NORTHWEST WINDS

Snow arrives on Christmas morning; early morning, 3AM or so, and it is a side-ways affair of blowing, slanting sleet to near snow and then becoming a more complete snowfall of a large, wide, airborne, stenciled-patterned variety. For all that wished for a snowy, 'white' Christmas in Missouri; your hopes have been answered. 
'Cassidy' stands in the wintery mixture at dawn. The northerly winds are skin and mind numbing. The night becomes day and the clouds drift away. The big white dog sniffs the stormy air. Off to the side of the house the snow has piled a little. For the most part the accumulated snow is nothing more than a dusting of the stuff. Sun clears through the scudding cover of clouds. The wind does not quit. It is still only a 20 degree reading on the outside thermometer. The weather device is hung within the confines of the front porch away from the element of the wind. One cannot do a thing in such an environment. The llamas and horse have been fed and brought warmed-water in their buckets. They are in the shelter of the barn in their stalls. A nice feeling for me on such a Christmas Day.
The big, white, Pyrenees Mountain dog smells the blustery wind as if reminded of his ancient heritage. Does he think of a prodigious mountain range between France and Spain? Does he see the jagged peaks and snow-drifted boulders and the sides of ancient icy slopes? Does he sniff and ponder the whereabouts of the silver, black and gray coated Timber Wolf? Does he remember the primordial call of his wild ancestors? Does 'Cassidy' know more than I could ever believe that he does? I'd say, 'Yes, yes indeed.'
We stand together on this morning of the child; Jesus. I need no prayer or church or bible to know this. What I have, are the billowing, snow-filled winds, the flaring of sunlight through the chalky sky and the friendship of a large dog. A new year will soon be here. There is no need to wrap or unwrap a present. The gift should be in the heart. It should always be in the heart. This is a thing to know, all the year round. Cassidy turns to me. He is ready to go back in the house and to the warmth of the woodstove. The four-pawed 'ghosts' of his ancient mountain-dog lineage never had it so good. We return to the house. Cassidy barks.       

WINTER SKY AND THAT TIME OF YEAR (PLUS EXCERPT)

WINTER SKY AND THAT TIME OF YEAR


AN EXCERPT-

'Darkness comes swiftly in the Long Night Moon of December. At the end of this twenty-first day of the month, this shortest day of the year, this time when, in other ages, men lit bonfires to strengthen the expiring sun... at 1147am CST December 21, 2009, the year reaches the instant of the winter solstice. In that moment, the northern hemisphere leans farthest away from the sun. A season dies; a season is born. We took one breath in autumn, the next in winter.


-Edwin Way Teale. (from 'Wandering Through Winter')



-*passage augmented. -RSC.
 
NOTE* Photo above -my 'Elijah' in Santa's Hat, Happy Holidays!

Sounds of the Outer Beach

Sounds of the Outer Beach

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A Pilgrim

A Pilgrim’s Story

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HORSES FOREGROUND

HORSES FOREGROUND

Another November sunset; a Thanksgiving evening sunset, and I stand watching the blue to amber sky reddening. My dogs are with me on the back barn-deck. We face the western glare and breathe the fresh, cold air. From the barn's loft the CD player is issuing Mozart's 40th symphony, -Molto allegro, Andante, Menuetto, Allegro. I play it as a tradition these days after the day is done and I climb to my normal station on the back deck with my dogs. To me, it is as Wolf Mozart once stated in a letter that summer while writing it, "for my lost, stolen childhood!" He was without money and it was not a historically popular time for the 'symphonic form'. It is said that Wolfgang Mozart wrote the last 3 symphonies of his life that long ago summer of 1788 in a time span of 6 to 8 weeks. He wrote them 'for himself' it has been evaluated as there was never a demand or a 'sale' documented regarding any of the last symphonic works.  

