June 13, 2011

• Hello my friends on this Sunday and start of the new week.  Without my book to work on, I am just taking in some of the world, and today I was marveling at all that was beautiful in the Ohio Valley even after the heat wave.  We used to walk in the shade and the showdows of summer evenings during all of our youth, and it was such a joy.  I was raising children then and did not see a lot of things, like how the shawdows play with the flowers at the end of the day and cast shawdows upon the grass, and as we came home these years later;  I just wanted to get out of the car and to be part of it. 

  During late summer; Flowers seem to loose their splendid colors, but right now there are purples, blues, and whites and still some lilacs.  I must have been breathing down his neck when Walt Whitman wrote; “When Lilacs Last In The Door Yard Bloomed;” and I believe that sometimes when know where our breath was falling in now what seems like impossible years ago.  Late evening, and a new generation of children have gone in, and soon it will be time to leave all of this for the stucco and cement of San Francisco, a world deprived of green until one gets out into the parks where there is life again, but no homes to walk off the grass to go in for supper then to run back out and catch each other playing tag just once more. 

  I must write about the green world while I can, for the golden of California, loved by natives is not my color;  However, that mountains appear purple in the west and from afar, and that Mendocino and Fort Bragg appers to be jewel boxes when the fog is not in;  I find redemtiion of a kind there for lacking the texture of our Back East.  It is this way;  When you get to be older;  You think that you belong somewhere, but when you travel back and forth; The sense of belonging seems somehow disturbed.  It has been that way for us for several years since we cast our lines on two shores going back and forth..

  I think that I am more a part of one than the other, because I love the Atlantic coasts and even arriving in The Great Plains.  I like the homes which smell like Sunday dinner picked from the gardens and fried in the bacon fat of long ago, and I love the kids catching the fireflys while they can, winter and snow fully forgotten, young lovers at a lamp post just sweetly until they  go their different paths towards home leaving the copulation to the two village pups that are too young to be reproducing..  “You stupid dogs;  Do you realize how ridiculous you look.  Can’t you see that we humans are just taking in shawdows that play, and you are acting; Well, like dogs!”

  I shall sleep this night and be pleased that I can enjoy  summer East of the Rockies a while longer, and there is something else special about this day that is so deeply ingrained that I can not find a word for it.  I think that it is the uncontrollable need to stop time when it has perfect moments, or that I just did not say;  “Stop this car, and let me out;  The transporter is waiting to take me back on the summer streets with the children I called my babies once.”  Next time I will be wise and follow the day as if we were a star.  Barbara Everett Heintz, Pinkhoneysuckle Blogger – Mid-June

  • 12:53 am
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