Winged Minion

This is not what I should be doing right now. I've got to get ready for work, and with company coming in from out of town this evening I should be using what little extra time I have to be cleaning, if not exercising or something. But when I opened a new tab on my browser (morning coffee email ritual) I realized that it has been so long since I've visited that the little picture of this window was no longer a one click option of most visited sites. While it's not like I haven't neglected you in the past, dear reader, I have, but just now that's not true. In fact, I have been on vacation and am currently working on a travelogue of my adventures, my longest post to date here in the Nightmare. I don't really know what arrogance leads me to believe anybody would be interested in how I spent my fall vacation, but I hope you enjoy it when finished. In the meantime I leave you short description of something beautiful that happened during the nightmare.

I find it difficult to distinguish between what I've told you in these pages, and what I've told others in conversation, but surely I've mentioned Ionic Stone, the limestone mill that is literally out in the woods? Yes, good. So, I like going out there but it is stressful driving a big truck through those conditions. The main hazard is oncoming traffic. A lot of people live out there and they don't expect to encounter a large vehicle taking up the entire road. But I have to make sure that the trailer tandems don't fall into that stream rounding corners, or that there's no large limb hanging into my space, not to mention deer. So, with senses on high alert I snapped to attention when I detected movement ahead, on the edge of the road; close too, about 15 feet ahead. "Wha's dat?"

It was a large Red Shouldered Hawk. It rose into the air presenting me with a view of its tawny breast and creamy wings, beating powerfully, then flew across right in front of me. It then came to rest on a tree limb giving me a view of its backside as it did so, with its banded tail splayed out and the wings beating as a brake, I imagine. It turned its head and looked at me, then soared off into the woods in one fluid motion. I mean, how lovely is that? It was a real National Geographic moment.

Stay tuned.

 

Slippery Weather

Indianapolis really dropped the ball yesterday. I'm not sure if it was the forecaster's fault, or the city administration's. Actually we'd better widen that to the entire state's because I heard of, and saw accidents outside of Marion county. It was a light freezing rain. Nothing was pretreated, not even bridges and ramps. It played havoc, causing hundreds of accidents, none of which I was involved in, thank goodness.

I probably could have saved myself a huge headache just by starting earlier. I didn't have to slow down, and see cars off the road here and there until Waverly, just south of Indy. Then I was able to get onto 465 before everything gummed up while someone who left shortly after me said that he first ran into trouble in Martinsville, and the ramp to 465 was backed up for more than a mile onto 37. I'd actually wished that I could have started earlier, so that I could have avoided Indianapolis at the 7:00 AM rush hour, but had to do a quick turn around from the day before and wasn't legally able to.

As it was it took me about three hours to get around 465 to the north side. It was a nightmare! Shadeland Avenue veers off from 465 in the south end and reconnects with it just before the I 69 junction. I called out on the CB to find out what Shadeland was like but got no reply. "What the hell, it can't be worse than this," I reasoned, and made my escape. That turned out to be a really good plan, until I came to the unannounced construction that had two of the three lanes closed! I may have saved some time, but I'll never know for sure. I was expecting to rejoin the madness when I got back to the freeway but things were flowing smoothly.

Then, on the return trip I got to Indy right at 5:00, which is always fun. I would have been earlier if it weren't for the morning's delay. I'd been listening to WFYI since somewhere south of Kokomo and had heard a couple of traffic reports, but nothing to alarm me. It wasn't until I was already heading around the east side that they reported the accident at 465 and 65. Going through the city center at that hour wasn't advisable and even if I did I'd have to get onto 465 from 65 and might still run into the backup, not to mention the construction down there. No way around it. I found myself inching along just like I had that morning, only going in the opposite direction, a lot more tired and far less patient.

So I started this morning thinking that I was tired of winter already and it wasn't even here yet. But as I got to driving in the grey of an overcast dawn, with a light dusting of snow on the ground and trees there was something heartwarming about it all. I could see the lights of the cars moving along Walnut Street through the bare trees, and the strobe atop a school bus. Then it was corn stubble in straight rows shakily drawn bristling out of the powdered sugar snow of a hummocky field. Then I was in town, not so cool, but later, in the woods north of Spenser I was grooving again. It's not really all so bad. Later in the day while I was playing in the mud at one of the quarries the sun even came out.

