Once When the World Was Quieter

Although the abundant spring wildflowers promised in the trail guide were nowhere to be seen, I thoroughly enjoyed my trek this past Sunday into the hills and valleys bordering the north western side of CA's central valley. It is a landscape I would not find hospitable once the scorching sun and lack of rain take their toll on it over the next couple of months, but right now, while it is still fresh and green, it is beautiful.

And quiet. I had gone alone since Darling Wife had too much grading to do to allow her to accompany me, and I don't like to take the dogs into untried territory. At first, the silence made me slightly uncomfortable. The trail traversed public lands let out as pasture to local ranchers, but I only glimpsed two distant cows on an opposite hill once by using my binoculars toward the end of my hike. Otherwise, I shared the expanse with one lizard, one hawk, one falcon of some sort, and one flock of small finch-type birds that I passed in some scrub brush at one point. Oh yeah, there was also a small, yellow butterfly. I was comforted by the well-traveled look of the trail, including the heavy marks of cow and horse hooves and the occasional boot print. There wasn't a soul out there that day,but these tracks made me feel pretty confident that mountain lions were unlikely to frequent the area. I was utterly alone with nothing but the sound of the wind in the brush as it gusted strongly from time to time.

The silence oppressed me a bit, and I started to whistle, then sing as I walked along until it occurred to me what a rare and marvelous thing it is to be surrounded by quiet. So, I stopped vocalizing and listened for the remainder of my outing, and as I did so, I wondered if this is what it felt like to be a cowboy or a hunter 100 years ago or more. Out there on the open terrain with nothing but myself, a few birds, and the smell of sage and cattle. Maybe. Though I'm not a fan of the West, I can certainly imagine the appeal.

It's the little things

What a difference a day can make.

Yesterday, I went home ready for a beer and a book. Nothing bad happened, but all the little things that make up a day had been stress-laden and vexing. All of them. Leaving me desperate for comfort and retreat. But I couldn't have that even then because I had to take a midterm exam after dinner. So I slugged through the day, only to have bad dreams during the night, no doubt prompted by daytime anxieties.

Today, everything is different. All of those little things have been a joy and a delight. First, my Scottish Terrier was in a frisky mood this morning and engaged me in a little game of chase that he and I occasionally play together. It never fails to amuse me, and I think he knows it. Then I got to work to discover that my state tax refund had been processed and disbursed, something I didn't expect for awhile, if ever, and a friend sent me a YouTube link to an absolutely hilarious rendition of "Danny Boy" by Muppets Animal, Beaker, and Swedish Chef.

It's supposed to be a sunny and pleasant 70 degrees Fahrenheit this afternoon. I think I'll go for a bike ride after work.

Look Away, Dixieland

My father sold our property in Mississippi. I knew he was thinking about it. I gave him my leave to do it. But....

When I was a child, I thought I'd live there some day, but I've known for years that that would never be. It's beautiful and inviting in many ways, but it's far too removed from so much that I now consider necessary for my way of life, like theatres and pubs and hearty Italian breads. I wouldn't mind if those things were not in my own back yard, but I need to be able to get to them when I want, and I'm not sure Mississippians would know a European bakery if it jumped out at them in the street, all warm and smelling of yeast. They only know Walmart and Piggly Wiggly. That's fine. That's part of their appeal. They are good people, kind and devoted... as long as your skin isn't dark or your name isn't "funny" and you don't drink or have an attraction to members of the same sex. They're just isolated in a way that I could never be comfortable in, even though I miss it an awful lot sometimes.

No, I could never live there, nor could I ask Darling Wife to do so. And my father sold the property to his sister, so it's still "in the family," more or less. I guess I could still visit if I were so inclined. And the truth is, the place has become run down in the past decade or so. So run down that it pains me to see it. I've felt disconnected from it for years, and when my grandmother passed in December, I thought I had said my goodbyes to it.

So... why do I feel so cut off now... so... set adrift?

I've roamed all over the country, and a bit around the world. I've felt homeless and nomadic for all of my adult life. But even though I knew I wouldn't live there, somehow, owning that property made me feel connected, rooted. Not to the mid-South I grew up in, or to my parents and family, but to the Deep South I loved so much as a child, to that very childhood, and to centuries of ancestors who worked that land through good times and bad, who fought for it, regardless of the rightness or wrongness of their cause, and who died on it. To some, like my brother's plainspoken wife, it was just a bit of land way off in the sticks with no practical value to us. But to me... to me... it was so much more than that. It was... I can hardly say what it was. Its meaning defies my ability to articulate. And part of me, part of me that will be Southern no matter where I live, is saddened by the loss, saddened by the realization that my children will never know that place, never feel it in their blood.

I guess I'm being silly, right?