The Kid

I watched through the drizzle as the small herd edged closer to our bird feeders and to Mary’s beloved forsythia. They’re a bold bunch here, not terribly afraid of my shouting or waving, but wary enough to walk away should I physically infringe too far into their personal deer space. Already low on sunflower and with the forsythia’s early blooms looking tasty, I resigned myself to another soggy intercession and reached for my muck boots.
 
But before I could slide into the galoshes, the herd, as one, lifted their heads and peered into the woods just outside of my view, around the corner of the house. There was no tension in their posture, as might be caused by a coyote or stray dog, but, instead, a wary interest. I, too, paused to see what played out. But several minutes passed with the herd’s distraction unwavering, so, tired of waiting, I walked through the house to an east-facing window to see what was holding their attention. It was The Kid.
 
I’ve spotted The Kid a handful of times as he’s limped through the woods, his malformed right foreleg hanging loosely as he forages. He’s a young spike buck with either a birth defect or an early injury that’s arrested his peg’s development, leaving it several inches shorter than its counterpart and with questionable sturdiness. I’ve seen him attempt to use it for support but once, while bending low to root in the leaves for food, and it wasn’t pretty.
 
As he approached, the herd (a collection of does and yearlings) began to move slowly away, in time with his awkward advance. They wanted nothing to do with him. As to whether their rejection was due to his gender or his disability, I cannot say, but I anthropomorphized it as both. He’s always alone.
 
I love observing the wildlife here, but it’s the unfortunates that really take my heart. Last summer it was a house finch whose limited flight was painful to watch, day in and day out. Like The Kid, the bird was perpetually shunned. I think that’s what affects me most deeply here of late. More than their imperfection, their isolation. Life’s hard enough when one can’t fly well or is hobbled profoundly, but to be left an outlier for it is cruel and beyond my understanding. It’s one of nature’s brutal truths, I can’t deny, survival of the fittest, but it’s difficult to swallow. I feel their loneliness.  
 
As the herd melted back into the woods and The Kid continued towards the house, I slid the muck boots back under the desk. I wouldn’t be chasing him away as I would have the others, even if he eyed the forsythia. And after some thought I stood by the window, quietly, where he could see me, hoping he might get used to my presence; that he might have some company, odd as that seems. At my appearance he paused and considered my intrusion for a moment, then resumed his clumsy march to the feeders, scattering the mourning doves as he arrived. 
 
 

The House Finch

I’ve grown attached to the little guy, a regular at the feeder for the past month or so. You might wonder how I can tell this particular house finch from the swarms of others that come and go from this station, but he’s not hard to pick out. There’s something not right with him.

At first glance I thought him a fledgling, small, just out of the nest and not entirely into his wings. But as he’s come and gone over the ensuing weeks his movement has never improved. There’s no glide in his flight. He struggles to stay in the air, moving in short, frenetic bursts, forward and upward a foot or two, falling back half of it, and repeating until he slowly works his way to his next uncertain perch. More butterfly than bird. I walk faster than he can fly. But he gets there, usually. It’s not clear whether his impairment is physical or neurological but staying airborne seems terribly hard work and it breaks my heart to watch. For him, it’s supposed to be effortless.

He must roost close by, somewhere at the edge of the woods that surround our house, for he’s clearly incapable of long distances. And he’s always alone as the other finches shun him, even chase him away from the feeder which is hard to watch. Surprisingly, he’s not intimidated by the bigger birds – the doves, the cardinals, the woodpeckers of various sizes - that come and go as he sits at his meal. He’s even tolerant of my presence as he's the last to flee when I approach to replenish the seed. He takes to the air only when I get within arm’s length. I interpret this as courage, but it may be that flight is so difficult that, despite the fear, he avoids it until there’s no other option. I suppose there’s a fine line between the two, if one at all.

He seems happy enough, though, sitting for long stretches at the limitless flow of safflower. He’s a sympathetic little fellow and for him I’m careful to keep the hopper full. I worry that he won’t be around for long.

