rural countryside
barnyard evening sunset glow
painting the dusk sky
Rural Countryside
Savoring Saturdays
Saturdays in 2023 are still savory. We begin the day with coffee and a bite to eat somewhere before spending the day together. We are blessed that our jobs allow us to have some common weekend time to get out and enjoy life, and we don’t take that for granted!
Smitty’s in Woodbury, Georgia was our choice on Saturday. Our friend Bob Oxford owns this restaurant, and his brother Mike helps out on weekends. Their mother, “Miss Jewel” Oxford, was the oldest living member of Concord Baptist Church, where we attended years ago. Her fried pies were delicious, and Bob still makes those pies from time to time, taught by the best! When I served on a pastor search committee with Bob, he’d bring those pies to the meetings, and they went lickety-split!
I enjoy rereading some of my rural life go-to books occasionally as we wait on our breakfast to arrive. Yesterday’s choice was Stillmeadow and Sugarbridge by Gladys Taber and Barbara Webster. Their exchange of letters from the 1950s between their homes in Pennsylvania and Connecticut describes country living at its finest. I like to feel part of that, particularly when my biscuit is made from scratch that very morning, and with each bite I think of the simple joys of rural life not afforded in big cities.
We also made a rare discovery: Georgia peaches! Most of Georgia’s peach crop was lost this year, so coming by Georgia peaches has been close to impossible – – until yesterday! We stopped at a produce stand in Woodbury and found them. I bought two large baskets to slice and eat with our yogurt this coming week. It’s breakfast today, before tuning in to You Tube to hear Dad preach at St. Simons Island First Baptist Church. Our son and his family, home waiting on Baby #5 to make her appearance, will be watching, too!
Our time yesterday was spent driving and birdwatching. My husband is a former deputy in the county where we live, and as a current elected official, he also enjoys time to get out and ride the roads to check conditions and washouts on the dirt roads. We both love this quiet time for different reasons, but it works all the same. He reminisces about the experiences he’s had here throughout his life, and I watch and listen for birds.
Way back in the day, Flat Shoals was filled with hundreds of people on weekends (“mostly drunk,” my husband added, thinking back on the times he had to respond to calls out in this area). It was a popular place to bring a cooler and an inner tube or raft and find a spot in the rock shallows on the shoals to stay cool all weekend. Today, you might see a few fishermen angling to stock their freezers for the next fish fry.
We were there for the birds.
I logged seven new species in the county yesterday along the waterways here at Flat Shoals. Through birdwatching and long Saturday drives followed by coffee together in the morning, I find that I get through the stress of the work week better when I know I have the weekends just around the next corner.
While others are packing our local air-conditioned movie theater to see Barbie, we have a front-row seat to the birds!
Birding Haiku
Birding at Flat Shoals
Seven new species today!
Peaceful excursion
Working Remotely In the Field
When it’s a remote workday, that’s a day to work overtime gathering data from the field. I gear up for the clinical setting of my workspace, and while there is no air conditioning in these areas, it sure beats a day in a windowless office!
So here I begin with my cheep entertainment for the day.
Answer calls and emails. Check.
Set up a meeting. Check.
These are things I do from the field, whether it’s stop one, stop two, stop three or four.
I put on my work hat and grab my keys, calendar, notebooks and computer.
I drive to Stop One.
As I leave my driveway, I put my window down so I can hear the sounds of nature all around me. I never know what wildlife will appear, so I keep my camera near to collect rich data in the field.
At Stop One, I check on the Blue-Gray Gnatcatchers in the tree by the park, and at Stop Two, I visit the House Sparrows under the pavilion. All the way to the Red Oak Covered Bridge, I listen and do a head count of my feathered friends. Some are pairs – they fell in love online, and the rest is history. They follow each other on Twitter, these left-wingers and right-wingers – – they tweet in unison.