 

Driving Snow

Whew, it was a st-st-stressful day yesterday, driving in the first real snow accumulation. It wasn't real bad, but being the first makes it harder, nobody is used to it and they do stupid things. I was stopped on the interstate just south of Indianapolis for over an hour and a half while they cleaned up an accident, so it was really bad for somebody. There were a lot of cars off the road in different places and even one pickup truck upside down in the median.

I must have been dyslexic this morning when I googled my destination outside of Cincinnati. It was really simple, right off of 275, but when I got to 275 I went the wrong way. I turned around on US 50 and headed back. I still thought that I was right about the direction I needed to go on OH 128, but I was wrong again. It was harder to get turned around that time, and the snow certainly didn't help, but I made it. Better late than never. With the snow nobody minded.The fork lift driver looked at my truck and said, "Looks like you had a fun trip." "It was a blast," I replied then told him about going the wrong way twice. "Nice," he said.

I had to bang on the winches with my lever bar to knock the accumulated snow and ice off them, then pull on the straps to break the ice that essentially bonded the wound strap together. After loosening all of the straps I went around to the other side of the trailer to unhook them and throw them over the load so that I could wind them back onto the winches. But the straps were frozen to the load and I couldn't get any slack to unhook them. I got the first one loose by forcing my bar behind the strap and then levering it away from the load, but that wasn't working on the any of the others. I had to actually climb onto the load itself, which was covered in ice. That was the problem, the straps were underneath the ice. Crawling, not standing, I carefully made my way down the load and freed the straps, then climbed back down to unhook and throw them. Then I had to wind the straps back onto the winches which was difficult since the straps were stiff. By the time I was done my gloves were completely soaked and my fingers screaming in pain. Oh yea, I remember what it's like to be a flatbed driver in the winter time! Fortunately it had quit snowing and the sun had even come out, which made a big difference.

The return trip was much easier. The snow wasn't falling and the road essentially clear, but it had taken so long to get to my first stop that I had to haul ass to make the pick up for my back haul. It started snowing again before I made it back to the yard. I was beat by the time that I actually did make it, after a twelve hour day. I figured that I deserved a beer when I got home so I stopped and bought my weekly twelve pack. I was carrying it into the house when I got a nice surprize. The porch looked just the same as the walk up to it, snow covered, but actually there was a layer of ice underneath the new snow that had fallen. As soon as I stepped on it I lost my footing and went down. I used the twelve pack to break my fall, which worked wonderfully, it absorbed almost all of the force of my fall. For a moment I irrationally held out the hope that none of the bottles had broken, but I smelled it first, then a brown puddle of beer began to spread from out of the still intact carton. It wasn't too bad though. I came down on a corner of the twelve pack and only two bottles broke, one day's allotment.

Something in the Air

I couldn't put my finger on it, it was intangible. I was in Western Illinois, approaching St. Louis. The freeway climbed into some low wooded hills. If there were differences in the surrounding flora than what one would find back in Indiana I couldn't see them. I was at the same latitude so the quality of light shouldn't have altered, yet there was something, some elusive quality that told me I was closer to the Great Plains. I can't explain it but it was so, and I've felt it before as well. If it were just that I knew I was further west and so concocted the experience then why did it hit me all of a sudden, while my attention was on something completely different?

So autumn is all but over and I all but missed it compared to the last two years. But hey, it's my job. During the peak I was sent to the same place that I'd gone when I detoured through the woods along the stream, but knowing that the detour was there I was bound to take the southern, faster route, a four lane divided highway through an industrial zone along the Ohio River for most of it. I'd have rather gone the scenic route, and nobody told me that I couldn't, but I was bound to complete my task as quickly and efficiently as possible. The rest is just fringe benefit,

Hallelujah

Is the Universe answering my prayers, or what? So much further north I would have expected Goshen and environs to be further advanced toward winter, the trees bare, but in fact I saw some of the most gorgeous color I've seen all season today. It was overcast but the quality of light might change the character of the color, but never its depth. Muted is just as good, sometimes better.

