When this time has passed, keep me from that cold dark box.
Light up what remains of me here.
Keep the heart of me in that ashen jar that rests on your mantle.
Cast the rest to the four winds I love so well.
Let my dust blow amidst the bitterweed of pastures long gone.
Frolicking with the crawfish and salamanders of youths spring branch.
Let me trickle in the tears of someone laughing.
A sleeve is not such a bad place to be. An embrace will surely ensue.
Let me rise on wings in summer's oaken canopies.
Nestled deep in the feathers of a tiny wren.
Let me cascade the veil of an approaching storm.
Tumbling in the ozone of it's pensive valkyries.
Let me lay quiet on a worn windowsill.
Becoming part of the musty, the sun baked, the overlooked.
Let me infuse the workings of gadgets and screens.
So they might release you for a moment to see the day for what it really is.
Let me rest on your pillow ever so slightly.
So that I might be near you and witness a dream.
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Fishin' with Boog at Hurley's pond.
A Native Son of the North Carolina Piedmont
My name is Rocky Hall. I live in the central piedmont of North Carolina. This blog was created out of a need to write and tell a story.
I was born to good fortune. As a small child my days were spent in the shade of white oak and hickory with family as strong as those trees. Water came from a bucket drawn at the well, and we drank from a dipper that hung on a rusty nail driven in the side of the well post. We had a coal stove and an out house. No phone. We didn't need one. But we did have a TV.
We had wonderful neighbors. Folks you could count on. Among them were tobacco farmers, mill workers and mechanics. Old women wore sun bonnets and children were taught to mind their elders.
Summers were spent in the tobacco fields. Or if you were too young to prime you worked at the barn. When we weren't working we romped through the countryside with siblings and cousins, went fishing, swam in ponds, caught crawfish in the spring branch and swang on the porch swing. My shadow would often be cast long at night as I played by the spark of Grandpa's stick welder making repairs for neighbors.
Sunday was for church and visiting.
My parents had me young. We lived with my Grandpa at first, Mama's Daddy. Mama was pretty and Daddy was strong. I can still recall the smell of him as I sat on his lap after he got home from work. Sweat, oil and gasoline were badges of honor for a young mechanic. Around the supper table there was talk of family, neighbors and work. Everyone laughed and sang while Earnest Tubb crackled on the radio. On weekends Grandpa would go out and sit in his old Chevy and read for hours. He loved to read. I can see him now in that faded old car, head just above the window's beltline, eyes looking downward in concentration, fedora pushed back on his head.
That was a magic time. Un-hurried. Even the sunlight was different then.
So now you see. I was indeed born to good fortune.
I was born to good fortune. As a small child my days were spent in the shade of white oak and hickory with family as strong as those trees. Water came from a bucket drawn at the well, and we drank from a dipper that hung on a rusty nail driven in the side of the well post. We had a coal stove and an out house. No phone. We didn't need one. But we did have a TV.
We had wonderful neighbors. Folks you could count on. Among them were tobacco farmers, mill workers and mechanics. Old women wore sun bonnets and children were taught to mind their elders.
Summers were spent in the tobacco fields. Or if you were too young to prime you worked at the barn. When we weren't working we romped through the countryside with siblings and cousins, went fishing, swam in ponds, caught crawfish in the spring branch and swang on the porch swing. My shadow would often be cast long at night as I played by the spark of Grandpa's stick welder making repairs for neighbors.
Sunday was for church and visiting.
My parents had me young. We lived with my Grandpa at first, Mama's Daddy. Mama was pretty and Daddy was strong. I can still recall the smell of him as I sat on his lap after he got home from work. Sweat, oil and gasoline were badges of honor for a young mechanic. Around the supper table there was talk of family, neighbors and work. Everyone laughed and sang while Earnest Tubb crackled on the radio. On weekends Grandpa would go out and sit in his old Chevy and read for hours. He loved to read. I can see him now in that faded old car, head just above the window's beltline, eyes looking downward in concentration, fedora pushed back on his head.
That was a magic time. Un-hurried. Even the sunlight was different then.
So now you see. I was indeed born to good fortune.
Fishin' with Boog at Hurley's pond.
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