Wednesday, April 8, 2009
mike
The Hounds of the Baskervilles are baying. I can hear them now. The wind is blowing from the west, carrying the sound of their barking from the doggie day care center in the former factory across the river. It’s a sound you rarely hear, except perhaps in a fox hunt scene in a movie. Mike, the black lab, ignores them. He doesn’t realize he’s a dog.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Sunshine Patriot
Elmer Fudd is a patriot. At least he thinks he is.
When he moved into the house next door, the engine of his pickup truck had barely cooled before he began to put up a flagpole in the front yard.
He wore a camouflage suit and a matching baseball cap and had a handgun strapped to his thigh in case he had to defend himself from one of the neighborhood kids tooling around on their bicycles.
He dug the hole himself and wielded his shovel like a weapon.
The flag now flies 24 hours a day rain and shine. Today it hangs limply in a wind driven rainstorm.
Apparently Elmer never learned the rules about paying proper respect to the flag. That would take effort.
When he moved into the house next door, the engine of his pickup truck had barely cooled before he began to put up a flagpole in the front yard.
He wore a camouflage suit and a matching baseball cap and had a handgun strapped to his thigh in case he had to defend himself from one of the neighborhood kids tooling around on their bicycles.
He dug the hole himself and wielded his shovel like a weapon.
The flag now flies 24 hours a day rain and shine. Today it hangs limply in a wind driven rainstorm.
Apparently Elmer never learned the rules about paying proper respect to the flag. That would take effort.
The Morning Patrol
A Walk on the Mild Side
Like a mangy old coyote with more limp than swagger in his step, I begin most mornings by patrolling my territory.
I live on a pine ridge in a town I‘ll call Riverdale. My cottage sits on a corner overlooking a river. One street is named after the first European settler in the area. He made his farm on the corn fields of the Native Americans who had their summer encampment on the other side of the river where a milltown now darkens the horizon. The other street is named after the brothers, who operated a general where the ferry crossed the river.
One hundred and fifty years ago there were two general stores at the ferry landing. When a Republican was president the post office was in one store and when a Democrat was in power it moved across the street.The ferry was replaced by a trolley bridge and finally an automobile bridge that crosses the river into the mill town.
The general stores have been replaced by a chain convenience store and the gas station, where I buy the newspaper every morning.
On the walk to the store I stroll past winterized cottages under 80-foot white pines. On the way back I walk along the bank of the river at the base of the ridge. That street is named after one of the town fathers who made his fortune in California during the gold rush. Rumor has it when he was digging the cellar of his home, he had to dispose of the remains of Native Americans buried there.
Nothing that dramatic has happened during my morning stroll, but it the river’s mood changes with the weather.
Like a mangy old coyote with more limp than swagger in his step, I begin most mornings by patrolling my territory.
I live on a pine ridge in a town I‘ll call Riverdale. My cottage sits on a corner overlooking a river. One street is named after the first European settler in the area. He made his farm on the corn fields of the Native Americans who had their summer encampment on the other side of the river where a milltown now darkens the horizon. The other street is named after the brothers, who operated a general where the ferry crossed the river.
One hundred and fifty years ago there were two general stores at the ferry landing. When a Republican was president the post office was in one store and when a Democrat was in power it moved across the street.The ferry was replaced by a trolley bridge and finally an automobile bridge that crosses the river into the mill town.
The general stores have been replaced by a chain convenience store and the gas station, where I buy the newspaper every morning.
On the walk to the store I stroll past winterized cottages under 80-foot white pines. On the way back I walk along the bank of the river at the base of the ridge. That street is named after one of the town fathers who made his fortune in California during the gold rush. Rumor has it when he was digging the cellar of his home, he had to dispose of the remains of Native Americans buried there.
Nothing that dramatic has happened during my morning stroll, but it the river’s mood changes with the weather.
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