Northern Indiana may be flat, but it was once High Forest too, and there are some beautiful old trees in those long settled towns; mature urban growth. It was downright beautiful, never mind the traffic.

Ah, once again, I have so much more to say, but I'm tired. Sweet dreams all.

Highway Blues

Past the peak, but still pretty as hell Autumn is beginning to wind down. Halloween is nearly here, many trees are already bare. It's been beautiful but I haven't gotten to enjoy it as much as I'd have liked. The last two years with Stonebelt I spent the vast majority of the fall season shuttling around Southern Indiana. This year we're short on drivers and I've spent a lot of time making deliveries as far away as the western suburbs of Chicago or Stanton Kentucky, running the interstates. The color is still there, of course. It's not like the interstates don't run through the same region, but it's not the same. Even if everywhere I drove was as pretty as Southern Indiana, the way that Stanton is, in the mountains, it's still not the same. You're separated from the landscape by a wide buffer while billboards and development proliferate throughout, not to mention the traffic. I've truly come to despise the interstates. They're a nightmare. There's a lot more that I was going to say but I just got back from a 12 hour trip to Charleston, IL and have to do Goshen, IN in the morning after a 10 hour turn around. Talk at you later.

Fringe Benifits

To think; I get paid to drive around Southern Indiana. Southern Indiana is beautiful. It can be a pleasure to drive its hills at any time of the year but it's especially nice in the autumn, when the trees show their true colors.

Why, I drove back Indiana highways today, and it was beautiful. Highway 3 was closed so I had to detour down highway 203, which is just a little slip of a road, maximum speed limit 45. For several miles it wound through the woods along the bank of a stream. The color on the trees was intense. It had started out rainy but for this part of the trip the sun came back out. Let me repeat, it was beautiful.

Of course I would rather have been in a sports car rather than a heavily loaded 18 wheeler. The road was narrow, and unfamiliar which engendered a lot of stress, but overall it was an enjoyable ride. Later it clouded over again and spat rain while I shuttled trailers around between Jeffersonville and New Albany, but on my way home, back out in the country, the sun returned.

I don't always have it so good though, tomorrow I go to Chicago.

Long Shot

I wish you'd come in once in awhile, just to say hello.

 

Scrumptious

Another sunrise with color good enough to eat. I saw a dry cornfield ready for harvest, orange in the early light, with high red clouds drybrushed in swirls across an azure sky. It was but a passing moment, not an extended process building to a crescendo as in Morning Muse, but the beauty was potent and woke me to appreciate the quiet splendor of Southern Indiana at dawn, I had been but doing my job on a highway I'd travelled uncounted times (US 231 north of Spencer), then my eyes were opened.

The next thing I saw was the color in the trees. Autumn is in its early stages yet, but it's been a couple of weeks now since it began. Again, though, I'd only ever looked with my mundane eye. Now I saw red, orange, yellow mixed amongst the predominant green, muted as they were in the nascent light. The colors themselves, but especially their mixtures ignited my soul. It's as if my subtle emotion body were an egg shaped sphere where disparate zones glow with the stimulus of different wavelengths of light; the intermediate areas being the most exciting, if the least energized. I'm not trying to be poetic, I'm trying to describe what autumn actually feels like to me.

It wasn't long until I was back at work; the landscape, the sky, the air appreciated but mere backdrop. Traffic to negotiate, customers to deal with, loads to be secured and unsecured. My last load of the day was my first wide load. I've done over length before, where you have to be really careful rounding corners, but this load stuck out beyond the sides of the trailer. It was a piece of housing for the new crusher over at Independent Quarry. It required a permit, the banners and the flags, but it wasn't big enough to need an escort, I was wishing I had one though. "How the hell am I going to get that thing down Victor Pike?" I wondered. It was late enough that at least I figured I wouldn't meet any trucks coming the other way. A school bus might be a problem but most cars are below the bed of my trailer anyway. What was the first thing that I met once I'd turned onto Victor? You guessed it, two big trucks coming my way. No problem.

Who has time to savour the subtlety of the environment, especially when it's your home and you see it every day? It won't be long now, though, till Autumn is in our faces and can't be ignored. I'm sure that I'll feel then as I usually do, that although it's but a brief episode of the year the fall color is somehow eternal.