At first, I assumed that my attachment was purely compassionate, that I felt sorry for this poor little creature and his handicap. But as these difficult Covid weeks have passed, I’ve come to realize that there’s more to it than that; that we’re birds of a feather, this finch and I. My flight, like his, is impaired; my range also limited by circumstance. We now both stay close to our feeders, leaving them only when absolutely necessary, invoking that odd mix of courage and fear. We are each removed from our breed. And, at the end of the day, I’m concerned for both of our futures.

Poor little house finch. I wonder if he dreams of soaring. I know that I do.

One Bug, Now Two

A repeat, here, of a piece that I posted nearly four years ago under the title One Bug is Quiet.

~o~

We stood back and watched as she roll cast the slow, shaded run that tucked tightly under the thick rhododendrons. Cast, drift, cast again; avoiding the encroaching branches with a quiet ease. “And she’s just getting started,” he whispered with a subtle hint of pride. “She’s figuring it out.”

I hadn’t seen Brandon since our week chasing redfish on the Laguna Madre, a year-and-a-half past, but had followed his exploits through One Bug is Fake, his online journal of fly fishing, survival, and whatever. I kept up with his angst through job changes, moves, and the generally painful business of sorting out what was important in his life. Kept up, that is, until the blog fell silent earlier this year. I worried a little.

So when I caught word that he’d be in my neck of the woods for a family Thanksgiving gathering, I wandered westward and reconnected with him on a chilly Appalachian trout stream. There, I came to understand his disappearance.

“Have you been writing?” I asked, thinking I knew the answer. “Not really,” he replied, watching her swing the fly once again. “I’ve been happy.”

Those who write understand. Words, all too often, come from deep, dark places and passages born of hurt carry a weight and an edge that can resonate. It’s been suggested that contentment is the death of good writing. I’m not completely convinced, but do know that it’s easier to express when things are broken. Through the cracks seep emotion and heart and, inexplicably, craft. It’s a gruesome tradeoff.

“But I’ve been thinking on a piece for a while now,” Brandon added, as his companion concentrated on her next drift. “About what’s changed.”

I nodded, and smiled, and thought to myself that there was no need to hurry. No need at all. I’d be glad to not hear from One Bug for a while.

~o~

Since that time I've heard very little from One Bug, for all the right reasons. And it's quite possible that today ol'e One Bug will be struck permanently mute as he and his companion on that chilly North Carolina stream, the source of all that hushed happiness, will be tying the knot.

Heck, I'm so happy for them that I'm having trouble with the words myself.

All the best to you, Courtney and Brandon. All the very best.

The Photo Bin - April 2017

It has occurred to me that I have been taking myself too seriously for too long and this poor little blog has suffered for it. I've fallen into the trap of wanting, needing, everything I post to be slick, well developed, and (dare I say) publishable. Wanting it to be remarkable. But by adding that pressure, I've throttled things to the point where posts have become few and far between. The twin ironies are that even my best work isn't all that hot anyway and that by holding out for "the good stuff," I'm not writing anything (which doesn't do a hell of a lot to help advance the craft). I've not even kept up the Photo Bins.

Herewith, I'm shaking off the pretension and getting back to just putting it out there. It's that or stop altogether and I don't think I'm quite ready for that. As this is the April bin (and it's August already), there's some catching up to do, so let's get started.

In April, the camera always fills with the extravaganza that is the annual Live Free Cornhole Tournament, a loving fundraiser for the memorial scholarship that we maintain at Georgia Tech in my step-son's name. Friends and family gather to share loads of fond memories, good fellowship, and just a bit of friendly competition, all in Freeman's honor. Together we miss him and keep alive the event he started as a simple gathering of friends to celebrate the arrival of spring. In his absence, we've repurposed it in his memory.

The brave few that held out to the bitter end

That's a start. A slow month, April, but things got a bit crazy in May, June, and July. Their bins to follow here shortly. Then maybe I'll be back on track.

Maybe.

What is a Photo Bin?

That Reminds Me of a Story...

We caught fish.
More than that,
We made stories.

Stories that we’ve told over and over.
Stories that make us laugh with every telling.
Stories we will continue to tell, over and over,
As long as we’re here to tell them.
Stories that will keep you with us forever,
Now that you’re gone.

