Shawdowy, drooping, black, hunched over shapes catch the eye and rip it from its' socket realizing there are a dozen or more of these shapes hanging in what used to be a living, vribrant tree. 

In Chatham and all around Pittsylvania County, the vultures live communally. 

Turning the corner from the highway, their forboding large, black feathered bodies lurk in the limbs of a dying tree. Recalling the mangled limbs and protruding red innerds of an unlucky white tail deer lying prostrate in the road, I came to a conclusion:

it seems the Vultures know about rush hour.

 

All visible factors show no need to pounce on their already still breakfast while cars whiz past, disturbing their feast.

 

  Vultures know about rush hour,

 

it will all be over soon and from then until around noon,

they can twist and tear that flesh and bone from limb to limb and be all alone. No honking horns, no screeching tires giving them rise to snatch and run, they've only just begun. 

 

I must conclude, as clues exude: 

 

Vultures KNOW about rush hour!

White Oak Mountain View

On a clear day at the top of White Oak Mountain you can see the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The hills loom up along the horizon like rock monsters. In grayscale, due to the distance, there is no distinction of green leaves or brown trunks, just mounds disrupting the blue sky, some are long ridges, some are rounded peaks, and one looks like an Eqyptian pyramid. Ones mind wanders towards them like the calling of the Sirens at sea or the temptation of mirages in the desert or the sweet smell of baking. The next morning, the haze returns and the mountains seem to have disappeared into the background, leaving a mystery for the horizon.

Pant legs flapping in the wind look as though they are trying to get away from that pinching pin of wood, hoping to catch up to the shirts hanging beside them. The wind holds their legs just far enough off the ground to keep them from running away in the yard. They keep flapping and flipping undaunted by their captor of wrapped twine and metal poles, seemingly unaware of their unanimated condition. White T-shirts hung from the shoulders seem pinched and tethered, helpless to change their position. Wind finds its way behind their opposition and pushes it out of the way. This is something you do not see everyday.

The Soul in Me...

Passing by the old cemetaries, I, of late, have caught a glimpse of shadows, spirits, optical illusions. Perhaps they are optical allusions. Spiritually tuned up, I feel them looking at me as I drive by. Their grave stones etched by the wind and scarred by the oxidation of water, can we even tell who they once were? Do they want us to know, or; might they prefer to remain anonymously frightening? I wonder these things as I ride past their haunts and peer curiously into the woods at their stones having become overgrown by trees and underbrush, guarding the secrets of their past. I feel a chill. I look away not wanting to disturb.

Their souls are wandering around in my brain tonight. The soul of my loving Aunt Meme, my "kindred spirit" as she used to say; the soul of Unkie her sweet" Mr. Wright" who loved me from deep in his heart; the soul of my dad puffing away on his pipe turning the smoke into fog; the soul of my mother singing her siren song; the soul of Paul, my dear sweet brother-in-law, gone too soon listening to all our conversations to pass the family secrets on to souls unknown, the soul of the recently departed Reginald Edwards reaching back to kiss his wife goodbye one more time; the soul of my beloved friend, Cecil Belcher, laughing at me having "some grass" for lunch. So many souls.

Perhaps their wandering spirits wish to roam, and; envy my freedom. My freedom to see them or not, my freedom to choose my way as their time has passed.

Halloween in Pittsylvania County where history is still living!

Jimmie Mills from Whitmell

Jimmie Mills was a great friend of ours who grew up in Whitmell in Pittsylvania County. Saturday, Otober 11, 2011, we celebrated his life with a small group of family and friends. We sat and listened to home town yarns reveling in his humor and what we always called "Jimberisims". One aunt told us what a beautiful child he was and how they would walk downtown in Danville on a Saturday afternoon as people on the street admired the cherub faced little boy. She said she was actually too young to be his mother, but that was what people assumed. She said she didn't mind. She was proud to be with him.

As a youthful man he rode a motocycle, but he wasn't a sterostypical "biker". He was gentle and chiding with his friends, caring and giving with his family. He loved to tell a good story and to make others laugh. We laughed through our tears and knew we all would miss his keen wit and winning smile.

His wife, Pattie had 68 balloons there, one for each year of his life. Each guest was asked to take one and send it off in the air. Michael and I waited until we reached the Whitmell community where Jimmie grew up, went to school and where his father owned a store. We pulled in to the old Whitmell School parking lot and let them go. They were pink and floated westward into the sunset staying an equal distance apart until disappearing from view. We loved Jimmie, he was a Pittsylvania County boy.

Free as a bird

I am a free spirit
I see the spirit in everything...
the cricketts sing, the church bells ring,

the wind blows, the truth knows,

I rise to the top like oil on water

I use negative thoughts as though it was fodder

I turn dirt into gold and never grow old,

my thoughts without limit...

Give me your peaceful spirit and I will give you a minute.

