Why, Granny?

Why, Granny?

By: J.A. Heitmueller

"Why do you wear aprons, Granny?" I asked her one day,
as I nestled on her lap, while resting from my play.

"Mercy child," she replied, "it's just a part of life.
It's as valuable to me as Grandpa's pocketknife.

When I wrap it on each day it makes me feel complete. I'm
Prepared to face the day, whatever I shall meet.

Sometimes it's a wiping rag to dry my dripping hands.
Sometimes it's a holding cloth to grasp the boiling pans.

Now and then it dries a tear or wipes a runny nose. It's a
Part of all I do, wherever Granny goes.

Carrying potatoes or the hen's eggs from their nest.
Snuggling baby kittens close and warm against my breast.

Wiping up the drips and drops that splatter on the floor. Oft'
Times used to dust the table and there's so much more.

On a rainy day it's used to shield my head from rain or to
Take the horses lots of tasty, yellow grain.

Sometimes it's a help to open stubborn lids I grip. It can
hide a dirty spot or shield a jagged rip.

It's been known to shine a shoe or dry a puppy's fur or to
Clear a mirror when the steam has caused a blur.

Best of all though, precious child sitting on my knee, it's
A place to nestle you and have you here with me!"

Southern Blue

Southern Blue

By gina below

The contrast was beautiful and refreshing after the past few days of thunderstorms. Even now a few soft gray clouds mingled with the sparse cottony white ones to gently remind me of the previous days deluge. But there was nothing like the southern blue of our Alabama winter sky. The windy early morning chaos had mellowed out into a nice calm and the crisp winter air put briskness into our warm blooded southern steps. The hard woods were barren and smoke rose from the chimney, and the evergreens and magnolias stood like giant sentinels reminding us of the coming spring. The thought crossed our mind to complain bitterly as we shivered but we held our tongue. It would be sacrilegious to do so in the presence of such beauty. We were just glad to be out of doors after days of being held hostage by the rain. So we trudged onward through the soggy underbrush. Our destination was uncertain now which was the way of children prone to flight of fancy, but it was becoming increasingly clear to us that it was the journey and not the destination.

The air was fresh and crisp washed clean by the rain with the slightest hint of wood smoke. I was distracted by the natural winter beauty of our woods when my clumsiness and lack of natural grace reared its ugly head and I found myself on the ground in the cold wet leaf litter. Before I had time to cry out my younger sister stood over me with her hands on her hips and a wicked smile on her face, but she kept her comments to herself as she offered me a helping hand up. I laughed out loud at myself as she yanked me to my feet and her smile became bigger as she said” I saw that rock jump out in front of you and trip you”. She could not hide the mischief in her eyes.

Our old fuzzy brown dog gave us that incredulous look she had, and we could have sworn she rolled her eyes at us and our foolishness. She had such a way about her that you sometimes forgot that she was not human. You half expected her to shake her head and say out loud “this was not in my job description” and stomp off in a fit of total disgust. But she just sat and glared at us with her head cocked and her ears raised.

We began laughing again at the dog as I started picking leafs out of my hair and after the few seconds she took to compose herself my sister began to help me get the ones in the back I could not reach. Then she brushed off as much of the dirt as she could from my back and we continued on our way to nowhere in particular.

I guess it is the way of children to find adventure in wherever the path takes them. But a better place in the world will never exist as perfect as our rural southern playground.

Snuffing the Dregs

When she walks into their house

on bright sunlit afternoons,

the blinding burns.

Cheap plastic ornaments affront,

but she swallows the lion’s gaze.

When his selfish words

thieve in from the grave

gleaning sundry farewells,

her quiet thoughts quake

those plastered walls

better than his trigger

finger ever could.

________________________

Jennifer Hollie Bowles

A Proper Send-Off

Cappy Hall Rearick

Simply Something

A Proper Send-Off

"They say such nice things about people at their funerals.

It makes me sad that I'm going to miss mine by just a few days." — Garrison Keiller

When our friend Len died, Dee and I found ourselves responsible for organizing his memorial arrangements.

Len had requested that his ashes be scattered in a peaceful wooded area near the park where he walked every morning. What a surprise that was! Len was not a woodsy person, a hunter or environmentalist. He was a sixty-year-old, rather prissy artist who drew and painted whimsy. A woodsy landscape person? Nuh-uh.

Len had moved to a small Virginia town into a duplex apartment with the Guido family living in the other half. That was good for all concerned, at least for a short while. Soon, Len was forced to admit that he was up the proverbial creek, having chosen to live next door to the Neighbors from Hell.

Michael Guido was a fallen from grace minister. As soon as he started sermonizing on reincarnation and the laws of the universe, his healthy flock, not having the slightest idea what he was talking about, booted him and his Buddha Banter right out the back door. He then got a job teaching at the high school, which should give us pause.

Guido is tall and was once skinny. On the day he got canned from the church, he and his Buddha belly began to wander around sipping White Zin and having one-way conversations with his "guides." His hands and arms are huge, both of which fly around as if in tandem.

Dee made a mega-mistake when she invited him to "do" the memorial service for our friend, Len. The good ex-preacher arrived dressed in a white cassock over a purple vestment embroidered with a large yellow butterfly smack in the middle.

"I designed it myself," he bragged. The sleeves were edged with four rows of glittering ribbon in every possible color. When I say that the serious expression he wore on his face was incongruous with the garb he wore, I ain't just whistling Dixie.

Fully costumed and loving every minute of it, he began the service by spreading those ludicrous bat-wing sleeves. "Celebrate," his voice thundered through the small sanctuary, jolting the Library League Ladies out of their tranquil pose. Only recently had they elected Len as treasurer so it is safe to assume their total surprise at getting up close and personal with a drag queen preacher.

Len was not a devout sort, so both Dee and I thought the service should be quietly dignified rather than steeped in old time religion. Well, that didn't happen.

Ignoring our non-religious request, the FFP (Fallen Fundamentalist Preacher) delivered his sermon while spreading those bat wing sleeves of his and shouting, "CELEBRATE!" every whipstitch as if to insure that nobody would nod off. Afterwards, he made us stand and sing ALL SIX verses of "We Are Climbing Jacob's Ladder," but I quit singing after the second verse. Dee was bawling and carrying on while I prayed God would stop me from hurling the hymn book at the FFP's head.

