Archive for the ‘marriage’ Category

Spring in my Step

May 3, 2020

Spring rolled down into the blue ridge today

blastin all our covid cares away;

she rolled in like a queen

with corona crown of royal green.

Spring

I be strollin’ now out in the sunshine

glad to leave them Febs ’n March behind

out walkin on the greenway trail

these bloomin’ good vibes cannot fail

cuz aint no covid ’strictions now gonna crimp my gait

no not today my April blues were worth the wait.

With my pocket miracle transistor radio

I be striding in sunshine and sayin’ hello.

 

But lemme tell you ‘bout this tune that really makes me lose

them covid crimps and those wintry blues:

the wonder of wonders is that Motown sound

bustin outa deep dark Detroit as I walk around

keepin’ perfect time with my springtime stride;

Yea! now it’s time to take a ride!

down memory lane with my lifeline bride

cuz she was surely My Girl back in the day;

yet she’s my lifetime woman still today,

and though she be now in ICU as a nurse

her love strolls beside me just like at first.

   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCcNcHx2DpY

 

Glass half-Full

Blue Ridge Mountain Home

December 20, 2019

Driving in bright, brisk December sunshine, winding slowly along a Blue Ridge mountain holler road, I arrived yesterday afternoon at the house address that I had earlier noted.

Turning off the car engine silenced radio reportage about the impending impeachment, which is neither here nor there. I am looking for an old fella that I recently read about in a locally written book.

The house is small, light green, near the side of the road, very neat and compact, meticulously maintained.I  This home is the kind of modest dwelling that was being built around these parts in the 1950’s, but it has been recently updated with vinyl siding. My carpenter eye notices the perfectly installed exterior. Nice job.

An attractive, low stone wall just a few steps from the roadway affords a stairway down to a welcoming front porch.  The front door is absolutely white, six-paneled proper in sunshine. It begs knocking, and so I do.

The lady who opens it is thin, with gray hair. She has a classic Scotch-looking mountain face, pleasantly aged with complimentary wrinkles. I forget now what she said, but it was some kind of greeting. I offered her my concise explanation for my visit this afternoon.

“Hi. My name is Carey Rowland. I’ve been doing some historical research—for a novel I am writing— about the Cone estate, and the construction of the Blue Ridge Parkway through it back in the 1940’s or ’50’s.  I recently read an interview, published in 1997, with Mr. Paul Moody, who, I understand used to work for Bertha Cone.”

“I’m his wife.” she said

Well, gollee, I’ve come to the right place.

This was a pleasant surprise. I’m still new at this historical research stuff. The last few doors I had recently knocked on were run-down abandoned places with nobody home. A little confused about exactly what my next question should be, I blurted:

“Is he alive?”

“He’s right in here. You wanta talk to him?”

“Yes ma-am!”

“Come on in. I’ll get him.”

And so I did, and she did.  Next thing you know, I’m looking around in this smallish, comfortably lived-in den or living room. A few seconds later, Paul walks in, smiling.

Well gollee.

“Well, what can I do for ye?” he says, pleasantly.

And so I explained a little— that I had been living around here since the early ’80’s, raising a family with my wife, and the first job I had up here was working on the Linn Cove Viaduct, which is, as you know, the missing link, in the middle of a 469-mile parkway that took fifty years to build—

And, as the old shake and bake commercial says. . . “and I helped!”

“Well, sit down,” said Paul.

Not in that chair, I thought, noticing the easy chair. That’s obviously his chair, with visual evidence of Paul’s accustomed comfort, possibly reading comfort, over years of sitting.  No sign of a TV in the room.

So I took my seat on the couch. “Thank you, sir!”

Long story short. Paul began talking about the Moses Cone Estate, on which he had been born in 1933, and thereby born into the hired help. His grandfather had been superintendent of the place back in the day— since before 1908 when Moses had died, and his father had been foreman of the apple orchard.

Paul proceeded to answer just about every question about the place that had been on my mind these last few weeks. This was becoming a very productive day, from a writerly standpoint.

He is a very pleasant fellow, full of history, and willing to talk about it. A historical fiction-writer’s dream informant. After awhile he took me back in the other rooms. He showed me the kitchen cabinets he had built, with frame-and-panel cherry doors on cherry face-frame, then took me back into the expansive laundry room, which was sunshine bright and entirely paneled with whitish, wormy pine, milled from trees that he himself had cut down.

A true mountain man, this Paul. The 16-gauge shotgun mounted over the doorway had been bequeathed to Paul from the Cone estate when Bertha died in 1947.