These are my Georgia red clay dirt roads with the rocks that grit underneath the tires while warm air blows in through the windows and cool air through the vents with the only radio the song of birds – and crickets, even in the daytime.
Along the way, I have a chat. A Yellow-Breasted Chat, to be exact. Second one of these today. Add that to the count.
The tally grows. Collecting data in the field is hard work, but someone has to do it.
I like to use the data to bridge the gaps….so I’m always on the lookout for just the right bridge. Come along for the ride with me if you dare, and more alarmingly if you trust my driving. There’s only a 9-foot clearance (the sign says there’s also a 3-ton weight limit).
Mom waves a red flag over there from the bushes, reminding me to slow down, make sure my seatbelt is fastened, and drive safely. Thanks, Mom!
And my buddy the Eastern Towhee, in magnificent abundance here in this rural area of middle Georgia, reminds me to watch the ditches on the edges of the roads – – this is no easy place to have be “tow”ed.
A full morning of data gathering is complete, so I check my “calls” once again and return home to analyze my data.
I have no egrets about spending my morning working so hard.
It’s all in a day’s work.
Pileated Woodpecker Fibonacci
Red
heads
drill trees
with their beaks
(I love watching them!)
Pileated Woodpecker pairs!
July Open Write – Day 5 with Mike Dombrowski
Today’s host for the last day of the July Open Write is Mike Dombrowski of Michigan. You can read his full prompt here, along with the poems and responses of others. Today, Mike inspires us to write a poem about a time we experienced anxiety, and to include how we overcame it if possible. I chose to write about my mother’s last breath.
Christ Church Cemetery plot shopping
My brother’s cell phone rang. “Hurry.”
We sped, cried, dodging traffic ~
Would we make it in time?
Each second mattered.
Through the front door
To her room
Three last
breaths
July Open Write Day 4 with Shelby
Our host today for the fourth day of the July Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Shelby from Michigan, who inspires us to write poems about special places in our lives. You can read her full prompt here, along with the poems of others. I have written a nonet, which has nine lines in ascending or descending order, and has the line order number of syllables on its lines. I attended elementary school on St. Simons Island, Georgia, where recess was almost always before lunch – – when it was cool enough to be outdoors.
Recess Nonet
my elementary school playground
its blacktop hot as a griddle
sizzling in the island sun
where we rolled each other
in castoff car tires
spinning childhoods
dappled in
live oak
shade
Open Write Day 3 with Susan Ahlbrand
Our host at http://www.ethicalela.com for the third day of the July Open Write is Susan Ahlbrand of Indiana, who inspires us to write Venn Diagram poetry today. You can read her full prompt and the poems others have written here, and even try one of your own if you wish.
This is one form that I have never written before today, and honestly I’m not sure I’m coordinated enough to try again. My brain felt like Spaghetti Junction in Atlanta, where all the intersections dance and spin and twirl around and then peel off in different directions like little spinoff tornadoes.
The idea is to play with two completely different concepts or ideas and find the intersecting similarity in the middle section of the diagram, reading vertically.
I could only take a photo of my mess and post it. Other writers in my group are using Canva and making backgrounds beautiful and doing all the creative colors and designs, but I’m over here with an ink pen and an unlined piece of brown paper just trying not to be seen or heard…….
But in the spirit of having some good days of writing and some not-so-good days of writing, here is a day in the life of a writer who at least tries something new and different.
I’m putting back on my work hat after a truly wonderful summer. Today is my first day back on contract, as my district awaits the appointment of a new Superintendent.
And so these hats, as constant as they are, keep life in balance!
July Open Write – Day 2 with Mo Daley
Our host for the second day of the July Open Write today is Mo Daley of Illinois, who inspires us to write Fibonacci Sequence Poems. You can read Mo’s prompt and the poems of others here. A Fib is written in six lines:
1 syllable
1 syllable
2 syllables
3 syllables
5 syllables
8 syllables
I love the short forms! I was out way past my bedtime cheering on my favorite baseball team at Truist Park in Atlanta, and then sitting in the horn-blowing traffic where people were actually playing recognizable songs on their car horns when no one was able to even creep out of the parking deck for a lonnnnnggg time. I say all of this to say that this true fib is especially dedicated to my Illinois writing buddy, Mo Daley. Cheers!
