psalms tree

My sacred ground is a little clearing in the bottomland along a creek with no name.  I come here almost every day.  Sometimes I linger a bit.  Others I simply turn back toward a home on the hill.

The tree I call “Psalms.”  A water oak that has clung to the bank of No-Name for at least a hundred years.  Just a sapling when this bottomland was all corn.  Feed for the horses and mules.  A few barrels of meal and some roasting ears.  Maybe some traded to a family of famous bootleggers who still live over the ridge, the last now too old to do anything but piddle around the yard, tending fruit trees and flower beds.

Psalms will lose the battle with gravity one day when a hundred-year flood undercuts the bank.  I hope that I am not alive to see it.

Because this is sacred ground.

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.

Two graves here, each covered with field stone.  One for a companion, a dog that I loved more than most people.  The second a sweet little lady who never was anything but.  I had her put down sixth-months ago, before the suffering of ruined hips became more than she or I could bear.

I have cried four times that I can recall in the last 40 years.  The first when I lost my dad.  The second when I found that some certainties are not.  The third and fourth over these two small graves.  Biblical crying.  Great sobs and blubbering.  Sorrowful moans worthy of sackcloth and ashes.

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

He brought her here six years ago, because he is like me and this spot is sacred to him too.  Got down on a knee and asked her to be his wife.  A happy day, the kind that sticks with you forever.  Love that clings tenaciously to the bank of the river of your heart.

I came here today, as I am accustomed to do on a Sunday afternoon.  Two little ones riding along behind me in a pull-cart.  They look at trees and butterflies.  Ask a lot of questions.  Throw rocks and sticks into the creek.  My stony heart smiles.

It is written that an ancient Hebrew put up a stone on his sacred ground, a place where he met with God.

I have no stone, but I have Psalms.



The softness of twilight covers a multitude of sin.

A sunset ride through the open fields and along the woods trails.  Early spring growth hiding the depredations of winter.  A downed tree here.  Broken branches there.  Saplings leaned over.  Grass already knee-high, dappled with scatterlings of milkweed and thistle and flowers I cannot name.

My mount does not balk, but I must stop often to clear the path.  Unlike her namesake, she is reckless and her footing unsure.  Her name is Kawasaki.

These paths were clear last fall.  The grass was short.  My heart sighs.

Mother despises what we call neatness.  She will not tolerate it.  Tenderness is not in her vocabulary.

Establish.  Nurture.  Destroy with violence.

The Redhead despises what we call chaos.  She will tolerate, but not quietly.

Maintain neatness with equal violence.  Bush hog and drip-torch.

I will clear trails, fully aware that I will do so again and again and again, ’til death do us part.  Whether she or Mother, it matters not.

I will mow the fields even though I know what hides the rattlesnake also feeds the butterfly.

Because a thousand disappointed butterflies are better than one disappointed Redhead.

A New Coat of Paint


I’m supposed to write this to let you know that the surroundings have changed around here.  I am following the advice from the virtual experts of this virtual writer’s world.  As if you couldn’t see that for yourself the next time I wrote something new.

I haven’t changed the appearance of this site in a while.  A friend recently changed his.  When I complimented his “new look,” he said, “You might want to change your site, too.”

That’s a nice way of saying “You look okay, but that coat went out of style twenty years ago.”

I’m not much for change.  Ask my daughter-in-law, who suggested that I get rid of two-thirds of the clothes in my closet (which I did).  I’m not one who easily gives up a garment because it has a little age on it, or a website either.

Change can be good, however, even if it is subtle.  This new site is still pretty “clean.”  I don’t like a lot of bells and whistles.  If the writing doesn’t suit you, I doubt you will come back because of a really cool gizmo in the upper left corner of the page.

There are a few things that I’d like to call to attention.  To the right of the post, you may choose to “follow this blog by email” by entering your address.  That would be really nice.

At the bottom of the post, you can hit one of the social media bottoms to share this piece with all your virtual friends.  That would be really, really good.

You could also “leave a reply” about the piece at the bottom of the page.  Comments are really, really, really nice.

And finally, if you have a blog yourself, you might click the “like” button at the very bottom.  Who knows, I might “like” you back.  Wouldn’t that be cool?  We haven’t done that since we passed a note to the girl on the front row in sixth grade (“Do you like me?  Circle ‘yes’ or ‘no’).”

Thanks for tolerating this virtual nonsense.  Since you have been kind enough to stay with me this far, let me give you a little story that was posted here a long time ago.  I recently checked, and the money is still there.

