Sunday, 19 May
 |
| Jacob |
Good
Morning Jacob…
As
you well know the Carolinas start to get steamy this time of year. It might have something to do with the
equatorial bath water to the south, the Gulf of Mexico. More likely, though, it is the fact that
summer is fast approaching and anyplace not near a cool ocean breeze is bound
to feel sticky. Over the last several
days the temperatures have been in the upper eighties and the tens of thousands
of trees in this area and all the other plant life here, represented in numbers
beyond the ability to count, have from their leaves released to the surrounding
air what might be termed a profusion of sweat.
The many rivers and streams that drain the area and the lake size pools
of captive water nestled about its low slung hills have all relinquished to the
heavens a tidal measure of vapor, in submission to the wilting gaze of an unblinking
sun. No wonder then that something soon
would have to give.
From
the first light of day Saturday’s air smelled of the promise of rain. It permeated the house, whose windows were
all full open to welcome in the coolness from the previous night. I savored the moment and was somewhat slow
getting around. The morning’s coffee was
a bit stale, microwave reheated from the previous day. Let nothing be wasted. As I gathered up the dog leash for Jake’s
morning walk the sky was a ceiling vague with clouds. Nowhere did I see the troubled patch of
darkness that would hint a need for imminent release. As always, Jake danced about, making the
clasp of leash to collar a game of snatching the moving target. Nearby, a woodpecker gave off a staccato of
machine-like thuds, pelting the trunk of wood with industrial strength stabs, and
in the process, battering his brain to early senility.
Mornings
are filled with life as everything wild probes their surroundings for
breakfast. Beetles walk about the forest
litter and are quickly snatched up by sharp eyed robins. Mockingbirds pick apart assorted flying
insects and bristle at any intrusion of their hunting ground by another bird
intent on stealing from them a quick meal.
Squirrels use their exquisite snouts to discover acorns thinly buried,
then break apart the earth with sharp claws to reveal the dormant nugget, and
quickly dispatch it in a rapid sequence of nibbles. Swallows swoop overhead, vacuuming from the
air the graduating class of novice flies, mosquitoes and gnats that most
recently earned their wings. It is all a
pattern of life that has carried forth unchanged from a time when human forest
dwellers of this area gathered together broken remnants of wood, hoping to
recreate the magic of cooking with fire.
Jake
and I follow a path that runs parallel to tracks that regularly direct trains
north through Virginia and south towards Atlanta. We are nearing the halfway point of our
walk. I hear the first heavy plinks of
water striking the metal roof of a building sitting alone in a field. The rain quickly overtakes us. The drops are first like individual coins
breaking into liquid on my shirt. Soon
their numbers mount into dense, rattling streaks. Jake shakes his fur furiously. It is of little use. We make our way forward toward a grey cinder-block building and the blue metal awning above its slender door. From there we watch the first deluge
pass. Except for the occasional barking
of dogs our walk back to the house is uneventful. Once home I scratch Jake’s neck and give him
his treat and head inside. It will be a
day fitful with cool sessions of rain. It
is a moment of happiness. The weatherman
says expect more for tomorrow. After
Sunday, though, the mercury pops its cork and breaks into the sweltering territory
of heat beyond reason, when everyone experiences life as a hothouse tomato.
Love,
Dad
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