He wrote the complex and powerful 39th Symphony. Then he wrote his Symphony Number 40 proclaiming a fleeting childhood and youth. His last, and most notable, was the 'Jupiter' Symphony, (Number 41) which, again, one can hear the flaring, oscillating beauty of the notes as a certain challenge to mankind (and to all that will ever listen) to 'carry on without me!" Jupiter is a symphony that inspires and in the last movement (Molto allegro) one can hear the reluctance to 'finalize'. It is as though Mozart did not want this great piece of music to 'END'! There is still a great deal of conjecture on just why it was 'coined' the 'Jupiter'.  One theory is that the symphony was premiered on a clear, bright, star-filled night in London, England, with Jupiter as a dominant, brilliant heavenly body showing to all who attended that evening prior and after the hearing of it for the first time. But, this is only a guess on everyone's part. Anyway, this is of no real matter. The name just kind of fits as a monumental 'tag', -Jupiter; the great planet named after the Roman god 'Jupiter'. (All of this, at least, to my line of thinking) The first movement (Allegro vivace) of the Jupiter Symphony ascends upon the ears of the listener a barrage of images pertaining to that of a great and profound existence of something. What that great, powerful 'something is' can only be discovered by the person listening. The senses, heart and brain must talk to one another. Then, and 'only' then, can all of it be understood. 
But, it is the 40th Symphony that I have taken to habitually listening to each and every evening as the sun sets in the Missouri western horizon. I stand and become as lost in my thoughts as a person ever can. My Great Pyrenees Mountain dog (Cassidy) lies at my feet and my Yorkshire Terrier pal (Elijah) stands beside me. We watch the sky change and the air begins to buffet us a little more. The temperature is dropping quickly. In the distance across the browned pasture stand the horses grazing bathed in the final sunlight of the day. These horses standing peacefully in the foreground appear as mystical beings in a prolific painting done in oil, acrylic, any. (Plein Air) They lift their heads occasionally. The day surrenders. Mozart's notes circle about in the open air of the countryside. It is November. Winter has not yet arrived. But, winter is very near and approaching. I think of the happy things that took place over the course of the last year and I think of the tragic things that took place over the course of the last year also. I whisper aloud as I listen to the music and think all of the thoughts that I do, 'Thank god for Mozart.' I take a short drink from the bottle of 'Old Granddad' bourbon and feel the warming of it tumble down me as I swallow. I lift my can of beer and follow it with the very, cold liquid. The sky is a pink and crimson color now. The sun has dropped behind the brown-black tops of the trees shaped like scraggy, crooked arms and fingers. The breeze begins to speak. It communicates in a harsh voice. The beauty of the moment competes with it however.  I will stay and listen to all four movements of the symphony. "Always!" For I have my great fellows, -my dogs, on this Thanksgiving. I have health and I have the thought process of memory and evaluation. I can cheer and I can suffer. There is childhood and there is adulthood. One only has to live long enough to realize that there is really no difference between the two, that is, if you are lucky enough. I may have just lived long enough now to understand this. Mozart knew all along I believe. Listening to the great gifts of his notes and words left to us all I honestly believe he understood the meshing of childhood and adulthood. He only lived a short 35 years. But he knew. I'm certain of it. It has taken me 54 years to understand and grasp it, and because of it, -I do not give a damn about the serious sides of things. The horses graze and I ponder. And the sun sets. The dogs yawn. The breeze billows my outer clothing. The notes circle and circle still. "And a child shall lead them."

-RSC. Elijah, Missouri.      

Poem: Henry David Thoreau

Poem: Henry David Thoreau “Woof of the Sun” [Vol. 2, #25]

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AN EXCERPT

'Always an ephemeral "visitor" to the Coast never really involved with anyone's lives there because I'm always ready to fly back across country but not to any life of my own on the other end either, just a traveling stranger... an exemplar of loneliness... actually waiting for the only real trip, to Venus, to the mountain of Mein Mo- Tho when I look out of Cody's livingroom window just then I do see my star shining for me as it's done all these 38 years over crib, out ship windows, jail windows, over sleepingbags only now it's dummier and dimmer and getting blurreder damnit as tho even my own star be now fading away from concern for me as I from concern for it- In fact we're all strangers with strange eyes sitting in a midnight livingroom for nothing...