How to Get Rich in One Hour

Here’s what you do:

Take county road 4 about three miles until you see the old logging road just past the bridge over Caney Creek.  Leave your car parked at the entrance, because it has been at least 30 years since this road has been driven. There is a path of sorts on the right side. Deer, like cows and people, are creatures of habit — they take the path of least resistance, so the trail is worn smooth. You will have to contend with blackberry and green-briar, so bring a walking stick if you have one.  Watch your feet. It’s warm and they’re crawling.  Full of venom, too, after a winter of being holed-up.

The trail follows the ridge about a half mile.  When you get to a big white oak (you’ll know, because it’s the only really big tree on the trail) look for a rusted-out 55 gallon drum just to the left of the tree.  About 20 yards south of the drum you will see an old piece of pink flagging tape on a sweetgum tree.  Walk due south from there, downhill until you hear the creek.

Just before you get to the creek, about thirty yards back before the switch-cane starts to get thick, is where you’ll find the rock I left for you.  Big as a basketball, that rock.  You can’t miss it.  I hauled it down there from the old chimney on the next ridge.

The money’s buried under the rock in one of those blue plastic bins like they sell at Walmart — the kind that women put winter clothes in before they put them in the attic.

You owe me one.  Now get moving.

The Exchange

The Exchange

I wonder how such a thing can be so common, right out in broad daylight.

See it for yourself on any Sunday afternoon.  Get off Interstate 85 at exit 64.  Park around to the side of Joe’s.  Stay in your vehicle.  Pretend to read the newspaper or talk on your cell phone.  Be nonchalant.  This is, after all, none of your business.

A car rolls up on the far side of the lot.  No one gets out, so it is obvious they are waiting.  Shift a little in your seat and get ready.  Know the deal is about to go down.

After a few minutes the second vehicle arrives and parks near the first.

Both drivers get out.  One male, one female.  I should warn you.  Sometimes pleasantries are exchanged.  Other times, all business.  Not so much as a nod.

A back door opens and a child gets out.  A little girl with a small backpack adorned with a Disney princess.  Flinch a little as you recognize the twisted irony of that. Happily ever after.

Watch her walk around and get in the other car.  Recognize this for what it is — a contract broken.  A deal that has gone very, very wrong.

Two people who once stood together and said “I do” now say “I don’t.”  A child who never asked to be born is now human currency, passed back-and-forth every weekend like a one dollar bill.

You just witnessed the exchange.  How do you feel?

Me?  I feel no judgment for the decision these two made, only sorrow.  I don’t know the circumstances.  The Redhead and I could have easily been the parties in this transaction many times, and not so many years ago.

Yet I feel somehow complicit in what you saw.  My generation started this wreckage at this level.  I can count on one hand the number of my childhood friends whose parents were divorced.

Why?  I have no answers or excuses.  We children of the ’60’s.  We started a cycle of sadness that will not be easily reversed.

Two lives joined “in the sight of God and all these witnesses” is no fairy tale of continuous happiness.  “To love, honor and cherish, forsaking all others as long as you both shall live” is not a Sunday in the park.

Sometimes it results in Sunday in the parking lot.

The princess?  May she live happily ever after.




A Good Cup of Coffee

A Good Cup of Coffee

I made a semi-annual visit to my cardiologist a few days ago.  Semi-annual because my family tree has heart-rot, and this fellow has made it his personal challenge that I not die on his watch, at least of any cardio-related illnesses.  I sometimes think if I got hit by a truck it would take some of the pressure off him.

The worst part of these exams is the prerequisite blood work.  They are “fasting labs,” meaning that I am not supposed to let anything other than water cross my lips after midnight.  Doable except for one small detail:  they always schedule the blood-letting mid-morning.

I have mentioned here before that I am an early riser.  I can skip breakfast, but I absolutely require one thing.  Coffee.  Hot, black, strong, and now.

I always survive until the appointed time, but let’s just say I am not good company.

Blood-suckers satisfied, I always treat myself.  I head for the nearest Waffle House.

I was working on my second cup, waiting for a fried egg sandwich (take that cardiologist), when I glanced at the parking lot.  A lady was hobbling toward the door, struggling to manage the trip on crutches.  Her knee-high cast looked brand new.

I got up and opened the door for her.

“Oh, thank you so much.  I’m really scuffling to get used to these things.”