Next came a solo by a tearful young man who sang, "His Eye is on the Sparrow." When that song is sung at a funeral for somebody like Miz Lillian, it’s probably perfect. But Len would have had another heart attack. Neither climbing Jacob's ladder nor sailing through the air in sparrow mode were ever on his afterlife agenda.

My blood pressure climbed to new heights when the FFP eulogized my friend. He grinned, I groaned and Dee sobbed. With each word, Dee, a Yankee through and through, cried harder. The lips on the Library League Ladies were drawn up so tight they looked like decimal points.

"Good ol' Len," the FFP began, "is here today. Yessiree. He says there's a time to live and a time to die."

That wasn't Len, that was Solomon. Shoot, had Len been there in spirit or otherwise, I'm pretty sure he would not have been quoting scripture. He'd have been stomping his feet and demanding a Congressional hearing.

Later, Dee and I discussed the possibility of sending the winged preacher to the crematoria instead of Len. But since neither of us could figure out what we would do with Len's body in the meantime, we decided to settle for a martini and a heart-felt toast to our dear departed friend.

If Len had to climb the rungs of Jacob’s ladder, then we would stand at the bottom, hold the ladder steady and give him a proper send-off.

© March, 2010 by Cappy Hall Rearick

"Proofread carefully to see if you any words out." ~Author Unknown

www.simplysoutherncappy.com

www.lowcountrysun.sc

http://todaysdeepsouth.blogspot.com

What We Leave Behind

What We Leave Behind

They were in their eighties, Mr. And Mrs. Hempstead. I came to know them while my father was a resident at the Starflower Assistant Living Center. Often when I visited my father, we would venture outside; me walking and him on his electric scooter. We would always find the Hempstead’s either in the garden or in one of the beautiful sunrooms filled with large leafy green potted plants, shelves full lined with different sizes of pots that held a large variety of blooming flowers, you could just close your eyes and smell the beauty that was all around the room.

One particular rainy day when I visited my father he did not feel like venturing out of his room so as he napped, I took a walk. I decided to go to the flower sunroom to sit and watch the rain. Upon opening the door to the room, I discovered Mrs. Hempstead sitting in a wicker rocker, gazing at the raindrops that fell upon the red tulips outside the window.

After watching her for a few minutes, I cleared my throat to get her attention. She slowly turned toward me and smiled ever so sweet, “Well hello there, sweetie come sit down beside me and lets chat”

We sat for a few minutes together neither one talking just looking out the window. After a little I caught myself gazing at her instead of the rain; she must have sensed me looking because she turned to me and smiled the sweetest smile.

“Mrs. Hempstead would you tell me what it is that you had to leave behind in order for you and Mr. Hempstead to move here?” I asked.

Her face seemed to glaze over as she began to tell me. “You know dear we really did not leave anything of importance behind. The children have sold our old home place and most of the furnishings, my husband’s old Lincoln and pick up truck were given to our grandsons, which made him very happy. I still have my beautiful jewelry that Mr. Hempsted has given me over the years; each piece brings me so many happy memories of anniversaries and Valentines Day gifts. I also have my embroidery projects, the many sets of pillow cases; I have spent hours sewing delicate flowers and birds, hoping some day they will be used by my daughters and granddaughters. You should come to our apartment sometime and see all of our many family pictures that hang on the walls. Norman and I sometimes sit for hours and talk of the memories.”

“When I close my eyes and think upon my children, I see them when they were just little things, I can still see my darling Emma in her little pink polka dot dress with a matching ribbon in her hair and those little black paten leather shoes the Easter she turned three. And George our oldest going off to his first prom wearing that starched white tuxedo with a red corsage with that sweet girl Sandy. And there is the day that our middle daughter Christy married Marty her high school sweetheart. The way she held onto Norman’s arm as they glided down the isle together still to this day sometimes causes me to tear up.”

“But Mrs. Hempsted… “

“Please dear call me Alice”

“Ok Alice. When you had to move from your home where you lived all those years with your husband and children, did you not feel like you were leaving behind your world, your life?”

‘No no sweetie, the only thing I left behind was those four walls that held all of us close to each other while it was needed, while everyone was growing up, but when the kids had grown up and left, what we had were our memories.”

“We did not leave anything behind because we brought it all with us. Everything that matters, every smile, every memory, every Christmas spent as a family in that house is up here in my head. The places you live and the places you go can’t hold what the heart was made for.”

I could tell that she was getting tired, her eyes were starting to close and her words where slowing down, rising I gently took her hand and said “Alice I want to thank you so much for sharing your heart with me.” I am so glad that you are happy and content here. We will talk again soon.

I opened the door to my dad’s little apartment careful not to wake him if he was still asleep. He was awake and smiling at me as I entered the room.

“Well how was your nap dad?” I asked.

“Good,” he said. I feel like a new man. We sat together in the little room, him watching television for a while before he caught me gazing at him. I asked, “Dad will you tell me what you left behind when mom died? What memories did you bring to this place?”

_________________________________

Darlene Rogers grew up in Smyrna Georgia, a rural town outside of Atlanta. She is happily married and the mother of two daughters ages 20 and 27. Darlene loves writing short stories and can’t get enough of reading. She is in the process of writing the book she wished she had when going through breast cancer.

Claude

Claude

by Carl R. Purdon

Claude had spent his life being embarrassed for his state. Last in everything good, first in everything bad. That was Mississippi. As a child his mother drilled him in proper English and instilled in him the belief that he was uncommonly special. You’re a French Poodle in a pack of hounds, she was fond of telling him. Claude believed every word his mother said.

Edison Life Insurance Company acquired the small family-owned agency where Claude sold insurance five years ago. Last Wednesday the branch manager threw up his hands and quit without warning, leaving ten employees without a leader. It was Claude who stepped up and assumed command of the ship. Surely the district manager of Ed Life would appreciate his initiative.

“Morning, Claude,” Beth said. Claude nodded and walked into the office he had moved into six days ago. The acting manager required more than a cubicle. He settled into the high-backed executive chair like a king assuming his throne. The chair was worn at the armrests and squeaked when he reclined. Obviously it would have to go.

Claude straightened some papers on the desk and looked around the office. Peter Moore hadn’t been much of a manager in Claude’s eyes and he intended to tell the district manager so when he arrived. It had been Claude who contacted the district office in Cleveland to tell them Peter Moore had deserted them. The office itself had potential: A few well-placed paintings, a vase atop the bookshelf beside the window, perhaps new carpet. His mother would be glad to help.

“Beth,” he said into the phone.

“Yes?”

“Any word from the district manager yet?”

