Daily Coop News . . .

Friday, November 5, 2010

"You don't think your way into a new kind of living. You live your way into a new kind of thinking."

Henri J.M. Nouwen

Tiny Dancers

As the first snow sets the stage of the
Blue Ridge Mountains,
the remaining leaves flutter in the north wind
like tiny dancers with opening night jitters.
The sun rises over this miraculous act,
and the White Tail Prima donna dance the steep moss covered slope
with a quiet grace and confidence.
Behind the scenes the squirrels scurry through the woods
like dedicated stage hands, as if to make sure all is right with the production.
As an audience of one,
I watch in amazement as the show unfolds once again. . .

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

The passing of a Legend, Veterans Day 2012

As we began to recall the stories first from those that could remember the early days, running the state mile for Lee High and holding the record in the book that year, Florida 1950, hard times in the Korean War, recon, the smell of death and life as a Marine.

The strangers that had come to pay respect and tell of kind deeds through many years, different states and times. A common thread spun like rugged wool were the stories of hunting with skills of extraordinary measure.

Elk in Wyoming, Pronghorn in Colorado, and pheasant in Iowa. The white tail too many to count fed his family through the years, shrimp in Beaufort, crappie in the Everglades, Pompano in the surf of Sebastian Inlet, always fishing with a passion like no other. Few that knew him could say they had never been fed by him. He grew gardens of great abundance in Melbourne and Yemassee. He could shoot a Wood duck from a moving vehicle while driving down a back road of South Carolina. If the turkey of Osceola could talk they to would gobble of a great hunter that roamed the woods for many moons.

We wear Cane break rattler belts, his trophies hang on our walls and the stories of his love for the outdoors live on in our minds.

If you have never eaten squirrel perlo, shrimp and grits, fried deer tongue and mullet row than a sheltered life you have led. Least we forget crawfish boils, oyster roasts and fish fry's, plucking quail and dove hunts. There have been at least ten bird dogs all named Tiki or Gal and cleaning dog pens day after day, I believe was a right of passage in his eye.

I have enjoyed flying over Lake Washington, a paddle boat ride down the canal, motorcycles and ATV's, gheenoe and the Mako, air boats and ducs.

He built an old wooden boat and bought a Go devil, and his legend will live on in Bubba, countless smokers and fish fryers, and an occasional green egg.

In the early days there are no stories of tears, then pappy passed, his grandson accepted to his Alma Mater (Go Gators) and the birth of his five great-grand sons bearing his surname. He married his high school sweetheart in 1950 and again at Christmas in 2009, I believe there were tears at the later ceremony.

If you were lucky enough to be present as the Marines saluted him one last time and taps played, then consider yourself to have been in the presence of a Legend.

My memories and recollections are sometimes foggy for I am the youngest of his children and his baby girl and although I do not carry the same skills as my three brothers,I can still recall the stories of a great legend and my memories still hold sweet of a father who adored me until Jesus called him home.

William Irving Turknett
January 16th, 1932 - October 22, 2010

The waters of the Davidson

The waters of the Davidson river, Pisgah Forest, North Carolina

The boys arrived back at Woody's cabin at dusk, the three quarter moon just over Nancy Mountain. The flies purchased at Davidson River Outfitters were productive, and pictures of Rainbow trout the size of John's new net to prove it.

Down to Earth

Down to Earth Cottages, Brevard, North Carolina, on the banks of the French Broad

We arrived yesterday to a story book cottage with stained glass windows, rough cedar siding and a babbling creek. . .

We are at "Creekside" and the "Chalet" sits across the lane. It looks as if Goldilocks herself should emerge at any moment. The moss covered A-line roof shaggy and green surrounded by the golds and reds of fall.

The coffee fresh roasted at the Brown Bean, a gift from Cindy, the colorful Zinnias in an old honey jar awaited our arrival on the front porch stoop, now sit on the old dry sink. Our bed cozy and warm with the morning sun shining through a Celtic stained glass. The smell of a distant fireplace on this cool mountain morning reminds me of home and the first fire of the season.

The cardinals are peeping, and I can hear the cows sound the alarm down Island Fork road, the finches too many to count chirp in the trees just off the deck.

The sounds and smells of a peaceful place.

The 4th of July

October 18, 2010, 42 degrees

The fall has begun in Indiana with all the fanfare of a fourth of July. The colors are the most brilliant I have ever seen, not the red, white and blue of our summer celebration, but copper and reds give way to gold and orange. Burnt umber and dark chocolate tree trunks stand tall, as if soldiers guarding their precious treasure, as their leaves fall, the streets are paved with gold and the sentinels stand on through the change,the winter war will be harsh and their souls will renew in the breath of spring.

Fields of Gold

Sunday, October 17th, 2010, 78 degrees

Leaving the shores of Lake Michigan and traveling down 421 through what seems like endless fields of dried corn stalk the sun shines like gold, the charcoal of the soil in a freshly plowed field a testament of production. Its not the rich, deep, dark black of the sugar cane fields in South Florida, but then again this is not the Everglades.

Old farms stand like monuments in the fields marking generations of hard labor where the harsh cold will cover the charcoal in a blanket of white and the anticipation of Spring will begin.