Some true.
Some with a kernel of truth.
Some we’ve made true in the telling.
It’s hard to remember which are which any more,
As if it really mattered.

We gathered together tonight and told them again.
Set aside the vises, the hooks and the feathers,
And, instead, tipped a glass or two.
Told the stories one more time.
Laughed with you as if you were here,
When, in truth, you were.
In the stories.

It may have started with fish,
But not a single tale tells of the catch.
They tell of falling overboard,
Of getting shit-faced,
Of putting our foot in our mouths at the worst of times.
They tell of broken rods, bent transoms, and anchors tossed overboard unattached.
Too many are poop or fart stories, I'm embarrassed to say.
Funny at six and at sixty. Boys will always be boys.
They make us laugh at our ourselves and we deserve it.
No one is spared,
For they are our stories,
Yours and ours.

Yes, we caught fish.
More than that,
Much more than that,
We made stories.

Sometimes I Feel...

I was visiting family when I learned of his passing. Its significance didn’t have a decent opportunity to gain traction in the swirl of grandchildren, dog management, and the complexities of Chicago traffic patterns. Life raced on.

Here, a few days later, I’m back in my patch of warm southern woods. Catching up. Today that included a run into town for groceries, the pantry looking bare after our long absence. A mundane task, but I enjoy the trip. As almost an afterthought, I grabbed a CD. Fillmore East.

The Allman Brothers, to me, were always about the soaring six-string interplay between Duane and Dickey. Always will be. Fillmore East defines them. But with Duane’s loss and Mr. Bett’s departure, the band carried on and continued to carry southern rock’s water. It's not like Haynes and Trucks were slouches, but the band didn’t miss a beat and the bedrock was Gregg. You could be carried away with incredible guitar solos for long stretches, but someone had to hold it all in place. Gregg’s gravely voice and powerful blues vibe was that anchor. He made everything else possible.

Statesboro Blues, Done Somebody Wrong, Stormy Monday. I immersed. You Don’t Love Me, Hot ‘Lanta, In Memory of Elizabeth Reed. I was home, musically and spiritually, as I sped along the twisty back roads of my rural refuge. The band had found me in my most formative musical moment and when you scrape everything else away they are my rhythmic foundation.

Then, the climax. Whipping Post. The radio’s volume found it’s way to 40, a number I’m not sure it’s ever been turned to, and I howled, and I growled, and felt the harsh, deep grind in the back of my throat. Satisfying. ...like I’ve been tied…

And I cried just a little for all that I’ve lost and for all that I’ve been given, this being the music of my life. It felt good, both the crying and the howling, and it felt bad that he was gone. That so much was gone and will continue to leave me as time wears on.

I’ve been run down. I’ve been lied to. But I’ve lived. And the soundtrack, for the better part of my life, has been the Allmans. From Blue Sky to Whipping Post. Through good times and bad. The music’s been there for me.

Thank you Gregg. For it all. May you rest in rockin’ peace.

The Photo Bin - February 2017

Catching up, here. The February bin is brief. Not much was done with the cameras, or much of anything else, outside of the single significant event of the month.

Thank you, Duke Hospital. She's doing great.


What is a Photo Bin?

Day After of Hearts

I suppose that an update is in order. It has been a month since my awkward Valentine post, penned as I sat in a surgical waiting room. I left things hanging.

That Day of Hearts we learned that there was indeed arterial blockage. No real surprise, but what we had hoped could be remedied by a simple stent or two turned out to be more complicated than anticipated. My precious Valentine would need bypass surgery. Soon.

A week later she underwent a double Coronary Artery Bypass Grafting procedure, or CABG, the acronym pronounced like the vegetable, conjuring the image of the dense leafy head of lettuce-like consistency nestled in her chest cavity. The term felt awkward for a few days. Pipes were transplanted and rerouted. Her heart, already the most amazing thing I’ve ever encountered, was made an even more of a wonder.

Five days later we were home again and the long road to recovery began. This past month has been about pain and expectation management, two disciplines she should be a master at having lived with me for twenty years. That and soups and casseroles from every direction. More months lie ahead as she heals and prepares for many more Valentines Days to come, but the outlook is bright and a full recovery is expected. She'll be better than new in a whipstitch. 