BRPaulmoody

Here’s Paul with his life-long wife, Margaret, who also came from a family of the hired help of the Cone estate, now the Moses Cone Memorial Park. They’re standing in front of another piece of his handiwork, filled with a lifetime of precious family mementos.

BRPMoody

After more friendly conversation and explanation, he took me out to his shop, where he had built the cabinets and the furniture and God-knows-what else.

BRmoodysaws

as far as ole folks from the Old School go, they don’t make ‘em like Paul any more.

BRmoody

And the rest is history, which you may read about in two or three years when I finish the novel . . .

Search for Blue

Christmas

December 12, 2019

And the world wonders at the centuries-long persistence of Christmas among the Christians.

Christmas

Hung upon this tree, almost every ornament represents a hallowed memory, or a different era of 40 years shared between one man and one woman, and the three now-grown children who filled up the void in their shared life.

Several ornaments are hand-me-downs from the grand- and great-grand- generations who are now gone to that great yuletide in the heavens.

Gazing at the tree on a chilly December night, although the room is quite warm, calls to mind all those past Christmases.

Christ the Saviour is born. And another family lives to tell the yuletide tale.

Believe it or not, the true, original Christmas spirit is potent, alive and well, and still passing from generation to generation.

A relic of days gone by?

Perhaps. But much more than that, a celebration of eternity to come, made real by the child born in Bethlehem so long ago—the one who grew up to conquer hell and death on a goddam cross.

Believe it not. The manger was good enough for Jesus; it’s good enough for us. It’s a potent story with an eternal ending. Join in if you’ve caught the Spirit.

Glass half-Full

Winter Daydream

December 4, 2019

Having grown up in Louisiana, I moved to the Blue Ridge mountains while in my mid-20’s.

Ever since that time—the late 1970’s—I have lived, married, parented and grown steadily older in an Appalachian culture.

Truthfully though, the two cities I have lived in reflect a post-Appalachian culture.

Ole long-bearded Zeb with overalls—you don’t notice him so much anymore; he’s probably running a landscape business to service the manicured lawns of well-heeled snowbirds.  And barefoot Ellymae in threadbare calico on the front porch—she’s more likely now to be monitoring the  gas-pumps from behind a convenience store checkout.

To some extent, mountain culture has become homogenized with the dominant American obsession with superficial style and commercialism.

But not totally.

One thing that is nevertheless still quite different  from living down the mountain is the temperature. We typically see a 7-12 degree lower thermo up here.

We actually have four seasons here!

In the Deep South . . . not so much.

When this southern boy first arrived in the high country, I cultivated some romantic notions about the cold weather. I suppose this is because—in spite of the painful nipping in fingers and toes —it was such a refreshing experience after growing up in twenty-four blistering deep south summers.

The immanent—and in some ways, dreaded— arrival of our 2019-20 winter comes as no surprise.

WinterComin

This morning I woke up remembering an old song that I had written and recorded, many years ago, shortly after becoming a mountain man myself. The song is, on one level, about the coming of winter.

On another level, it is about a very noticeable shift in our American culture that has happened in my 68-year lifetime—single parenthood.

I am not one of them. But being a man married, thankfully, for forty years, and a grandfather. . . now provokes rumination about the many challenges  young parents must face in this age of temporary partnerships.

We have many more single parents in 2019 than we did back in the 1950’s-60’s when I was growing up. My old song that crept into my imagination this morning presents a romanticized image of a single mother as she contemplates past and future. In her foreground is the upcoming winter outside her window on a cold, crisp early-winter day.

Since memory of  the song seems to have popped out of nowhere this morning in my awakening dream-state, I thought sharing it with you might be something to do.

      Portrait of a Lady

Glass half-Full

Gold I Have Seen

April 22, 2019

On the Periodic Table of earth elements, gold is found in the middle of pack, at number 79. So while the shining yellow metal is just another lump or two in the great planetary array of substances, it is, and has always been, coveted and collected by us humans.

Gold has a curious effect on us. Through the ages, people have assigned many meanings and uses for the lustrous stuff.

I have seen gold on a few occasions in my life.  Like most folks, I am fascinated with the sight of it.  Here are a few pics of the bright metal I have collected. While pondering what gold represents, I made a list. For what it’s worth, here’s my take on what gold means to us.

~~~Gold as Wonder

Amazing how . . . ?

GoldCrys

~~~Gold as Beauty

GoldUrn

~~~Gold as Value

GoldCoin

~~~Gold as Religious Ceremony

An altar in a Catholic Church in Rome

GoldAltar

~~~Gold as Authority

This gold-tipped mast and dome is seen at the top of San Francisco City Hall.

GoldSFCity

~~~Gold as Power

In this room, the last emperor of the Hapsburg empire, Karl I of Austria, renounced all claims of royal authority over nations and empire. The renunciation took place November 11, 1918, the last day of World War I.