I told her it was no problem at all.  Glad to help.

I know a little about navigating with crutches.  Surgeries on both feet and a knee.  My first go-round was interrupted when I fell down some stairs.  Broke my right wrist and my left elbow.  The surgeon said, “you are not supposed to go down stairs on crutches.”

Thanks Doc., I kind of figured that out.

I helped the lady get seated at a booth and went back to my coffee.

When I finished my third cup and sandwich, I went to the front to settle-up.

“It’s been taken care of, sir.”

It didn’t register.  I just stood there.  I think I even offered the money again.

“No, your bill has already been paid.”

Dumbfounded, I was nearly outside before it registered.

“You didn’t need to do that ma’am.”

“My pleasure.  Now you have a blessed day.”

I did have a blessed day, mostly from a renewed faith that there are still some very nice folks hobbling along in an increasingly self-centered, broken society.

They say that coffee isn’t good for you.

I think they are wrong.  It was good for me.

The Narrow Gate

The Narrow Gate

I have driven past the church hundreds of times.  Perched on top of a little open spot in the woods, it hardly merits a glance, unless of course you like to look at old wood-framed country churches.

I do.

Today is a Saturday, and I’m in no hurry to get back to a never-ending series of projects at the homestead.  The roof is leaking again.  A rotting facia board needs to be replaced.  Bare ground where holly and yaupon have been ripped out of the front flower bed, awaiting azaleas and camellias that haven’t even left the nursery.  Seems like a fine time to stop and give this church a more thoughtful consideration.

It is well-kept.  Not a blemish to be found.  Not even any peeling paint.  I have stopped to look at a lot of these old structures in my travels across Alabama, and this one may be the best-maintained I have ever seen.

A sign out front tells a story.  Back in 1905, a group of nine Presbyterian pilgrims left a brush arbor to build a sturdier place of worship and a cemetery on this site.

I have driven by here on Sunday before.  Nine members look about right.  Maybe three cars and a couple of old pickup trucks in the parking lot.  If Preacher Calvin was correct, it would seem the Good Lord hasn’t done a whole lot of “choosing” in this spot over the last 113 years or so.

I walk around back to the cemetery.  Like the building, it is neat as a pin.

I am captivated by the two columns at the entrance, which the sign indicates were added in 1930.  Tallapoosa field-stone, probably gathered from a congregant’s field not too far down the road.  Angels carved from Sylacauga marble, the quarry a day’s wagon trip if the mules had a pleasant disposition and momma didn’t dawdle among the sundries at the dry goods store.

I step for a closer examination.  I am transfixed.


The finger is pointed at me, left hand beckoning through the gate to the markers beyond.

“Come on in traveler.  There’s a quiet spot right over there.  Enter and join the community of the dead, those who lie in wait of ‘The Shout and the voice of the archangel.'”*

I consider the proposition for a moment, then I’m back in my truck, boot heavy on the accelerator.

All of a sudden those chores at the homestead aren’t looking too bad.


*From The Holy Bible, 1 Thessalonians 4:16.

The Time in Between

sunrise 2

Sunrise at the homestead.  The best time of day.

I walk out on the back porch, as I do every day.  I am a daybreak riser.  My two bulldogs are not.  I get no acknowledgment.  Nary a lifted head.

I reckon some are just not morning people — or morning dogs, as it were.

I like to pause for a minute, even if it is just a minute.  A lot of years went by since I could appreciate this.  No man-made noise.  A turkey gobbles on the next ridge.  On a really good day, I can hear two more respond to his challenge.

I can’t stay long.  Miles to travel.  Things to get done.  Bills to be paid.


Sunset at the homestead.  The best time of day.

I walk to the back porch.  The bulldogs show their better nature.  The oldest moans like a broken-hearted man.  The other just smiles.  They know intuitively that they are going to get a jaunt down to the creek or get fed.  It is a win-win, either way.

This has been a long time coming.  Dark soon.  No man-made noise.  A coyote howls on the next ridge.  On a really good night, I can hear two more respond to the challenge.

As I write this, it occurs to me that it is the space in between these two times that kill a man.  They call it “stress” today.  In the olden times they just called it “livin’.”

A friend recently asked me if I had a “bucket list.”  I said I didn’t.  She looked at me as if I had shot her horse right out from under her.

Well why not for goodness sake?

Just don’t.  Never given it that much thought.

I think, though, that I may change my mind.

I think I would like to see the best time of day as many times as I can.