Fishing, of course, has been set aside for a while as my life is here for the time being. Supporting her as she’s supported me all these years. I’ll sneak away soon enough, but only when I know she’s strong and in good hands. There’ll be time. This blog will resume before too long. I promise.

What’s important right now is that my Day of Hearts wish came true. That the only heart I that I wanted is still mine.

And will be for quite a while longer.

I must extend my profound thanks to family, friends, and neighbors who were here for us in any way that we might have needed. Without them... Your ongoing support is appreciated more than you can imagine. We are blessed by your presence in our lives. We thank you from the bottom of our, well, you know.

Day of Hearts

Today is a day of hearts. Frilly paper ones, professing undying Hallmark devotion. Floral ones, by the dozen, care of Cupid’s weary delivery boys. Culinary ones, consumed in a collective conflagration of candlelit tableaus. But the only heart that I am concerned with today is that which beats in her breast, for, as you read this, I am probably sitting in a surgical waiting room while she’s being prepped for a cardiac catheterization. Waiting. Worrying. My own heart, hurting.

She works harder than I do. At everything. Not because she has to, but because it's who she is. She's a wonder. But lately, as she’s busied herself about, she’s been feeling some discomfort that a stress test has determined to be probable arterial blockage. Given her family history, it’s no surprise, but it’s stunning just the same. I was supposed to be on a plane for Abaco this week, but the doctor’s pointed use of the phrase “without delay” changed all that. I sit here instead, no regrets, happy that we've gotten out in front of this and scared all the same. February 14th has new meaning.

So there's no elaborate cards, or flowers, or romantic dinners this particular day of hearts. It's become quite simple.

The only heart that I want is hers.

1959

I had the great pleasure, the other day, of having lunch with the man who was a great resource and influence for me as I got back into fly fishing, some 20 years ago, and who later encouraged me to begin writing about it. It had been too long since we'd last gotten together and I was thrilled to see him doing well. As we parted, he called me over to his car and handed me this well-loved Pflueger 1492. There's no telling how many trout it had connected with over the years, but, knowing him, a lot.

The next day he sent me a link to a webpage that showed the history and progression of these Medalists, challenging me to identifying its age. It's just like him to not simply give me something, but to also make me reach, to teach me something with it; a gift more valuable than the reel itself. I owe the man more than he'll ever know, as do many who he's mentored over the years, fly fishing and otherwise. We should all have such positive role models in our lives.

And, Frank, it's a 1959. Thank you...

... for everything.

The Photo Bin - November 2016

This month's photo bin is a bit of a departure, although, given the slippery nature of these things, it's difficult to define exactly what it's departing from. Doesn’t matter. Truth is, a significant piece of my past came to an end last month and I’m feeling a bit melancholy about it. The bin seems as good a place as any to pout.

To a large degree, I grew up in the place. Not your typical incubator, a bowling alley, but it was mine from the age of eleven. I spent my happy time there, every Saturday morning, in junior bowling league. We learned to compete. We learned to be good teammates. We learned that kicking the ball return was bad form. We learned to be ready when it was our turn. We learned that throwing harder wasn’t necessarily better. We learned to make adjustments in increments - five boards on the approach, three at the arrows – both a lesson in geometry and a life strategy, though on occasion you had to scrap it all and let it rip from deep inside. We learned to cope with winning and to handle losing, perhaps our most important lessons.

When I could drive, I began to bowl in the adult leagues and I learned the same lessons all over again, but in different contexts. I scrubbed my first fender in the underground parking lot. I went to the university across the street while participating in leagues three nights a week and working three others, tucked behind the pinsetters, fixing ball returns, clearing 180s and deck jams, re-spotting foul-fallen pins and pretending to study my calculus in between calls.

I got my only A, those first three disastrous semesters, in a PE bowling class. I called the instructor's bluff on the first day and picked off, cleanly, a ten pin, then a seven, and upon re-rack buried a strike. He penciled the grade in and that was that; the highlight of my academic career.

