Weeds

butterfly

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

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.

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.

angel

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.

Fire and Ice

cold

Cold.

Not Yankee cold, but too cold for Alabama cold.  Alabama cold is 30 degrees, and that only for a night or two.  Not two weeks with lows in the 20’s and teens.

I was not prepared for this.

The problem is outside air finding a way inside, instead of staying outside where it belongs.

The old farm-house we moved into a little over a year ago is a little more drafty than our previous dwelling.  Good insulation in the walls and attic.  None in the floor.

In the sunny days of summer not so long ago, the Redhead said “we need to get some insulation under the house.”

“No,” I said.  “Heat rises.  We have good insulation in the attic.  We do not need anything under the floor.”

Quick thinking, that.  Dodged a bullet.  Visions of lying on my back under the house, stapling fiberglass rolls between the joists.  Redhead thwarted by my scientific intellect.  Don’t bother me woman.  I am “Master of Science.”  Got a diploma on the wall right over there from Louisiana State University to prove it.

Turns out cold does rise.  Between every crack and crevice.  Sometimes slips in “on little cat’s feet.”  Sometimes more like 90 psi.

Two weeks and a half-cord of firewood later, I realize that I will be on my back under the house this spring.

Science ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.