-Jack Kerouac (BIG SUR-a novel)

 

THE RED LIST

THE RED LIST

Let us begin this patch of words with a featured link;

http://www.iucnredlist.org/

It will be easier for all to understand the direction of this essay/blog without the usual circumlocutory scattering of words and vivid thought by this said writer by simply traveling by mouse-click to the URL address above and doing a little self-exploration. It is a matter of extinction and destruction and heinous folly on the part of mankind! Yes, indeed, one can read about the economy, the damn wars, the death, the diseases, the catastrophic disasters of all kind causing the death of thousands, -earthquakes, hurricanes, flooding, wild fires, tsunami waves and waters, etc. -and one can take a long pause to remember and analyze the painful happenstance and the human loses of it all as it still remains without words or thoughtful explanation as to why this place we call the living life of this world is filled with so much grief and death and sorrow. It is not for this typist of a laptop keyboard to embark on any sort of 'answer' as to why these kinds of things happen, seemingly, on a daily basis across the globe. As to why a good and loving God (a so-called supreme and greater, omnipotent being or entity) allows children and women and men to drown or burn or die under the thousand pound mass of bulk, buried by either mud or snow or a crumpled building, is not for this simple 'once Catholic educated boy' to explain or to 'solve' or to even try to extract any rationale or theorizing! Karma is Karma. Satori is Satori. Life is Life. And Death is Death.
This all being said: 'We are destroying the Earth's environment, eco-system, and wiping out species of animals and plants everywhere on this globe at a 'RECORD RATE'!
We may have no control on how mother nature sometimes treats us, but we sure as hell have a great deal of control over how we treat and care for mother nature! The result; -we treat this great 'blue planet' of ours as though it were our borrowed playground to be romped about on, trampled onto, used according to our needs and then nicely pissed on over and over! It is outrageous. Please click the URL above along with any and all other sponsorships and/or organizations immersed in the practice of attempting to save the planet and its 'rightful' inhabitants, -that being, all animals and plants and eco-systems. Save the rain forest. Save the polar caps. Save the tiger. Save the Kihansi Spray Toad of Tansania. And, please, save our children and our children's children their future's right to live and see and experience all creatures and plants, -wild, great and small.
-RSC. Elijah, Missouri.    

A WRITER'S HIDE-A-WAY

A place to come to and write. A place to come to and create. What does the banker, the politician, the business owner, the doctor, the teacher, the lawyer, the plumber, the authoritarean leave behind? There is, of course, the legacy of their life's works, -whether it be a proud and profound one or an accomplishment of vile misdemeanor and mistakes. All peoples leave a certain 'mark' or legacy of their existence. This is without a doubt. But, it is the 'ARTIST' that leaves an unmovable 'impact' on mankind, womankind, society and the world in general. There is no greater hold on the act of human development than that of the interpretation of an artist's work! Poetry, sculpture, written essay, the painting, the sketch, the bounded pages of a novel extend more to the evolution of the human being throughout history, the present and the future before us than that of any other person's deeds and works delved into in the span of a lifetime. The artist gives up society and the favors of a 'normal' lifestyle in return for the journey towards a heart-held dream. Most people will not allow themselves to endure for very long all that a 'true' artist must commit himself or herself to. It means falling into a hole that only the 'milky way' or a butterflies wings can lift one out of. It means never releasing their grasp on the dream of creation without the resulting exposé of possible success. It means accepting all that is raw, naked and ugly about life and this abused earth. It means transforming that perpetual clog of waste and filth and showing it to others as a map to a better future and the glitter of a rainbow's end that waits for one and all. It means explaining to most the warmth of the flame and not the burning of the fire. It means to dance on the surface of the moon rather than simply staring at the fullness of it in the clear, star-bountiful sky. It means to face-off with God and let the angels either embrace you or hang you! It means being an 'ARTIST'.

-RSC. Elijah, Missouri.             

“Lost in the foggy forest trinity,
I say the words unheard,
My writings are holy ephemeral,
My vision a crippled bird.”





WRITER'S RAMBLE IN OCTOBER
The magic of technology; you know, all of it- the television, the mobile phone, the Internet, the microwave oven, the hand-held device of every make and such, the damn laptop I’m typing on, you get the point!

