My Country Life

Merry Christmas, family and friends. I love creating my Christmas card every year -- selecting a favorite photograph or two, creating the card, crafting the message, and addressing each one. Signed, sealed and stamped with love – it's a Christmas wish, from my heart to yours. Whether taped to the fridge or the mantel, or simply tossed in a pile on the desk, a card sent the old fashioned way is sweetest. But it ain't happening for me this year! Here's the card I created in early November, just before I grabbed the tail of a tornado.

Down by the creek, near where I cross every day on my walk, stands a huge sweet gum tree. For as long as I can remember, the tree has shown signs of disease – a big gaping hole at the base and fissures that extend up the trunk. Nevertheless, it reaches like a rocket, perfectly straight and taller than all the others. A while back, in the dead of winter, I noticed a raccoon had crawled inside the den at the base of the tree and died. She had probably lived there her entire life. But on this day, upon returning from her nightly hunt, exhausted, she laid down for an eternal rest. It snowed soon after, and each time I passed I thought of her. When the snow melted, I left her undisturbed and covered her with leaves and dirt.

Yellow Hibiscus at Jekyll Island last week. Learning to appreciate and write poetry at 50-plus is proving to be a fun challenge. I shared my poem to a deceased person (this week’s assignment) with the class last night. You can read it here . I like my poem, and the lady next to me told me she loved it and talked about her own father; I could tell she was sincere. (My siblings all said they liked it, but hey, what else can they say?) The teacher thought it was too straight forward and she didn’t like the ending. She didn’t like that Daddy was sitting in a recliner watching television in the end and actually suggested that I change it to something "more interesting." I think she meant something more worthwhile.  “Well, it is about my dad. We didn’t sit around reading poetry and playing the violin. He worked hard in a blue collar job all week, all his life, and he liked to sit in his recliner on Saturday afternoon sometimes. It’s a fond memory for me,” I replied, with att...

Daddy 1979 The latest assignment for my poetry class is to write a poem to a deceased person. Here's my poem to my father who passed away on June 2, 1998. I'll be sharing it in class tomorrow night.

I'm enrolled in a poetry workshop at Emory this fall. This is the first time I've given poetry any serious consideration. I'll be reading lots of poetry and writing some too. The first class was last Tuesday, and my first assignment is to write a narrative poem to share with the class this week. Following is the poem that I wrote.

Late Summer Morning The big old gnarly cherry tree–the one over by the driveway–has been dropping leaves for more than a week now. A carpet of brown, yellow, and gold already covers the surrounding ground. In silence and near stillness, another floats to join them. Then another. Then three all at once. Randomly and softly. Soothing and hypnotic. Wildflowers adorn the edges of the driveway and the dirt road. Tiny yellow star-shaped blossoms sit atop delicate, airy, bright-green stems. Pale pink beaded ones and brilliant blue orchid ones mingle in the morning sun. Lacy white bouquets divide the familiar golden rod from the plentiful happy yellow daisies.

Waiting for the School Bus 1969-70 School Year Recently, Sue Collins, the editor of two magazines that I write for, asked for a back-to-school memory to share in the August issue. I wrote the following poem which was published this month in both BuckHaven Lifestyle and Perimeter North Lifestyle . I wanted to capture it here on my blog for safe keeping.

Morning Glories blooming out by the road. Good Morning The sun has not yet cleared the tree tops, in the shade morning glories bloom, white with a purple center. The last of the blackberries dangle just out of my reach, beyond the ditch that never drains. Perfect hoof prints from a recent visitor have dried a crusty red and remind me I am not alone.

Rain drops on grass. After the Rain Beads like glass glisten in the morning sun. A walk in the tall un-mowed grass leaves my feet soggy.

Two tiny red mushrooms. I noticed these two tiny red mushrooms a few feet off the driveway the other morning, on my walk. The bigger one was maybe two inches tall, if that. Beautiful and perfect, don't you think?

The first thing I did upon arriving home after several days in Atlanta was stroll out my quarter-mile driveway and walk along the main dirt road to soak up some country life. Then I sat down and wrote the following: Welcome Home A single ripe blackberry, almost out of reach, is my sweet reward for precariously straddling this ditch that never seems to drain. Bright green baby muscadines dangle overhead, and a black swallowtail butterfly floats about. The neighbor's dogs that normally bark and run out to greet me are not here today. No one is. Only the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet and the lonesome call of the mourning dove break the silence. Like a Saturday afternoon from my childhood, maybe I will find Daddy on the other side of the screened door, in his recliner, watching The Porter Wagoner Show .

All American Daylily 'Lady Lucille' Listen Listen to the squeak of the nuthatch and the ceiling fan stirring the thick morning air. A cardinal whistles nearby, then the familiar, tick, tick, tick. Listen to the lonely coo of the mourning dove and the buzz-hum of the hummingbird. She darts by, then stops on a dime, in mid-air, her wings a blur. Then gone again, as fast as she came. Listen to the chickadees complaining down by the dogwood, or is it the titmouses? I can’t be sure. Listen to Melvin’s feet on the gravel path, making his morning rounds. A small plane drones overhead, faintly, then stronger, then fades away. And in the quiet, between the sounds, God speaks. I listen. 

Hibiscus blooming at LaMama's. Campsis (trumpet vine) is blooming now along the roadsides. I have it here at the cabin, but it was all cut back with the driveway work that occurred in February. I have lots of small trumpet vine plants , but no blooms. Maybe later in the summer. I'll keep watching for it.

The cabin white oak, in summer. The sunlight through the trees is extra pretty this morning. After days upon days of rain, I woke to clear skies. There’s still a chance of storms and showers later today, but only 30%, so the odds of dry weather are pretty good. I’m grateful for that.

A bouquet of hydrangeas, freshly picked from LaMama's garden. LaMama's hydrangeas are in spectacular bloom right now. With all the rain we've had this year, they are the prettiest I ever remember seeing them. I think most, if not all, of LaMama's hydrangeas came from McCorkle Nurseries, where I worked for over a decade. Seems like every time I made a trip to the farm I would come home with a truck full of plants, and many of them ended up in LaMama's yard. My former garden on Lamont Drive in Decatur is also a tribute to that phase of my life. I drove by it the other day on my way to visit the Stelten boys; the Blushing Bride hydrangeas I planted were fantastic set against a backdrop of Ever Red loropetalums. Overall, the garden I created there looked happy and well-kept, but I didn't stare too long, lest I slip into a melancholy state. I'm glad the current owners are maintaining what I worked so hard to create over the years. That makes me happy.

Daylily "Lavender Vista" The daylily pictured above is called "Lavender Vista," from the All American Daylily series. I planted it in LaMama's yard back when I worked as an analyst for a nursery and had access to all kinds of beautiful plants. It is in glorious bloom right now. My friend, Becky shared the following poem with me. I love it. Enjoy. ~Pat