“Not a peep.”

“Please, Beth, don’t embarrass me with your homey expressions when he arrives.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And please stop referring to me in that manner. Sir will suffice.”

“I’ll try to remember that, Claude.”

Claude sighed. Since assuming the helm he had not enjoyed the respect of the staff. In fact they mocked him, but that would soon change. Beth would be the first to go. He had never liked her and soon he would be able to do something about it. His secretary would be older, more refined, and respectful of his position. Immediately he thought of his mother and smiled. Yes, she would take the position if he asked, temporarily of course. Retirement suited her too well for her to relinquish it on a permanent basis. The thought of his mother seeing him in his new office, dressed in his best suit, made him almost giddy, like a child who can’t wait to show his mother a straight-A report card.

Eight o’clock dragged into nine, then ten. Beth continued to refer to him as Your Majesty, or simply as Claude, each time he buzzed her to inquire if the district manager had arrived yet. Finally the door flew open and a man who appeared to be in his forties stopped abruptly in the doorway. Claude detected surprise in his face.

“Ah! You must be our district manager,” Claude said, rising from his chair. He hadn’t expected someone so young. At least he didn’t have facial hair. Claude detested all forms of facial hair. Mississippi would never rise from its knees with its men still so stubbornly bearded.

“And you are?”

“Claude Thompson. I’m the one who phoned your office last week when … “

“Yes, Mr. Thompson, I remember … I just didn’t expect this office to be occupied. This is the manager’s office?”

“Yes, of course. Come in. Have a seat. Would you care for coffee? By the way, I don’t think I caught your name,” Claude extended his hand as the well-dressed man closed the door and stepped toward the desk carrying a briefcase almost identical to his own.

“Chris Morgan,” he said. They shook hands and Claude gestured for his guest to have a seat. For the first time he noticed the worn condition of the guest chair and made a mental note to replace it immediately. Morgan hesitated, then eased himself down into the padded chair. Claude mentally counted to five then sat down himself. A good host never sits before his guest.

“I took the liberty of making lunch reservations at a nice little Italian restaurant,” Claude said. “You do like Italian?”

“I asked the young lady out front to order something in for lunch,” Morgan replied. “I’ve found it’s easier to get to know people over a casual lunch.”

Claude was taken aback. His role as host had been usurped by a secretary. Humiliation struggled to surface but he set his jaw and repelled it. “Yes, certainly, but I can bring you up to speed on the staff.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson, but I prefer making my own assessments. Someone here, I hope, will be the new branch manager.”

Claude pondered the ramifications of Morgan’s statement for a long moment. On the one hand was the district manager’s insistence on interviewing the entire staff. On the other was the fact that he wanted to promote from within the branch. The more he thought about it the more reassured he became. After all, what could increase his chances more than an honest face-to-face comparison between himself and his fellow employees? They were unrefined and tasteless. Not a single one of them had ever attended a symphony. On that he would bet his life.

“Perhaps you should use this office to conduct your interviews,” Claude suggested. As much as he disliked the idea of returning to his cubicle, the generosity of such a gesture would certainly not be lost on Morgan. Yes, of course he would surrender the office.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “I think that would be best. I might as well start with you, since you are already here.

Claude smiled. Suddenly it hit him that he was sitting behind the desk and his superior was sitting in front of it. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in my chair,” Claude said. His slip of the tongue -- his premature claim to a chair not yet awarded – was regrettable, but how many times had his mother warned him not to highlight gaffs by correcting them. Chances were the district manager had not noticed.

With their places reversed, Morgan opened his briefcase and removed a manila file folder with a dozen or so pages inside. Claude noticed C. Thompson written on the tab with a sloppy hand. Claude’s own penmanship was exquisite. Morgan thumbed through the papers and moved a colorful graph to the top of the stack.

“Your sales numbers are mediocre,” Morgan said, continuing to browse the chart with interest.

“The economy is a challenge to us all,” Claude said. He could hardly be blamed for low numbers during the worst economy since the Great Depression.

“Fourth out of nine according to this chart. Three people in your branch have consistently outsold you.” He looked up and waited.

“But that means I outsold five.”

“As I said … mediocre.”

Claude allowed a nervous cough to escape him. Things were not going as planned. Perhaps Morgan was testing him – trying to see what he was made of . A good manager had to be quick on his feet. “That’s not entirely my fault, Chris.”

“Whose fault is it then, Mr. Thompson?”

“When Peter took over he changed our quota system. He forced us to push whole life policies when term is so much easier to sell. Even cancer and disability is an easier sell than whole life.”

“You don’t like selling whole life?”

“I detest it. Whole life borders on the fraudulent.”

“Whole life is our bread and butter, Mr. Thompson. The home office sets the quotas.”

Claude absorbed the sting of his mistake with a visible twitch. This was one gaff even his mother would admit had to be readdressed. “As branch manager, of course I will, uh, would enforce all company rules and regulations. Peter never told us the importance of whole life. In that he failed as a manager. Failed to communicate to his sales team.”

“And you feel you are qualified to manage this branch?”

“Without question.”

“I see here you were an arts major.”

Claude’s chest swelled a bit. He was proud of his fine arts degree.

“We tend to favor a business education,” Morgan said. “Do you have any managerial experience?”

“I am president of the Historical Society, vice president of the Theatrical Society, and served thrice at the head of the Main Street Beautification Committee. You probably noticed our beautiful streets on your drive in.”

“And all these are local clubs?”

“Organizations. Clubs are for children.”

“I see. I’m afraid that’s not exactly what we’re looking for when it comes to business experience. Have you ever operated a business in any form or fashion?”

“Well, I guess you could say I’ve been in the tax preparation business for several years.”

“Good. That might be useful. Is this primarily a seasonable business?”

Claude nodded.

“And how many preparers do you employ in the average year?”

“Just myself.”

“Yourself? I see. And how much does this business gross?”

“Absolutely nothing. I volunteer my services.”

“And your clients are … friends? Family?”

“And members of my church.”

“Let me go out on a limb here, Mr. Thompson: Acquaintances bring you their financial records and you help them fill out their taxes?”

“I’d hardly say they are of any help. Most of them wouldn’t know the World Wide Web from the Wide World of Sports.” Claude chuckled at his wit. Chris Morgan smiled politely and closed the folder.

“If you had to pick a manager from this branch, Mr. Thompson, who would you choose?”

“Myself of course.”

“Besides yourself.”

