16 December, Sunday
Good Morning Justin…
The horrific tragedy in Connecticut
last week had me thinking of another young man, a protector of small children,
the protagonist of the book The Catcher
in the Rye, Holden Caulfield. As he
neared his own breakdown following an odyssey of dealing with life’s phonies,
he said:
“I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in
this big field of rye and all. Thousands
of little kids, and nobody’s around – nobody big, I mean – except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy
cliff. What I have to do, I have to
catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff – I mean if they’re running
and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I’d do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and
all. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the
only thing I’d really like to be. I know
it’s crazy.”
How are you? I’m
wondering what you have in mind for Christmas.
I remember your interests being centered on sports. You should be very good in baseball now;
football, too. I’m sure you’re still a
vibrant, vocal competitor. It’s been in
the marrow of your bones since you first learned to throw and catch a ball. You have been and will always be a rough and
tumble mama’s boy, just like the college football player along the sidelines,
turning to the TV camera, waving and saying “Hi, Mom.”
The weather here has been cold then unseasonably warm, then
snapping back to cold again. It’s
dry. We’ve had no rain of any
consequence for weeks. People are
beginning to talk. I think most of us
would like snow but that’s a tricky convergence of a cold front from the north
greeting warm moisture moving up from the south, the Gulf of Mexico . Snow from Indiana
and Kentucky plays itself out in
the Appalachians before reaching here. The careful timing required of a Northern
freeze meeting Dixie moisture over our area means we get
only a couple of snowfalls a year. The
snowy landscape soon dissolves in the warm air south of the Mason-Dixon
line unless, of course, you live in a cabin in a nearby mountain
town such as Blowing Rock.
Walking the dog each morning I still see squirrels in a
spiraling chase up and down trunks of oak as they squabble over who gets which
tree. They’re cranky insomniacs with
fitful patterns of hibernation. They
seem to need a deep chill for good sleeping weather. Smart squirrels bury acorns that fall from
trees in the Fall. They use their keen
noses to find their stored food in winter months and early spring when the new
crop is not yet available. On snowy days
I toss unsalted shelled peanuts about.
It seems to suit them in a pinch.
Various birds carry them off, as well.
Winter is a time of stress for animals.
The older ones with creaky joints can no longer compete and they soon
lose out. Weakened, they are easily
picked off by a prowling hawk or fox. You
either eat lunch or be lunch. There are
no days off.
Nine days till Christmas, Justin. Tell everyone hello for me.
Love,
Dad
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