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.

Monday, November 8, 2010

downwind

Low silver waves and dark blue ripples.

Summer's swan song.

If this day with these people was a guitar sonata, even the finger rubs between notes would bear light and meaning.

Tranquility rests just downwind from bliss, wears a big straw hat and speaks with a drawl.

We drift in lifes slipstream like leaves on warm water.

And when we regretfully depart, the harvest moon bids us a fond farewell.

lullaby

They had run out of things to say. So they sat quietly at their table on the end of the porch waiting for the check. A bird entered the large holly beside them and shuffled about in the limbs looking for a place to bed down. It was the mockingbird he'd mentioned earlier. They listened quietly as the bird began it's lullaby. Seemingly singing for them, and them alone.

her

I gazed at her in her white sundress so prim and dainty. Then I recalled watching her roast a market clerk in effigy over an eye of the kitchen stove while chanting something sinister. When I'm with her I feel like I'm on a southbound bullet train to gawd knows where. "What're you looking at darling?" She asked. I grinned and growled "pure evil." She smiled sweetly, batting her lashes. "Oh baby you know you love it."

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

september

September.

A hammock.

White cumulus rolling quietly through postcard blue skies.

Muted sunlight on tired leaves and branches.

Days of dust rests lightly on evening primrose.

Sulfurs frolic among stems of bitterweed and tightly closed morning glory.

A single glistening web drifts lightly on the breeze,

as melancholy grasshoppers sing summers last song.

monster #19

Monster #19, wounded, victim to the goad,

quiet and resting.

The cable clips into the tow and pulls her aboard.

Square hard knuckles clench the straps and cinch her down as one hand rests on her splintered carbon skin.

The trailer door shuts and the diesel rattles.

Soon set right, she'll once again howl on the tarmac plain,

contrails streaming from her wingtips,

as hair rises on the napes of men.

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.