Morning Mist on Old Summerour...

What a magical trip to work it was, this midsummer morning. Dusk made the sky slightly pink and the mountains a pale blue. There was a light mist lying along the hollows and bottoms. Raindrops, still clinging to the tall grass and wildflowers, caught my high beams, and a little rabbit risked his skin, darting across the road. The old road is familiar to me ~ I've travelled it many and many a time. The curves of it are like an old familiar tune. I come to a stop at Old Summerour Road, where the pretty old cemetery quietly beckons ~ reminding me that we are mortal, in spite of the immortal beauty of the place. Next is the oasis, I call it, where an odd little island of trees looms lush and black against the morning sky. Then, one of my old familiar landmarks, a line of hanging gourds, home to martins and a gardening tradition dating back to the Moravians, or maybe even the Cherokee. I climb the hill, watching for deer, to a secret, lovely lake, still as a mirror, with the mist just discovering the morning sun. It creeps away as I step out of the car, keys jangling, my mind already turning to my morning cuppa...

Three Panes of Light

Three small shapes have formed in the light that touches our sheer white curtains. Three tombstone shapes, but tombstones are too dark and morbid and solid a metaphor, of clodded graves and crypts and death. So perhaps they are three ghosts. But ghosts are vague, shimmery, quavering things, curvy and mystical; indecisive; wavering, as it were, between comedy and terror. Not at all, these sharp-edged, curved-top, near-rectangle shapes that grace my window this morning. The soft folds of our drapes give thin, wispy legs to the shapes, ready for silly cartoon men to take to their spindly legs and dance about. But cartoon men are all wrong on this quiet, peaceful day. The shapes of light lie too still to inspire the energetic dancing and chattering of whimsical little men. It breaks the spell. It ruins the mood. In the end, they are just three still panes of light on a pale curtain in a silent room, that captivate and cheer me... then quietly disappear.

Time Keeps on Slipping...

We were sitting around the other day when my brother happened to spy the clock in the living room. It was off by quite a bit. "I guess you forgot to set some of the clocks," he said. That clock probably hadn't seen new batteries in two years. He looked at the other clock and it was off, too. We laughed. "I guess time doesn't mean too much in this household," he said.

The second clock is always off. My niece uses it to get up in the morning on weekends that she stays with us. She has inherited my morning sluggishness, and keeps that clock set about 30 minutes ahead. We don't bother to change it during the week. The kitchen clock is somewhat dependable. It is right most times ~ if the batteries aren't weak. We go by that one. My car clock is usually off. Not only do I keep it set 30 minutes or more ahead (a throwback to work days), but annually, at time change, I fail to reset it in a timely manner. Sometimes I go a week or a month or more. It's just a pain to remember which buttons to punch. The VCR clock now ~ forget about that one. It hasn't been set since the VCR was new and we could still find the owner's manual.

My bedroom clock is always off. Like my niece, I keep it ahead, but it can't be at a normal pre-set. If it was an exact amount, and always the same, I would remember it. I must fool myself. I set it, maybe 47 minutes, or an hour and ten ahead... I'm just groggy enough in the A.M. to fall for that. I do have one of those automatic, self-setting clocks to fall back on ~ but I'd swear it loses a half hour between upstairs and downstairs. I'm always running behind. Maybe the clock just loses signal. Maybe our little valley exists in some kind of twilight zone. Maybe the clock has adjusted itself specifically to our crazy household. Clocks or no clocks, one thing is sure: time can't stand still. "Time keeps on slipping... into the future."