Take Me Out to the Ballgame
balls
strikes
homeruns
major leagues~
our Atlanta Braves
……..lost to the Chicago White Sox!
Even though the Braves didn’t win, there was one particular winning moment for me.
It wasn’t the hot dog, even though a hot dog at a ballpark is a grand-slam homerun all by itself, with a cold beer and a bag of Cracker Jack.
It wasn’t walking around the park looking at all the great things to see, either, from the jerseys for sale overhead moving along on a clothes belt similar to a dry cleaner’s, or the Braves Hall of Fame or the tribute to Hank Aaron with the waterfall.
All of that was amazing, too, along with the friend who gave us the free tickets to enjoy a night of major league baseball. We saw a few home runs, but none greater than the one hit by a fan – not a player.
What grabbed my heart was the boy with the white jersey in the picture below. He was, perhaps, about 14 years old. At the inning changes, he grabbed the hand of the little fellow in front of him with the blue baseball cap on (a younger brother or cousin, maybe?) who were sitting behind us, and they ran down to try to catch a ball; the players throw a few up into the stands to all the open gloves waiting to catch a real game ball for a minute or so as one team takes the field and the other retreats to their dugout. The older one tried and tried and tried to catch a ball for the younger one. By the seventh inning with no ball, I’d already been praying for three or four of those inning changes – Lord, please let this boy catch a baseball for this little guy.
They returned empty-handed every. single. time, including the time the ball glanced the glove of the young teenager and landed in the hands of someone else.
That was YOUR BALL, one lady encouraged the teenager, when he came back up and sat down after losing one that had been so close.
This became my ballgame. Not the game on the field between the Braves and the White Sox. Here with these two young boys and the quest for a treasured baseball was the game to be won.
And then, as I was watching the game during an inning, my husband nudged me.
Look to your left, he urged.
I turned and watched. A young fan seated in the front rows and his mother brought a game ball up to the top of the section. They passed it right down the row to the young boy who had been so hoping to get a game ball. Then, as they headed back down to their seats, they turned around halfway down the section and waved up, smiling.
In the eyes of one who doesn’t cry often (and almost can’t, officially, with a recent diagnosis of dry eye and a practically unaffordable prescription to go along with it), I felt the welcome tears of gratitude welling as I witnessed this exchange.
That, readers, is American baseball.
Whether your team wins or loses the game, the spirit of winning is most alive and well in the goodness of those who will sacrifice a game ball to sear into the heart of a youngster an unforgettable moment he will carry with him for the rest of his life.
Grand Slam, lady and son! I don’t know who you are, but you won the game for everyone who, like us, had been watching and hoping and praying, cheering for this sideline ballgame.
Atlanta Braves: 5
Chicago White Sox: 6
Baseball fans in Section 116: Faith in Humanity Restored
July Open Write Day 1 with Mo Daley
Mo Daley is our host at ethicalela.com today for the first day of our July Open Write. Two things came to mind when I read her poem, in addition to all the memories of previous generations’ masks: the poem A Bag of Tools by R. L. Sharpe (a favorite since high school), and a birdwatching excursion in Palo Duro Canyon State Park in Texas over the summer, as I sat behind a bird blind counting birds. I chose a Golden Shovel poem using one line of Sharpe’s poem today.
Blinders
behind the bird blind, watching unaware, counting each
species, observing, admiring, appreciating, pondering: is
this what would happen if people were given
the same fanfare over the wonder of our beauty? a
way to admire all our brilliant feathers, to regain childhood’s shapeless
notions of race, share the same branch, and remove the mask?
Common Threads 