I would rather wake up in the dark of the early morning here in the Ozark hills and forests and feed my horse and llamas and then with a favorite dog or two take my stroll along the rippling banks of the creek and watch the sunrise as a red-tail hawk dips and dives and soars along in the sky above us. October morning crickets still talk their lingo, the water song is an ancient sonata, the rocks shine and glisten as they have for a billion years, the bluebird readies for his departure, the cardinal bird says goodbye and good luck, -for he is staying once again to survive out the winter, the reptiles are settling in for their long dormant slumber, the flowers still bloom but they know it is for a final time, the wind begins to arrive from the north to northwest, the sun sets sooner, the grasses show a brownish hue, a person smiles sadly as he ambles and feels a tight ache in his neck and shoulders knowing the dampness is reminding him that he is getting ‘that’ much older, the dogs bound and run along before one as the moist leaves of the trees everywhere show their newest colors in the dawn’s autumn sunlight, -it is the dance of the seasons! It is ok. Some people may be tired of me writing about the seasons, and the outdoors, and the bubbling waters of my creek! I say, ‘Go to your office job and enjoy your clock-watching!’ I am alive and free in my middle-age! I may be poor but I am much richer than you will ever be.

‘I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now!’

–David Crosby (THE BYRDS)


I have sat and stood and talked with great men. I have camped by the edges of Moody Creek, Missouri. I have shared stories by the roaring fire of the rock-circle, I have passed around the bottle and pipe, I have laughed and then listened to more dramatic conversation, I have bonded with people as friends, -‘real’ friends! I have wondered why I did not do what I am now doing a very long time ago, I have slept with tawny lions and danced with the goats, I have played my guitar in my cut-off jeans as the coyotes sang along, I have dug a grave or two for a beloved animal, I have driven a tractor and then knew to get off before I damaged it, I have tossed square bales of hay with the younger boys and then hurt mightily the next morning because of it, I have listened to the baseball game on the radio near midnight in the still Missouri night, I have made love with the swans, (and the geese too), I have talked to the 2AM sky above and begged for a shooting star, I have read Jack Kerouac’s novel ‘BIG SUR’ aloud to myself in my ‘famous’ writer’s retreat –‘The Chicken Shack’, I have chased down an American Black Bear up on a hill near my property armed with only a digital camera, (I had a zoom lens) I have stared at the afternoon sky with buddies and knew a tornado watch was imminent, I have screamed in pain and giggled with the loons, I have wadded in the water and watched wild turkeys, I have ridden my horse and sipped ‘moonshine’ refreshments, I have fired my shotgun to the empty sky, I have angered some people and made some people laughed till they cried, I have listened to Bob Dylan, Mozart and Hank Williams Jr. too, I have lived (just about) everywhere in America at one time or another and still don’t know exactly why, I have found my soul and my being and my heartbeat in the Ozarks of Missouri, I have passed out drunk and then slept with the llamas in the hay piles of the barn, I have fished in the spring-fed creeks and rivers, I have played my electric guitar by the rivers of ‘Elijah’, I have heard the blue tick hound dogs chasing down a raccoon in the wee hours of a drunken night, I have paddled my canoe with the ghosts of the great Osage Indians, I have crushed a million empty beer cans in my palm, I have handed money to someone who really needed it, I have slept with my Yorkshire Terrier pal in my arms, I have read Thomas Wolfe aloud to country boys, (Look Homeward Angel) I have pissed in the fields of glory, I have waited for the rain to come, I have waited for the sun to rise, I have waited for this world to be what it really should be…

I am only a pilgrim. Forgive me.

-RSC, Elijah, Missouri.

October, 2009.

THE BARK OF THE SENTRY

"In this pleasing contrite wood-life which God allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though I mean it not and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass for what we are." 
-Ralph Waldo Emerson.  


