I walked a silent path this Sunday morning. None of the other walkers asked where I was last Sunday or if I had been walking another path. No one criticized any other trail as being too fundamental or too worldly.
Some walkers were solitary. Others walked as couples, some holding hands, and the make up of the couples didn't matter.
And so I took communion; without rule or restriction, without barrier, conduit or interpreter.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Priscilla's Neckless
I’m not a particularly handsome man so when she fell for me I was more than surprised. Priscilla was beautiful, a honey blonde with green almond shaped eyes, with a slight tilt. Her cheek bones were perfectly sculpted. She was beautiful and I should have fallen in love with her forever, except for one thing.
Priscilla had no neck. I don’t mean that she had a short neck. She had no neck. Her chin was constantly chapped from rubbing on her chest. Her ear lobes touched her shoulders. When she turned her head she had to look up at a forty five degree angle. I never knew whether she had a collar bone.
Now, I am a tolerant man and possibly I could have overlooked this imperfection in, for example, a bald woman, or one of large proportions, but I could not bear this flaw in my otherwise perfect goddess. My eyes and thoughts kept returning to that one imperfection, as they would to a mustache on the Mona Lisa or a plaid jock strap on the David.
It all came to a head on her birthday when I thoughtlessly purchased a cameo suspended from a rather short gold chain. It is difficult to describe the painful conclusion to that evening. She looked up at me, something she shouldn’t have been able to do, and told me to leave. I turned once to see her strange silhouette running down the empty street.
I didn’t see her for five years; five years during which great strides were made in vertebrae transplants. Her chance at normalcy came when a donor, a former center for the Boston Celtics, died in a crash. We tried to rekindle that old feeling, even tried to neck, but it just wasn’t the same.
The evening came when she again told me to go, then bent down to kiss the top of my head.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
The Lipham Store
She owns and runs the Lipham clothing store in downtown Talapoosa, Georgia. The store takes up three store fronts of former businesses. A Red Goose Shoes sign, common when I was a child, caught my eye. We went in and experienced that near forgotten smell of leather, cloth, and oiled floors.
She owns and runs the Lipham clothing store in downtown Talapoosa, Georgia. Her grandfather started the store in 1895. Her father first brought her to the store as an infant, in a box. At age two, she had the job of bringing string to her Dad in those days before paper or plastic bags. She is now 86.
The prices are surprisingly low, but many of her older suppliers are out of business or headed that way, due to overseas competition and super store dominance. Her store has two qualities that can't be matched in any superstore or mall; vast experience and personal service. She knows, for instance, that a farmer's overalls have to be larger in the waist and shorter in the legs than his regular pants. She will check to see if she can find odd sizes and call the customer to let them know the outcome. She knows the families. She knows history.
If you get down that way, do yourself a favor and go to Talapoosa, and buy a shirt or two from a vanishing piece of American history.
She owns and runs the Lipham clothing store in downtown Talapoosa, Georgia. Her grandfather started the store in 1895. Her father first brought her to the store as an infant, in a box. At age two, she had the job of bringing string to her Dad in those days before paper or plastic bags. She is now 86.
The prices are surprisingly low, but many of her older suppliers are out of business or headed that way, due to overseas competition and super store dominance. Her store has two qualities that can't be matched in any superstore or mall; vast experience and personal service. She knows, for instance, that a farmer's overalls have to be larger in the waist and shorter in the legs than his regular pants. She will check to see if she can find odd sizes and call the customer to let them know the outcome. She knows the families. She knows history.
If you get down that way, do yourself a favor and go to Talapoosa, and buy a shirt or two from a vanishing piece of American history.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
The Felsenmeer 10/29/2011
It is one of those fall days, the first cold windy day after a relatively warm string of autumn days. The air is clear and the wind gusty. Leaves are falling and swirling.
On a similar day in Germany, some years ago, we drove into the Odenwald to an area called the Felsenmeer, the sea of rocks, an area where an ancient continental glacier had once deposited tons of rocks in giant piles and rows where hardwood forests would eventually grow among the stones.
Our first daughter, almost two at the time, was enchanted by the combinations of colors; lichen, leaves, granite and trees. As we walked the trails she became most uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, she began to dance with the blowing, falling leaves. Round and round, as a child will do with her arms stretched out to catch the colors and her blonde curls bouncing on her head. Sometimes I believe in magic. Sometimes I believe in enchantment.
A day like this always brings this memory back to me.
On a similar day in Germany, some years ago, we drove into the Odenwald to an area called the Felsenmeer, the sea of rocks, an area where an ancient continental glacier had once deposited tons of rocks in giant piles and rows where hardwood forests would eventually grow among the stones.
Our first daughter, almost two at the time, was enchanted by the combinations of colors; lichen, leaves, granite and trees. As we walked the trails she became most uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, she began to dance with the blowing, falling leaves. Round and round, as a child will do with her arms stretched out to catch the colors and her blonde curls bouncing on her head. Sometimes I believe in magic. Sometimes I believe in enchantment.
A day like this always brings this memory back to me.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Old Man at Meteetse
Cody, WY 9/26/2011
I saw him at the small Meteetse museum, an old man just passing his days. He asked where I was from and proceeded to tell me that his uncle had worked at a cotton mill in Atlanta, and that his mother had once flown there, and she had told him that she could hardly see the tips of the wings on the plane, they were so long, and that he didn't see any reason to fly, except for emergencies. He wanted to be on the ground.