All Work and No Play

Whew, I'm beat; another 14 hour day. They sent me all the way down to Monticello, Kentucky today, below Lake Cumberland and spitting distance from Tennessee. Not particularly far for an Over the Road driver, but let's remember that I'm a day tripper. This also came at the end of a very long, intense week. In fact the whole adventure started the evening before, with elements that were ramifications from the day before that; but I'll spare you the sordid details. Let's just say that I was back to work 10 hours from when I'd parked the truck, as soon as the law allowed. Granted, I didn't think that the one pm cut-off for delivery was firm, but I still have my pride.

The trip plan I was given was as if delivering straight from the mill, through Indianapolis, but I was starting from Bloomington. Fortunately there was a driver at the terminal in the morning who was familiar with the area and gave me an excellent route. His advise was golden, and the trip plan might have been OK too, if I'd actually been delivering in Monticello. That's what screwed me up. You see, Monticello is on the eastern side of Wayne County, and Wayne Lumber, my destination, the western side. Of course I waited to call for specific directions until I'd already struggled through Somerset and Burnside. My bad. I'd have done much better to have left the Cumberland Parkway on US 127 instead of going all the way to US 27.

Oh, and just so this story is spinning correctly let me mention that it rained off and on all day, making driving more difficult. But I made it before one pm! Just barely; by a matter of minutes.

There was a guy standing out front of the office eyeing me skeptically as I pulled up. He nodded when I greeted him then said, "We stop receiving at one, you'll have to wait till Monday." I must have looked really dejected because he guffawed and actually put his arm around my shoulder, giving me a manly shake. He was just kidding.

Looking at the map I figured I'd added an hour and a half to my trip what with all the stop lights in Somerset, which were definitely NOT timed. In truth it turned out that it was probably only more like an hour, or forty five minutes, even. You see, US 127 turned out to be the "scenic route." Back at the terminal when we were figuring out how I should go the experienced driver got all the way to Lake Cumberland then said, "Now you need a boat to cross; take the ferry."

127 is a good road, but it's windy, through the mountains. The speed limit may be 55 but practically you can do no better than 45 or so, average, if that. I actually caught myself bitching about it. I knew my weekend wasn't going to start until late but wait a second; "You're in the Mountains, Steve; take a deep breath and enjoy this."

I'm so glad that I relaxed before I got to...the dam. US 127 crosses the dam that holds back Cumberland Lake. I had several cars behind me approaching the 90 degree turn onto the dam. I had to stop until traffic cleared to make the turn. All the oncoming cars kept going onto the shoulder as if afraid of me. I wondered if I was over the yellow line, but wasn't. Perhaps the first one was afraid and the others followed? But no, there was a break, too small for me to go but large enough to stop a lemming. Yet they gave berth too. Perhaps they were trying to be kind, to give me enough room? More likely, but not sufficient. I needed the WHOLE road to make that turn.

I was stressed because I thought I was holding people up, but once I'd finally turned I found that the tailgaters had all come to the dam for the view and parked. I was free to cross at leisure.

And what a view it was. The lake to my right, narrower than some, but bounded by higher hills, and to the left a fucking Gorge. I've always wondered if that's not the etymology of "gorgeous." I guess we could look that up. But the view was of the Cumberland River curving off with a snake of mist above its surface mimicking what? Its future course, or the course of the river that was lost? No matter or energy is ever lost. "Gee, I hope this dam doesn't give way!"

So that was cool but there was another factor that frustrated me on the way back. This too you can look up online: The Worlds Longest Yardsale. Yup, US 127 in Southern Kentucky. Social scientists will be busy for years cataloguing this simian behaviour. It was early enough that it wouldn't have been an issue on the way in, but coming out..."I just wanna go home!" Then I passed KY 55, the highway I'd taken down to the Parkway before I realized it would have been my escape route. So if, which I doubt, I ever have to do this trip again I'll know the way to go, and a couple of ways NOT to go.