I left the university, for a while, but not the lanes. I met my first serious girlfriend there. I met my first wife. My boys slept soundly in their portable bassinettes to the lullabies of crashing pins and ran the concourse as soon as they were mobile. We just let them go, knowing that they were safe and that growing up there was good.

I threw a 300, August 10th, 1987 (it says so on my ring), back when a 300 meant something. Only the second in the house’s then thirty-year history. Back before the days of perfect urethane surfaces, blocked oil patterns, and space age bowling balls. Old school lacquered wooden lanes and beastly Brunswick machines built by the Otis Elevator Company. Back when anyone over the age of five put three fingers in the ball. I threw it on lanes 11 and 12, a pair that I’d never really cared for. To this day, nearly thirty years later, I can account for every moment from the eighth strike on.

The place was my haven for thirty years, but life changes and I let it slip away for other things. In truth, lots from that time has slipped away, I’m afraid. But I’ve always known it was there. Now it’s not.

Progress is a beast that preys on the old and the weak. An ancient alley, wood and old iron, ultimately gives way to our society’s insatiable need to consume. There’ll soon be a new, sterile Target for the college kids to buy their “stuff” in place of that touchstone for a number of generations.

The doors closed on November 28th. I went back one last time, the day before. Business had ceased, but the place was filled with folks, like me, coming back to remember. Most milled around the approaches, the lanes, the concourse. I snuck into the back, behind the machines, and sat for a while…

…feeling right at home at Western Lanes, once again.

Thanks, Mary, for this shot.

What is a Photo Bin?

Place

This past week, I attended Christmas Eve service in one of the grandest cathedrals in the country, Chicago’s Fourth Presbyterian, on Michigan Avenue, downtown. I sat in the rear balcony and stared across the expanse as thirteen-hundred worshipers celebrated the birth of a child and must admit to being brought to tears at the opening strains of Silent Night in that magnificent space, lit only and entirely by small candles held by each member of the congregation. I am not a religious man, but consider myself a spiritual one, and I was moved by the wonder of the place.

On a similar night, thirteen years before, I sat in a small brick Episcopal church in old Raleigh. No pomp or grandeur, the aging congregation outnumbered by the modest choir. The pain of great loss still weighed heavy on my heart. From the humble pulpit a simple holiday message, the birth of new hope, was offered into the tiny, solemn space and I was deeply soothed by the quiet peace I felt there.

To close each year, I step gently into the waters of a particular gorge as the fog lifts and the sun begins to creep over the edge of the wide ravine behind me, illuminating the far rock wall in golden splendor. My heart, already enlivened by the solitary hike in, leaps from my body and soars into the pine rafters of that Nature’s sanctuary. Eyes closed, my face to the heavens, I soak in the majesty of our Mother’s temple and send skyward heartfelt prayers of thanks for the year past and hopes for the coming to whoever might be listening. The place, in return, fills me with joy.

Here’s hoping that you find your place - of wonder, of peace, of joy - in the coming new year. May it sooth your pains and give you life and happiness unbounded.

Thank you for reading.

The Photo Bin - November 2015

In a forum far, far away, a group of outdoor bloggers are discussing the state of the medium. The spur for this deliberation was the question "Is blogging dead?" and the discourse has been lively. No consensus has been reached, but it's generally agreed that, at the very least, blogging has a pretty bad cold. The issue is not necessarily quality, but quantity. With a few exceptions, the rate at which folks are posting is dropping precipitously. Nowhere is there a better example of that than right here. Lots of excuses could be made, but there is no really good explanation.

And it occurs to me that, this year at least, these Photo Bins have been the barely-trickling life blood of this place. Without it, there'd have been long periods of nothing. The Bin keeps my feet to the fire, if even just monthly. Ironic, considering that this was just a throw-away post when first stared. That, and the obvious fact that I'm no photographer. But then it could be argued that I'm no writer either, so let's just get on with it.

This month marked the first anniversary of the passing of a dear neighbor and friend. At that time, honoring her request, we committed her ashes to the river down the hill, a place that she loved. In commemoration of that day and to keep her memory fresh in our minds, we gathered this month once again at the waters. The image above is of a few of the flowers that were sent to catch up with her, downstream, to where we will all follow, someday.

