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.







Friday, January 25, 2013

pork chop and sweet potato dream

     Lester discovered if he completely cleaned and polished the fifth wheel of a semi rig, physical dreams could be manifest from it. Then the dreams could be applied to someone as a concious inoculation simply by suggestion. Like hypnosis. Every aspect of the dream would be tweaked and dialed in before hand. Even things like skin tone and texture were adjusted to an optimum. As a subtle calling card. Lester would always have water running uphill during the experience.
     Once activated. The dreams ran smoothly like a clock spring wound just to the point of being too tight. Each dream was a miniature life lived in light of rippling warm water, lived in a matter of minutes, in which the dreamer was physically and spiritually perfect. Nubile. Sexy. Almost beyond comprehension. Feeling it to their very core.

     And once lived. The dreamer knew it was gone forever. But grateful to have lived something so incredibly sumptuous they would later sit, smile and ponder the eternal sublime.  
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