It's always easier in the morning, afternoon traffic sucks, everywhere. Imagine what it was like when I got to Louisville at five PM on a Friday, with every major road in that city under construction. "I just wanna go home!" But I made it, in one piece, glad of the overtime and with a story to tell. Yet that's not what I wanted to share with you, that was just blowing off steam:

I was on a back road in Davies County; Amish country. There were some sheep in an overgrown pasture. That was picturesque enough but the puppy bounding toward the sheep, its head rising out of the grass and disappearing again was priceless. Then I saw the two young boys in coveralls coming through a gate into the field to run after the dog and thought, "I must be in a Winslow Homer painting!"

Isolation Nightmare

It's over a month until the anniversary of 9-11 yet the event has come up repeatedly in the past few weeks. The company that I work for, Stone Belt Freight Lines, is bringing limestone from the facade of the Pentagon damaged in 9-11 back from DC (it was Indiana Limestone to begin with) for a memorial they are erecting in Indianapolis. Twice recently I've heard people at The Club that I frequent on the weekends, my "third place," talk about feeling at loose ends and unsure how to cope on that fateful day, then finding solace and community at the bar. Then, just tonight, at that same bar I kept hearing 9-11, 9-11. I turns out that one of the regulars has just bought a Porsche 911. Not quite the same thing but serendipity will have its way.

I truly appreciate the community that The Club affords, but my experience of 9-11 was quite different. I was Over the Road. I was in Virginia Beach, a locality that, with its naval station was set on high alert. Thank goodness I was sent west from there, across the Dismal Swamp, rather than north toward DC, where no traffic was moving.

The first I heard of events was local radio telling mothers to keep their children home from school. I remember talking to a young man in the trailer yard where I picked up my westbound load who was sure it was the beginning of the end of the world. Being jaded I figured it's always the beginning of the end of the world but was deeply affected nonetheless. There was a massive disruption in the Force that day. I too was at a loose end, unsure how to cope.

I reached out through email. I hadn't started The Reluctant Trucker yet but I had been doing email, which eventually led to the blog. I wrote a piece and sent it out to everyone on my contact list. I would edit it now, but here is what I wrote:

   I delivered a load to Bayonne New Jersey once, an industrial town on the southern tip of an island in the Hudson River just below Manhattan. There were several hours to kill while they unloaded us so I wandered around the surreal industrial landscape. I could see two twins high rise towers in the distance above the acres of million gallon oil tanks and the miles and miles of pipeline. I thought to myself, "There's a city over there, I wonder what city it is. It can't be very large, it only has two big buildings." Yet there was something incongruous about the size of those towers and how far away they seemed.
   You see, this was way back when I first started driving. I knew that we were in Jersey but I didn't know where. For some reason I thought that we were in the southern part of the state, having arrived during my co-driver's shift while I was asleep in the back. It never occurred to me that I was seeing the tops of the World Trade Center in NYC. Little city indeed.
   That's how impossibly huge those towers were, I could see them as if complete, but none of the other buildings of New York. Seemingly twice the height of the tallest of the buildings that clustered at their feet they were out of all proportion to the rest of Manhattan. Seen from the East off the Brooklyn Queens Expressway lower Manhattan was nicely framed in the truck window, but the tops of the WTC were lost behind the roof of the cab. From the North they still dominated even though most of the city lay between. I've heard that they were measurably farther apart at the top than at the base because of the curvature of the Earth. Mighty impressive structures, and beautiful, I suppose, in a minimalist sort of way, though far less interesting than the jumble of architecture they lorded over. And now they're gone.
   I speak of architecture because it’s something that I can grasp. Buildings can be rebuilt, the lives lost are irreplaceable. Sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, sisters, brothers, friends, enemies, lovers, fiancées, innocent victims all. I'm staggered. I can't grasp it, but I'm affected by it. The closest thing in history was probably Hiroshima and Nagasaki, though this, of course, is closer to home.
   I want to share with you how close it came, and how lucky I, and some of you, are. My ex-brother-in-law, Uncle Asolm, worked as the day manager at the Windows on the World Restaurant formerly located in the World Trade Center, NYC. I don't know the details but for some reason he didn't go to work that day, thank the Goddess. Apparently his brother was there but he got out in time. I heard a story on NPR, though, about a woman looking for her sister who was a waitress there and is now missing. We just don't know what might have been had he gone to work, I'm just thankful that he didn't.

