gear are urgently planting this seasons corn. Hurry! Hurry! More rain’s on the way. Amazing! Everyone’s out doing exactly the same thing at exactly the same time.

All About The Hay

Whew!!
All that frantic activity. It can be a little exhausting just to watch. I can’t begin to imagine.
But wait... Early June and now it’s all about the hay. Good spring rains and abundant sunshine
have given forth tall, lush green grass.
Again, everywhere I look and again as if on cue, everybody with a five acre meadow or larger is cutting morning, afternoon and evening. The cutting, raking and baling is ceaseless. Long, long hours!
The rains, earlier a blessing, now a threat. “Gotta get it in ‘fore it rains”. How many times have I heard that just this week?
Yesterday we passed a pasture up the road, maybe 5-6 acres, I don’t know. But, my God, there musta been 20-25 of the great round bales neatly scattered inside it’s fenced confines. I mean, it was like a hayfield on steroids. Sandy and I were joking that the farmer must have left those out there to “show-off”. “Man, ole Joe sure can grow some mean hay”. Must be the envy of all his neighbors. I joked, wonder if he brings in “ringer bales”? Ha ha!
Great round bales, they dot the pastures. They pass me on the roads, trailers piled high. They peek out of the opened barns. They are everywhere!! And the urgency of it all. Always the urgency!

Eeew! What’s That Smell?

Well! By now most all of that hay has been cut, rolled and put away for the season. What could be next? A break?
Well.... When your neighbors are dairymen. And because dairies depend on lotsa cows, well.. You see... they make big piles of cow poop. And... because you gotta do something with all that poop, and... because it makes a great fertilizer. You... well... quite naturally you spray that poop all over those just cut hay pastures, don’t you?
So... What’s that smell? Eau de poo, that’s what.
Yeah, it stinks, but, hey, it’s the country and that just comes with the territory. Like that before I arrived and like that after I’m gone.
A good friend of mine up here, a farmer himself, he’ll tell you “city folk are always talkin about organic this and organic that”. Then they’ll say “ eeew, what’s that smell? “That stinks”! He’ll tell em,“that’s organic”!
Yessiree!!

A Beautiful Windy Day On The Ridge

Morning walk up to Virginia, just toppin out on the ridge. Whew!! About 300 feet of elevation gain in less than a mile.
My God, it’s a beautiful day up here, I can see for maybe 20 miles.
I’m really hot from the “ascent” but a lovely mountain breeze is blowing. A nearly constant companion up here on top, they affect me and everything that surrounds me.
Today, brilliant sunshine, blue skies, puffy white clouds and..... the wind! The tall ripe grass in the fields is caught. The winds will touch down in one spot and begin to roll across the field creating a wave, no waves in it’s path. It’s mesmerizing!
I’m so enthralled as I witness this over and over again. I’m so fascinated by waves anyway. On the water, in the sky, the sands by the shore or in these fields, you can observe the same patterns, different situations, but the same physics at play.
Wow! As I crest the hill and to my right, an endless field of corn-rows (just where do you think the hairstyle got it’s name). The sun is shining, no, reflecting off of the corn. It looks just like water, shimmering in the sun. waves, undulating across the surface.
A mirage?

Black Eye, Wounded Pride

Ow!! Yes it hurts!! I haven’t had a shiner since I was a kid.
No, no Hemingway-like tales of machismo or heroism.
Me, standing barefoot on the sloped metal roof of our front porch, washing the bedroom window.
Now, the house is set in the woods and the roof grows a mean algae.
No problem! It’s dry and I’ll just take my shoes off. Not so bad!
Well, when you wash windows, you use water. And, well, as that water drips down and onto that roof. Well, that dry algae, it get’s a little wet and..... whoosh! Bang!!!
Me, face down on the sloping roof and that sinking feeling, oh shit! I’m sliddin oofffff!!
Me, spread eagle, makin “snow angels” in the algae as I slide. “Sandy, reach me that long handled squeegee”.
Got it! As I “squeegee” myself up the roof and finally my hand grabs the window sill. Whew!!
Bruised, bleeding, covered in algae and with seriously wounded pride.
Well! That was fun!
Common sense? Where was it?

A Calf And A Cow, A Farmers Life and Another Hard Chapter

Another morning, another walk up to Virginia.
Barely 10 minutes into the “ascent” and on the left, my neighbor’s barn, one of many. I know on sight what’s up. The Vet’s truck. The barn I know to be a frequent shelter for cows with difficult calvings. I know this story, not personally, but as one who closely followed the somewhat autobiographical exploits of James Herriot, the iconic country vet in his “ All Creatures Great and Small” set in 1940's Yorkshire.
This scene is probably not good.
I walk on, painfully aware of the drama playing out in the barn across the field. It’s a good walk, a lovely mountain day. The ”recent unpleasantness” momentarily forgotten.
As we prepare for the “descent” we happen across the farmer who I know has been playing his role in the drama further down the hill. I had seen his truck and, well, it’s his barn. He slowed as he passed and stopped to say his pleasantries.
I remarked that I had seen the Vet’s truck and asked if he had had to “pull one out”. “Yes” he answered. “It came out dead”. He looked tired. Tired and beaten.
“She’s down, don’t know, may be paralyzed”. Me, “we can hope not”. The emotion in his eyes.
These farmers, the really good ones, they care. They do get attached to their animals. The bond is natural, their livelihood, but more .
My heart sank for him.
His loss, financial, but more.
As I walk on down the hill, the barn to my right, I looked over. The gate to the bay was closed. The cow, she, laying down, looking out at me.
I was deeply saddened.
Her life, at this moment, hanging in the balance.
It was sad.
A hard moment. I walked on.
But a farmers life?
Another hard chapter.

Porch Sittin

My little cottage in the woods. No air conditioning, really don’t need it. Got a great big ole covered front porch, and it’s here we spend a great deal of our “quality time”. An outdoor living room if you will.
Yeah, I’m an outdoor person alright, you might say obsessively so. And this “eternal spring” stuff I’m always goin on about. Well it plays out perfectly on this here porch.
Whether by myself, with Sandy or with friends, it’s a wonderful spot to wile away a few hours.
A gentle breeze, a cold beer or a glass of wine, good conversation. It really doesn’t get any better than this!
And if good fortune should deliver a summer shower while I’m sittin out here, I mean, man... raindrops on a metal roof, that’s pure music to my ears!
What a shame, the loss of this simple pleasure our grandparents knew so well.
Cest’ le vie!
KC