I chuckled at the unintentional placement of this Halloween image of hell after the previous solemn afterlife reference, but decided to leave it this way as it might very well be my downstream destination.

One of my favorite holiday events is the Bynum Bridge Pumpkin Walk, held each All Saints Day. The old quarter-mile Highway 15 span, now used only for nice afternoon strolls, is lined, end-to-end, with pumpkins carved in every conceivable manner. From simple kids' punch-outs to intricate works of art, the creations are great fun and it's a wonderful night out under the trick-or-treat stars.

You already know that I have a new toy. Been wanting another electric for many years now, but knew myself well enough to want a good one. Seemed a frivolous idea, given that I haven't played with any real seriousness for forty years.

But Fender pushed me over the cliff with the release of this quirky new limited edition double-cut Telecaster. I've thought for some time now that the Tele was what I needed, but couldn't get around its blocky look. (Yes, I'm that shallow.) The double cutaway swayed me and the absolute clincher was the ash blonde finish. I'm a sucker for blondes and have been ever since Lindsay Rosebrock's sweet wheat-colored Mustang, way back in my junior high days. That and Honey West.

There's no having a November picture post without at least one Autumn image. We had a run of spectacular sunsets, here on the ridge, and watching the evening sun spotlight a single, stubborn oak was magical. Shot off our back deck, this just illustrates how nice it is living out here.

Finally, an image not from this month, but one from November a-year-past that I stumbled upon the other day when looking for something else. I really miss this little guy so broke the rules to include it here.

I hope that the imminent holidays are wonderful for you and yours and that the coming year arrives with promise and hope. And with any luck, these blogging sniffles will clear up and maybe things will liven up around here. Who knows, there might even be some fishing.

If not, I guess that there's always the Photo Bins.


What is a Photo Bin?

There's Always Rock 'n' Roll

Hate to tell you, but there's more to life than just fishin’. There's also rock 'n' roll.

It’s a familiar story. I was going to be a star. Got my start in a local band during the late sixties and early seventies. Rock covers, mostly, with a few heavy jams just for fun. I wasn’t the most competent of musicians, but volume and fuzz (with a modicum of wah-wah) can cover a host of technical inadequacies. Talent aside, I had the look. Long hair, hip-hugging jeans, a carefully cultivated aura of indifference. Most of all, I had the burning desire to stand up on stage and bathe the masses in power chords. Good times.

Too good. My pipe dreams, and the lifestyle that came with them, drowned out my first attempt at higher education like bad feedback. A degree in mathematics couldn’t hold an incense stick to Guitar Godliness so in three quick semesters I was out the university's back door, a coiled cord trailing behind me. No big loss. The only calculus I needed was the derivation of twelve bar progressions and integrations on the five positions of the minor pentatonic. Newton dug the blues.

But the band flamed out in a blaze of personality and the girlfriend became the wife, then the expectant mother of my child, at a pace that was truly terrifying. Adulthood reared its perverse, ugly head. The Strat and the stack were sacrificed on the alter of domesticity, pawned to pay tithe to the working stiff’s holy trinity; Carolina Power and Light, Southern Bell, and the blessed Piggly Wiggly.

Decades passed.

I must admit that I’ve not been completely fretless. Over the years I’ve been bestowed a pair of acoustics, a gift born of love and a bequeathment steeped in sorrow, and I cherish them each dearly for their origins. But I've played them sparingly, all this time, as I have always been more moved by their emotional resonance than their tonal. They've been strung with my heartstrings.

But for all of their unplugged joy, I’ve missed the hot smell of over-driven tubes and the crunch of Jensen paper. I’ve missed low action necks and sustain lasting for days. I’ve missed being coaxially tethered to enough raw power to rattle your bones and pop out your fillings and make your ears bleed. I’ve missed the noise.

So, last week, I wrote off getting that next couple of fly rods and new pair of waders to realize, instead, my neglected Fender fantasies. Beautiful things. Just the boogie-woogie kick in the pants I’ve been craving. Sure, my having this rig is like giving the keys to the Ferrari to Grandma, but goddamn it feels good. It's time to shake the house once again.