“Hmmmm, besides myself you’ve got a pretty dry pool here, Chris.”

“If you had to pick one.”

“If I had to pick someone from this branch … besides myself … you know, honestly, I think I would have to bring in someone new.”

“What about George Dunn? His numbers are impressive. Impeccable yearly reviews.”

Claude laughed. “I’m afraid the branch wouldn’t last a month with George Dunn at the helm.”

“Really? Any particular reason?”

“The man’s a rube. Give him this office and there’ll be a deer head hanging from the wall before the week is out.”

“I take it you don’t like deer heads.”

“Oh, I adore them … on the deer.”

“Isn’t hunting a southern tradition?”

“Sadly. But so are obesity, teen pregnancy, and a general disdain for education. Edison Life can certainly do better than George Dunn. Of that I can assure.”

Morgan dismissed Claude and asked him to send in George. Claude settled into his cubicle like a king sitting on a toadstool, resigned to the fact that Chris Morgan was as inept as a district manager could be when it came to recognizing potential. After a few minutes he dialed his mother and told her she may have to cancel the party she had planned for that evening. Things were not going as planned. He might not get the promotion.

At noon everyone gathered around the large rectangular table in the conference room. Like in the manager’s office the chairs betrayed signs of wear. Beth had preset the table with paper plates, plastic forks and spoons. To add insult to injury, after the men were seated, she supplied them with canned soda’s and take-out pizza. Claude couldn’t remember the last time he had dined with paper and plastic.

Claude ate in silence while his fellow employees laughed and batted around office stories, like the time Harley Rice blew his upper plate into his retirement cake while trying to blow out the candles. He was embarrassed for the rubes. But why was Morgan laughing with them? No, Claude deduced, he’s not laughing with them – he is laughing at them. And why wouldn’t he interview everyone? The more he thought about it the more he became convinced he had conceded his chances too quickly. He was a French Poodle among hounds. Let the hounds bay. It is the poodle that wins the blue ribbon.

After lunch the interviews continued until everyone had sat across the desk from Chris Morgan. Claude carefully examined their faces as they exited the office and filed back to their cubicles. None had the exuberant look of someone who had just hit one out of the park. With each downcast face Claude’s hopes transformed into expectation. Edison Life wanted to promote from within the branch. He called his mother and told her he thought the party might be a go after all.

When everyone had been interviewed Morgan called Beth into the office. It pained Claude that she would know before anyone else, but then she was the secretary and responsible for the paperwork made necessary by such a promotion. He imagined her face the moment Morgan told her that it was he, Claude, who would be her new boss. Firing her would be a pleasure. No more your majesty from that one.

Finally Morgan emerged from the office and asked everyone to join him in the conference room. It was a hushed migration into the room that had been so cheerful just a few hours ago. Claude’s pulse raced as he took his seat and waited for everyone else to do likewise.

“First let me thank each and every one of you for your time today,” Morgan began. He droned on and on about the importance of a manager knowing the day-to-day details of branch operations. Claude listened to the praise being heaped upon the new manager with an inward smile. Morgan was describing his attributes to a T. His only fear now was that he would stand too quickly in anticipation of his name being spoken aloud. Patience, Claude.

There was a spat of applause. Claude realized he had been so caught up in his own internal conversation that he had not been listening to Morgan. Had he missed his name? Beth rose and stood beside the district manager. What nerve she had injecting herself into his moment. Of course he had missed his name. Claude stood and looked around the room. Everyone was still looking at Morgan. Had he stood too quickly? Had he done the one thing he had tried so hard to prevent? Why was no one looking at him? No one except Morgan, that is, and wasn’t his expression an odd one? Then Beth looked at him and smiled. Suddenly Claude realized: They were looking at her.

THE END

_____________________________

Author: Carl Purdon

Carl Purdon was born in Pontotoc, Mississippi in 1964 and currently sthere with his wife and two children. Writing has been a favorite pastime of his for most of his life and he is currently seeking representation for his recently-completed novel.

Evening Shade

Evening Shade

By gina below

The storm clouds stacked up ominously high into the sunset creating great mountains of dark pillars. The effect should have been frightening but the beautiful glow of the fading twilight would not be stamped out. Streams of brilliant colors in varying shades of pink, peach, magenta and lavender burst out from behind lighting them with a breathtaking scene.

The ceasing rain still trickled off the tin roof of the front porch, plopping gaily into the puddles below. The earlier torrent had created a waterfall effect off the front porch eaves and our young imaginations had taken full advantage of the unexpected delight. Now with the decline of the shower and the interruption with our supper the moment of unbridled imagination had passed and we watched with just a bit of disappointment as the spring storm moved on into the twilight and took our moments of engagement with it.

The screen door squeaked as our Daddy came outside, and he ruffled my dark hair as he walked by. The porch swing creaked as he took a seat and our constant chatter made him smile, but he said nothing as he watched us converse back and forth with each other. Although his smile would become bigger at something one of us had said, he sat quietly. He seemed happy to just sit in the deepening shade of twilight and listen to our laughter and the evening frog chorus. Mother joined him some moments later carrying a clean, sweet smelling baby in her arms and he smiled up at her as he moved over on the swing to make room for her and my little sister. They sat in comfortable silence and watched us as the porch swing lazily moved back and forth. The slight evening breeze was refreshing after the stifling kitchen heat and my Mother visibly relaxed.

The unmistakable sound of another screen door opening and closing made us look in the direction across the way and the sound of a banjo being tuned in the distance made my Daddy softly chuckle and say “I did not think this night could get any better, we are in for a treat”. As the banjo began to strum a recognizable melody, the distant screen door opened and closed several more times and other string instruments joined into the musical chaos of being tuned.

Our chatter stilled and we all found comfortable places to sit; mine was between my parents on the swing. As I tried to scramble up, Daddy reached dawn to assist me, and I snuggled between them with a sigh. Sudden silence, and then a distant voice briefly counted and then pure and beautiful music of stringed instruments wafted across the distant field. This was the music of pure joy and of people who had played together for a very long time, bluegrass, old country favorites, ancient folk songs, and of course gospel. They seemed to never miss a beat, and when they sang it was with precise and comfortable harmony. One song led immediately into the next, perfectly on queue and we all sat quietly engaged with the impromptu concert that seemed for our benefit alone. Sometime later as the music played on and the twilight faded into the evening shade, I drifted off to sleep, lulled into slumber to the tune of “I’ll Fly Away” and the soft beat of my Daddy’s heart.