So at 1AM last evening, awakened,and then dragging and pulling myself from the sheet and quilts of the back bedroom and then next stepping into door-side, slip-on shoes I make my way half-naked outdoors to where 'CASSIDY' my Pyrenees Mountain Dog is going off in a canine tirade of leaps and bounds and barks. In between it all can be heard the baritone growls of his revved up being. He is at the fence in the front yard before the darkness of the dirt road wishing he could snap the metal and plastic leash that is his tether and make his way 'through' the damn wire and wood of the barrier before him and pursue whatever it is that has him in such a condition. I am in a 'catatonic' state of sleep and aching limbs and neck muscles. I've carried with me the flash light from the night stand but as I shine it above the fencing toward the direction of Cassidy's fury I can see nothing more but gravel, illuminated vegetation sweeping in the breezy periphery of the enveloping darkness and the opaque, ribbon-like continuance of the county road to my left and right. My large white dog is smelling the air with muzzle raised as he growls and one can be sure that whatever it was he saw or sensed must have startled the hell out of him as he stretched sound-asleep on his 'doggy-cot' located within the cement/wood enclosure that is the front porch of the farmhouse. It may have been a deer or possum or raccoon but my better instincts tell me otherwise. I have never seen my dog more animated than he is at the moment. I try to calm him and call to him draping my arm around him as I beam the light of the hand-held device into the bleak, foggy, balmy air of the southern night. He remains in a 'tizzy'. I move past him and walk along towards the corner posts of the front yard. I do not see a single thing! Cassidy continues to sniff the air and growl. I know it must have been a coyote. There can be no mistake about it. Earlier, the fellow must have made his way up the banks of the creek and decided to continue his hunting for small game along the darkness of the county road away from the night-light of the farmhouse front. What he had not counted on was a sleeping one-hundred pound dog awakening after his being sensed! Cassidy must have risen his large head and thick mane and peered over the formation of the cement porch walls and discovered him. Then the ruckus had begun. I knew that this particular coyote was in a different zip code by now having taken one look at Cassidy and decided that there were better places to search for food rather than along this creek and farm land. All I could do was return to Cassidy and pet him and praise him and tell him, "Good boy! Good job done. Good boy, Cassi-Bear!" A moment later I returned to bed after he had calmed down only to return a couple more times that evening outdoors. Cassidy would not be silenced! He was not done! The only chance I had to regain any sleep that night was to take hold of him and bring him into the house. There we both managed to crawl up together onto the living room couch for a few hours of sleep. I was tired but it is really all worth it. 
Cassidy is a natural-born sentry. Great Pyrenees Mountain dogs were bred by both the ancient French and Spanish in an area and a mountain range (The Pyrenees) that borders both countries. They were bred to guard and protect both livestock and people. Cassidy was simply doing what he and his thousand-year-ago ancestors were meant to do. In summary; he slept on one end of the couch, paws dangling over and snoring like a bear. And I slept on the other end of it unable to straighten my legs fully at any given point. At least he kept me warm on such a damp and breezy late summer's night as it was.


-RSC 

(a post-mention to this journal entry; a wildlife camera in a nearby hollow by Bridges Creek here in Elijah, Missouri  caught an American Black Bear passing through. Thus, Cassidy had smelled and sensed not a coyote but a bear.)

SMALL SQUARE BALES OF BLUESTEM

The best way to continue forward is to 'continue forward'. The weather is grand and the sun plays on the afternoon grass like a vibrant gentle brush stroke. September stalls these days in languid summery-display pushing back the oncoming Autumnal season. One wants to sit in the warm green grass like an ancient monk and appreciate all that is left of the pleasant moments of these days. I have returned from a small town south-east of my farm house to purchase and pick-up bales of hay. I carted my little, stout, green trailer (pulled by my Jeep Wrangler) from here to there and stacking a half-dozen or so square bales returned to the confines of this small farm. Now, I type at the laptop, looking every once in a while outdoors to where the picture of the day is showing its color and vivid beauty through the screen of the window before me. I have buried a favorite dog this week and 'doctored' the rest of my family of beloved pets. It has been stress piled on top of stress but I believe the storm (or canine plague) may be finally over. I can only move on with regret and hopeful promise for the future. It is what we all call life and learning. Sometimes it is f....cking hell. Life moves onward and we all carry different wounds and regrets and panaceas for the better knowing of it all. There is no sword but the sword of the saint as opposed to the sword of the criminal. But, just watch the news any night or day and try to imagine that there is a difference or any kind of justification in the knowledge of any of it. It is what John Lennon once called it, -"The spinning gem of life". It is also what Emerson wrote, - 'Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and as we pass through them they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world with their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus.' The way I see it is, - all that we can hope to do is cascade along with the current of the winds and the rivers and try to grab hold of what is hopefully 'true'. Truth, however, is a definition of the mind and the individual. The heart should lead and the mind should decide in unison with it. Of course, not everyone executes this kind of approach. The world is made up of many kinds. Each believes that their way of thinking is correct. The best thing to do sometimes is to stand back and take notice. Make notes! The notes will either enlighten you or confuse you and cause you frustration, but no matter, do not dispair; you can always file them away and use them later to write a 'great American novel' or an 'epic poem'. Meanwhile, I dance with the muse, put on a little Mozart in the barn for the animals, and read Jack Kerouac and Cape Cod poets. I lift square bales from my little green trailer as well. My horse and llamas appreciate this. Life on the farm.... yes, indeed...

