Sunday, September 23, 2012


Another autumn is here
and though the seasons
have barely changed,
already I feel a sweet frisson,
a certain blood quickening
that tingles deep inside
like on those childhood nights
when mother would awaken me
in the dark room, and we'd
leave the house and go outside
where my father would have the
big Oldsmobile already packed,
engine running, heater on.

Hop in back, Sonny, he'd say,
and I'd clamber across the seat,
dragging a spare pillow
and Mom's patchwork quilt,
to arranged my comfortable nest.
Sleep. We'll be driving for hours.

But I never did—couldn't,
because as the big car swayed
over winding blacktopped miles,
our night travels promised
those steep Appalachian hills,
a landscape magically transformed
by time and distance,
waiting for me at first light.

And now, another journey begins
and awakens the familiar sensation—
a delicious inkling of adventure
that always comes when setting out
to revisit one of the beloved places
which can still stir my wary heart.


The Weaver of Grass said...

Beautiful. The word Appalachian always reminds me of Aaron Copeland's Appalachian Spring, which is one of my favourite pieces of music.

Gail said...

beautiful words and images, indeed. Your childhood travels are glorious memories. I hve a few myself of long journeys in the back of the ole Nash-Rambler snuggled in with my sister.

I am still treading lightly, peeking in if you will, sort of awaiting that it is really all clear. Perhaps you missed or maybe rightfully chose to ignore my scenario where-in I was peeking over your deck, scanning the area for the all is clear and welcoming to follow. Or maybe I am just being paranoid. sigh......
I over think things some times. Give me a sign,subtle of direct - thanks.
Love to you

"sorry" :-(

Grizz………… said...


Thank you…though I'm not nearly in your class as a poet. I take spells at writing them, though, whenever a certain mood strikes. I wish I were better at it, but maybe given sufficient practice, I'll improve. I enjoy the trying, anyway.

A lovely word, Appalachian, of native roots, and gratingly mispronounced regularly by Easterners, urbanites, the over-schooled and under-educated, and those north of the Ohio River and elsewhere whose roots know nothing of the hazy green hills and icy rills, or the history and people of the land itself. (It IS NOT "Appa-lay-chia" or "Appa-lay-shun" but "Appa-latch-ah" or as I've also seen it—cutely but correctly written: "Apple-at-chin." That those speech-challenged folks on the north side of the Mason-Dixon Line insist on employing their version to the portion of the Appalachian mountains which run through their states doesn't matter…the chain's Southern half was settled first, it was named from and by our native people—indigenous tribes, then adapted by the earliest white settles, who were typically Irish, Scottish, or Welch, with some English scattered in, though they generally settled in the valleys.

You might find it interesting…a green vein of a mineral called serpentine follows the Appalachian's spine from Georgia to Nova Scotia—where it appears to stop at the blue Atlantic, only to reemerge on the shores of Ireland, running thence through Cornwall, Wales, Scotland, and the Orkneys, and finally petering out in the Arctic.

I like Copland's piece, too, though my favorite work of his is Fanfare for the Common Man.

Hope you enjoyed the redbird!

Grizz………… said...


Good Lord! You are, indeed, being paranoid. Where I come from, anyone treading lightly is apt to be mistaken for sneaking…and thus assumed to be up to no good. We're good, always have been—no need to worry or sneak or peep. Just come right up onto the porch like the welcome visitor and friend you are, and sit yourself down in a rocker. Moon is too old to bite, and I'm momentarily disinclined. You are totally safe.


Gail said...

HI HI HI :-) yes, sufficiently indeed direct. Phew! I feel so much better, phew, thanks SO much. Chill the wine and fire up the grill!!
Love you

Grizz………… said...


Well, I'm glad we've gotten THAT sorted out!