Grandpa's Pocketknife

Grandpa's Pocketknife

By: J.A. Heitmueller

Oh, how I recall the days I sat at Grandpa's knee, watching
As he whittled, while the shavings fell on me.

His gnarled hands moved gently, swiftly, full of ageless
Skill; with a sense of deftness that I know mine never will.

As he worked his magic for my childish eyes to view, he'd
Begin to tell again things I already knew.

But I relished every tale Grandpa told of life with his
Cherished, weathered tool, his trusty pocketknife.

It was passed to him one day when he was just a boy;
By his daddy , with the warning it was not a toy.

Filled with pride the youngster tucked his treasured gift away
Safely in his overalls, where it would always stay.

What adventures these two shared, my Grandpa and his knife,
Just like true companions are joined by a special life.

These pals solved the problems they encountered day by day,
Whether it be in their work or in pure childish play.

Peeling apples, digging worms or cutting canes to fish, these
Great partners seemed able to solve their every wish.

As a teen they carved two hearts upon an old oak tree;
Skinned a rabbit, trimmed horse hoofs, cut sassafras for tea.

Fashioned a crude bow and arrow to pursue a prey, built a
Kite, carved stocks for slings, slashed baling twine from hay.

Day soon came when manhood changed the pace of Grandpa's
Life; for he fell in love and wanted Grandma for his wife.

Now the skill of years gone by were truly put to test,
For of all these two had done, this must be very best !

Full of gentleness and love the strong, young hands began,
With a steady rhythm so well shared by knife and man.

Days turned into weeks, a common goal was brought to life;
As they worked in unison, my Grandpa and his knife.

Once again the trusty friend was safely tucked away.
It had met the task at hand, as in each passing day.

Standing before the young woman chosen as his bride,
Grandpa's heart was overflowing with both love and pride.

Grandma's clear eyes brimmed with tears, she knew he'd
Done his best.

Thrusting forth her loving arms she grasped her new hope chest.

*****************************************

crescent city afternoons

crescent city afternoons (a wink to "on the road")

each afternoon

i would tear through

the spiderweb

of your limbs

to peer out the filthy window

overlooking

dauphine street.

you often complained

about the bed,

slept in cruel phrases

of murmur

and touch.

my love of the french quarter

would fade

as you crept awake

beneath me.

no other city wants you alone

more than this one.

each afternoon, lee-ann,

your kiss would taste

of the hangover

haunting my dreams.

*************************************

Derek Richards

After failing miserably as a rock star, Derek Richards began submitting his poetry,

August 2009. Over 130 of his poems have appeared in over seventy publications,

including Lung, Breadcrumb Scabs, MediaVirus, Calliope Nerve, tinfoildresses,

Opium 2.0, Dew on the Kudzu, Sex and Murder, Splash of Red and fourpaperletters.

He has also been told to keep his day job by Quills and Parchment. Nothing annoys

him more than poetry written solely to make someone feel stupid. His ferret, cat

and puppy couldn't agree more. Happily engaged, he resides in Gloucester, MA.,

cleaning windows for a livng.

CAFE

CAFÉ

The old café looked the same—just tired and older. The counter, worn by countless swipes with damp sponges from an endless succession of bored waitresses, attested to years of use by untold numbers of college students. Along the windowless wall eight booths, their Formica table tops etched with decades of names and initials, stood in contrast to new vinyl covered seats and a recently painted interior. Even in the coolness of the air conditioning, rancid smells of frying hamburgers hung nauseatingly intermingled with acrid smoke from the fry cook’s cigarette smoldering in the overfilled ashtray next to the cash register. The dirty front windows still overlooked Danner Hall across the street. The old street light was no longer there giving off its dirty yellow glow. Instead, mercury lights now flooded the night, driving back the shadows he remembered. He was surprised to find the café still there.

It had been fifty-five years ago, since she had walked out. In the interval, changes had occurred that had transformed the once small close-knit college he knew into a bustling university. Only the small café had remained the same.

He eased over to a booth at the back of the room and sat facing the entrance. Memories, long suppressed, crept silently from the recesses of his mind. Was it really that long ago? Time does slip by when you’re not watching. I guess that’s what’s happened to me.

“Sir?” the soft, distant voice broke through the mist of his memories.

“Huh?’ he had responded annoyed at the interruption. Then, realizing he’d let his mind drift, replied more pleasantly, “I’m sorry, Miss. What did you say?”

She replied, a tinge of scarlet touching her face, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Only wanted to know if I could get you a cup of coffee or maybe something to eat.”

“Coffee will be fine,” he replied. “I guess I was doing a little woolgathering.”

It was almost closing time and at the late hour, there were no other customers. The hum of the air conditioner dulled outside traffic noises, but otherwise, the empty café was quiet. Occasional lights from passing cars brightened up the interior before moving on down the nearly deserted street. It was between semesters on the usually busy campus, and as such, the pace of normal activities had slowed.

She brought him his coffee and paused for a moment before saying, “Sir, are you alright? You seem worried about something.”

“Yes,” he responded a little more abruptly than he intended. Seeing her hurt look, he gently said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

She nodded and turned to leave.

“Please, Miss. I see you’re about to close up for the night. Will you join me while I finish my coffee?”

They sat and exchanged small talk for a while. Finally, he said hesitantly, “You may be wondering why an old man like me is sitting here in this coffee shop.” He paused, sighed softly, and then continued, “Well, I’m not at all sure myself. After all the past years, I was driving through on my way to St. Louis and felt a need to drive through campus…to see how things have changed since I was a student here a long time ago. Frankly, I felt compelled to stop when I saw this old place was still standing.” He gestured with a wave of his hand. “Now, I wish I had driven on by.”

At the question reflected in her pretty young face, he explained that stopping had brought back hurtful old memories. Needing to talk, he related to her what had happened over fifty years earlier.

“My name is Luke. One night back in 1954 a couple of my buddies and I were here in this café killing time, doing nothing but drinking coffee, gabbing, and giving a little teenage waitress a hard time. We had been there for nearly two hours and the Coca Cola clock behind the counter showed it was almost ten o’clock. Others came in and left—the little café was popular with the students of Arkansas State College back then.”

“My eyes were drawn to the entrance as five coeds came in and scanned the room. I knew four of the girls, but my eyes merely acknowledged them, and then went past those four to the fifth one. She was tall and graceful with long hair that shimmered and changed colors from ebony to deep purple in the artificial light of the café. Knowing I was staring, I couldn’t help but watch her cross the room, and with the other girls, approach me and my buddies.