-RSC {Elijah, Mo.}

SLEEP AND WITH IT, - PEACE

I rolled up the foamy-cushion mattress and stuffed it into the nearby closet. With it went the steel fold-up bed which I rolled across the room and into the storage area behind the doors. The sheets and quilt were taken into the laundry room to be washed. I swept the floor and rearranged the few items of furniture that remained in the room to my liking. I repositioned my writing table before the curtained window. I would then be able to write, and with the curtains drawn, every now and then, look up to see the side patio and the grass of the side yard outdoors. I positioned my wire-shelf stand to my left, keeping my immediate reference material nearby, Cape Cod maps and books, an occasional novel or two, and boxes of past writings dabbled of my own mind and hand, - prose, poetry, short-stories, novel start-ups (and stops), and every other scrap of scribbled or typed paper kept and collected over the many years. I stepped back a few paces and looked things over and decided I liked the new set up. "It would work!', I said aloud to myself. "Just maybe I would actually get 'serious' again about my writing projects still left 'undone'. Well, we'd see." I returned to the front porch and pulled from the cooler, left out on the cement floor of it, a cold beer. Then I returned to the writing table and the laptop in the small room before the sun-filled window. I sat down in the chair before it and snapped open the beer can. It was only then that I wondered if I would begin to cry again.

I had taken down the fold-away bed and re-done the room because I did not want to have a single thing to do with the bed for a very long time. My Yorkshire Terrier and best friend 'Jake' had died on the blankets of it just yesterday afternoon. I had held him in my hands kneeling to the surface of the mattress strewn with terri-cloth towels and felt the last warmth of his small body shudder and then release its grip on this living world. I had begged him to stay with me. He had struggled but he could not hold out any longer. The illness had taken him. The sick, dark, dirty, fucking illness that had come to him for two days had bested him. I had administered every known possible medication and electrolyte formula into him to save him. Jake had just had enough and could not ward off the ugly disease that must have found its savage way to his heart. There is no explaining the feeling. There is no way to describe the tears and the frustration. I was 'as' broken as a man 'can' be broken. And my little 'Jakie-Jakie' was gone. He had left me for sleep and peace and heaven. He was safe now and free but I was broken. As I write this, I am still broken. One may watch the horrible news everyday on the television and the Internet and compare my loss to the large human losses broadcasted constantly (it seems) but I say there is 'NO' loss and sadness felt like that of a trusted, loved and innocent being (as a pet) that loves you, and that is then, very suddenly taken away. I tore at my own heart and logic wondering if there was MORE that I could have done. I held him and cried. I closed his eye lids and kissed him and knew he was gone from me. He was my best pal 'Elijah's' first born son. He was our 'Eleanor's' first son. I felt as though I had let them down. Jake had struggled and fought and then found sleep and with it peace. I buried him beside a stone wall in the prettiest area of our flowered patio beside our beloved 'Yellow Cat' who died just a few months earlier. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. I was numb and without true sensibility. Life is here beside you and then it is snatched away from you. I was without the power to stop the spark of the living from being snuffed out. I was helpless. When it comes to this subject we are all helpless. I write this for my little friend and brother 'JAKE'. He sleeps now and is with love, God and peace. Goodbye little 'Jakie-Jakie'. I will love you and miss you forever. -RSC. Elijah, Missouri

