Enjoying the cool crisp October night under a sky of a million stars, the fire crackling, the smell of ash and pine fills the air, and in the distant corn fields a pack of coyotes hunts, the yelps of young pups sounds in another direction.
As the crickets quiet, we lean into listen, the pack grows closer, and in only what seems like seconds, the pack is upon us, howling and screaming, they run the pasture just the other side of darkness, with only their voices to mark their location. Our hearts race as if to join in to the racing pack, faster and faster, closer and closer, and then in a heartbeat they are gone. . .
Friday, October 15, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Apple Picking
A beautiful farm, large Belgian work horses pulling pickers from field to field, apple trees as far as you can see, fields of tomatoes as large as my hand, and eggplant shiny and dark.
We picked crisp sweet Fugi and Galas with a subtle hint of pear in the bite. The weather was drizzly and cool, the music warm and inviting, I can hardly wait for my next visit to Garwood Farms.
We picked crisp sweet Fugi and Galas with a subtle hint of pear in the bite. The weather was drizzly and cool, the music warm and inviting, I can hardly wait for my next visit to Garwood Farms.
The Main Chick so far from home . . .
As the sun rises above the tree line on a crisp northeast Indiana Sunday morning, the coffee grinds and begins to brew, a glimpse of a new reality begins to take shape with all that I have known and who I have become now a thousand miles behind me. Who I am was now a question I was struggling to answer?
The comfortable confidence of my life was now in a plastic bin. Who would have ever thought, those who know me would have guessed an old wooden crate, found deep in a corner of flea market, or maybe a rusty metal tackle box with worn green paint, a gift from a Alpharetta farm sale, but a plastic bin?
As I try desperately to find the memories that make me comfortable, homemade chicken soup, the smell of pumpkin and cinnamon, the thoughts of home and fall decorations, crisp linen napkins and a beautiful table setting, or my garden and the chickens.
Will these things still define me, I would like to think so, as I sit clearly in the north attached to a wonderful family so different than my own, their roots deep in Northern tradition, I cling to my own southern roots which have largely defined who I am, both then and now. . .
The comfortable confidence of my life was now in a plastic bin. Who would have ever thought, those who know me would have guessed an old wooden crate, found deep in a corner of flea market, or maybe a rusty metal tackle box with worn green paint, a gift from a Alpharetta farm sale, but a plastic bin?
As I try desperately to find the memories that make me comfortable, homemade chicken soup, the smell of pumpkin and cinnamon, the thoughts of home and fall decorations, crisp linen napkins and a beautiful table setting, or my garden and the chickens.
Will these things still define me, I would like to think so, as I sit clearly in the north attached to a wonderful family so different than my own, their roots deep in Northern tradition, I cling to my own southern roots which have largely defined who I am, both then and now. . .
Seven Days
It seems so short, nine letters, a week, a yearly vacation time. However, what seven days says now feels like a lifetime. . .
The Old Starkey House is a memory, all of our treasures now safely in storage with Chief Longwood standing guard, a handful of cigars his only payment. I am without the animals that have been constant companions since I was a small child. The loss of Chester stings sharply once again and I can still see Mrs. Brinkley laying on the checkerboard floor of the mud room. Colonel Beaureguard has not awaken me with revelee, nor I have I found Buckwheat's egg in the planter by the red door.
This seven days will not bring the renewal in faith from an energized crowd of coffee clutching Christians nor the smile of a waitress at a Golden Bear breakfast.
Life has changed this seven days. . .
The Old Starkey House is a memory, all of our treasures now safely in storage with Chief Longwood standing guard, a handful of cigars his only payment. I am without the animals that have been constant companions since I was a small child. The loss of Chester stings sharply once again and I can still see Mrs. Brinkley laying on the checkerboard floor of the mud room. Colonel Beaureguard has not awaken me with revelee, nor I have I found Buckwheat's egg in the planter by the red door.
This seven days will not bring the renewal in faith from an energized crowd of coffee clutching Christians nor the smile of a waitress at a Golden Bear breakfast.
Life has changed this seven days. . .
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