My daddy did not take summer vacations, Neither did our family. He was a hard working man. Going to visit relations however, was an altogether right thing to do.
I was twelve when our family, packed arm-to-arm in our blue and cream ‘54 Desoto, traveled back mountain roads. looking for Daddy’s home place. He was a jokester, a trickster, a ghostly storyteller who never stopped working.
The closer we got to Great Aunt Libby’s place the more carefree he became. Suddenly our car veered to the shoulder of a narrow country road.
Late July corn grew high on both sides of the hot pavement, fields with tall tassled stalks as far as I could see, ”Just look, here” he said. ”Fresh corn for the pickin’. Nobody is going to miss a few of these good-looking ears.”
Two steps into carefully planted rows, a man appears with a shotgun. Daddy, all smiles and grins, his firm hand extended for a neighborly shake, says “Well hi there. I am out looking at these fields of corn, mighty tempting for tonight’s dinner. Would you sell us a bushel?”
Daddy stood so proud, tossing ears of corn into the trunk of the car. Still grinning. Did I tell you Daddy was a salesman? He liked a good deal.
Green leaves wrapped around tawny husks, waiting to be shucked. Most days are so ordinary. Shedding the outside wrapping, fingering strands of silken threads, I pull dreams from rows of juicy kernels, savoring sweet tasting memories of a golden summer day.
Unspoken thoughts Cloud my mind, Not the Hosanna Glory-be-to-God kind of words that make my heart sing - burdenson words, fear, failure, if only or need to. I hold shadows up to the light, and recall the way I wish it had been, the pain of impossible past or unlived future. I do not store up hurt of anger, but the times I “should have” collect like stones. When the weight becomes burdensome I breathe deep, stretch my taut body, murmur a mantra, note what waves creation stirs- bird song, dance of trees, flowering flashes of color, reminders of divine presence. I scatter my thoughts with paper and pen, and then give thanks.
sun slipping through forest green, creek sliding over ancient stones, cicadas clicking in mid-afternoon, tree frogs singing as day falls into darkness;
flickering flames of campfire, hum of human voices settling in for the night, full August moon moving through treetops..
A canopy of green leans in to listen; cicadas smothered in summer’s heat keep up soft rhythmic clicks; raucous crows never cease proclaiming this their domain, mockingbirds rasp with protest when not boasting about their charm.
2:00pm, I sit on my rocking chair front porch with a cup of green jasmine tea, a square of chocolate and a good read, like Shipstead’s “Great Circle”.
Mid-morning notes, a treetop preacher hooked beak, dark robe, speckled vest calls “Listen up, Listen up.”
Puffed up virtuoso exhorts: make the best of the beak you’ve been given; keep a close eye on your turf, skip often, don’t waste time unless a song bubbles up.
How About That 