The Deep Woods Ramblings of Rocky Hall

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.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

river maidens

Canoes and youth on the New.

A bend, gripping willow branches,

shade, waiting up.

Eye's closed, head down, I hear the soft rush of the river and the willow's whisper.

Then in the distance I hear voices sharpened on hope and happiness.

Young women singing.

My daughter's voice among them.

Sweet verse saturates laureled cliffs and this old soul.

I look up and smile knowing for this brief moment they are light hearted river maidens all.

hen

It was almost dark. He pressed his eyes hard into the twilight to see the peahen at rest with her baby tucked lovingly 'neath her wing.

On the opposite side of their world it was morning. A gong is struck, prayer wheels spin and saffron robed monks emit the sacred "om". The incense glows as fragrant ribbons of smoke rise to the waking heavens.

And the hen spends her last night with the one she loves so dearly.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

shadow Puppets

Midnight, eight exceptional souls in the deep warm ink.

Floating.

Quarter moon, the black and muted grays of an endless horizon.

Tears of laughter mix with lake water, witness to the bizzare shadow puppets of the blind.

"Did you see that shooting star?" I asked.

" I did" she said.

'Be sure to make a wish darling."

" I already have and it has already came true."

Friday, August 13, 2010

blackberry morning

Blackberry morning,

soothing breeze,

my young dog barking at a turtle found in the thicket,

song sparrows singing,

a big gray mockingbird carrying on cheefully.

Deep purple and red fruit mingled in with green and greener,

the prickle of briars snagged in the fabric of an old shirt,

fingers stained deep magenta,

the bite of a berry not quite ripened,

strolling home in the warm June sun......

fourth of july

The peacock always sleeps facing the east. Tonight he will turn westward on his perch in the mullberry and watching the souhtwest horizon, he will call out as fireworks glow and crackle....his blues and greens illuminated against the night sky as he turns his head in astonishment. In the morning, he will be facing the east, greeting the new sun, with his memories, but no story to tell.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

repose

Alabaster feminine esscence aglow and repose on a copper sofa.

Late afternoon light illuminating words passed about 'neath a spinning ceiling fan.

"If joy had a color, what color do you think it would be?"

"Orange" she said.

And I agreed "yes, golden like the late day sun."

fade

Back porch, rocking chair. Mother hen and chick moving stealthily over moss and through silk grass, one last meal before nights retreat. The cicada's growling din fades just as the days light, and gives way to the katydid's whirrrrr and the grateful chirp of missed crickets.