Just to clarify one point: Essom worked at a restaurant in the concourse, in the lower floors, which is why his brother, who also worked there was able to escape. We still don't know what would have happened if he had gone to work that day.

Conspiracy theory: Being a devout Muslim who prays five times a day Essom must have known about the attack and his brother, whose name I forget just now and who I have only seen once through closed lids as he stepped past me on his way to work as a cab driver, while I slept on the living room floor of Jean and Essom's house north of the city, was surely there to set off the CIA explosives that brought down the third building.

I don't know what the truth is except not that.

But back to my email; I longed for an answer and got one. Only one, from someone that I wasn't very close to. I wrote in my journal,  "I feel more isolated than ever."

Later, in a phone call to someone else I'd sent the email to I probed the subject. The reply: "Do you know how insulting it is to get an email addressed to a whole list of people, as if I don't count?" I was crushed and didn't even ask if he'd read it. I doubt now that he did and realize too that it's not a writing culture, that a reply might have been too much to hope for. After that rebuff I let the issue lie.

It's more than a month away from the anniversary of 9-11, and more than a decade since the event, but I am still affected by it. All those Sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, sisters, brothers, friends, enemies, lovers, fiancées gone. Exes too, but who cares about them?

Aesthetic Statement

I delivered a trailer full of carpet scraps to a recycling facility on the north side of Indy, directly across the road from where I used to park my car so that I could get back in the truck I'd previously parked there and vice versa, on and on for eight years or so, back when I was an over the road driver. I felt a visceral emotion.

Nostalgia?

No. I felt again that gnawing anxiety that was permanently lodged in my gut for the decade I spent driving long haul. Talk about a nightmare.

I'm a good traveller, I did it well. I had a home, I just chose to be gone, for money. My heart goes out to every refugee everywhere, whether chosen, and especially if not.

So I'm glad that I'm writing again, even if it is in these condensed little posts, sporadically. I was talking with another blogger recently and realized that one reason I don't write more often, or in longer posts is not that I was then, (in The Reluctant Trucker years) assuaging that gut knot; the pain, but that I spent uncounted hours on the boring interstates and used that time to compose. More often than not I now drive in the quickly changing environment of small highways, byways, or even lanes through the woods, on occasion. I don't have the luxury of composing blog posts in my mind anymore.

Pain is not necessary for art, but time is, unless you're driven. I was merely driving.

So, friends, I was driving across IN 157 north of Bloomfield again today. I don't know what combination of atmospheric properties and light caused the effect, but the farthest ridges were not blue with distance, but positively purple. I also reflected on the fact that it might have been a bad idea to recommend the route as yielding vistas on both sides of the road, even with the trees in full leaf. I realized that as a truck driver I sit a lot higher than most. I'm not sure what you'd see from a car window, or a bicycle.

Take everything I say with a grain of your preference.

Landfill Picnic

And it was a picnic compared to that "Epic Nightmare" of 12/23/2012. (The nightmare before Christmas? For more specifics of the nightmare please see the next post "Catching Up" of 1/19/2013 as well. ) I went back to the top of Vigo County to smell the fresh air. Only it was warm, and dry this time. Piece of cake. The view is spectacular which my cell phone camera cannot, of course adequately convey:

Landfill, that's all you need to know. All in a day's work.

So I've considered changing the name of this blog. I mean, where's the nightmare? Commuting to Indianapolis every day was a nightmare, truly, but all in all I'm happy with what I'm doing now. Still, "They're slinging missiles in the Mid East, they're slinging mud here in the States...(Chris Little)." Like Johnny Cash, I'll continue to wear black. We're Big Boat Buddhists.

Process note: The upper photo was not staged. I'd idly thought about getting a snapshot of the basket earlier but was working and didn't get the chance. I figured it would be gone when I got back, ploughed under by the heavy equipment that regularly shakes the compacted mass, but it was still there, only now filled with dirt and a soda bottle next to it. "Look Boo Boo, a Pikanik Basket!"