World War had begun in 1914 after his uncle, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, was assassinated in Sarajevo, Serbia, which was at that time a part of the Hapsburg Austrian empire.

From that point and time in history, the many families, dynasties, kingdoms, and empires of royal authority who have ruled the world for so long . . . began their slow, modern slipping into mere ceremony, and —many would say—irrelevance.

This room in the Schonbrunn palace, near Vienna, is now property of the Republic of Austria.

EndRoom

~~~Gold as Precious

a golden moment of precious repose, reflection and contemplation

GoldnMomnt

~~~Gold as Fidelity

Good as gold. . . in our case, 39 years and continuing.

Marriage

~~~Gold as Heaven

“. . . and the street of that city was pure gold.”  (Revelation 21:21)

I haven’t seen this one yet, but one day I will, thanks to Jesus, who was resurrected after being nailed to a cross.

King of Soul

DNA the best Way

April 1, 2019

The dispensation of DNA

is best when it’s done in an orderly way.

What’s needed is that any man who so yearns

should direct his emissions in loving terms

to the same loving recipient every time:

all his kids have the same mama on down the line.

So let the ladder of life, the DNA

be distributed in a family way.

From the itinerant visionary

LadderJ

to the coding contemporary,

DNAdubhelx

counsel the loopy adventurer with his genital arrow

to find motherly love in the strait and narrow.

So the resulting kids will grow up right,

and not be left in a social services plight.

You may think I’m old-fashioned in this,

but ’tis not a principle to flippantly dismiss:

The distribution of our precious DNA

is bestly dispensed in the family way.

Now if you guys think that I’m not cool,

well I AM cool, y’all. . . and no April fool!

Glass Chimera

Appalachian Spring

March 17, 2019

We are reminded that life is good when bright sunshine lifts the  slumber out of these old brown hillsides.

We know life is good when ten-month-old granddaughter contributes smiles to our quiet enjoyment.

Then she leaps with joy in her jumperoo.

Just outside the glass door, Appalachian Spring bursts forth in sunshine, warmth, and quiet celebration of a winter that is gone, gone, gone, and again I say unto thee, gone!

Gone with the snow, gone with the tragi-tales of our human’s wintr’ous struggle . . . at least for a season, at least for today, at least for a few moments. . . while spring tumbles in outside . . .

And lo, what is this amazing sound on the  inside?. . .  here in the inside of our mountain home . . . Harken: Violins, clarinets! cellos, flutes, even trumpets sending out yon first tender shoots of sonorous celebration, as first strains of mountainside spring penetrate the forest floor outdoors, accompanied orchestrally by vibrant  woodwinds and reeds. They agree to ascend  in jubilant rondos, ultimately trotting toward some old Shaker praise.

Life abounds with simple gifts if you wait for them, and even more sweetly if you have worked for them.  Now we pause to appreiate their arrival as the shoots come burstin’ out all over!

Yes, Life is good when bright sunshine lifts the slumber out of these old brown hillsides.

And reflections unfold in memory of springs long ago. . . a different time, a different place. . .

Many and many a year ago I was a clueless college student way down south, down in the bayou country where the coming of spring was too soon overtaken by the fierce heat of summer.

I would escape the routinous sweating of  academic chores. Slipping into the cool music listening room at LSU Student Union, I’d request a big vinyl platter whereon was somehow wondrously tracked the sedate, celebratory strains of Aaron Copland’s masterpiece orchestral work—Appalachian Spring. At that time I listened to Eugene Ormandy conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra. This morning, however, the quick search lands us on:

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMaAe2aH6pw   

AppSpring2

While listening, I am remembering . . . escaping through miracle of sound-tracked vinyl, that early-’70’s sweltering Southern day. I would dream, it would seem, of days ahead when I would experience Appalachian Spring, the real thing!

AppSring1

And now that I have seen, oh, forty-or-so of these Springs, as an inhabitant, I find myself once again sacramentally satisfied with the blooming outcome.

I was pleased when, 39-years ago, my chosen bride of Appalachia (a New Jersey transplant)  bloomed forth in her wonderful hips and delivered the beginnings of our family.

According to that first child’s  January birthday, it must have been about this time of year—early spring—when we conceived him.

Sap’s rising, yes indeed . . . was then, is now.

‘Tis true. Life is good when again you celebrate Appalachian spring’s crawling-in. The season sneaks in through splashing outside sunshine. While tiny granddaughter babbles here on the floor,  we revisit our  old musical companion once more: Appalachian Spring.

King of Soul

Fidelity

January 4, 2019

Marriage is the best.

I believe it’s better than all the rest,

safer, more satisfying, more productive than the horde