Several days later, we again stopped at Meteese, having braved a rugged road to nearby Kirwin, an abandoned mining town. We went into the only bar/cafe in the tiny town to get a bite to eat.
The old fellow was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer. While we were waiting for a table he asked where I was from. I reminded him of our previous meeting, and the uncle he had mentioned. He said he had worked on many of the surrounding ranches over the years, including the Legendary Pitchfork Ranch. He began to talk of his family. He and his sister had lived in the house where they had been born and raised. She had passed several years ago. All of his family are now dead. He is the last of that line.
Just think of the history he has witnessed. I wonder how many stories he has to tell.
I saw him at the small Meteetse museum, an old man just passing his days. He asked where I was from and proceeded to tell me that his uncle had worked at a cotton mill in Atlanta, and that his mother had once flown there, and she had told him that she could hardly see the tips of the wings on the plane, they were so long, and that he didn't see any reason to fly, except for emergencies. He wanted to be on the ground.
Several days later, we again stopped at Meteese, having braved a rugged road to nearby Kirwin, an abandoned mining town. We went into the only bar/cafe in the tiny town to get a bite to eat.
The old fellow was sitting at the bar, alone, nursing a beer. While we were waiting for a table he asked where I was from. I reminded him of our previous meeting, and the uncle he had mentioned. He said he had worked on many of the surrounding ranches over the years, including the Legendary Pitchfork Ranch. He began to talk of his family. He and his sister had lived in the house where they had been born and raised. She had passed several years ago. All of his family are now dead. He is the last of that line.
Just think of the history he has witnessed. I wonder how many stories he has to tell.
The Quiet Rebel
Cody, WY, 9/26/2011
Mike drove down from Big Sky to explore the Cody area with us. We all had some time to talk and catch up. He and I had worked together last year and had become friends. A bit unusual since Mike is 25 and I am 63, his father's age. But Mike doesn't accept limits without thought.
As a student in high school and college, Mike was gregarious. He is till ready for a party or a concert, but his several months working in Yellowstone and Big Sky, and exploring other places in the west taught him to value solitude.He has borrowed from a friend the idea that loneliness is the sorry state of being alone, while solitude is the glory of being alone. He is a very skilled night photographer and goes on lone hikes high into the Tetons, or far into the Utah desert to capture incredible images. This choice of lifestyle is not a temporary stopping place for him, it is his life.
His computer gave up the ghost so Mike is using the opportunity to research for a novel he is working on. No easy task since the subject will be alternate realities and perceptions. So his journey continues. It seems to me that his is the type of journey that requires quite a bit of courage.
Mike drove down from Big Sky to explore the Cody area with us. We all had some time to talk and catch up. He and I had worked together last year and had become friends. A bit unusual since Mike is 25 and I am 63, his father's age. But Mike doesn't accept limits without thought.
As a student in high school and college, Mike was gregarious. He is till ready for a party or a concert, but his several months working in Yellowstone and Big Sky, and exploring other places in the west taught him to value solitude.He has borrowed from a friend the idea that loneliness is the sorry state of being alone, while solitude is the glory of being alone. He is a very skilled night photographer and goes on lone hikes high into the Tetons, or far into the Utah desert to capture incredible images. This choice of lifestyle is not a temporary stopping place for him, it is his life.
His computer gave up the ghost so Mike is using the opportunity to research for a novel he is working on. No easy task since the subject will be alternate realities and perceptions. So his journey continues. It seems to me that his is the type of journey that requires quite a bit of courage.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Top Secret
Cody, WY, 9/21/2011
During the Vietnam War, I was a part of a secret communications operation based on the legendary Indian Code Talkers of World War II. The idea was to use soldiers from north Georgia, east Tennessee, and western Carolinas as radio operators. North Vietnamese intelligence operatives, many speaking excellent English, would not be able to understand a dialect that had never been adequately archived and recorded.
I wrote down one exchange that occurred in January, 1969. The following is an edited transcript and interpretation:
Orange 1, Orange 1, Howz yo momma?
Gud, gud, an yers?
(Security verification)
Hole bunch them lil sumbitches in the war. Yall come on ova chere.
(We are under attack.)
Git som dem gud ole boyz. Wil opin can of whup ass.
(Request reinforcements and artillery support.)
The operation failed due to a lack of communication between the radio operators and the officers they reported to, usually 2nd lieutenants, and recent college graduates. These young men usually spoke only fraternity, so if the first sentence of a conversation did not include the words "naked" and "beer", they lost interest.
So, to all veterans of the aforementioned code talkers, "I slute chall!"
During the Vietnam War, I was a part of a secret communications operation based on the legendary Indian Code Talkers of World War II. The idea was to use soldiers from north Georgia, east Tennessee, and western Carolinas as radio operators. North Vietnamese intelligence operatives, many speaking excellent English, would not be able to understand a dialect that had never been adequately archived and recorded.
I wrote down one exchange that occurred in January, 1969. The following is an edited transcript and interpretation:
Orange 1, Orange 1, Howz yo momma?
Gud, gud, an yers?
(Security verification)
Hole bunch them lil sumbitches in the war. Yall come on ova chere.
(We are under attack.)
Git som dem gud ole boyz. Wil opin can of whup ass.
(Request reinforcements and artillery support.)
The operation failed due to a lack of communication between the radio operators and the officers they reported to, usually 2nd lieutenants, and recent college graduates. These young men usually spoke only fraternity, so if the first sentence of a conversation did not include the words "naked" and "beer", they lost interest.
So, to all veterans of the aforementioned code talkers, "I slute chall!"
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