She unabashedly stared back, daring me, and with that look, stole my heart. With no previous thoughts of settling down, I realized here was the girl I would spend my life with.

We dated and the relationship blossomed into a full-blown love affair. The semester dragged on with both of us deep into study, but time sped by during the times we were together. Sometime around Christmas I gave her an engagement ring and we both laughed at the tiny diamond. She had kidded that her love for me was much greater. I grinned and kissed her.

The new year came and things to took on a somber note. The change was subtle and had I not been so engrossed in her presence, I would have seen that she was no longer the carefree girl who had stolen my heart that night in the tiny café. There was a sadness that had slipped into her dark enchanting eyes—a sadness that she tried to hide, but couldn’t quite suppress. Then in February we met at the library for our usual study session. I could tell she had been crying and when, with an inquiring look, asked what was wrong, she had walked stiffly away. Muttering only, “I’ll see you later,” and without looking back, she hurried off in the gathering darkness.

She avoided me for several days, days that became tormentingly long. Feelings went from hurt to anger. Early on, I had seen how headstrong she was and how, when provoked, her temper flared. Try as I did, I could remember nothing that would have caused her behavior.

The biology lab was long that Friday afternoon, ending around dinner time. I checked the wall-clock, and then glanced at my own watch. I gathered my books and hurried across campus hoping to avoid friends.

She was walking slowly alone when I saw her. Our eyes met, and then she lowered hers. Hesitating for a moment as if she had forgotten something, she started to speak, but suddenly turned away and continued toward the dorm. Before I could speak, she had gone. No longer hungry, I sighed and disappointed headed for my lonely room. Sitting there in the gathering darkness, I came to a decision that forever changed my life.

Not wanting to linger any longer and maybe change my mind, I tossed a few belongings into the 1950 Chevy, gave the dismal room a final glance, then stopping only long enough to clear up some last minute paperwork, headed toward Little Rock. I arrived at the Air Force recruiting office on Market Street in downtown Little Rock a few minutes before opening time and waited impatiently. Explaining that I wanted to re-enlist in the Air Force took only a few minutes and after signing a stack of papers, I was sworn in at the rank of technical sergeant. By mid-morning I was on the way to Shaw AFB, South Carolina, heavy hearted and tormented.

The letter came several months later. I finished my late night shift and routinely stopped by the orderly room, before heading for the mess hall for breakfast. The orderly room clerk, Airman Charlie Sanders, called me over and handed me a letter. Hefting the letter, I tried to divine its contents. Then noting the postmark, I audibly inhaled and with trembling hands opened it. Inside were a small sealed envelope with the name “Luke” neatly scribed on it and a single written page. Unfolding the note I read the lines silently. “We didn’t know where you were until a few days ago. After you abruptly left, Kate gave me the enclosed letter to keep until I heard from her. She left the campus that afternoon. I heard no more from her until a call from a mutual friend came three weeks ago reminding me of Kate’s letter. It took some time to locate you and forward this letter.” I stared at her letter wanting, but not really wanting to know, wadded the letter and tossed it aside.”

The pretty young waitress’s soft voice brought Luke back to the presence. He smiled and said, “There I go again, letting my mind wander. Now what were you saying?”

She replied, pausing briefly, “I’m a little reluctant to ask, but could you describe her to me?”

His eyebrows arched as he asked, “Why?”

Again, the girl hesitated before answering. “I don’t know,” she replied. “But there’s something about what you said that makes me remember. Something that my mother once told me when I was a little girl.”

Staring at the now cold coffee he related his memory of a young Kate. The waitress sat listening attentively as he relived those long ago days.

A tear slid down her cheek and she smiled weakly as she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Looking intently into his eyes, she said almost inaudibly, “My grandmother was that girl you left behind that night.”

“What?” he exclaimed not wanting to believe her words.

“Yes. She was quite independent and didn’t want to be a burden to anyone nor did she want sympathy. Especially from you.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean by sympathy?”

“Mom told me Kate was going to leave school. The reason she gave for leaving was that her mother—my great grandmother—was seriously ill and needed help caring for her younger brothers and sister. Kate avoided you because she loved you and didn’t know how to tell you her troubles and wreck the plans the two of you had. She never imagined you would leave like you did.”

“I didn’t know,” he murmured. “I didn’t know.” His face reflected the hurt he felt.

“I should hate you,” she said. “But after seeing how you must be feeling and knowing why you stopped here, there’s something I must tell you. You didn’t hear all of her story. She did return home, but the real reason Kate avoided you was that she had just found out she was pregnant. So, you see, I think you are my grandfather.

___________________________________________

Luther Knight is a native of Clarendon, Arkansas. Following high school, he served a four-year tour of duty in the U. S. Air Force. He has a BSE degree from Arkansas State College and Master’s and PhD degrees from the University of Mississippi. He retired from the University of Mississippi in 1991 as Professor Emeritus of Biology. As an aquatic biologist at Ole Miss he published several articles dealing with freshwater biology, directed several students to completion of their Graduate degrees, and is the founding director of the University of Mississippi Field Station.

Knight has written three suspense novels, The Tomato Patch, Cache River and Myrtle Beach.

Myrtle Beach to be reviewed by the Dew on May 19th!

The Family Tree - Part 2

The Family Tree - Part 2

Author: Mellie Duke Justad

_____________________

“Hey, Corny, I don’t see no spaghetti on the table, where is it?” he demanded. “You know how I love your homemade spaghetti,” he declared, as he slid into the seat next to me like butter on hot cornbread.

“Sorry, ‘bout that, Ed. It was hiding back in the fridge behind the poke salat and I didn’t see it, dear. Here, take some sauce,” she said, as she passed him the bottle of… ketchup?

We all watched in disgust as Uncle Ed dumped an entire bottle of Aunt Cornelia’s “homemade” sauce atop his noodles. I was glad he’d unloaded all of it onto his plate so I wouldn’t have to offend Aunt Cornelia with a polite, “No thanks, but I’m allergic to homemade spaghetti sauce” when it made its way around to me. An hour later it was Aunt Cornelia who yelled a loud, “Time to bed down!” with an armload of malodorous squishy feather pillows and from the swell of them, direct from her backyard chicken coup.

Bed down? It wasn’t even dark out. I hadn’t been to bed this early since I was five.