of various pairings, trysts, hot encounters this fast life may afford.

While Frank did croon back in the bygone time

of old love affairs being like fine old wine

I find fidelity to be the best kind.

Sleepin’ around aint worth a dime.

I’m entitled to my opinion, you know,

‘cause our Constitution says it’s so.

I know you may disagree with me,

and that’s your right, as it should be.

I’m just sayin’ one man one woman is the way to go,

Since way back when and long ago.

I mean I know in our g-generation

we thought we had some great revelation

that it was all about free love and blahblahblah,

but when the dust settled, race was over and last hurrah

’tis best to settle down with just one mate

and plant your seeds, your vines, and you know—procreate.

I find that children are where it’s at;

watching ‘em grow—nothing better than that.

Long time ago

in the big flowerpower show

Steven sang to love the one you’re with

and while it seemed a cool idea, it’s really just a hippie myth.

I’m glad I found the grace to settle down

instead of baying like some heated hound

at every pair of flashing eyes and bouncing breasts.

I’d rather have our shared memories in the old hope chest.

Judy blue eyes, joking, compared Steve to a dog;

the audience laughed, re-visiting their summer-of-love fog.

But where have all the children gone,

long time passing,

where have all the children gone

long time ago?

Where have all the children gone?

Gone to divorce, so many of us,

spirited away by lust, mistrust, diamonds and rust.

When will they ever learn?

When will we ever learn?

I mean I know its the cool thing to say

to let us all be trans and bi and gay

but give me marriage straight any day

and time will reveal it’s the best way

‘cuz when you get old and gray

you’ll have a mate with whom you stay.

Yes, Virginia, a lifetime of shared fidelity

is more precious and productive than wild revelry.

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it,

‘though you are free to live however you want to do it.

You go your way and I’ll go mine.

Just give me my wife for the rest of my time.

TwoBlooms

King of Soul

The Perfect Curve

March 5, 2018

If you depart the city of Charlotte driving northward on I-77 toward Virginia, you will, about an hour later, cross over US highway 421. The traffic interchange there consists of a typical cloverleaf-type interstate-highway overpass with a looping exit ramp on which your vehicle descends from the overpassing I-77 down to the underpassing perpendicular US 421.

As I am a frequent sojourner between Charlotte and my Blue Ridge mountain home, I have performed this little maneuver many, many times over the last 39 years or so. Possibly hundreds of times.

Over the years, there is something very special I have noticed about this exit ramp, by which I steer the Subaru, veering slightly rightward and onward down the ramp, decelerating slightly and moving in a steady arc along a quasi-circular path to the destination highway below, on which I have then been redirected westward (although the sign says US 421 N) toward my domicile in the mountain town of Boone.

I say I have noticed “something very special” about this exit ramp, although this unique speciality is probably common to most every overpassing intersection that we’ve ever crossed o’er; and it is this:

As I turn the steering wheel for exiting onto the ramp, there is a point to which I can—less than halfway through the turn— adjust the wheel and cease its turning, having set the steering mechanism to a precise degree. This adjustment is sufficient to complete the onward arcing of the vehicle’s path as it egresses with no further turning of the steering wheel, until the turning maneuver is completed as I have redirected the Subaru, now on a westward vector instead of the northward one we had previously sped.

Recently on one of my trips homeward, I realized that the reason this maneuver can be performed so smoothly is this:  some engineer designed the exit ramp on what appears to be a perfectly constant curve. Cool! The perfect curve, thought I.

So now I take back everything bad I ever said about freeways and modern vehicular transportation systems.

My new theory is that there is probably no curve on earth more perfect than that one.

Except for one— the curve of my wife’s hip, which I noticed while we were dating many and many a year ago, when I  first visited her family in Charlotte.

Now that’s what ahm talkin’ about! The Perfect Curve.

Curve

King of Soul

The Parentals of Disney

December 23, 2017

The Disneyland idea was originally hatched in Walt Disney’s mind as an amusement for his daughters. Walt’s impulse to incorporate family togetherness into his life’s work  led ultimately to his developing Disneyland in Southern California, beginning in the early 1950’s. Later, in 1971, DisneyWorld in Florida became an eastward expansion of the visionary’s influence on us baby boomers, and beyond.

If you visit Disney World today, you will see that Uncle Walt’s original vision for facilitating family togetherness is still intact. In fact, it is alive, well and proliferating. A stroll through any one of the four theme parks on any given day reveals that people in the world today still lovingly maintain and extend their families.

 

 

 

 

 

