ESCAPE TO WALTON'S MOUNTAIN

a sudden storm put the power out in Charlottesville

sent us on our way, no UVA and no Monticello either.

We left town for another famous American’s home,

winding roads, backwoods, the Blue Ridge Mountains,

we planned this trip as we watched “Season One”.

Won’t be what you seen as a boy on Thursday nights.

You’ll come upon a factory, never heard about that.

You’ll find the house close to the road, only a few yards

from the church, it’s real small and makes you wonder-

How’d they all fit and get along in such a tiny place?

There’s a gift shop modeled after John-Boy’s shed.

The man who bought the family home spends days

shipping books and DVDs to his online customers.

Told us about Earl Hamner’s last visit and how Audrey

stops by now and then. $10 will get you a quick tour.

Down the road is a school, nothing like the one on TV.

A spacious brick building, high ceilings and tall windows

turned into a museum, run by locals to honor the show

and the family who lived here during the Depression.

Each room recreates a scene with props and furniture.

And when I saw it all, I wanted to sneak past

the red velvet ropes and chrome stanchions.

I wanted to hear the Fireside Chat on the radio.

I wanted to sit at the long dining room table and

have black coffee and Olivia’s applesauce cake.

I wanted to write a journal entry at John- Boy’s desk.

I wanted to smell the sawdust from Daddy’s sawmill.

I wanted to go fishing with Jim Bob, Ben and Jason.

I wanted to help Elizabeth feed Reckless and Chance.

I wanted to listen to Grandpa’s stories on the porch.

I wanted to go to swimming with Mary Ellen and Erin.

But they weren’t there and never were. Yes, finally I

understood- it was just a show, based on a writer’s family.

Even the names were different, James, Paul, and Nancy.  

It was then that I realized how the family I knew and loved

were characters played by actors in California in the 1970’s.

A short drive brings you to a new store built on the site of

Ike Godsey’s place that had burned down. And of course-

he’s not there, just two ladies organizing packs of cigarettes.

They made us hot dogs on the grill. We ate at a picnic table

and compared the real family story with the fictional family.

And at the age of Forty two it gave me the same feeling as I’d

had when I found out about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

We took 64 West to 81 South and after a few hours we stopped

for the night to rest and as the lights went out, we both knew

we just had to say it to each other- “Goodnight  John-Boy”.

THE CUT

Visiting them one weekend, working together,

laughing, joking all the while, unique accents

from their home in the mountains and then

a cut happened when I was just three or four.

In the soil outback, digging dirt, wrapping burlap

around nursery stock, probably a little azalea.

A German Shepherd named King prowled around,

while a wild girl with straight, long blonde hair

rode in on a horse without a worry in the world.

It had to be the cut that sealed the moment

in my brain, and when I saw him with his full head

of thick white and gray hair, I remembered it jet black.

I remembered the black beard that perfectly framed

his sharp, angular young face with piercing eyes

and tanned skin, the man who always worked.

His arms were still sinewy, his body still wiry.

I was old enough to notice a sadness in his eyes.

And now, twenty years later, I saw the wrinkles

and lines etched in his tanned skin, all those years of

riding tractors under the blazing sun, in slicing wind.

He wrestled to pull his wallet from the pocket of his

steel gray Dickies work pants and strangely enough,

it matched the skin on his neck, the backs of his hands,

it was weathered too from riding along with him

in the fields and Interstates, and when the billfold opened,

he said to me in his Southern drawl,

“I always knew you’d come back to us.”

And with his driver’s license, and scraps of paper, there I was.

A picture of five year old me.

THE TROUBLE WITH TIME

Time often makes me skip 1 of the day's 3 meals

and reminds me to take only 10 minute showers.

It put 19 spots on my hands, makes me squint a lot,

and filled my head with a 100,000 wiry white hairs.

It compels me to hurry out the door by at least 8,

insists I pay the mortgage by the first of the month.

It sends me off to bed by 11 in order to be sure and

get at least 6 hours of sleep for the next work day.

It forces me to teach 43 minute lessons in school.

It tells me to stop reading on page 156 for dinner.

It demands I quit writing to answer the telephone.

It makes me turn off a game in the seventh inning.

It gets me thinking about my 2 week vacation and

once I get there, it sends me back home. It has me

contemplate next year’s trip and what it will be like

in 15 years when I retire and I’ll travel so much more.

It nudges me along every five minutes in museums and

has me checking my watch while hiking on nature trails.