We soon to found out that the term, “bed down” meant just that. I was about to ask Mama where I was supposed to sleep when Aunt Cornelia yelled for everybody to come into the parlor, “Get on in here and grab yourself a mattress. There’s plenty for everybody, just put it wherever you can find a place,” she instructed.

Two minutes earlier, five of Aunt Cornelia’s snot-nosed, whiney grandchildren, my little pesky cousins, who were excited as could be cause they’d never met anybody from Georgia before, showed up at the front door pajama clad insisting on sleeping over.

We promptly began digging through the stack of thin, lumpy, worn, mattresses that comprised the sofa in the corner to find the best one. That took some doing as the pickin’s were mighty thin, just like those mattresses.

We scattered throughout the furniture crammed, dismal beige parlor with its hideous gold and black draperies that I suspected Aunt Cornelia made herself, and into the dining room as we bedded down for the night, toe-to-toe or nose-to-nose, whatever the case happened to be.

Through the open windows we could hear everybody yelling goodnight to each other all up and down the lane. It was like a scene out of The Waltons. We even got in on the fun. “Good night, Mama. Good night, Daddy. Good night, Mellie Ellen. Goodnight, Kim-Bob.”

Long before dawn and before the first rooster crowed we were up and dressed in our finest church attire, and sitting in the sanctuary for the traditional Easter Sunrise Service. There were Swains to the left and Swains to the right. We sat sardined on the dark wooden pew next to Aunt Cornelia, who was all gussied up in a fussy, pale green organdy ensemble complete with matching gloves and heels. The world’s oldest living bridesmaid. She had insisted we sit right down in front so we wouldn’t miss a single word of the morning sermon. I think it was partly so everybody could see her walk down the aisle in her Easter getup.

The tiny white wooden church with its beautiful, colorful stained glass windows had stood over a hundred years and had seen generations of Swains married and buried. My attention was drawn to the dark wooden pulpit where there stood a short, plump, matronly woman dressed all in yellow from her Sunday pumps to her huge Easter bonnet. She wore a giant Easter Lily corsage pinned to her lapel. Adorning her bonnet were three long stemmed Easter Lilies, which protruded from the top, and looked out over the congregation like gigantic searchlights.

“Mrs. Hathaway is just wonderful,” beamed Aunt Cornelia. “You’re in for a real treat.”

A woman minister. Didn’t know it was possible. I’d seen a lot of preachers come and go through the front door of First Methodist back home, but none of them had ever donned a dress.

“Has she been here long?” asked Mama from behind her program.

“Ever since her husband, the Preacher Hathaway, passed on three years ago,” she said.

Ah--self proclaimed ministry. So that’s how they did things down here. I had never heard of such a practice, but the Swains didn’t appear to mind.

“The Lord has R-I-S-E-N,” Mrs. Hathaway spoke in a loud, overly thick Southern voice as she raised her hands over her head and looked up towards Heaven and delivered her opening remarks.

The Lord has R-I-S-E-N!” Mrs. Hathaway shouted a second time, a bit louder as she looked out over her congregation, her voice shaking the old wooden beams over head with such force it startled a dozing Daddy to the point of dropping his hymnal on the floor with a loud “boom.”

If looks could kill Daddy was already a dead man. Aunt Cornelia’s icy glare was enough to melt the polar ice caps. But, up in the pulpit, where it mattered most, the ever undaunted, Mrs. Hathaway paid Daddy no mind and continued on with her sermon several more minutes before she fervently repeated the phrase again.

“The Lord has R-I-S-E-N!” she shouted once more at the top of her lungs.

Her voice strained, pitching higher, like the engine of an old tractor about to blow its head gasket. She stood on her tippy toes arms extended overhead reaching upwards as if she were about to grab hold of a trapeze and swing from its rafters.

Well, if He hasn’t risen by now, He’s certainly about to. Even the Lord wouldn’t have wanted to miss what happened next! As she exhaled during her emphatic delivery with her short stubby arms stretched out over her head, we heard a loud “pop”. Slowly something white began to inch its way down around her purplish, pudgy calves.

“Good God!” Daddy stood, pointed, and shrieked, his eyes the size of Moon Pies, “What’s that?”

We barely heard his words, completely hypnotized by the enormous white mass that continued to slide to her feet. I recognized what they were right away, but until that day had never seen any of that magnitude. They were, hands down, the largest bloomers we had ever seen! Why, they could sail a ship!

Never missing a beat, nor looking down once, she cleverly maneuvered those gigantic panties with only one foot behind the Easter Sunday palms. Impressive footwork for a woman who weighed in at over two hundred and fifty pounds and probably hadn’t seen her feet in over twenty years.

The ancient, wooden pews in the church were rocking as we all realized what we had just witnessed. Aunt Cornelia was totally beside herself, frantically giving everyone dirty looks as she tried to restore some decorum among the Swain clan. But by then, we were all too far-gone.

“Good Lord, woman. Put your dang drawers back on!” Uncle Hershel bolted upright, stood and shouted at the top of his lungs. “You’re in the Lord’s house, for Christ sakes.”

Finally, the pious, panty-less pillar of strength crumbled, running out of the church screaming, her bloomers tucked into her bible like some fancy, frilly bookmark, her pride checked at the pulpit. The uncontrollable laughter reverberated between the Swains in the choir loft and the Swains in the congregation until the very rafters of the old church threatened to fall after a hundred years. Was she as good a preacher as her late husband? I imagine so. After twenty-five years, it’s the only sermon that I can recall in its entirety. Could be because it only lasted seven minutes.

We arrived back at Aunt Cornelia’s before six in the morning---the sermon cut short by about thirty-eight minutes. As Aunt Cornelia was completely inconsolable, we felt it best to leave her alone and we quickly volunteered to go help Aunt Willona with the Brunswick Stew. It is one of Daddy’s many specialties and it’s got all kinds of things in it. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to stand out in the driveway for eight hours tending his masterpiece in its huge cauldron stirring it to perfection with a boat paddle as the neighbors came by to sample and sniff. His secret ingredient of course, is no secret at all--- Tabassco sauce and lots of it. It wasn’t ready till Daddy’s upper lip was beaded up with sweat and his hearing was gone due to all the ringing in his ears.

“Ah, it’ll be alright,” said Daddy sticking his finger in it to get a little taste.

