I’m afraid that I’ve been preoccupied with Patoka and neglected this blog, my apologies. Single mindedly I researched my topic, carefully peeling away the layers of the onion when out of the blue, Lisa Gehlhausen asked me to speak. She’s the Executive Director of the Indiana 15 Regional Planning Commission. “I think the Commission would like to hear about your book,” she asked. “We’re having a celebration for our 45th anniversary, could you talk for ten minutes?” Well, I’m not…..
I took a walk the other morning. It was early, just a hint of rose to the east. It was hot, of course, it is always hot in August. The sun rose as I walked, and I tried to ignore its warmth. Circling the High School, I was glad for the shadow cast by its hulk. At the end of the block I stepped again into the bright morning light, and there it was. It beckoned, this oasis. Brightly colored…..
I’m an early riser, always have been. It must be the milking gene, Dad was too. Way back, about a year and a half ago, I had a little health scare. As a result, nearly every day I meander through Washington. I loop around the Library, climb the hill to the Moose, loop around the golf course, or circle the Lake. Every morning while the world awakes I traverse the town. I love dawn. I love watching the world awake……
I reached the rendezvous point early, so I turned into the parking lot. It was empty except for three Asplundh trucks, their buckets stretched skyward as if pleading for rain. The day had been a scorcher, typical of July. Luckily a brief shower had taken the edge off. I parked and rolled my window down to wait for my contact. He had called two days ago. “There’s a Cemetery Board meeting Monday at 6:00,” he reported. “Why don’t you…..
It hurried through the weeds, leaving a wake of uprooted plants. Last week I saw it scurrying through Dad’s old tools. In the spring, it briefly appeared as I planted the beans, but today it couldn’t escape. I lifted it out of the pumpkins and examined it in the sun. It was dirty; its hide well tanned, covered with scrapes. Dark patches and the blue-green tracks of veins showed through the dirt. Turning it over, I paused at the paler…..
A cloud of steam shrouds the midnight train to Zurich. From the door of the car a ray of light beckons. John slowly scans the station. Thinking the coast is clear, he walks toward the car. With each step his heart lifts. “Halfway there,” he thinks. “Just a few more feet and I’m home free.” Suddenly a man steps out of the steam, blocking John’s path. The music turns sinister. The man’s dark fedora is pulled low over one eye……
Across the ocean, far, far away, there towers a Mountain called Mt. McCray. High on the north side, up near the top, is a glacier more massive than most. On top of this glacier, warmed by the sun, the smallest of drops makes its way toward the edge, and grows ever larger with each zig and each zag. Then for the briefest of moments, it clings to the lip, quivers ever so slightly and stretches a bit. Then with a…..
Carefully Grandpa shuffled down the barn stairs, a trip he has taken countless times. He used to climb the steps two at a time, but that was a long time ago. Today his stride is measured and slow, leaning heavily on the handrail. He pauses at the bottom to catch his breath. He is in no hurry; the cow is already in the stall where she waits patiently to be milked. He pats the old girl’s neck and gives her…..
The outhouse no longer stands guard on the hill. It’s been gone for years. As have the chicken-coop and the cattle. Once the farm teemed with livestock, now all is eerily quiet. Through the eyes of a young boy, the green-shingled house was huge. Nearby the barn was painted a vivid red. Its cavernous interior a haven for life: cows, cats, mice, owls, and countless spiders and crickets. In the Barnyard stood the skeletons of better days, the hog-houses. Sheltered…..
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.” – Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories ‘Tis hard to believe that it has been two months since I embarked on my latest endeavor…..