It tells me, have one for the road and turn out the lights.

It keeps me from staring too long out my back window

at blue jays, cardinals and crows. It won’t permit me to

grow an herb garden, a lilac hedge, 6 to 8 tomato plants,

or a row of 5 or 6 dogwood, cherry and magnolia trees.

It forces me to run around 4 weeks before the holiday,

then suddenly it’s over. Only 364 shopping days left!

It quickly aged our cat and dog, now all they do is sleep.

It takes me back to a specific candy store or pizza place

from my youth and has me craving cherry snow cones.

It stole my Gunsmoke lunchbox, baseball cards and

Fantastic Four comic books. It sold my Stingray bike

at a yard sale and it makes me cry while driving when

certain old songs from the 60’s or 70’s come on the radio.

Time made me say goodbye to friends and coworkers.

It took my grandparents too soon and my Dad at age 60.

In 3 years, it’ll send my only son away and off to college.

Then I’ll wait the 16 weeks until his first semester ends.

One day, time will run out for me and in 2 days I’ll have

a birthday, I’ll be 16,437 days old! But who’s counting? 

HORSE SHOW, 1989

Crowds of people who all seemed to know him,

mingled and exchanged strong handshakes with

each other as they entered the fairground gates.

Riders strutted in fancy hats, ties and dress suits,

a mixture of old England and early plantation times.

They weaved through a lot filled with horse trailers,

Big Chevy Crew Cabs, and waxed and shiny Dualies.

Farmers, merchants, horse lovers, and their families

rushed to the bleachers at the edge of the grass field.

We headed to the concession sheds to find dinner.

Great northern and navy beans in their own sauce,

a thick white gravy from slow cooking all day long,

heaped in deep round styrofoam bowls, a huge slab

of Vidalia onion on top, a block of cornbread for a lid.

“Dry and gritty, it’ll scratch the throat as it goes down”.

He pointed out Master and we cheered as Mike rode

the shiny black stallion with its chain ankle bracelets.

Head up, throwing legs high, showing off, “the big lick”.

In those stands that night I discovered Southern culture,

Tennessee Walking Horses and my father, the horseman.

BOONDOCKERS

On Saturday morning I jumped out of bed,

put on my husky Toughskins, tube socks,

a Flyers ski cap and a red plaid flannel shirt.

I laced up my boondockers and headed off

to the woods of my youth in South Jersey.

I heard men laughing, the chainsaws buzzing,

logs clunking into the bed of an old Ford pickup.

I found my Grandfather with his teacher friends

on the edge of a soy bean field, near the pond

I’d fallen into more than thirty some years ago.

I ran to the forest, stopped to exchange stares

with a whitetail deer, found the brook where

the scared muskrats scurried and an otter swam.

I climbed trees, crossed streams, chucked rocks,

took cover behind maples, charged a hill with sticks,

breathed in cold fresh air and it made me invincible.

APPALACHIAN WINTERS

The smell of barbecues crept over backyard fences.

Kids found their baseball gloves, played in the street.

Mothers threw open windows to air out the houses.

Families flocked to parks, ball fields and boardwalks.

Others drove with tops down, turned the music up.

After a few days of flip flops and sleeveless shirts,

the sunshine and warm weather began to fade away.

Cold weather returned, bring in the plants, find your

wool caps, sweaters, sweatshirts, maybe even a coat.

“What’s going on?”  “What happened to the weather?”

And when I looked out the window and saw the tree

loaded with blossoms, I remembered what he said about

Dogwood Winter, Blackberry Winter, Whippoorwill Winter,

moments in spring time that remind you it can still be cold,

don’t try to rush the seasons, it’ll be summer soon enough.

IN THE TOBACCO BARN

It had been a dry fall, without morning fog or dew

leaves are likely to shatter if you pull them off dry.

Already November, with an auction on the horizon.

It was his Christmas check or the last of the money.

Not a word said between them, men climbed high

in the rafters, straddled poles and beams and formed

a chain to pass stakes with sticky stalks, cured tobacco.

Others pulled it, put it into piles- tips, brights and lugs.

They worked in silence, each knew exactly what to do.

It was Saturday, someone plugged in a boom box and

as they worked, they heard the play by play, straining

to hear their team battling with the perennial favorites.

Finally the announcer’s famous call of “Give… him… six!”

and “Touchdown Tennessee!” went over the airwaves.

The men yelled and hollered, but never stopped working.

They kept pulling, grading, and baling the burley tobacco.