Jumped the Gun

Who knew that July would be so mild? I usually wait until I've spent a few restless nights before I install the air conditioner each year. I did it pro forma this year, expecting the worst. Once done it's not easily reversed. I can now no longer open my window to the night.

Yesterday morning I shuffled out of my bedroom to find the rest of the house cooler and sweeter than my climate controlled sleeping chamber. Last night I just left the thing off. I slept OK but the air was stuffy when I awoke. I could hear the birds though, which is a plus.

There's no point to this inanity, just to say that the weather is beautiful, I guess. Happy Independence Day!

Morning Muse

Dawn: Jewel in the crown of the day. Both of the transition periods are gorgeous but dusk is so frenetic, its promise relief. Dawn is peaceful, the start of something new.

I've said before that one of the unexpected bonuses of being a truck driver is that you get to see many a sunrise. That still holds true as a local driver, even at midsummer. I've had to start early every day this week and have seen as many dawns. Thursday's was my muse:

The temps were in the seventies, the humidity low yet a mist rose from every field, dale and hollow; sometimes homogenous, sometimes stratified in undulating layers. Before the sun actually rose its red orange light reflected off a bank of cloud setting the eastern sky ablaze. As the light grew its reflection reached the blue grey mist in the fields setting a zone of oh, so subtle color alight atop it. I realized that Monet wan't up to this task. With all of Van Gogh's candles on his hat it would still be hopeless. Maybe Turner could have captured its essence?

The light grew until the whole eastern sky was on fire and nothing was subtle any more: complimentary colors were hovering above the fields before my eyes! You probably wouldn't believe it if you saw it in a painting.

Then the sun rose behind that reflecting bank of cloud and the glory deflated. Regardless, the mist was no longer blue grey and orange, now pure silver. The beauty never stops.

The beauty never stops still those moments of rapturous glory are rare. I traversed the selfsame territory at nearly the same time yesterday but everything was different. The humidity more intense with no atmospheric reflectors to enliven things; the world was just gray. I still got a visual treat worth mentioning though:

It was later in the morning, the sun already up. Travelling east on I-64 in Louisville, along the bank of the Ohio both the river and the sky were the same color, one vast expanse bisected by the lines of bridges. The water was luminous, seemingly giving off more light than the sky. I don't remember the sun, just a general haze, yet it must have been shining because a barge and a couple of small boats in the distance set the water around them sparkling.

Keep your eyes open my friends, the beauty never stops.

Auditory Ques

Gorgeous weather; what I'm talkin' 'bout.

I was working in the garden yesterday morning when I heard something approach. I knew it was an animal, a four footed rhythm. Expecting a dog I saw a spotted faun.

My first thought was that it was coming to graze, but no, the poor thing seemed unaware of both the garden and me. It stopped just ten feet from where I sat and with its tail wrapped tight between it's legs sniffed the air, the grass, the woodpile. It wandered over and examined the opened shed where the lawnmower resides. For a moment it sensed me, looked right at me sniffing with its ears all akimbo, then moved on to the back yard.

I fear for it. It spent about twenty minutes within my gaze and not once did I hear the husky bark of its mother or see another deer at all. It will find its way home, whether that's within the fold or the belly of a coyote I don't know, but I was graced by its presence.

Later I had the chain saw out getting ready for next winter when I heard a motorcycle. Between cuts I turned to watch the road and didn't see anything so went back to work.

But wait, I could still hear it and looked again. Still the road was empty. I revved the engine then let it idle trying to determine if the sound was coming from me. Nothing; so I went back to work.

Soon back pipes were firing and a whole gaggle of motor bikes were passing me by, I could feel the vibration in my chest; I thought I'd heard something.

Summertime.

Honeysuckle On the Breeze

 

I got the inspiration for this post over a week ago, I'd better write it while it's still Springtime, the best time of the year in my book. The days are long and getting longer, the temperatures comfortable and the humidity low, for the most part. People are outdoors at barbeques and yard sales, going to baseball games and having parties in the back yard, the front lawn packed with cars. In other yards kids are playing sports. Why, when I came home just this evening my next door neighbor was playing tag with her two young sons whose laughter was music to rival the ever-present birdsong, except after the sun sets when the crickets and frogs take over.