FAREWELL TO A GREAT, GREAT MAN

Watching the motorcade from Hyannis Port on CNN as it makes its way along route 6 and 6A onto the city of Boston. (The J.F.K. Library) The casket on route; -Senator Ted Kennedy leaves the sands and sky of his beloved Cape Cod for a final time. Words are so difficult to find. I want to say 'we' Americans loved him and want to thank him for all of his years of service and work-effort in standing up for the peoples in need and ones who were born less fortunate across this country. I never met him but somehow when I listen to my RED SOX broadcasts every night I will somehow know a fellow fan and a great American leader will not be listening along with me as I listen to the audio in these rolling hills of the Ozarks. It seems like an odd way of feeling and looking at things but it is the way I feel. There is just so much to say... He joins his brothers and others who were remarkable persons, -gone now, but not forgotten. Peace Mr. Kennedy. You were one of a kind.
-Robert Scott Caldwelll, Elijah, Missouri.

MORNING DEW, SUNRISE, AND THE FOXTROT

Quite unusual for the south in late August, -is to have such cool, damp mornings. The temperature at the start of day reminds one that autumn is very near and yet a 50 degree morning of dampened grass and glistening dew as the sun rises is a little more indicative of late September rather than the present month. I walk the Yorkies out after their night's sleep and I can see the surprise (nearly alarm) on their faces as each little paw first presses into the cold, moist Kentucky Blue. I've made the mistake of slipping on what I call 'boat shoes' (little, white, flat, slip-on sneakers actually) and found myself as chilled and foot-soaked as the dogs as we've each made our way along the side patio and garden area of the farm. It is darn near 'cold' on these mornings as one turns and watches the amber-orb of the sun making it's slow ascent behind and then above the west-ward tree tops across the dirt road. One can feel the warmth on both neck and shoulders as the sun finally rises into view and takes steady command of the early day. The little dogs are sopped from side and tail to paw pad. Their faces are a matted tangle of wetness as well as they look up at me from the end of a red or blue colored leash. I continue my ritual of stopping before the 'waning' vegetable garden plots and plucking from a particular plant either a ripened 'cherry' size tomato or a dangling bright, green string bean from the poled variety. I taste both a crunchy, fresh bean and then the succulent, juicy meat of a small tomato. The dogs turn and bark reminding me that breakfast is waiting indoors and so we begin our tethered parade back to the house. So, explains a daily sunrise act of sleepy man and dog. It is the country. It is Missouri.


Later that morning after having fed and watered the llamas and my horse I begin the job of clearing out a north-west corner of the barn. It was an old stable area I had used for the sheltering of my large, male llama 'Little Boy' who passed away this last 4th of July. I had always referred to it as the 'Llama Condo'. I have a printed and framed photograph of 'Little Boy' on the barn wall near to his favorite entrance and bedding area. It is my idea now to turn this area (after moving a wooden rail or two) into a storage area for my John Deere lawn mower, cart, tools, and other garden implements. I go about the task of this all until finding the heat of the late morning a little too much. I'd managed to take down a small cement wall, remove a 100 year old barn wood ceiling within, and to back my riding mower into the shelter of the newly created space. It all seems as though it is all going to work very well. It is then I decide to pull from my nearby cooler a cold beer. I lean against the wood rail of the corral fences. My horse ( My Missouri Fox trotter mare 'Molly-Girl'- sorrel in color) has come up behind me as I slug from the can of Coors Light and nudges me in the back of the neck and head. I am taken a little by surprise and my shoulders stoop and I trip forward somewhat. I quickly turn. "You silly girl, you... you big, silly girl." I've said it with a wry smile on my face and then I lift the can up and finish off the rest of the liquid. 'Let's get your halter and lead-rope Molly-Girl, I say aloud to her. I know my horse is gentle and wanting nothing more in this world than a constant stream of attention. So, I make my way into the far end of the barn and retrieve from another storage area (feed bins, feed bags and tools) her partial tack. I return to her and slip on her halter. She stands and bows her head to comply. She just 'lives' for moments like these I can tell. Then, after snapping on the lead rope and bringing it around to her brass-hook-up on the other side of the halter and securing it in a knot so as to create a sort of make-shift reins, I step to the nearby rail and boosting myself up, and taking hold of her mane for a quick moment as a handle to pull with, I sling myself upright onto her for a ride.

