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, February 8, 2011

patina

Sunset silhouette. February wind. Backside of nowhere. Beaverwood walking stick. Mud in the cleats of my boots. Old gray glacial granite painted in lichen and thin moss. I pause to feel this lifes patina on my being, brush away the clatter of the days tasks and open my eyes to the evening light. Another day past. Gone the way of so many others. Long live tomorrow.

Long live tomorrow.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

snoot

Gooey's nose is a smellavision. One foul whif and he's on a mission. A track, a turd, a tuft of grass, anything that smells like ass gives Goo' a broad olfactory grin no matter how faint or how long it's been. A feather, a stick, a deer bone knuckle prompts a gleeful doggy chuckle in his big pink nose with light brown blotches. Thank goodness he draws the line at crotches.

Monday, November 29, 2010

spent

Time spent. More to spend.

Time is lend't until the end.

Broad smiles. Laughter too.

Lifelong miles for me and yoo.

Birds sing. Flowers bloom.

Indigo skies and midnight moon.

Dogs bark. Babies coo.

Time's 'lest dark for me and yoo.

monday's eve

Shadows cast long in twilight red,

crackling leaves of sycamore.

November's nearly put to bed,

as the dark cloud flocks of mileormore.

Mondays frost will soon be here.

We must abide the grindstone's call.

The lender's grasp is always near,

for those who have to have it all.

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."