I am so blessed to know so many wonderfully talented people -- musicians and glass artists, chefs and actors, makers of jewelry and carvers of wood, physicians and athletes, so many people -- who possess a stunning variety of gifts and and the determination to develop and refine those gifts. So blessed!
Today I celebrate an even bigger thrill: the completion of a commission by Spruce Pine (NC) artist Val Beck. I can hardly see the computer screen because I'm weeping for joy at how beautifully this turned out.
IS THIS NOT GORGEOUS???
It is based on something I wrote a few years back. (Text below; some of you will remember it.) The white lines you see are actually just reflections of lights in the studio.
It is the gloaming,
The quiet time, before the fall of night.
My faithful dog lies quietly at my feet
While in the distance, others of his kind are madly barking.
Fireflies wink while unknown insects chirp.
A lone dragonfly zooms about.
An owl on the prowl hoots
While somewhere out there a peacock screams.
And Venus and Jupiter light the darkening sky.
These are the times I like best.
My world is quiet, save for the sounds of a thousand years, the sounds of eternity.
In the present,
The air is cool enough, though heavy with the eternal humidity of the South.
“Our human capital stock is ready to get back to work.”
Kevin Hassett, economist, Senior Advisor to the Trump administration
Wow. That's cold.
Puts me in mind of a cane-grindin'. For those who don't know, this is how juice was extracted from sugar cane: Freshly cut and stripped stalks of cane were crushed in a roller mill, and the mill was powered by a mule tethered to a pole, as you see in the picture. The mule would walk in a circle, round and round.
Sometimes they'd tie a stick to the mule's bridle; the stick would have a carrot dangling from it, just out of the mule's reach. The theory was that the mule would keep chasin' that carrot and keep walkin' in that circle, round and round.
The mule would walk in that circle, round and round, until the farmer stopped him. Or until he just dropped dead.
(Cane juice is extracted differently these days. The process is automated, and even those who like doing it the "old-fashioned" way use a tractor or similar vehicle. Nowadays, if you attend an old-timey event and see an actual mule powering the mill, the demonstration is brief -- for what I hope are obvious reasons.)
Kevin Hassett, and plenty of others of his ilk, see the working person like that old farmer saw his mule: as stock. You, like that old mule, are supposed to chase that carrot -- your “carrot” is a vacation, or an end of year bonus, or retirement ... but Kevin Hassett is not going to care much if you just drop dead chasing that “carrot.”
I’d like to think we’re better than that. I was raised to believe that we were worth more than that.
Although ... we had a bit of excitement a while ago! An ember jumped out and landed on Henry's coat. He didn't see/feel it, but Sally did. She started yelling. Then she jumped up to brush the ember from his coat. By now you could smell the hair burning, but Henry wasn't feeling it. Sally was yelling and waving her hand and scaring him, so he kinda snapped at her and I called him and he came over to me at which time the ember fell off his coat and onto the hearth rug. Lots of commotion!
I started rubbing his coat where the ember had been and it sure was stinking badly of burnt hair. But otherwise he seemed physically OK ... just a bit confused about why Sally had come after him, yellin' and wavin' her hands.
I cleaned him up a little bit. You can kinda see where the hair got burned away but otherwise he's OK.
End of story: When it was all over Henry picked up Squeaky Chicken and took him to Sally, to tell her that he was sorry for snapping at her.
Room is still a little stinky, but otherwise all is normal.
My
grandmother, Marie Bloise Cowan, on her wedding day in 1917. Twelve years and
four children later, she and my grandfather, Jack Funderburk, would be plunged
along with the rest of the world into the Great Depression.
I'm thinking
about her in particular today, as I hear people voice concerns over COVID-19.
By the time the Depression came around, "Mimi" had already been
witness to widespread and deadly outbreaks of influenza, scarlet fever,
tuberculosis and yellow fever, and a War to End All Wars. I find myself
imagining how she would approach today's situation, and find inspiration in
her.
Particularly
inspiring to me is that, during the Depression, she and my grandfather were
approached by a man who just could not afford to keep his young son. The man
knew his boy was bright, and needed an education, but he simply could not
justify a household member who couldn't work to help provide for the household.
Would they be able to take the boy in?
I wonder if
they readily said yes ... or did they fret over the decision, saying, we
already have four children and this man's asking us to take on a fifth?
