Skip to main content

A Morning Like This

 


  Hey, everyone. It is a lovely morning here at the green retreat. A cold front passed through last night and dropped the temperature down, along with the humidity. The air is crisp and there is a wonderful breeze. As it blows through the trees, it sounds very much like the ocean, though I smell no salt.
     I have a pretty crepe myrtle tree that is bloomed. The blooms are pink, massive and provoke memories. Jekyll Island, one of our favorite places, has a lot of these trees. For that reason, along with the nice breeze and the crisp temperature, I reflected on pleasant memories of the beach. I could see myself and Carley walking in the sand, hand in hand. Corny, right?
     This morning, I am sitting here on the porch, listening to the "cheep, cheep" of my cardinal babies. Do you suppose they are remembering the beach as well? I doubt it. Much too young. They are pleasant companions, anyway. I suppose I could name my porch Stanford University.
     About the crepe myrtle trees, they have very smooth bark that peels at certain times. I love to run my hand over it. The texture is wonderful. Actually, there is no bark. The tree is sort of naked and pinkish. You can walk by and see a small pile of the peelings on the ground around the base. They normally thrive in warmer climes than here, but they seem to have adapted okay to the green retreat.
     I didn't really mean to delve into the mysteries of crepe myrtles or my proclivity for stroking their slick trunks, but hey, bear with me. Isn't it funny how a smell, a touch, a breeze can evoke a reaction in our memory? Like the Elvis song, Memories.
Memories come floating down
And settle softly to the ground
Like gold of autumn leaves beneath my feet.
I touch them and they burst apart
With sweet memories.
I particularly like one line of the song which mentions a lady's quiet eyes and gentle ways. That reminds me so much of you-know-who. And when we walked among the crepe myrtles, on a morning like this.
CE Wills.
P.S. Crepe Myrtles' roots like to run above ground and they are easy to hit with a mower.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The White Chicken Mystery

    The other night I happened to come home very late. It was the middle of the night and I was driving up a steep mountain road. Near the top I saw something white in my headlights. It was standing in the other lane, standing very still. It was a large white chicken. It was probably a rooster because I thought I could see his comb as I whizzed by at my customary pace. He never moved a muscle. This is weird, don't you think?      After a couple of days to consider this phenomenon, I have come up with some plausible answers for his bizarre behavior. 1. He was conflicted whether or not he should cross the road. 2. He was feeling cocky and decided to play chicken with the traffic. 3.He was being hen-pecked at home and had decided to end it all. 4. Someone had egged him on to do it. 5. He had just watched the movie Fantastic Four and decided to try to stop a truck the way that Ben Grimm did on the bridge. 6. He had driven himself crazy wondering if ...

Egg Art

     Hey, everyone. One of the odd customs in America is the Easter Egg Hunt. Here at the Green Retreat, we do a hunt every Spring. I just ran across some of the pictures from this years hunt and it is obvious that an artist had sneaked into our midst. The orange egg is a rendering of one of the Angry Birds of gaming lore. If I were a bird and had to pass an egg that size, I would be angry too. Ha, ha.      We typically will dye about 10 dozen eggs and people get quite creative with their quotes and colors, as you can see. Many of the eggs are a bit risque for these pages. After having a few laughs, we hide the eggs. All of them are never found, which is cool. It is amusing to see old men (me) and all ages of folks, walking around with a basket on their arm. Some of the hiding spots are dastardly. Like eggs hidden in the guttering downspouts and ten foot up a tree. The kids are perhaps the most devious at hiding the colorful orbs, goi...

The Biscuit

    Hey, everyone. What a relief that Christmas is over, huh? I don't think it was meant to be the way it is.     I started thinking about the so-called good 'ole days today. My wife says that at her house, they would take a left-over biscuit and shine their shoes before church. I one-upped her by saying, "Oh, yeah? I ate the biscuit when everyone got finished with it. And I was grateful for it." Truly, though, you can and people did, shine their shoes with a biscuit. Hey, they were greasy little buggers.     Speaking of greasy little buggers, I remember when everyone had wells and were very conservative about water, particularly those of us who had to crank a handle up and down to get a bucket of water. There was no daily bath. (No showers in those days, mate.) About twice a week we took a bath and here's the recipe: The oldest kid took a bath first, then the next oldest etc. You can see why younger siblings hated the older. Bathing in the...