Everywhere you look you see uninhibited Motherhood ripening and blooming; you find unfettered Fatherhood flourishing in spite of all the forces of modernity arrayed against us. But all those Mamas and Papas know that the real stars of this show are the kids; they’re all over the place.

Families

In spite of the free love movement of the 1960’s— and the stillborn ZPG zeitgeist, and women’s careerism, increasing wimpishness in men, birth control, the hefner hedonism,  neuterizing lgbtquidation and rampant ubiquitous debilitating online porno—despite all those developments that might have stricken us Boomers with infertility, we and our children have done quite well thank you.

If you don’t believe me, go to Disney and see.

Families love to come here to Disney in droves from all over the world and proudly wear their wholesome familihood, like badges of honor. The purveyors of Disney wonder cultivate a haven in which we parentals feel welcomed and affirmed in our natural roles as moms and dads.

Strollers

Here We are free to revel in our unadulterated fertility.

It seems that ole Uncle Walt understood this urge to procreate;  by building Disney for his daughters and then opening it to the world, he hath given us permission to revel in our parenthood, along with millions of other likeminded moms and dads from the far corners of the earth.

Family

And the purveyors of Disney culture understand that it all starts with love—a mutual love between a man and a woman. And then the love grows into offspringing children—one, two, three, however many pop out.

We discover here that there is no entity anywhere that can allegorize and romanticize love and procreation better than the Disney gang; and they’ve been doing it a long time . . .

Bambi

That’s the mushy sentimental stuff. But there’s also the economics of all these little faces. Yes, we are all consumers, and we don’t mind admitting it. Watch Dad whip out the wallet for a round of ice cream cones. Watch Mom stoop to conquer the sloppy fudge on those little faces. Watch ‘em as they buy Mickey ears, Cinderella T-shirts, light necklaces etcetera etcetera. Watch ‘em whip out the cards to pay the whoppin’ resort bill.

Disney is, like it or not, the mecka of the material world. Here we celebrate all that we hold dear: Makin’ Family and Having Plenty, if we can get it, for all the young’uns.

I’ve noticed on this trip that the Disney phenomenon is really a great paradox. Everything Disney does seems to be both politically correct and incorrect at the same time. You drive or fly here from far and wide via some internal-combustion machine; you settle into the groove, drive to the Magic or the Epcot or the Animal Kingdom or the faux Hollywood; then you are whisked through the parking lot into the Dream vortex on a green-engined roaring propane tram.

You gotta follow the rules, of course. Parentals know this. Stay behind the yellow line until it’s your turn to get on. Then glide, with your fellow World-travelers, through the asphalt aorta of this vast vehicular field of dreams. Then maybe you amble over to Epcot’s The Land and view a demonstration of sustainable agriculture, corporate style.

But hang around until evening and you enter into the questionable World celebration of fire and mist wizardry. Now a plethora of fireworks captures the World’s imagination, brilliantly proclaiming their politically incorrect carbon-spewing mastery over us awe-struck, wishing-upon-a-star gazers.

Dream on! It’s okay here. We are here in the deep, Deep South, far, far from myriad inside-the-beltway carbon-counters.

Behold those brilliant combustion trails zippedy-do-dah-ing through the rockets’ red glare! Streams and streams of smoke, trails and trails of fizzy-fire, sending out a message:

This here’s the land of the free and the home of the brave! Citizens of the World, this is the way we do things in America. Send us your prolific masses yearning to be free, and we don’t care if you call us middle class, or working class, or any old class you please. Please, please throw us in that briar-patch theme park!

We earned it.

See the signs. Copious consumption and emissions.  Read ‘em and weep, all ye bean-counters, all ye carbon-counters. This is what human beings do; we have kids and we have a good time.

So we’re politically correct and incorrect at the same time. Families always have been, always will be. We’re too busy living life to get hung up on the emissions. Leave it up to the experts to build a better mousetrap technology, and we’ll climb aboard if the budget allows.

Here and now at Disney, one minute we’re cruising through the tunnel of World brotherhood singing along with our fellow-travelers about how it’s really A Small World, after all.

Next thing you know, we’re whizzing through the roller-coaster ride and hearing B’rer Fox’s skedaddle rap that strives to entrap us in the dreaded . . .

Consumption!

Sho’nuff! B’rer Fox is out to get us, but I think we can outwit ‘im, because we are, after all, parentals. We’re watching out for our own.

Glass half-Full