My
grandparents were generous people of deep faith, so I'm reasonably certain they
unhesitatingly said Yes. Yes to the boy who brought his sole possession, a
guitar, with him. I mention the guitar because among a lifetime of
achievements, that boy was one of the founders of the Florida Folk Festival --
which is our nation's oldest state-run folk festival, 68 years strong. The boy
-- the man -- remained devoted to my grandparents all their lives.
Our current
crisis has not yet reached those epic proportions, and perhaps it never will.
(Let us hope!) But in the meantime, there are a lot of scared people out there
who may need help. I'm looking to Mimi's example. I may not have much, and
helping may require sacrifice on my part ... but ... this one's for Mimi.
I love the backroads! If you’ve got a
specific destination and a time-sensitive arrival is necessary, the Interstates
are great for getting you there fast (until they’re not, but that’s another
story for another time). But if I’ve got time to spare, I’m willing to let the
road take me. Often there are great discoveries awaiting.
And that’s just how it was on my trip home
after the last of my band’s Christmas With The Celts shows in the Florida
Panhandle. Rather than heading north to catch boring I-10 for the trip east,
and eventually south, I chose to head east on FL-20, a mostly two-lane highway
that passes through places you’ve probably never heard of like Bruce, Ebro, and
Blountstown.
About 20 miles east of Ebro, I stopped at a
place I’d never heard of until quite recently: Pitt and Sylvan Springs. (Our band’s
right-hand man Rob had briefly visited this place on his way out to the
concerts, and the pictures he took were so beautiful I had to see it for
myself.) It’s a small park managed by the Northwest Florida Water Management
District; peaceful and mostly very quiet except for the sound of the occasional
car speeding along Hwy 20.
My first short walk took me to Sylvan
Spring.
Next I walked toward the confluence of
Sylvan Spring Run and Ecofina Creek.
The spring run appears a little clearer and
a little more blue than the actual creek. I paused here for quite a while, just
enjoying the wild Florida beauty and the solitude.
There’s archaeological evidence that people
have lived in this area since the Paleoindian Era (about 12,000 – 8000 B.C.).
Ecofina Creek, however, got its name more recently. Muskogee people moving into
Florida in the late 1700s used this region to cross the creek and thus called
it “Ecofina,” which is their word for “natural bridge.”
Someone who’s far more educated as to
ecosystems than I can you exactly what sort of ecosystem this is. To me, it
just looks like “Florida.”
And this part of Florida got hit pretty
hard by Hurricane Michael. Looks to me like Michael barreled right over Pitt
and Sylvan Springs, because evidence of destruction is still everywhere … and
the recreation area was actually closed for a while, for cleanup and to make
the facilities safe for use again.
Still, nature goes on, as evidenced by this very
young Sourwood tree.
Making my way back, I crossed the common
area of parking lot and picnic shelters to take a look at the swimming hole created
by Pitt Spring. I bet on a hot day this is a wonderful place to cool off! –
even on this fairly chilly day it looked so inviting!
Again I took a long pause to stare into the
mesmerizingly blue-green depths of the pool and to watch the little fish dart
to and fro.
Turning toward the canoe dock, I came upon
this little bog
before coming back to Ecofina Creek. I’m
not a paddler, but a day on these waters sounds pretty appealing!
“Wistful” and “reluctant” are two
adjectives that come to mind for describing how I felt as I turned back toward
the car to resume the trip home. This was such a worthwhile detour!
Well, here we go. It's
not even Hallowe'en yet, but we're skipping right over that one, and Thanksgiving,
and Hanukkah, to jump ahead to the season of ... Whining about the "War on
Christmas."
Lissen here, friends, if you personally have decided to be one of those
"people [who] don't talk about ['that beautiful Christmas season'] any
more" that is fine by me. I won't be among you, but I won't judge you.
BUT ... If you have stopped "[using] the word 'Christmas' because it's not
politically correct," and for no other reason, then you give me a call. We
need to have a talk about how you can stand up for yourself without walking on
someone else. It IS possible to celebrate Christmas in all its magic and wonder
and beauty, and to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas, without apology ...
and without trampling all over the rights of another person who wants to
celebrate Christmas in their own way, or not at all, or in addition to another
holiday.
Let me help you figure out how it's done. I know it's possible, because I do
it. There is no War on Christmas! Don't let ANYONE tell you otherwise.