With Daddy preoccupied with the paddling of the stew, Aunt Willona, Kim, Mama and I headed on up to pay Cousin Claude and his new bride a visit. The all too familiar mattress-sofa combination had an important spot on the front porch of the cabin as well, but it did little to prepare us for what lay inside---Cousin Claude’s new wife, Gracie Lou for one. His mail order bride factory-direct from the set of Hee Haw. A buxom blonde, all of fifteen, she sat perched along with a few clucking chickens on the wooden porch railing nosily popping a big wad of bubble gum. She was attired in what I was certain was her wedding day trousseau---a skin-tight T-shirt, short denim cut-offs, and a pair of rhinestone studded high heeled sandals direct from the double discount rack of K-Mart. She greeted us with a friendly, “Ya’ll come on in and see how I’ve redecorated this old cabin into a real “love nest.”

Once inside, Kim and I stood in awe, mouths and eyes wide. We had never seen anything like it. Stuffed animal heads, some with complete bodies, along with several prized trophy fish were mounted on the wooden walls, all in tribute to Cousin Claude’s expertise with a variety of weapons. Some love nest! Gracie Lou must have gotten her decorating ideas from Field and Stream. “Early American Norman Bates.” There were turkey tails and beards, deer, raccoon, squirrels, snakes, polecats and even a three-legged possum. The real money in this town wasn’t from pulp-wooding, but from taxidermy-ing.

“Hey, ya’ll,” a tall, barefoot, bearded guy wearing overalls and an old black felt hillbilly hat walked into the room. He was at least fifteen years Gracie Lou’s senior.

It was Cousin Claude. Who else would have bragged for over twenty minutes how he’d built this palace all by himself, even rigging it with all sorts of unusual surprises? Quickly turning off the lights, he hit another switch, causing the eyes of the entire stuffed menagerie to blink with twinkling red Christmas lights. It was quite effective in the dark. We noticed something glowing from the ceiling and looked up at the enormous mirror that was fastened overhead. Kim and I exchanged glances. Mirrors on the ceiling? Every ceiling? At our young ages, we didn’t know quite what to make of it, but the snickers coming from Mama and Aunt Flora were an indication that it had something to do with the cabin being called a “love nest.” Our curiosity was satisfied a few weeks later as Mama was forced to have a rather unusual little “mother-daughter” chat with Kim and me about “newlywed” interior decorating--- or what we later referred to as “Kinky and Country”.

The only room in the cabin that didn’t sport a mirror on the ceiling was a secret gun room containing an entire arsenal. Cousin Claude was well equipped for any potential uprising or what was referred to as the second coming of the “Nawthun Aggressas.” I guess every family should have at least one vigilante, Cousin Claude was ours.

“C-o-m-e. Spat. “A-n-d. Spat “G-e-t. Spat. “I-t!” hollered Uncle Ed in between spats of tobacco.

Our grand tour abruptly ended, we headed outside into the stifling heat, loaded up our plates and proceeded to “pig out” with all the kin.

Reflecting on that weekend, Kim and I decided Mama and Daddy had both been right. His people were nice, but they were definitely weird, too. I wondered if everybody’s family tree was as gnarly as ours was… nah, it wasn’t possible. Fortunately Kim and I had one thing going for us--- we’d managed to escape being cornered by Uncle Ed when we said our good-byes. Poor Mama. She wasn’t quite so lucky.

The End

Fireworks Over Toccoa - Sneak Peak Read and Giveaway Contest!

I’d love to tell you about the very cool “sneak peek” campaign for this book beginning on March 10^th.

Simply by visiting www.FireworksOverToccoa.com

Beginning March 10^th, they can not only read a huge chunk of the book online but also sign up to win one of 300! free copies, read a note from the author, listen to an audio excerpt, and more many more fun things…

To read a summary or learn more about the author, visit http://jeffreystepakoff.com/

The Dew will also be reviewing this book shortly.

The Competition

The Competition

“Turn it off. I can’t watch it,” Jenny told her husband. “It’s toxic to me.”

“The Olympics only comes on every four years,” her husband responded. “I’m going to watch it.”

“But Jon, all those women with their strong, lithe bodies. How do you think it makes me feel?

“Don’t take it so personally.”

“I can’t help it. I feel like a middle-aged pear. You should, too. Your body isn’t what it used to be thirty years ago.”

“Look at that!” Jon pointed to a gymnast jumping over a bar, doing a series of somersaults, and landing effortlessly on her feet. “Look at those leg muscles!”

“Jon, stop.”

“USA USA,” Jon chanted.

Jenny went to the kitchen to have a piece of fudge. She had two. Then she had three. I know what to do, she thought as she chewed. She took a pair of large yard shears from the garage and went out to the cable connection. She smiled as she cut through the first few strands of the cable. No more fit female bodies parading about on TV. She snipped again. No more images of athletic superwomen. She’d no longer feel like a blob of jello in comparison.

Back in the house she found Jon messing around with the television controls.

“Damn thing just blanked out.”

“Too bad. But, it’s old. It’s probably broke.”

“Well, it’s terrible timing. I’m going down to Benson’s Electronics right now to buy another one.”
He put on his coat and left.

Jon returned with a big screen TV. He set it up, turned it on, but there was no picture.

“I’m going to look at the cable box,” Jon said. “Maybe that is where the problem is.” A few minutes later back in the living room, he said.

“The squirrels ate through the wires. I have to call the cable company.”

He went out to the kitchen to make the call. Jenny ran to the garage and got a hammer. She took the hammer and smashed the TV screen in. Hearing the noise, Jon came running in.

“For crying out loud, what are you doing?”

Jenny swung the hammer once more and hit Jon on the head. He staggered. Before he could respond she struck him in the temple three times more. He fell forward onto the floor. Jenny dragged him into the kitchen.

The man from the cable company came a few minutes later. He was able to fix the cable in a short period of time. Jenny sat in front of the old TV with a bowl of buttered popcorn and watched a movie.

_________________________

Written by: Nomi Liron

Publish Post

Smoky Mountain Trail

Face to face with the mountains, they scream with gallant

beauty. Rocky pillar-arms sweep above the idea of height,

coiling above the land with vanilla-orange rocks birthed

from ancient ground, veined with millennia. Cedars and oaks

loom like mysterious towers. What a home of primeval

growth and surreal sound, illuminated with the subtle power

of laurels and azaleas. Face to face, the mountains

shove elation and hope into the sky, beyond the smallness of human

time, and I weep from awe-sensation, my mind staggering to bear

granite domes, kaleidoscopic autumn leaves, and the crystalline

tides of gushing water. I feel God-blessed and Goddess-born.

___________________________
Jennifer Hollie Bowles