The leaves fall and are transformed into permanent shapes. They crispy up like fried chicken in hot lard. Their ends turn up or their sides turn down. Their crispiness sounds like tiny feet skittering along the roadway. The rain seems to soften them again and they clump up in the gutters and edges of roofs. They float from their perches on branches far above sliding from side to side like an amusement park ride. 
Appearing as feathers, when wet, stick to the first object in the way. Many leaves cling on into the late fall as though they cannot stand the thought of falling to the ground, or are unwilling to have their lives come to an end. Perhaps the leaves know that the tree will have to suffer the cold of winter with no blanket of leaves to protect and warm it. Maybe they are just too lazy to take the plunge. 
When all is said and done, we accept the leaves as they are: green, red, yellow, rust, brown or on the ground!

Feel the Fall rain

Barely perceptible, the rain gently fell like endless sheer curtains floating across the eyes. The mimosa leaves gently swayed with the weight of the droplets, caressing each one as they slid down the veins and captured their heart. Across the sky, the clouds wafted like cotton candy in the wind, offering sweet soft moisture with every movement. The drops gently touched the face and the exposed skin of arms still longing for sleeveless blouses and feet remembered the freedom of toes peeking out of sandals. One could walk through these sheets of tepid tea from the sky and never notice the joy of warm rain as the days turn to cool and the nights beckon to winter. But, don't! Stop, feel, love, sniff the air and find the way to paradise right here, right now.

A Bird's life, a moth's flight

Opening up the car window to let in the out,  I hear "kerflutter, kerflutt, kerflutter".  I look out.
A few feet in front of a bouncing, fluttering female Cardinale was a moth in the flight of its life.  The moth lifted up and down as he flurried across the black asphalt attempting not to become lunch.  And, when it veered off to the side of the road into the tall grass, it was like a cloak of invisibility.  The bird lifted his flight as though there had never been pursuit.  A day in the life.

The Road Traveled

The car bumps along the county road like it knows the way without me; and I look. Look at the creativity and industriousness of the people who live in the houses. They have been very busy, planting trees and flowers and tropical plants, banana trees, hanging ferns on the deck, stacking rocks, placing chairs and gnomes and flamingos in the just right spots. But, sometimes there's a renegade in the neighborhood, or perhaps just a forgotten pile of once useful equipment left to rust and become a gigantic flowerpot for vines and blossoms. Undaunted by lawn mowers, weed eaters and posing as a windshield, engine and front of that once proud workhorse of the farm or junk business.  It makes me laugh.

City Folks and Country Folks

Sitting on the curb drinking my can of soda, I observed. City folks and country folks think they are so different. They are really not. We all gas our cars, buy our groceries, feed our children, and cook our dinners. There are jealous men, and; women who stray from the path of rightousness. Hidden from view, the low branches obscure my prying eyes and ears. I hear a voice. It is a man, he curses loudly into his cell phone. This is the sound of a mistreated man. He advises his conversant that the back of his front will be HIS if he catches him with HER! These things happen in bustling cities and quiet country towns. The sound of jealousy and rage have all the same resonance and resolve. The car's engine reves reflecting his anger. I can see by the plastic covering the passenger window that life is not easy for him, and his voice leaves an impression on my mind. Country or city, life is not always kind.

The Two Chimes in Chatham

The ordinary sounds of the out of doors: birds chirping, breeze blowing, dogs barking, cars passing is interuped briefly by the age old tune of the chiming clock culminating in the sounding of the hours. But, wait, there's another one. It's about one minute slower than the first. My theory is that time lapses in the town of Chatham, a sleepy little place that exsists due to having the distinct honor of being the county seat. I read that it has held that status since 1777. I suppose it would be difficult for a clock to maintain its' integrity for that long. I found myself reliving the moment. How wonderful, I thought, I can relive the exact moment that the clock struck 2! It begs the question: has one clock gained time, or has one clock lost time? As I sit and ponder these moments that pass, I realize that I don't know where these chimes originate. There is Hargrave Military Academy and Chatham Hall School and there are more churches than you would think that a population of only 1,338 persons could support. Having only 2 square miles to call home, the clocks proudly chime hour after half hour reminding us of the passing of time and, yet, can only be heard if one is paying close attention.

Watering the golden leaf

The men,the tobacco, the field, the sun, the clouds, the trucks, the sprinklers, the rainbow, exhibited the wonder of it all.  The tobacco, just up out of the ground and visible, needs the tender care of water as do all living things.  Standing beside the road, the men had their arms crossed and their heads cocked back as if they were enjoying the fruits of their labors.  The sky was blue and clear as the backdrop for the sparkling beads of beauty raining down on their crop.  Quiet rainbows formed in the spaces where the spraying water collided.  The short and uniform plants swayed as if dancing for the joy of the drink.  All was well for the golden leaf of Pittsylvania County on this day.