Molly is off in a gentle 'gait'. We both move on past the opened steel gates and posts and head out towards the creek, I have lately taken to calling 'Cassidy Creek' after my Pyrenees Mountain dog. (I'm just like that, is all) So Molly-Girl and I go for a pleasant ride over and across the creek's waters. We ride along where the rocks and scrub brush begin until we've made our way to the flat of the 'south-pasture' and the green grasses. Her wonderful red-brown silky mane sprays in the slight breeze. The sun feels glorious. I have never owned a horse before and this is always kind of a new experience for me each and every time I ride Molly and take part in all of the 'careful' adventure of it. I am told that she is a 'gaited-horse' (not a Quarter horse at all) and that she is a cross between being a 'Pasa Fino' and 'Missouri Fox trotter' gait of a horse in nature and style. Well that is another novel for a 'horseman' and 'horsewomen' to read. I only know the simple thrill of riding her and the good feeling it is to have her and to take care of her. Life is good this cooler than normal August for the geography of south-central Missouri. Yes, life is good. 'And hey, Molly! Giddy up girl! Giddy it up... we've got all day long to get there and nowhere to go, oh, yea... "

AUGUST DAYS OF DOGS

Where was I this summer? Spring arrived as spring usually does and then the weeks of June arrived and the solstice with it. Now it is August and I am walking one of my dogs through the sun-beaten paths between the spent and withered corn husks in my side garden. It is another 95 degree day and the sky is a bluebird blue. My great friend; my big, white, fluff-ball of a Great Pyrenees puppy labors along before me on his leash. His leash is an old canoe or kayak strap used to lash down the boats atop some vehicle or trailer. It just seems to fit him right at his collar and it is of a wide and soft material making it an ideal tether held in my hand as he occasionally lunges ahead inspired by some smell or other. His name is 'Cassidy'. In my days I have read just about everything that the American author Jack Kerouac has ever written. It only seemed right to name my dog after one of Kerouac's great western heroes and friends, -Neil Cassady. (The spelling with an 'i' is of my choice) Anyway, the afternoon is a burner. Cassidy will not last much longer before wanting the direction of the farm house once again and the comfort of the air-conditioning. His tongue hangs dripping and bouncing from the side of his muzzle. It is the color of a new pencil's eraser end. His eyes are dark walnut and twinkle-soft. We both move along. I halt him after a moment as we have come to a last, short row of tomato plants. They are of the cherry tomato variety and I pluck a couple wiping them on my t-shirt as we continue. I 'pop' them into my mouth. The little devils are wonderful. There is nothing quite like the sweet, sun-warmed taste of native tomatoes pulled directly from the plant. We amble our way up past an old, abandoned structure on my property once defined as a very active General Store and Post Office. Next we turn onto the hot, dry gravel road that parallels the farm and house and the stretch of my land that goes along with it. Cassidy is ready for the coolness of the house and is pulling me along in his best fashion. He is only 10 months old but is without question a pound or two over 100 pounds. I command him and plant my 'country-boy' feet into the dirt of the winding road work and manage to slow him a considerable amount. He turns as if knowing and proceeds onto the house a little more slowly. So Cassidy and I return to the front porch. I open the door and release him from his leash into the darkness of the cooling house. He bounds like a very large, happy, white rabbit. I close the door and turn again towards the road. I still have another half-hour or so before the start of my Boston Red Sox game. I receive the audio of the game via my computer and a wireless speaker. It is the best way here in these rolling hills of the Missouri Ozarks.

So, it is late summer. It is reminding me that the weeks and days are numbered. Where has the time escaped to? Where has the time gone again for another year? Soon it will be Autumn. The flowers are in full bloom but their time is measured. All of this living from day to day, year to year is somewhere being measured. All of this existance somewhere is being measured. We are only bouncing 'cosmos' and 'sunflower' faces in the summer breezes of it all. It is a day, it is a life. I have my best friends, -my dogs. I know there is laughter and barking at the end of the rainbow. And who knows? Soon it may rain but, chances are slim for this day.