Ah, and the vegetative world is growing with the exuberance of youth; the woods and meadows lush, the agricultural fields nascent with tender seedling. I crested a hill and beheld a valley so green that I couldn't believe it. I'm not sure what created that effect but that's what prompted me to write this post. I don't remember now where exactly it was, on some Southern Indiana back highway, but I do remember that view was of nothing but trees, no buildings or power lines of any kind. Strange; you'd think some contrast would further the sensation, but whatever the cause it was a beautiful experience.

Yet still people complain. There's always something wrong. It rains too much, or it's a trifle too hot. I've found myself doing it, it's almost obligatory in certain situations. Then again it hasn't been all sweetness and light either. We've had a few warm days with high humidity. I've been uncomfortable.

There was one day when the humidity was as thick as I believe I've ever seen it. Indiana 157 north of Bloomfield runs along the crest of the highest ridge in the area. It's a place where one can still see vistas across the "Little Smokies" even with the trees in leaf, on both sides of the road. On the day of hyper-humidity the atmospheric perspective was so pronounced that the receding hills looked like flat cardboard cutouts placed in front of each other, growing whiter with distance; not blue, white.

One last anecdote before I head to bed: I was caught in a downpour leaving the Club. The parking lot is ringed with locust trees, which had been in bloom for a couple of weeks, I guess. The rain was knocking the delicate little petals loose which then fluttered down like snow. The air was thick with their scent. I ran to the car, not so much to keep dry, but because it felt good to run, to be alive!

Shhh, This is the transition time. I just heard the conspicuous silence when the bird outside my window quit singing. No, not silence, the crickets are already chirping. After a bit there were a few birds doing their "Good night John-boys." Now the frogs have begun to join the chorus. The owls will be out later. I haven't heard any whippoorwills here since they cut the timber.

Enjoy it.

 

Rebirth

Springtime! Color returns to the landscape: "peachy" leaf buds, magenta redbuds trees, yellow forsythia, the white and pink of flowering ornamentals, with a light dusting of the delicate green of baby leaves settled on the hillsides, a darker green brimming the lawns and pastures. And it's just begun. The blades of the bulbs are up, but I haven't seen any blossoms yet. I'll probably see my first tommorrow.

It's not that there's no color to winter, it's that the color is so muted and somber. Winter has its own stark beauty, not even counting the snow clad wonderland. I surprised myself by being nostalgic for it even before it was gone. It was last week, or the week before. I was coming back from the quarry with a load of limestone on and as I rounded a curve the the bare branches of some red stemmed shrub were set against ocher fields. "This won't last much longer," I found myself saying. Not that I'll truly miss it, but at least the moment was appreciated.

There are some things I will miss about the winter landscape. The vistas across our karst topography here, our "Little Smokies," soon to be hidden by leaves. Along the same vein but more practical I'll definitely miss being able to see what's coming ahead around curves on these windy country lanes I have to drive with my big truck. I don't think I ever miss the beauty of the snow or its crunch underfoot, there's too much else filling my senses in the Spring, Summer and Autumn, but I do enjoy it when it's here (and hate it too, let me be clear).

Anyway, Happy Spring Everyone!

Negative Seven

 

Seven degrees below zero was the temperature that the local radio gave. It was 8:00 AM and the guys said, "We don't unload trucks in negative temperatures. Maybe by noon."

"Sweet," I thought but knew that they were only kidding. I was the one that had to go out there to unstrap and de-tarp the load. They waited till I had it mostly clear then shuttled out on their forklift and back again.

I did well; I kept moving and got the job done. I'd say about an hour and a half of constant exposure. All in a day's work.

The thing that I can't understand is that I share the story but get no sympathy. I can only imagine one or two of you who could have endured that task not only without complaining but, while struggling to fold the frozen tarps (forget getting them off the trailer in the first place) stepping up to transfer the chalks so that the fork lift driver in his ski mask doesn't have to move off his seat.

I don't know why. I start to tell the story and suddenly everybody's got their own story to tell. I know that it's nothing compared to what our ancestors endured throughout the Ice Ages, but I'd like a little respect.

What was it Rodney Dangerfield said?