Have no fears, fly fishing is still my passion and I'll continue to write of it here for it holds a part of my soul and always will. But something older has retaken my gut and it won’t be set aside, ever again.

‘Cause, Son, even when the fish won't bite, there’s always rock ‘n' roll.

1971-ish

On Departure

It’s hard to leave this place, this haven, this quiet home in the woods, and I lie here in bed, a few short hours before my daybreak departure, missing it already. I feel her warmth beside me. I listen to the yip of coyotes in the ravine below. I sense the Aussie moving restlessly about the dark room, finding one cool spot after another to lie upon the smooth concrete floor.

They say that Alaska will change a man and I hope that it’s not true. I like who I am, where I am, what I am. But it’s the “what I am” that sends me that way, I suppose, so the risk must be taken. The rush is on and I’m more than excited.

But, already, I look forward to being back home.

The Photo Bin - August 2015

They flew in from Chicago, our big-city kids, and spent a week here at Camp Redbud. A week away from the hustle and bustle of Gotham. A week in the woods. A week without Mom and Dad. A week without video games. A week where a traffic jam is three whitetail on the gravel road. A week of, well, let's just see.

Oh dear God. He's not going to post a bunch of pictures of his grandchildren, is he?

Yes. Yes I am.

The centerpiece of the visit is always the pond and the kids love it. At six and eight, they're both terrific swimmers and, with a couple of noodles (and when the bluegill aren't nipping at their appendages), they could stay in the water all day. That's fine with us.

And when you're too tired to be in the water, you can simply be on it, exploring the back corners of the big swimming hole.

And then there's the new tree fort that Grandpa threw up the week before. Just above the house, up the ridge a-ways, it's a great place for picnic lunches, card games, and a night under the canopy.

Photo by Mary York

But Camp Redbud is not just about swimming and playing in the woods. There's also some cutthroat games of Sorry...

...and blowing spit bubbles at the Durham Bulls ballpark...

...and watching Star Wars with Aunt Mel...

...and having just plain silliness with Uncle Amo and Zeppelin (who, by the way, has finally given up trying to herd the youngsters and simply has fun with them).

But all good things must come to an end and the ten-hour drive back north was quiet, contemplative,  and uneventful. (Okay, the iPad helped).

Photo by Mary York

But they'll be back. Oh yes, they'll be back. Camp Redbud always awaits.

What is a Photo Bin?

Wilderness Dog Sammy

For the past few years, the last thing I’ve done each and every evening has been to pick him up from his bed in the living area, carry him down the back deck’s steps into the yard for one last wobbly constitutional, and then return him gently to his kennel in my office for the night. Only then have I been ready for sleep.

It’s the most mundane things that you miss.

In time, such things become threads in the fabric of your life. The staying subconsciously tuned to any small noise that might suggest that he’s caught in a corner or under a chair. The listening for his small raspy breaths to try to keep track of which of the many pet beds, scattered about the house, that he's settled into. The responding to any whimper that might suggest the need for a trip to the yard. The juggling of meals and medications and subcutaneous fluids that have kept him comfortable and with us. A geriatric terrier takes some attention.

And yes, there were "good" years. Many. The stories I could tell. But the last have also been good in their own way, our lives woven more tightly through a dependency and a dedication and a tenderness that is hard to comprehend, much less describe. Man and dog intertwined by needs at their barest. But the threads have been pulled and our cloth has unraveled. Things here just don't fit quite the same.

Now there’s no reason to keep the door to the basement stairs closed, lest he tumble down them. No reason to excuse ourselves from the party every three hours to run back to the house for a moment of relief. No reason to take each first step with care in the likely event that he’s settled underfoot, just to be close to us.

For the past few years, the first thing I’ve done each and every morning has been to ask “Is Sammy awake yet?”

It will take some time before the answer settles in.

Godspeed, little Wilderness Dog,

Scourge of squirrels, chaser of deer, defiler of tall weeds.

Go run with the big dogs once again.