Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.
Wise words from a Navy dad.
Boulder Hill, 7am. One block from Grandma's old house.
“Did you see the sunrise this morning?” I asked my dad yesterday. “It looked like the horizon was on fire.”
“Yes, we’re going to have some precipitation tonight.”
Indeed we did. Four inches.
My timing for visiting the old neighborhood was perfect,
except that I had forgotten my gloves.
Morning at Winrock Pond
Every time I’m alone in a car in this part of the world – it happens about once a year – I drive past my childhood home.
In Immortality, Kundera says, “memory does not make films, it makes photographs.” I think it makes something more like erratic stop-motion. This yearly drive-by puts me inside those old stills, to feel them with all five or more senses. Series of images flash in my mind, layers of them, which resemble the scene in front of me, which happened right in front of me, yet feel so very far. Years of change are evident in the developing wrinkle in my forehead and the pine tree I remember as a shrub.
The old house sleeps on frozen pond
I stood with freezing fingertips at the edge of the pond, watching the sun rise on my old bedroom window, not really sure what I was doing there. Curiosity. My answer for everything lately. I’ll put myself there and see what happens. I want to look at everything, and some things I want to look at today, tomorrow, next week and next year.
I felt the biting cold air and listened. I do not remember ever hearing the hum of a distant highway. My childhood was surrounded by farms, not four lanes and mini malls.
Sun rises and shines on my childhood's bedroom window